‘I tried to tell him, it didn’t go that well.’

  Meryem’s eyebrows rose.

  ‘Don’t look so shaken, it’s not the end of the world,’ said Ada. ‘I’m not abandoning my entire education to join an underground cult. I just don’t like this school, that’s all.’

  ‘Listen, canim, I know you might get cross with me for saying this, but remember, good advice is always annoying and bad advice never is. So if what I say irritates you, take it as good advice.’

  Ada narrowed her eyes.

  ‘Good, I can see you are already irritated,’ said Meryem. ‘What I am trying to say is, you are young and the young are impatient. They can’t wait for school to be over and life to begin. But let me tell you a secret: it already has! This is what life is. Boredom, frustration, trying to get out of things, longing for something better. Going to another school won’t make things different. So you’d better stay. What is it? Are they giving you a hard time, the other kids?’

  Ada drummed her fingers against the table to keep them busy. ‘Well … I did something awful in front of the whole class. Now I’m too embarrassed to go back.’

  The lines on Meryem’s forehead deepened. ‘What did you do?’

  ‘I screamed … until I lost my voice.’

  ‘Oh, honey, you should never raise your voice at your teacher.’

  ‘No, no. Not at the teacher. It felt like I was screaming at everyone – everything.’

  ‘Were you angry?’

  Ada’s shoulders dropped a little. ‘That’s the thing, I don’t think it was anger. Maybe I’m just not well. My mum had mental health issues. So, yeah, I could have whatever my mum had. Genetic, I guess.’

  Meryem stopped breathing for a second, though Ada did not seem to notice.

  ‘My father says trees can remember – and he says sometimes young trees have some kind of “stored memory”, like they know about the traumas their ancestors have gone through. That’s a good thing, he says, because the saplings can adjust themselves better.’

  ‘I don’t know much about trees,’ said Meryem, turning the idea in her head. ‘But girls your age should not be worrying about such things. Sorrow is to the soul what a worm is to wood.’

  ‘You mean termite?’

  ‘Let’s say history is ugly, what’s it to you?’ said Meryem, continuing regardless. ‘It’s not your problem. My generation made a mess of things. Your generation is lucky. You don’t have to wake up one day with a border in front of your house or worry about your father being gunned down on the street just because of his ethnicity or religion. How I wish I were your age now.’

  Ada kept her eyes on her hands.

  ‘Look, everyone has done something silly in their youth that they thought was beyond repair. Maybe you feel lonely right now. You think your classmates laughed at you and maybe they did, but that’s human nature. If your beard is on fire, others will light their pipes on it. But my point is, you’ll come out stronger. One day you’ll look back and say, why was I even worried about that?’

  Ada considered this, though she didn’t believe a word. Perhaps that was true in the past but in this new world of technology, silly mistakes, if that’s what they were, once online, stayed around forever.

  ‘You don’t understand, I screamed like a maniac, like I was possessed,’ Ada said. ‘The teacher was frightened, I saw it in her eyes.’

  ‘Did you say … possessed?’ Meryem repeated slowly.

  ‘Yes, it was so bad I had to go and talk to the headmaster. He kept asking me questions about my family situation. Is it because I can’t cope with my mother’s death? Or is it my father? Is there something he needs to know? Am I experiencing problems at home? Oh God, he asked me so many personal questions, I wanted to leap on him and tell him to shut up.’

  Fiddling with her bracelet, Meryem furrowed her brow in thought. When she looked up again, there was a sparkle in her eyes, a rosy glow to her cheeks. ‘I understand now,’ she said with a new intensity. ‘I think I know what the problem is.’

  Fig Tree

  Meryem is an odd one, full of contradictions. She seeks help from trees all the time, although she doesn’t seem to be aware of this. If she is scared or lonely, or wants to dispel evil spirits, she knocks on wood – an ancient ritual dating back to the days when we were regarded as sacred. Every time she has a wish she doesn’t dare speak aloud, she hangs rags and ribbons on our boughs. If she is looking for something – buried treasure or some trivial item she has lost – she roves about holding a forked branch, which she calls a divining rod. Personally, I don’t mind such superstitions. Some can even be helpful for us plants. The rusty nails she sticks inside flowerpots to chase away the djinn make soil alkaline. Similarly, the wood ash left from the fires she burns to remove a hex contains potassium, which can be nourishing. And as for the eggshells she spreads around in the hope of attracting good fortune, they, too, are an enriching compost. I just wonder how she continues to carry out these old rituals without realizing that they originate from a deep reverence for us trees.

