 
### A TWIST IN THE TAIL

### Neslihan Stamboli

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2019 Neslihan Stamboli

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### Table of Contents

PART ONE

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

PART TWO

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

PART THREE

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

PART FOUR

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

PART FIVE

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

About Neslihan Stamboli

Other Books by Neslihan Stamboli

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A fairy tale for my yet unborn grandchildren

The postmodern giants, ogres and witches that haunt us may twist meanings and deplete the quality of our lives by destroying our hope and maiming our lives, but they will never be able to eliminate the essence of dreams for a better life.

Jack Zipes
PART ONE
1

My father is dead. He is dead. Dead.

The words that struck me the instant I learned about the bitter truth yesterday morning, the words that have been ringing in my ears and preying on my mind ever since, strike again: My father is dead. He might not have left this world as the fatal word literally suggests, but he did leave my world in a no less ruthlessly irrevocable way. And when he did, he took away a whole lot of values along with him, the values I used to believe in, the values I used to take as the absolute truth. For me, he might as well be dead.

Using so few words, so simple and so brief, to express such an acute sense of agony, and the impossibly complex feelings behind it, seems pathetically inadequate. Since yesterday I have been in the clutches of a most unsettling sensation, the sensation that I was standing stark naked in the middle of an endless wasteland, cold and dark, under a starless sky. Unprotected, helpless, with no sense of direction. All is lost. I know that I have to carry on. I have to, if I don't want to freeze to death. I have to, if I don't want to fall prey to predators. I have to, if I am to find some protection. But I can't move. I'm frozen stiff.

Three weeks ago I thought I had had the most dreadful experience of my life, the fear of being abandoned irreversibly, the shock of realising that the person I cherished most might from one moment to the next desert me, that I might be left all alone, without warning. The despondency that followed, the desire to vanish from the face of this earth, the urge to leave everything and everyone. Eventually his return to life, followed by my resurrection. Then, the other evening, a coup de grâce; delivering the kiss of death, eclipsing all my fears and forebodings, the cruellest blow I have ever had, the worst thing that could have happened to me, a catastrophe. My heart, broken beyond repair, helplessly revolting under the crushing burden of an injustice so merciless and undeserved, after all I have done throughout the years. How odd that none of that matters any more, after what I learned yesterday morning.

It has only been a few minutes since I disembarked but I already regret coming here. God only knows why I did. It surely is not because of any fondness for this island on my part. The silence that reigns here curdles my blood; its loneliness, that sensation of being stranded, chills my bones. Despite all that, however, I woke up at the crack of dawn this morning with an unexpected need to come here, an almost irresistible impulse to be on this island, an impulse that I still cannot make heads or tails of, since it is the most forlorn place I have ever been in my life, a place of desolation, condemned to a solitary existence in the carceral realm of nature. Well, I probably had little common sense left in me after all that had happened yesterday, or rather after all that had been happening to me during these last three weeks.

I said I woke up at the crack of dawn. Well, to wake up one needs to be sleeping first. Given that I had not blinked an eye all night, it is wrong of me to say that I woke up. It was more like jumping out of bed at four in the morning, with the resolute determination of someone who had slept like a baby for hours, and had had enough of nocturnal repose; as if it were not a night filled with one incubus after another, a lot of tossing and turning, many a moment of sweating and many others of shivering. I recall realising that I had been thinking about our house here throughout the night, feeling that for some reason I needed to come here, then scrambling into some clothes and stuffing a few things into my suitcase – all in a hurry, as though speed would prevent any further thoughts from cluttering my mind – taking the first flight out of the metropolis and into the capital of the king of the Fourth World, followed by a ride on the fast train to a small seaside town, and finally by a voyage on the slow boat to this island they call the paradise of the land of scarcity. At the end of that horrendous trip of eight incredibly long hours, one look at the island and I was haunted by the sensation of having travelled, not for eight hours, but for eight decades back to the end of the twentieth century.

