The Island of Missing Trees(74)

‘Oh, darling,’ she said and kissed him.

So many thoughts crossed his mind in that instant, followed by a sense of stillness and lightness so pure that he let himself drift as she steered. The smell of her hair, the warmth of her skin, still as familiar as if they had never parted ways and time was merely a breath of wind.



Later, as night fell, Defne managed to sneak into his room, the woman at the front desk having mysteriously disappeared, perhaps by coincidence, perhaps out of kindness or sheer pity for them.

That first time they made love, that first touch after years of separation, felt like a curtain of fog lifting to reveal the naked longing beneath. Finally, the mind, with its endless fears and regrets and sorrows, quietened to a whisper. And it was their bodies that remembered what they had long forgotten, pulsing with a force they had thought could belong only to youth, their youth. The flesh had a power of recall of its own, memory tattooed on skin, layer upon layer.

It is a map, the body of an ex-lover, pulling you into its depths and bringing you back to a part of yourself that you thought had been left behind sometime, somewhere. It is a mirror, too, though chipped and cracked, showing all the ways you have changed; and, like every mirror, it dreams of becoming whole again.

Afterwards, as they lay in bed, her face buried in his chest, he told her about the robin with broken wings. He explained that five billion birds flew to Africa and north of the Mediterranean to spend the winter there and, of these, one billion were slaughtered every year. Therefore, every little bird that she saw in the sky was a survivor. Just like her.

He described what was inside the suitcases of the smuggler who had been stopped and searched at the airport – 3,529 birds in total. It was the 3,530th bird he wanted her to think about. Perhaps a Eurasian skylark, swooping into the night, following its companions, but slowing down at the last second and flying at a tangent just above the reach of the net. What had saved it and not others? The cruelty of life rested not only on its injustices, injuries and atrocities, but also in the randomness of it all.

‘It’s only humans that do this,’ said Kostas. ‘Animals don’t. Plants don’t. Yes, trees sometimes overshadow other trees, compete for space, water and nutrients, battle for survival … Yes, insects eat each other. But mass murder for personal profit, that’s peculiar to our species.’

Having listened to every word intently, Defne rose on her elbow and studied his face, her hair falling on to her bare shoulders.

‘Kostas Kazantzakis …’ she said. ‘You are a strange one, I’ve always thought so. I think the Hittites brought you to this island sometime around the late Bronze Age and they forgot to take you back. When I found you, you were already thousands of years old. And you are full of conflicts, my love, like anyone who has lived that long. One minute you are so gentle and patient and calm, I want to cry. The next minute you are out risking your life, getting beaten by mafia gangs. When you make love to me you sing about songbirds. You ancient soul.’

He said nothing. He couldn’t. She was pressing on his ribcage now and it was agony, but he didn’t want her to move, not even an inch, so he stayed still and held her tight, trying to ride the surge of pain.

‘You are either an unsung hero or a glorious fool, I can’t decide,’ Defne said.

‘An unsung fool, I’m sure.’

Smiling, she kissed him, tracing her finger in circular motions across his chest, drawing little lifebuoys for him to hold on to as he floated and swam in the tenderness of this moment. This time when they made love their eyes never left each other, their moves slow and deliberate, rising in steady waves.

He said her name over and over. With each breath, his muscles, his bones, his entire body ached and pulsed like one throbbing wound, and yet he felt more alive than he had in a long, long while.





Part Five




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ECOSYSTEM





Fig Tree





The next day the butterflies came. They arrived in Cyprus in unparalleled numbers, pouring into our lives, gushing and swirling in a sweep of movement, like a great aerial river tinted the brightest gold. They specked the entire horizon with their yellow-black spots and sandy-orange shades. They settled on moss-laden rocks and orchids, known to the locals as ‘The Holy Virgin’s Tears’. They fluttered over latticed windows and weather vanes, and crossed the Green Line with its rusty old NO ENTRY sign. They alighted on a divided island, flitting amongst our deepest enmities as if they were flowers from which to draw nectar.

Of all the Vanessa cardui that came to rest on my branches, each with a distinct personality, one remained anchored in my memories. Like many others, this particular painted lady had journeyed all the way from North Africa. As she gave me an account of her travels, I listened to her with respect, knowing what resilient migrants they are, seen almost everywhere across the globe. They can fly for an impressive 2,500 miles. I have never understood why humans regard butterflies as fragile. Optimists they may be, but fragile, never!

Our island, with its blossoming trees and lush meadows, was an ideal place to rest and recharge from the butterfly’s perspective. Upon leaving Cyprus, she would wing her way to Europe, whence she would never return, although some day her descendants would. Her children would make the journey in reverse, and their children would take the same route back, and thus it would continue, this generational migration, where what mattered was not the final destination but to be on the move, searching, changing, becoming.