The Island of Missing Trees(87)
‘Don’t even think such things.’
‘I’m old to have a baby, we both know that, what if there are complications …’
‘It’ll be okay.’
‘But I’m not young any more.’
‘Stop saying that.’
‘And what if it turns out I’m a terrible mother? What if I fail?’
She could see in the clench of his jaw how hard he was searching for the right words to soothe her, how much he needed her to believe in the future they were building together. And she tried. Some days she was full of confidence and expectation, others she managed just fine, but then there were days, and especially nights, when she would hear, somewhere in the distance, ticking as steady as a metronome, the approaching footsteps of a familiar sense of melancholy. She felt guilty for feeling this way, and she blamed, judged and berated herself endlessly for it. Why couldn’t she just appreciate this surprise that life had given her and live fully in the moment? What was the point of stressing this much? Worrying about how good a mother she would be to an unborn baby was like being homesick for a place she had not even visited yet.
Meanwhile, Kostas discovered that the cutting had sprouted new leaves. He was overjoyed. More and more he believed things were coming together for him, for them, his whole life composed of interlocking puzzle pieces that were finally fitting together. His work as a botanist and naturalist was starting to get more attention from people both within and outside the field, he was receiving invitations to give talks and lectures, contribute to journals, and, unobtrusively, he set out to write a new book.
Defne took the resilience of the cutting as a good omen. Pregnancy had made her uncharacteristically superstitious, bringing out a side of her that was surprisingly similar to her sister, though this she would not admit. She stopped drinking. She stopped smoking. She took up painting again. From that moment onwards, the fate of the baby and the fate of the tree merged in her mind. As her belly grew, so did the fig’s need for more space. Kostas repotted the plant using a larger pot this time, checking on it daily. They moved to a house in north London. By then the Ficus carica was strong enough to be transplanted into the garden, and so they did.
Despite the smoking chimney and the leaking roof, the cracks that ran the length of the walls and the radiators that never fully heated, they were happy in this house, the two of them. Ada was born in early December, two months premature. Her lungs were weak and she had to be kept in an incubator for several weeks. Meanwhile, the little sapling wasn’t faring any better, struggling with the new climate. It had to be wrapped in burlap, covered with cardboard, insulated. But by the time summer arrived, they were healthy and growing, the fig tree and the child.
Fig Tree
The last animal in my ecosystem that I remember visiting me before I left the island for good was a mouse. There is a fundamental truth that, although universally relevant and worth recognizing, is never mentioned in history textbooks. Wherever humankind has fought wars, turning fertile lands into battlefields and destroying entire habitats, animals have always moved into the void they left behind. Rodents, for instance. When people lay waste to the buildings that once gave them joy and pride, mice will quietly claim them as their own kingdom.
Over the years I had met plenty of them – female does, male bucks, bright pink little pups, fond as they all are of figs. But this particular mouse was rather unusual for he was born and raised in an iconic place – the Ledra Palace.
‘One of the finest hotels in the Middle East!’ That’s how the establishment was advertised when it was built in the second half of the 1940s. Yet the investors were not exactly satisfied with that strapline. The Middle East, they thought, was not an attractive destination for Western tourists. ‘One of the finest hotels in Europe!’ That did not sound appealing either; not when the spectre of the Second World War still roamed the European continent. ‘One of the finest hotels in the Near East!’ This worked better. ‘Near’ seemed conveniently within reach, while ‘East’ added a dash of exoticism. ‘Near East’ was oriental enough; just enough, not too much.
Designed by a German Jewish architect, a survivor of the Holocaust, the Ledra Palace would require 240,000 Cyprus pounds and two years to complete. The chandeliers were imported from Italy, the marble friezes from Greece. Its location was ideal – close to Nicosia’s medieval centre, not far from the surrounding Venetian walls, on a street once named King Edward VII. With 240 bedrooms, it towered over the compact houses and narrow streets in the old town. It even had a toilet and bathroom in every room – the only hotel at the time that offered such luxury. There were bars, lounges, tennis courts, a children’s play area, first-rate restaurants, a huge pool to dive into under the merciless sun and a glamorous ballroom that would soon become the talk of the town.
On the day of the opening in October 1949, everyone was there: British colonial officers, local notables, foreign dignitaries, wannabe celebrities … Now that the Second World War was over, people needed an assurance that the ground beneath their feet was solid, the buildings they erected strong, and that it would never happen again, the ruins, the horrors. Such a great year for optimism, 1949!
Throughout my long life, I have observed, again and again, this psychological pendulum that drives human nature. Every few decades they sway into a zone of unbridled optimism and insist on seeing everything through a rosy filter, only to be challenged and shaken by events and catapulted back into their habitual apathy and listless indifference.