The body of water pretending to be a harbour accommodates no waterborne creations other than a rich variety of fish, a couple of fishing boats and one overly embellished cruiser, which is the pièce de résistance of the whole island. (No one in my generation understands this phrase, pièce de résistance, and for that reason alone I love using it. In our family, there are a few Noachian words from time immemorial, passed from generation to generation like secret codes that make us feel different, somewhat special. Did I say Noachian? Yes, Noachian. It seems that there are more than a few such words.) Where was I? Well, yes. One overly embellished cruiser, which is the pièce de résistance of the whole island, or, for clarity's sake, let us say the pride and joy of the whole island, shall we? At the very end of the breakwater, which extends like an arm unilaterally embracing this little harbour-like refuge, stands Auriga, the coachman, in wait for the handful of passengers expected to disembark from the boat arriving from the mainland and anchoring at large. The one and only taxi on the island, or rather the horse-drawn carriage Auriga prefers to refer to as a taxi, has not changed a bit since my childhood. Fit for a museum. So is its owner. Both of them are old, as they have always been. I guess people do not get older after a certain age; they simply remain very old.

This remote corner of the world seems to have been stuck in a time zone that goes back centuries, an island keeping a firm distance between itself and technological developments, as it lingers in an era long forgotten somewhere in the depths of history. Stubbornly resisting novelties, it is as if it had gone backwards in time, in contrast to a world moving ahead at a head-spinning pace. "An island of lyrical delirium notable for its pirates and for the frequent shipwrecks along its rugged coastline," someone once said, though I cannot remember who. So true. Looking at the sea, one develops a premonition that a storm might presently break out or a corsair's ship might suddenly come on stage. However, I fail to fathom what might have evoked the use of a term such as lyrical delirium. There must be a reason for the description, but it is beyond me what aspect of this island might possibly be so artistically beautiful as to provoke a sensation in anyone that would lead to a state of wild excitement.

The moment I step in the carriage, Auriga starts talking, overwhelmed by the delight of seeing a new face or, to be more specific, a face that he has taken to be new, since I ought to have been erased from the memories of the islanders rather a long time ago. Such delight would no doubt be the reaction of the rest of the local population of this lonely place, where less than two hundred people live now; a figure, it is feared, that might eventually dwindle to almost nothing, since the young keep moving to the capital. Auriga looks a hundred years old, although he is probably half the age of my father. Dad is the youngest soul I know; Auriga, on the other hand, is a contemporary of my great-grandfather. Rather an arduous undertaking to figure out what exactly he is saying, since he is missing many a tooth and obviously lacks the funds to have new ones implanted. His cheeks, no longer dentally supported, are sunken; his skin resembles a crumpled piece of dried-out leather. He is extremely polite, dropping a quite out of place "milady" every now and then. "We're surrounded by water, milady, but we still have water shortages," he laments.

A tale of the past it seems, that incapacity to solve such a trivial problem, in a time when the rest of the world converts greenhouse gases to oxygen. Are they not aware of the existence of a machine that transforms seawater into potable water? Clearly, on this island, no such machine has yet been heard of. They are the top candidates for the Black Sheep of the Second Renaissance Prize, lost souls.

We move along the embankment. It is almost the end of September but the sun, determined not to let go of its aestival dominance, struggles for dear life to cast a warm spell before sinking below the horizon. No matter how hard it tries to hide it, I can feel the rawness of its warmth, an untimely warmth, peculiar, treacherous, a warmth that would lose its strength even in the demure shade of a young tree, unexpectedly sending shivers down your spine, a perfidious warmth that might precipitously surrender its place to rain. Not a cloud in the sky. For the moment, that is. At this time of the year, one never knows. The black clouds might suddenly cover the island like a blanket, as the sun and the sky fade into oblivion. The clatter of the hoofs is muffled by the sound of the waves lashing at the rocks, moving in and out. I wonder if the water is warm enough to swim at this time of the year. Auriga says it is. "But do be careful if you go to the Dark Cave, milady. It's always freezing cold down there, even when it's boiling hot outside."