  There is a seven-hundred-year-old oak in the Marathasa Valley, in the Troödos Mountains. The Greeks will tell you how a group of peasants hid under it in fear as they were running away from the Ottoman Turks in the sixteenth century, barely escaping with their lives.

  And there is a Ficus carica in Ayios Georgios Alamanos that Turks will tell you grew out of the body of a dead man, after a fig in his stomach, the last thing he ate that evening, grew into a tree. He had been taken into a cave with two others and killed with dynamite.

  I listen carefully, and I find it astounding that trees, just through their presence, become a saviour for the downtrodden and a symbol of suffering for people on opposite sides.

  Across history we have been a refuge to a great many. A sanctuary not only for mortal humans, but also for gods and goddesses. There is a reason why Gaia, the mother goddess of earth, turned her son into a fig tree to save him from Jupiter’s thunderbolts. In various parts of the world, women thought to be cursed are married to a Ficus carica before they can pledge their troth to the one they truly love. Bizarre though I find all these customs, I understand where they come from. Superstitions are the shadows of fears unknown.

  So when Meryem came into the garden, surprising me with her presence, and began to walk this way and that, oblivious to the cold and the storm, I had an inkling she was hatching up a plan to help Ada. And I knew she would, once again, resort to her endless reservoir of myths and beliefs.

  Definition of Love

  Cyprus, July 1974

  The courtyard was dimly lit by the waning moon, the warm wind that had been whistling through the treetops all day long had finally exhausted itself and fallen quiet, and the night felt gentle and cool. The tang of jasmine, winding around the wrought-iron balustrade like a golden thread through homespun cloth, perfumed the air, mingling with the smells of burnt metal and gunpowder.

  Defne sat on her own in the far corner of the courtyard in her house, still up at so late an hour. She huddled by the wall, where her parents would not be able to see her should they look out of the window. Pulling her knees to her chest, she rested her head on the palm of one hand. In her other hand, she held a letter, which she had read several times by now, although the words still swam impenetrably before her eyes.

  Her gaze fell on the tomato vine that her sister was growing in a large clay pot. Over the past year, it had become her ally, this plant. Whenever she sneaked out at night to meet Kostas, she would secretly climb down the mulberry tree in front of her balcony, and then back up the way she came, carefully hoisting herself up and down using the pot as a step.

  She hadn’t seen Kostas since the night of the explosion at The Happy Fig. It had been almost impossible to go out and walk around. Every day the news had turned darker, scarier. The rumours that the military junta in Greece were plotting ways to oust the president of Cyprus, Archbishop Makarios, had now hardened into fact. The day before, the Cypriot National Guard and EOKA-B had launched a coup to overthrow the democratically elected Archbishop. The Presidential Palace in Nicosia was bombed and burned by armed forces loyal to the junta. Fights had erupted on the streets between supporters of the Archbishop and supporters of the military regime in Athens. The state radio announced that Makarios was dead. But just as people were mourning him, the Archbishop had broadcast from a makeshift radio station: ‘Greek Cypriots! You know this voice. I am Makarios. I am the one you chose to be your leader. I am not dead. I am alive.’ He had miraculously escaped, and no one knew his whereabouts.

  Amidst the chaos, intercommunal violence had flared. Defne’s parents had forbidden her to leave the house, even for basic provisions. The streets were not safe. Turks had to stick with Turks, Greeks with Greeks. Confined to the house, she had spent hours reflecting, worrying, trying to find a way to talk to Kostas.

  Finally, today, when her mother had left the house to attend a neighbourhood meeting and her father had fallen asleep in his room as usual after taking his daily medication, she slipped out, despite her sister’s protests. She ran all the way to The Happy Fig, looking for Yusuf and Yiorgos. Thankfully, they were both there.

