The Island of Missing Trees(80)
He watched her eyes become guarded, her jaw hardening, her cheeks hollowing. He could tell from the tight line around her lips that mentally she was somewhere else, a dark, narrow cave that held her in its thrall, shutting him out.
His throat tight, he asked, ‘These men … were they Greek or Turkish?’
In reply, she repeated the words she had said to him just the other day, the first time they had met after so many years. ‘They were islanders, Kostas, just like us.’
‘You never saw Yusuf and Yiorgos again?’
‘I never saw them again. I decided to have the baby whatever the consequences. My sister already knew about us. I told her that I was pregnant. Meryem said there was no way we could tell my parents the full truth. We had to keep your name out of this. So between us we came up with a plan. As gently as she could, Meryem conveyed the news to the family. My father was mortified. In his eyes, I had dishonoured our name. I have never seen anyone carry his shame like that, as if it were his skin now, inseparable. This man who was paralysed from the waist down … He had lost his job and his friends, and was suffering physically and mentally and financially, but for him honour was everything, and when he found out that I wasn’t the daughter he thought he had, it just destroyed him. He wouldn’t look at my face, he wouldn’t speak to me any more, and my mother … I don’t know if her reaction was better or worse. She was beside herself with rage – shouting all the time. But I think my father’s silence hit me harder in the end.
‘And here is something else you can hate me for: Meryem and I decided to tell them the baby was Yusuf’s and we were planning to get married, but he had mysteriously disappeared. My mother went to the tavern looking for him, but of course there was no one there. She even called Yusuf’s family, asking where he was, accusing them of things they had no knowledge of. And all that time I kept quiet and I despised myself for having smeared the name of a good man – when I didn’t even know if he was dead or alive.’
‘Oh, Defne …’
She made a vague gesture with her hand, not allowing him to say anything else. Quietly, she stood up, went inside and began putting on her clothes.
‘Are you leaving?’ Kostas asked.
‘I’m going for a walk,’ she said, without looking at him. ‘Why don’t you come with me? I’d like to take you to a military cemetery.’
‘Why? What’s in there?’
‘Soldiers,’ she said softly. ‘And babies.’
Fig Tree
After Yusuf and Yiorgos disappeared and The Happy Fig closed down, Chico fell into a deep depression. He started plucking out his feathers and chewing his skin – a red, raw map of pain spreading across exposed flesh. It happens to parrots, just like humans, they succumb to melancholy, losing all joy and hope, finding each day more excruciating.
The bird wasn’t eating properly, even though he had plenty of food. He could easily survive on stores of fruits and nuts, insects and snails, tearing at the sacks in the larder, not to mention the biscuits that Defne brought him. But he had barely any appetite. I tried to help him, only now realizing how little I knew him. All these years we had lived in the same tavern, sharing one space, an exotic parrot and a fig tree, but we had never been close. Our personalities were not exactly aligned. But in times of crisis and despair the most unlikely beings can become friends; that, too, I have learned.
A yellow-headed Amazon parrot, an endangered species native to Mexico, is an unusual sight for Cyprus. You don’t find his kind around here. Nor among the thousands of passerine birds that fleetingly grace our skies each year. Chico’s presence was an anomaly and I had accepted it as such, never really wondering where Yusuf had got him from.
When I asked him about his past, Chico told me that he used to live in a mansion in Hollywood. I did not believe him, of course. Sounded like a lot of baloney to me. He must have noticed my scepticism, for he got upset. He mentioned the name of an American actress famous for her voluptuous figure and her various roles in classic films. He said she adored exotic birds, had a whole collection of them in her garden. He told me that every time he picked up a new word, the actress rewarded him with a treat. She would clap her hands and say: ‘Darling, how clever you are!’
Chico said that after a torrid affair with a mafia leader, during which time she cruised the Mediterranean in a private yacht, the actress had become fond of Cyprus. She especially liked Varosha, the ‘French Riviera of the Eastern Mediterranean’, where she purchased a spectacular villa. She wasn’t the only celebrity who had discovered this heavenly spot. On an ordinary day, you could spot Elizabeth Taylor emerging from a glitzy hotel, Sophia Loren stepping out of her car, her skirt having ridden up above her knees, or Brigitte Bardot strolling along the beach, gazing into the watery depths as if waiting for someone to emerge.
The actress decided to spend more time here. It suited her – the weather, the glamour – but there was one problem: she missed her parrots! So she made arrangements to bring them over. Ten birds in total. Placed in smelly, stuffy containers, loaded from one plane to the next, they were dispatched from LA all the way to Cyprus. And that is how Chico and his clan ended up on our island.
The trip wasn’t easy for the birds. Being photosensitive, they found the travel across oceans and continents gruelling. They stopped drinking water and eating properly, homesick in their ornamental brass cages. One died. But the remaining birds, when they finally reached their destination, swiftly adapted to their new home in Varosha, in the southern quarter of Famagusta. Glitzy shops, flashy casinos, exclusive brands, the latest of everything was here … Music blasted from brightly coloured convertibles as they glided along the main avenues. Luxury yachts and sightseeing boats bobbed up and down along the harbour. Under the moon, the sea glistened in the dazzle pouring out of the discotheques, its dark waters festooned like carnival floats.