Several of the shops lined up on the embankment have pulled down their shutters, perhaps for the day, perhaps for all eternity. The Olden Thyme Grocery Store insists on surviving against all odds. Is it still as shabby as it has always been? I cannot see inside. The inscription on the sign above its window is no longer legible. It might as well have been rechristened the Organic Thyme Market, for all I know. We move ahead. The post office! What business could it be doing? I am sure there is nothing left but the sign. We trot along another carriage length. I smell bread fresh out of the oven, that delicious aroma of the farmhouse loaf from my childhood. We pass by the bakery, a landmark really, where we used to stop whenever we came down to the village for our daily shopping. It has not changed a bit. Even the wooden racks in its window, where loaves of bread stand in soldierly order, are exactly the same as before. I remember my mother complaining once as we entered the shop, "We still buy our bread. I must start baking our own," then my father saying, "It's rather a pity that you squander the opportunity to apply your creative genius to the culinary arts by refusing to cook. I'm sure you'll be great in the kitchen," before whispering in her ear, "being such a wantonly creative Cypris in every other room of the house." I recall the old baker, Pistor, deaf as a post, asking, "I beg your pardon? How many loaves did you say, sir?" and me interfering, "My dad says that my mum is not very keen on cooking, but she's very good at ..." before my father cuts me short, leaning over the counter towards Pistor and almost shouting in his ear, "I was just telling her how delicious your loaves are," then taking me in his arms, planting a kiss on my cheek and whispering, with a wink, "He doesn't need to know what a lousy cook your mum is." I recall how we giggled behind my mother's back and how very small I was at the time, too small to understand that my mother knew very well that the way to my father's heart did not pass through his stomach.

Leaving the bakery behind, we approach the Fish Restaurant further ahead on the embankment, with its tables dressed in white, invading half of the street. It is one of the two restaurants on the island, the other being the Sea Restaurant. I wonder if the eternal competition between them is as relentless as before. I see two men standing between the tables, arguing fiercely. One of them must be the son of the Angry Owner. He must be the owner now, the owner no less angry than his father, with a son or sons who will eventually become angry owners. Even his red apron is the same as his father's. He is shouting at the man in white shorts standing opposite him. His eyebrows are unrealistically furrowed. With a brisk movement of his head, he turns around and looks crossly at the cook, who has just made an entrance through the kitchen door. The cook has a white cook's cap, which he wears to prevent hair falling from his almost bald head into the dishes he cooks, oblivious to the threat of hair falling from his arms, bursting from his sleeveless off-white vest. His sole motive for wearing such a cap might be to show that he is the cook, I cannot help presuming. His aide-de-camp follows him, rubbing his eyes, still groggy after an untimely interruption to his afternoon nap. I hear a few salvos of another angry voice rumbling from the balcony on the upper storey of the restaurant. That's him, the Angry Owner. I recognise his voice, although it sounds pretty old now. I look up to see that I was mistaken. There sits a blue parrot in an old rusty cage, imitating his voice. He sounds utterly furious. The eyes of the aide-de-camp snap open. We move along the white-clad tables. They have been there, the very same tables, since my childhood. I am curious to see if the bloodstain is still there, the bloodstain on one of the legs of the table in the corner where we always sat. I still remember with much pride how once, while playing tag with my brother, I fell down and hit my head on the leg of the table, and how, despite the unbearable pain and the blood gushing out of my forehead and blinding one of my eyes, I clenched my teeth as my father had taught me and courageously got up, holding myself back from crying like a silly, weak little girl. I must have been about four then. My brother, an energetic soul – not to say a hyperactive devil – most probably thinking that it would amuse me and make me forget the pain, picked up the most lively crab from among those displayed at the entrance of the restaurant and tickled my leg with it from under the table. At first, I pulled my leg away in fright, only to jump out of my seat the next instant, run towards the crabs and, ignoring their active fidgeting, grab one and run after my brother. Eventually we had to return to our seats at the roar of the Angry Owner. Thinking about it now, I realise that he must have shouted at us upon my father's instructions.

We leave the embankment and turn uphill after passing Curio, the sponge diver, who is busy dipping a bright orange net filled with sponges into the sea. As we climb the one-horse-carriage-wide streets lined with houses, the sea recedes into the distance. At the top of the hill, the houses give way to pastures, and the sound of the waves to the deafening chirping of the crickets. It is long past the time for vibrating their tymbals in an effort to ensure the continuation of their species, (an ineffectual ritual altogether) but they do sound determined. Every now and then a cockerel lets out a desolate crow. That too is belated.

"No wonder it is called the Sunny Isle. We had a very dry summer. Not a drop of rain for nighty-nine days. It's all because of the seasonal averages."

