The Island of Missing Trees(97)

At the next desk, Emma-Rose was watching her with a sort of inquisitive detachment. ‘Feeling better?’

‘I’m okay, thanks.’

They were distracted by sounds from the opposite side of the room – a group of boys were holding their throats as if they were choking or silently screaming, their mouths wide open, their eyes screwed shut, their faces red with suppressed mischief.

‘Ignore them, they’re all idiots,’ Emma-Rose said with a frown that instantly evolved to a smile. ‘Oh, did you hear what happened? Zafaar told Noah he has a crush on someone in our class.’

‘Really? … So do you know who?’ said Ada, trying to sound uninterested.

‘Not yet. I need to do a bit more digging.’

Ada felt her cheeks grow hot. She didn’t expect it to be her, but then maybe, just maybe, there was a chance.

In a few minutes, Mrs Walcott walked in.

‘Hello, everyone. How wonderful to see you all! Hope you had a great break. I’m assuming you have all interviewed an elderly relative and learned a lot about their lives. Please get out your assignments and I will come round and collect them.’

Without waiting to hear their responses, Mrs Walcott moved straight into the lesson. Ada looked back at Emma-Rose and saw her roll her eyes. She couldn’t help smiling at the juvenile gesture, remembering her aunt’s comments. She skimmed her interview notes and essay, and felt a surge of pride at the thought of Mrs Walcott reading about Auntie Meryem’s life.



In the evening, her aunt called.

‘Adacim, how was school? Did they give you a hard time?’

‘It was all right, actually. It was surprisingly fine.’

‘Wonderful.’

‘Yeah, I suppose,’ said Ada. ‘Are you wearing your colourful clothes?’

A giggle. ‘Not yet.’

‘Start with that pistachio-green skirt,’ Ada said and paused. ‘You know what, next summer, after the Earth Summit, my father promised to take me to Cyprus.’

‘Really?’ Meryem’s voice rose. ‘That’s such great news. I’ve always wanted this to happen. Oh, I can’t wait. I’ll show you around. I’ll take you everywhere … But wait, which side will you visit? I mean, there’s no harm in seeing both, but which one will be first? North or south?’

‘I’ll come to the island,’ Ada said, a new note in her voice. ‘I just want to meet islanders, like myself.’





How to Unbury a Fig Tree in Seven Steps




Locate precisely where in your garden you buried your fig all those weeks or months ago.

Gently peel away the insulating layers you laid on top.

Excavate all soil and leaves, making sure not to harm the tree with your spade or rake while doing so.

Inspect your fig tree and check if the cold has done any damage.

Carefully stand your tree up and untie the ropes fastened around it. Some branches might break or bend, but the tree will be fine and glad to be upright again.

Pack the soil back round the roots to make sure your tree is well supported and ready to face the spring.

Say some nice words to your fig tree to welcome her back to the world.





Fig Tree





I can feel the harsh winter beginning to relax its grip, the wheel of seasons revolve once again. Persephone, the goddess of spring, returns to earth, a wreath of silver blossoms about her golden hair. She treads gently above the ground, holding in one hand a bouquet of red poppies and sheaves of wheat, and in the other a broom to brush aside the snow, to remove the mud and the rime. I can hear solid memories dissolving into liquid and water dribbling from the eaves, speaking its own truth, drip-drip-drip.

In nature everything talks all the time. Fruit bats, honeybees, wild goats, grass snakes … Some screech, others squeak, yet others caw, chatter, croak or chirp. Boulders rumble, grapevines rustle. The salt lakes narrate tales of warfare and homecoming; the field roses chant in unison when the meltemi blows; the citrus orchards recite odes to eternal youth.

The voices of our motherlands never stop echoing in our minds. We carry them with us everywhere we go. Still today, here in London, buried in this grave, I can hear those same sounds, and I wake up trembling like a sleepwalker who realizes he has ventured dangerously into the night.

In Cyprus, all creatures, big and small, express themselves – all, that is, except the storks. Although the island is not exactly on their migratory routes, every now and then, a few lonely storks, blown off course by the air currents, will spend several days there before resuming their journey. They are large, graceful and, unlike any other bird, incapable of singing. But Cypriots will tell you this wasn’t always so. There was a time when these long-legged wading birds trilled enchanting melodies about far-off kingdoms and destinations unknown, beguiling their audience with tales of overseas odysseys and heroic adventures. Those who heard them were so entranced they forgot to irrigate their crops or shear their sheep or milk their cows or gossip in the shade with their neighbours, and, at night, they even forgot to make love to their sweethearts. Why exhaust yourself with work or engage in tittle-tattle or pledge your heart to someone when all you wanted was to sail away to distant shores? Life came to a halt. In the end, annoyed that the order of things had been disrupted, Aphrodite meddled, as she always does. She put a curse on all the storks passing over Cyprus. From then on the birds remained silent no matter what they saw or heard down there.