The Island of Missing Trees(93)
Ever since he was a boy, trees had offered him solace, a sanctuary of his own, and he had perceived life through the colours and density of their boughs and foliage. Yet his profound admiration for plants had also afflicted him with a strange sense of guilt, as if by paying this much attention to nature he was neglecting something if not more crucial then at least as urgent and compelling – human suffering. Much as he loved the arboreal world and its complex ecosystem, was he, in some roundabout way, avoiding the day-to-day realities of politics and conflict? A part of him understood that people, especially where he came from, might see it this way, but a bigger part of him fiercely rejected the idea. He had always believed there was no hierarchy – or there should be none – between human pain and animal pain, and no precedence of human rights over animal rights, or indeed of human rights over those of plants, for that matter. He knew many among his fellow countrymen would be deeply offended if he voiced this out loud.
Back in Nicosia, when he observed the work of the Committee on Missing Persons, an unspeakable thought had crossed his mind. It was a peaceful thought, as far as he was concerned. The bodies of the missing, if unearthed, would be taken care of by their loved ones and given the proper burials they deserved. But even those who would never be found were not exactly forsaken. Nature tended to them. Wild thyme and sweet marjoram grew from the same soil, the ground splitting open like a crack in a window to make way for possibilities. Myriad birds, bats and ants carried those seeds far away, where they would grow into fresh vegetation. In the most surprising ways, the victims continued to live, because that is what nature did to death, it transformed abrupt endings into a thousand new beginnings.
Defne had understood how Kostas felt. Over the years they’d had their disagreements, but each time they had come to respect their differences. They were an unlikely couple not because she was Turkish and he was Greek, but because their personalities were strikingly dissimilar. For her, human suffering was paramount and justice the ultimate aim, whereas for him, human existence, though no doubt precious beyond words, had no special priority in the ecological chain.
His throat tightened as he glanced at the framed photo on his desk, taken on a trip to South Africa, just the three of them. With the tip of his index finger, he touched his wife’s face, traced his daughter’s trusting smile. Defne was gone but Ada was here, and he worried that he was failing her. He had been withdrawn and taciturn this past year, a cloud of lethargy looming over everything he said and couldn’t say.
They had been so close once, he and Ada. Like a bard imbuing each tale with suspense, he would tell her about night-blooming chocolate flowers, slow-growing lithops – flowering stones – that strangely resembled pebbles, and Mimosa pudica, a plant so shy it would shrink away at the slightest touch. It warmed his heart to see his daughter’s endless fascination with nature; he would always patiently answer her questions. Back then, such was the strength of their bond that Defne, only half jokingly, would complain: ‘I’m jealous. See how Ada listens to you! She admires you, darling.’
That phase of Ada’s life – for it was a phase no matter how many years it might have lasted – was over. Nowadays when his daughter looked at him, she saw his weaknesses, failures and insecurities. Maybe some day in the future, a brighter phase would ensue. But they were not there yet. Kostas closed his eyes, thinking of Defne, her intelligent eyes, her pensive smile, her sudden sparks of anger, her strong sense of justice and equality … What would she do if she were in his place now?
‘Fight back, ashkim … Fight your way out.’
On an impulse, Kostas stood up and left his desk. He walked down the corridor that joined his office to the house, his eyes smarting slightly with the change of light. When he reached Ada’s room, he found the door open. Her hair pinned up loosely with a pencil, her head buried in her phone, her face locked in hushed concentration, she bore a nervous thoughtfulness that reminded Kostas of her mother.
‘Hi, love.’
She immediately hid her phone. ‘Hi, Dad.’
He pretended not to notice. There was no point in launching into a speech against excessive use of gadgets.
‘How’s the homework going?’
‘Fine,’ said Ada. ‘How’s the book going?’
‘I’m about to finish it.’
‘Oh, wow, that’s great – congratulations.’
‘Well, I don’t know if it’s any good …’ He paused, cleared his throat. ‘I was wondering if you’d like to read it and tell me what you think. It’d mean a lot to me.’
‘Me? But I know nothing about trees.’
‘That’s all right, you know so much about everything else.’
She smiled. ‘Okay, cool.’
‘Cool.’ Kostas rapped his knuckles against the door, playing a rhythm he had heard earlier in the day. He mentioned an artist whom he knew Ada loved to listen to, day and night. ‘He’s not bad. Quite good, actually. A wicked singer with some killer tunes …’
Ada suppressed her smile this time, amused at her father’s lame attempt to connect with her through emo rap, of which he hadn’t got a clue. Maybe she should try speaking his language instead.
‘Dad, do you remember, you used to tell me how people look at a tree but don’t ever see the same thing? I was thinking about it the other day but couldn’t recall exactly. What was that?’