Because of the temperatures being well above the seasonal averages, he means, but forgets half of what he intends to say since, just like "milady," it must be something he picked up from the media off the cuff, without truly understanding its connotations. It reminds me of those who are deemed more knowledgeable than an old coachman confined to an isolated island, and of the spurious abundance of words and expressions they use to impress others, without actually knowing what they are talking about.

"We have seen a lot worse, mind you. We used to be really crowded on this island, you know. At the turn of the century, there were two thousand of us living on this tiny piece of land. That was when we had really bad water shortages. I was just a child then. We used to wash ourselves in the sea and cook our food with seawater. We could hardly find a spoonful of fresh water to wash our eyes; they used to burn from sea salt. Things are much better now. There is not many of us left, anyhow. Only the old. Peaceful, like a nursing home."

He cannot bring himself to say peaceful like a deathbed, poor thing. There is nothing peaceful about this island but a phlegmatic inertia in the face of imminent death.

"It is the autumnal equinox tomorrow. The night and day will be equal in length. They will be, both in the northern and the southern hemispheres."

Is there any significance to his endless blabber? He talks just for the sake of talking.

"The autumns are not cold at all on our island."

Should I just say that I know and make him stop his pointless oration? He surely did not recognise me. Perhaps he has gone senile. It is, however, rather unlikely that anyone should remember me after all these years.

"It is twenty-two degrees Celsius today. They say it will be really warm tomorrow. We might even have the Maestral blowing, though it's an unlikely occurrence at this time of year. Like everything else, the seasons too have changed. The winds behave differently nowadays." He turns his head to look at me. His eyes resemble two shiny black olives, placed on his parched face much later than the rest of his features. "Don't you confuse it with the Mistral, which blows violently from the mainland towards the sea." He turns his back to me again to give his whip a shake in the air so as to encourage his emaciated horses, who are having a hard time climbing the hill slightly steeper now. "It's the antithesis of Mistral. You can never have enough of it. Around noontime on really hot days, it starts to blow gently from the sea towards the mainland. As the day gets hotter, it raves in the sun's glory, blowing stronger and stronger, refreshing you like a glass of iced water. Then at one point, its force becomes constant. This ritual never changes. Its nature is totally predictable. Finally, towards dusk, it loses its intensity. When the sun sinks behind the horizon, it stops, as if scared of the darkness, retiring to a peaceful sleep until noon the next day." He looks up at the sky. "It doesn't blow today. I guess it's not warm enough."

The hill becomes much steeper now. The horses slow down. They must know by heart that they need to survive another twenty carriage lengths before the flat hilltop. Further ahead where the road makes a fork, stands a woman dressed in a black skirt, a white blouse and, despite the twenty-two degrees Celsius, thick black stockings. She seems to be waiting for us to pass along. Her sneakers, obviously nicked from a granddaughter, present a peculiar contrast with the white headscarf tied behind her neck. As we pass by her, she exchanges a greeting with Auriga. Her face seems familiar. "The housekeeper of the Honey Estate," explains Auriga. I smell the thyme, that unmistakably embalming fragrance permeating everything, including the honey from the Honey Estate, famous for its vast number of beehives. I remember taking several honeycombs – generously oozing this rare delicacy – with us to the metropolis at the end of our summer holidays, a privilege we enjoyed at a time when the bees were swiftly joining the colony of endangered species. Are they still alive, the bees of the Honey Estate? Their children? Their grand-children? We turn left where the road forks. Trees come into view. Further ahead stand two Sequoia ghosts cloaked in cypress. Twin cypress trees. Keeping an eye on the graves, are they? Have they always been there or are they late bloomers? We reach the top of the hill; the horses relax, breaking into an easy trot, kicking up a cloud of dust. Taking a sharp turn around the Giant Tree, I see, through the canopy of its branches stretching over the road, the stone garden wall of our house in the distance.

Auriga blabbers on. "Once they used to flock here, the campers, the druggies, the buggies, you name it, like flies to fresh meat, invading our beaches with an army of tents and mattresses. The day-travellers filled in the blanks, rushing in on their boats, jingling along like floating discos. They always left a mess behind them, a terrible mess we had to clean. I remember picking up their cigarette stubs for hours. In time, God only knows why, they stopped coming and the windsurfers replaced them, rallying here, come rain, come shine. I used to think they looked like hasty butterflies fluttering their wings to stay above the water. Nowadays, nobody is interested in our island. I guess no one windsurfs anymore."