  Since the night of the bomb the two men had worked hard to restore the place and managed to repair most of the damage. The front wall and the door had been rebuilt, but now, though ready to reopen, they had been forced to close down due to the ongoing unrest on the island. Defne found them stacking up chairs and tables in front of the tavern, wrapping padding around the kitchen equipment before stowing it in crates and boxes. When they saw her, their eyes brimmed with a warmth that was swiftly replaced with concern.

  ‘Defne! What are you d-doing here?’ Yusuf asked.

  ‘I’m so glad I found you! I was worried you might be gone.’

  ‘We are closing,’ said Yiorgos. ‘The staff have resigned. They don’t want to work any more. And you shouldn’t be out like this. It’s dangerous. Did you not hear? British families are going home. A chartered plane took off this morning carrying army wives and children. There is another plane tomorrow.’

  Defne had heard stories about how English ladies had boarded the plane in their pastel hats and matching dresses, their suitcases packed tight. There was relief on their faces. But many were tearful, too, for they were departing an island they had come to love.

  Yiorgos said, ‘When Westerners run away like that it means those of us they leave behind are in deep shit.’

  ‘Everyone in my community is extremely worried,’ said Defne. ‘They say there’s going to be a bloodbath.’

  ‘Let’s n-not lose hope, it’ll pass,’ said Yusuf.

  ‘But we are happy to see you,’ said Yiorgos. ‘We’ve something for you. A letter from Kostas.’

  ‘Oh, good, you’ve seen him. How is he doing? He’s okay, right? Thank God!’ She plucked the envelope from his hand, pressing it close to her chest. Quickly, she opened her handbag. ‘I’ve got something for him too. Here, take it!’

  Neither Yusuf nor Yiorgos reached for her letter.

  Defne felt her gut twist, tried to ignore the feeling. ‘I can’t stay long. Will you take this to Kostas?’

  ‘We can’t,’ said Yiorgos.

  ‘It’s okay. There’s no danger in you walking to his house. Please, this is very important. There’s something urgent I need to tell him.’

  Yusuf shifted his weight from foot to foot. ‘So you d-d-don’t know?’

  ‘Don’t know what?’

  ‘He’s gone,’ Yiorgos said. ‘Kostas left for England. We think his mother forced him; he didn’t have much of a choice. He tried to reach you. He came here several times asking for you, left the envelope the last time. But we thought he had found you in the end. We thought he had told you.’

  On the ground by her shoe she noticed a phalanx of ants, dragging a dead beetle. She watched them for a few seconds, unable to make sense of how she felt. It wasn’t pain exactly that seized her, that would come later. It wasn’t shock either, though that too would descend soon. It was as if she were gripped by an irresistible force of gravity, locking her forever to this spot and in this moment.

  Lifting her chin, her eyes unfocused, she gave a curt nod. Without a word, she walked away. Behind her, Yusuf shouted her name. She did not respond.

  In the distance, smoke billowed over the rooftops; parts of the city were burning. Everywhere she looked she saw men – carrying guns, stacking sandbags, men with grim expressions and boots caked in dust. Civilians, soldiers, paramilitaries. Where had all the island’s women gone?

  She steered towards the backstreets, drifting away from the turmoil, passing through gardens and orchards. Aimlessly, she kept going, her shadow pacing beside her. The day dimmed into evening, the world drained of colour. By the time she reached her house, hours later, her ankles and arms were scratched by brambles, like an inscription in a language she had never learned to speak.

  Since then she had been silent, withdrawn, her lips curled in concentration. She had tried her best to act normal around Meryem, otherwise her sister would have started asking questions. It was not that hard, she had found, to postpone the pain. Just like she had postponed reading his letter until later in the evening.

  My darling Defne,

  I cannot believe I haven’t been able to see you before I leave for England. I started writing this letter, stopped, and started again so many times. I wanted to tell you the news myself. But I couldn’t reach you.

  It is my mother. She is full of fears, impossible to reason with. She is worried that something awful will happen to me. She cried and cried and begged me to go to London. I couldn’t say ‘no’ to her. But I won’t let her do this ever again. She is sick, you know that. Her health is deteriorating. Since my father died, she has worked ceaselessly to take care of us. Michalis’s death shattered her, and now with Andreas away, I am the only one she has to rely on. I could not bear seeing her like that. I could not let her down.

