The Island of Missing Trees(91)

‘Sorry, darling, I woke you up.’

‘It’s okay.’ He rose slowly, stretching his arms.

‘How is Ada? Did you give her the milk I left?’

‘Yup, I did, but she woke up two hours later crying. So I tried some formula. Otherwise she wouldn’t stop.’

‘Oh, I’m sorry,’ Defne said again. ‘I should have come earlier.’

‘That’s all right, don’t apologize, you needed a break,’ Kostas said, surveying her face. ‘You okay?’

She didn’t answer and he couldn’t be sure she had heard him.

She kissed the baby’s forehead, smiling at her puckered face, rosebud mouth, and then she said, ‘I don’t want Ada to be burdened by the things that hurt us. I want you to promise me, Kostas. You won’t tell her much about our past. Just a few basic things, but that’s it, nothing more.’

‘Sweetheart, you can’t stop children from asking questions. As she grows up, she’s going to be curious.’

Outside, a truck clawed its way down the street, so late an hour, its rumbling filling the void where their voices had been a moment ago.

She frowned, mulling over his words. ‘Curiosity is temporary. It comes and it goes. If Ada tries to probe deeper, you can always answer without really answering.’

‘Come on, Defne –’ He touched her arm.

‘No!’ She pulled herself away.

‘It’s late, let’s talk tomorrow,’ said Kostas, her cold response and the abrupt gesture slicing him like the edge of a blade.

‘Please don’t patronize me.’ Her dark eyes were inscrutable. ‘I’ve thought about this for so long. I’ve seen how it works. I talk to people all the time. It doesn’t go away, Kostas. Once it’s inside your head, whether it’s your own memory or your parents’, or your grandparents’, this fucking pain becomes part of your flesh. It stays with you and marks you permanently. It messes up your psychology and shapes how you think of yourself and others.’

The baby stirred just then, and both of them turned towards her, worried that they had made too much noise. But whatever dream she was floating in, Ada had still not left it, her expression glowing calmly as if listening out for something.

Defne sat on the sofa, her arms dangling by her side, a lifeless doll. ‘Just promise me, that’s all I ask. If we want our child to have a good future we have to cut her off from our past.’

Kostas picked up the smell of alcohol on her breath. A faint, coppery whiff in the air that reminded him of an evening far away, as he had sat still and helpless, looking at songbirds preserved in jars. Had she started drinking again? He told himself she needed an evening out, a little free time for herself after the difficult months of pregnancy and birth and childcare. He told himself not to worry. They were a family now.





Kitchen


London, late 2010s


The day before she was due to leave, Meryem, keen to dispense further advice, ramped up her teachings, firing off a volley of cooking tips and cleaning tricks.

‘Now don’t forget, always use vinegar to get rid of the limescale on your showerhead. Try scrubbing the bathtub with half a grapefruit. Sprinkle rock salt on it first. It’ll be spotless!’

‘Right.’

Meryem’s eyes panned the kitchen as she spun on her heel. ‘Let’s see, I descaled the kettle, polished the cutlery. Do you know how to take the rust off? Rub it with onion. And then, what else … oh, yes, I removed the coffee stains on the table. It’s simple, you just need some toothpaste, like brushing your teeth. Always keep baking soda in the house, it works wonders.’

‘Got it.’

‘All right, lastly, is there anything special you want me to bake before I go?’

‘I don’t know.’ Ada shrugged. Out of the recesses of her memory came a long-unsampled flavour. ‘Maybe khataifi.’

Meryem looked both pleased and annoyed to hear this. ‘No problem, let’s do it, but the name is kadayif,’ she said, translating the Greek into Turkish.

‘Khataifi, kadayif,’ Ada said. ‘What difference does it make?’

But it did make a difference to Meryem as she kept correcting names with the zeal of a grammar teacher faced with a split infinitive: not halloumi but hellim; not tzatziki but cacik; not dolmades but dolma; not kourabiedes but kurabiye … and on and on she went. As far as Meryem was concerned, ‘Greek baklava’ was ‘Turkish baklava’, and if the Syrians or Lebanese or Egyptians or Jordanians or any others laid claim to her beloved dessert, tough luck, it wasn’t theirs either. While the slightest change in her dietary vocabulary could rub her up the wrong way, it was the label ‘Greek coffee’ that particularly boiled her blood, which to her was, and would always be, ‘Turkish coffee’.

By now Ada had long discovered that her aunt was full of contradictions. Although she could be movingly respectful and empathetic towards other cultures, and acutely aware of the dangers of cultural animosities, she automatically transformed into a kind of nationalist in the kitchen, a culinary patriot. Ada found it amusing that a grown woman could be this touchy about words, but she kept her thoughts to herself. She did, however, half jokingly say, ‘Jeez, you are so sensitive about food.’

‘Food is a sensitive subject,’ Meryem said. ‘It can cause issues. You know what they say, eat your bread fresh, drink your water clean, and if you have meat on your plate, tell the world it’s fish.’