Is there anyone left in this world who knows what windsurfing is, let alone does windsurfing?

We stop in front of the garden gate. Through the withered leaves of the ivy, struggling to hang on to the rusty wrought-iron curves, I see the pathetic state of the garden. My heart sinks. The sense of regret intensifies. Why did I come here? What possessed me? Auriga takes my suitcase down and extends his hand to help me climb out. Ignoring him, I jump down.

"How much is it?"

"Five coins, milady," he says.

Is he joking or are these people really stuck in another time frame? I give him the coins I dig out of my handbag. "Please keep the change."

He reaches for my suitcase. I beat him to it. "There is no need. I can manage on my own from here, thank you."

He helps me open the gate, which seems determined not to allow passage. "Do you need anything from the village? Milk, eggs, honey, bread for breakfast? I'll get them for you."

I don't want anything. I guess I don't want to stay here for long. "No, thank you. I won't be needing anything."

"What will you have for dinner? You shouldn't starve yourself."

Rest assured that starving is the least of my troubles at the moment. Not caring to answer him, I turn around and walk towards the house. The garden is victimised by weeds, vegetation atrophied to a vestige of what it once was. A fossilised tree stands in the corner where the apricot tree is supposed to be. It auditions for the role of an extra in a horror movie to be shot when darkness falls. The olive trees a few paces ahead still accommodate a wealth of leaves, but their twisting and twining trunks seem to have grown up under the torment of violent pain, making them shrivel and withdraw inwards.

I hesitate in front of the main door, unwilling to go inside. My steps take me to the front of the house, overlooking the sea. My fig tree! Still upright and strong. It has not grown at all. In fact, it even looks smaller. Perhaps I just don't realise how much it has really grown because it seemed so big to me when I was a child. I feel a sudden urge to stand on my head under it. Can I still do that?

At the head of the steps leading down to the beach stands our eerie tree, with four trunks spreading its branches north, south, east and west. I walk towards the stone benches stubbornly keeping their vigil in the shade under the four-trunked tree, the one with its back to the house giving on to the sunset, the other one to the moonrise and, some mornings, to the sunrise. Somehow I find it strange that once people used to watch the sun rise in this house. Turning around, I look at the house standing there like a castle built of stone. I cannot find the courage to enter it. Putting down my suitcase, I sit on the Sunset Bench. Without the soft cushions, it is cold and unaccommodating. A few paces ahead stands the wooden fence – the palisade of my childhood – which my father put up, its decrepit stance no longer reassuring. The boxwoods he planted alongside it are nothing more than dry stalks now, too weak and sparse to claim that once upon a time they used to prevent the children of this abode from slithering down the slope. A surge of uneasiness grips me. The crickets! Their chirping drives me mad. Every now and then one of them breaks into a deafeningly agogic recitation. Its hopeless search for a mate has turned into a frustrated serenade. I don't think I can take it much longer.

I stand up. Taking my suitcase, I stumble distractedly towards the house and up the stone step onto the veranda. A glimpse through the French windows of the living room reveals the spine-chilling interior of a castle haunted by ghosts. A cold hand grabs my heart. I flee back to the garden. The statue of the proud deer, reposing where the veranda meets the garden, stares at me. "Welcome home. Where have you been? We missed you." Suddenly, I pick up my courage and take determined strides to the back of the house, stopping in front of the main door again. A huge, rusty padlock greets me. Who knows when it was born? Definitely a hangover from a past generation, long consigned to oblivion. I am sure no one on the island is ignorant of the fact that its key is tucked underneath the flower pot by the main door. Why bother locking it then? The key waits for me in its usual habitat. Removing the padlock, I step inside, my stride losing its confident bearing. The coolness of the hallway sends a shiver through my body. I gently put down my suitcase. My father, only an image now, lies down on the stone flooring, as he often did on hot summer days to cool off; we join in, eager ghosts lining up next to him. The shivering stops. I head for the stairs leading up, only to give up the idea and walk to the end of the hallway, open the glass door to the veranda and then unlock the grating of wrought-iron flowers protecting the house. I am back in the garden.