  It is only for a short time, I promise. In London, I will stay with my uncle. There won’t be a single day that I won’t think about you, not a single heartbeat that I won’t miss you. I will be back in two weeks, at most. I will bring you presents from England!

  I didn’t even get a chance to tell you what the other night meant for me. When we left the tavern … the moon, the smell of your hair, your hand in my hand, after all that horror when we realized we had only each other to depend on.

  You know what I’ve been thinking since? I’ve been thinking that you are my country. Is that a strange thing to say? Without you, I don’t have a home in this world; I am a felled tree, my roots severed all round; you can topple me with the touch of a finger.

  I will return soon, I won’t let this happen again. And maybe next time, one day, we will go to England together, who knows?

  Please think of me every day, I’ll be back before you know it.

  I love you.

  Kostas

  Defne held the letter so tight it crumpled around the edges. Her gaze fell on the tomato plant again as her eyes welled up. Kostas had once told her that long ago in Peru, where tomatoes were believed to have originated, they used to call it ‘a plum thing with a navel’. Defne had liked that description. Everything in life should be evoked in such detail, she had thought, rather than being given abstract names, a random combination of letters. A bird should be ‘a feathery thing with a song’. Or a car, ‘a metallic thing with wheels and a horn’. An island, ‘a lonely thing with water on all sides’. And love? She might have answered this question differently until today, but now she was certain love ought to be called ‘a deceptive thing with heartbreak in the end’.

  Kostas was gone and she had not even found a chance to tell him. She had never felt so scared of tomorrow. She was on her own now.

  Foreigner

  London, July–August 1974

  When Kostas Kazantzakis arrived in London he was greeted at the airport by his uncle and his English wife. The couple lived in a timber-framed brick house with a small square garden at the front. They had a dog, a brown-and-black-and-white collie named Zeus, who loved to eat cooked carrots and raw spaghetti straight from the box. It would take Kostas a while to get used to the food in this country. But it was the change in the weather that took him by surprise. He was not prepared for this new sky overhead, which was dimly lit most of the time, only occasionally flickering into life like a buzzing bulb with low voltage.

  His uncle, who had settled for good in England, was a jovial man with an infectious laugh. He treated Kostas with kindness and, guided by a strong conviction that a young lad should be neither idle nor still, instantly put his nephew to work in the store. There Kostas learned how to stack shelves, count the stock, manage the till and keep the inventory ledger. It was hard work, but he didn’t mind. He was used to being on his toes and it kept him busy, making the days away from Defne a bit more bearable.

  A week after his arrival, Kostas heard the staggering news: a military force backed by the junta in Greece had overthrown Archbishop Makarios; gunfire had broken out between the supporters of Makarios and the de facto president, Nikos Sampson, appointed by the leaders of the coup d’état. Kostas and his uncle pored over all the newspapers, shocked to read about how ‘bodies littered the streets and there were mass burials’. He barely slept at night, and whenever he drifted off, he plunged into disturbing dreams.

  Then followed even more unthinkable events: five days after Archbishop Makarios was overthrown, heavily armed Turkish troops landed at Kyrenia, 300 tanks and 40,000 soldiers, marching steadily inland. The Greek villagers in their path were forced to run south to safety, leaving everything behind. In the maelstrom of chaos and war, the military regime in Athens collapsed. There were reports of clashes between Turkish warships and Greek warships near Paphos. But the deadliest fights were taking place in and around the capital, Nicosia.

  Sick with dread, Kostas tried to find every titbit of information he could, glued to the radio to catch the latest reports. Words cloaked and blurred as much as they revealed and explained: ‘invasion’, said Greek sources; ‘peace operation’, said Turkish sources; ‘intervention’, said the UN. Strange concepts jumped out at him from the bulletins, pulled to the forefront of his mind. The articles spoke about ‘prisoners of war’, ‘ethnic partition’, ‘population transfer’ … He couldn’t believe they were referring to a place that was as familiar to him as his own reflection in the mirror. Now, he could no longer recognize it.

 

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