Heading towards the other end of the front garden, I traverse the lawn, the velvety carpet of our childhood where we used to roll about, now only a distant memory. The pergola in front of the dining room is cooped up within the confines of a grille, the dry branches resting on the trellis above casting a shadow like that of a giant spider web. Rather difficult to imagine it in its younger days when it served as a marvellously cool refuge under a canopy of vine leaves. The taste of the grapes my father used to pick from the hanging branches and feed us is still fresh in my mouth. A tingling sensation brushes against my teeth at the memory of the salads dressed with the sour juice of freshly squeezed unripe grapes. Not a sign of the wooden benches on both sides of the dining table, nor any sign of those enjoying their food as they relaxed on the varicoloured cushions. My father's wrought-iron armchair at the head of the table is covered in rust, its feet discolouring the stone paving underneath in patches of umber. The stones have faded into a dull and dirty grey. A line of flower pots by the wall, some short, some tall. The earth inside them cracked from lack of water. In one of them, a single stalk promising the possibility of life. How did it survive this despondency? It must have resisted death by reminiscing about the days when their thirst was quenched with the water from the well. The well by the pergola is a historical monument, calm in its eternal resting place under the two high and mighty maritime pines, which have not moved an inch from where they stood sentry. The trees, once twins, no longer look alike; one was bent to one side at an early age while the other started its life rising straight up, suddenly took a sharp turn, then another, and finally reached over towards its sister. The hammock stretched between them is still there, looking as scary as it did when I was a little girl, threatening to send those who dare climb into its arms for a few swings, flying off down the cliff. A total misconception; when you gather up your courage and approach it, you realise that this is a far-fetched threat since the garden does not actually end there; the farthest you can fly off to being the spacious lower section of the garden terraced to prevent the earth – and those on it – from sliding down to the sea. Sitting down on one of the rocks, large and small, on both sides of the wide stone steps leading to the lower garden, I see a huge crack on the step right next to my foot. Weeds have grown through it. Among them, a tiny purple flower. What are you doing here? My eyes leave the flower and glide over for a stroll through the lower garden. The fishpond derelictus (do I need to clarify as derelict?), which once housed shoals of fish of all shades and hues, stays put by the long-gone _Taht-ı Revan_ of majestic proportions. My father's motive in christening this divan-like, huge sofa as such was certainly not that he likened it to the sedan chairs that carried sultans, kings, queens and the like. Our _Taht-ı Revan_ did not carry anyone anywhere, given its size and weight. For years, it did not even move from its open-air throne room where it had initially been placed. Where might it have ended up? I remember the jubilation I felt at the rare occasions when we were granted an audience and nestled between our parents lounging on the white cushions, those magical cushions that changed colour and became marigolds of the cosiest kind as they bathed in the soothingly warm rays of the setting sun. Folds of fine muslin, white and vaguely transparent, enfolded the inhabitants of this nest, draping over and down the canopy resting on four tall wooden posts faded under the scorching sun and seasoned with the salt carried by the strong winds. It dances before my eyes as it sways in the wind. Am I smiling? A bitter smile, no doubt.

I rise to my feet and walk over to the stone wall erected to protect us from falling off the steep cliff extending down to the shore. Strictly forbidden to climb on it. I do. My head spins as I look down. The sea is spotted with rocks peeping through its surface, the water foaming in restless white necklaces around them. Something squeezes my neck in a stranglehold, choking me. I turn around and jump down, run through the lower garden, climb up the stone steps and dash over the dry remnants of the lawn. The veranda, the wrought-iron flowers guarding the house, the hallway. I enter the living room and sink into one of the sofas by the fireplace. My gaze travels through the window, over the dilapidated garden, onto the shrewd sea stretching beyond.

Why on earth did I come here? To torture myself, is it? This is insane. I couldn't have chosen a worse place to run away to. And as to any hope of pulling myself together? Forget about it! Not a chance. My memories here will deplete the last drop of energy left in me.

Why, it hath bay windows transparent as barricadoes, and the clerestories toward the south-north are as lustrous as ebony; and yet complainest thou of obstruction?

Was it after these lines or was it after the next cue? How odd that I can't remember. It should have been engraved in my memory. It seems as if centuries have gone by, although it was only three weeks ago, a Wednesday to be exact, the first day of the new theatre season, the day my father threatened to leave me, leave me all alone. Forever.

Shakespeare. _Twelfth Night_. That evening, as was my habit before the first night of a new play, I had taken my place in the Lower Gallery a few minutes before the gong announced the beginning of the play. (The first few moments of a play are of the utmost importance because that is when minor technical problems usually come up.) I was sitting at the very end of a row in the middle section so that I could leave the auditorium without disturbing the audience, should a problem come up during the play. I was ready to jot down the details that needed attention before the next performance. Just like on every opening night, I was very anxious despite having grown up in this theatre, spent my entire career here except for a few months of internship elsewhere, and been working as its production manager for the last five years. I was like a cat on a hot tin roof, shuttling between my office and the back stage until the very last moment, taking care of a few details that had been overlooked during a very hectic last week.

The three rows behind me were reserved for the friends and the families of our staff. Right behind me sat the parents of our stage manager. They told me the few remarks they had heard in the foyer, which they thought would please me. As usual, we had invited the critics, the well-known and not so very well-known actors, the competent and the incompetent professionals of the world of drama and cinema. I was sure that they were all there, as they would never miss a _Twelfth Night_ where my father played Clown Feste. Despite the chill in the air, my father had insisted that we have the gala cocktail in the garden overlooking the river, as we did in the summer months when it served as the foyer. He said that in a city so far away from the sea, any body of water was enough to make one feel privileged, although there was nothing appealing about the view the river offered, flowing in all its brown glory, brown not from the pollution (since it had been thoroughly cleaned long ago) but from the silt its troubled and turbulent waters disturbed.

Theatre Twenty Hundred, the love child of my father who founded it after moving heaven and earth for years in his endeavour to revive the Old Playhouse, stood on the south bank of the river. As a matter of fact, it still does. It still stands where it has been standing for the last twenty-three years. It still gives on to that place of worship across the river, or rather to that domed structure referred to by different names in different times that nowadays serves only as a historical monument evoking the admiration of many. It still leans its back on to that somewhat crude and chunky building, which, after having served as a factory for decades, was converted to a modern art museum at the turn of the century. For me, though, Theatre Twenty Hundred is nothing but history. It no longer exists as far as I am concerned. Therefore, it would be more appropriate if I said, "it _used to lean_ its back on to that somewhat crude and chunky building."

Theatre Twenty Hundred, just like the Old Playhouse, was built using only local materials. Everything from the columns around the stage to the benches that accommodated the spectators was made of timber. The audience watched the play from four different layers: the Yard, the Lower Gallery, the Middle Gallery and the Upper Gallery. The cheapest tickets were for the Yard where there were no seats. In my opinion, however, it was the best place to watch the play because, although standing up through the whole play did prove to be rather tiring, you were the closest to the actors and, if you happened to be in the very front, could lean your elbows on the stage and really feel part of the show. In some plays, we used to extend the stage towards the Yard in a thrust. The actors sometimes entered and exited the stage from among the audience standing in the Yard, and even played certain scenes down there. After a while, the distance between the actors and the audience disappeared and those in the Yard became part of the cast. At times, the musicians climbed to the upper galleries, standing on the right and the left, giving another dimension to the music. In the spring and summer, we opened the roof of the building, turning Theatre Twenty Hundred into an open-air theatre. My father said that these were the days when he enjoyed himself the most. "Just like in the old days when the travelling theatre companies performed in the courtyards of the inns," he kept saying and carried on with open-air performances well into the autumn, only to close the roof, albeit unwillingly, when he could no longer ignore the complaints from the audience about the cold.

My father had been the artistic director of Theatre Twenty Hundred from day one. He took care of almost everything, from setting up the artistic policy and the objectives of our theatre, to the selection of the plays to be staged, to discovering new talents, digging out new plays, hunting down new playwrights and deciding on the director and the designers of the selected plays. In short, he had been the captain of the ship for the last twenty-three years. Considering that he also directed some of the plays and often performed as well, it is no wonder that he ended up in hospital. On the opening night of each new play which he directed but did not act in, he used to shuttle between the backstage and the foyer during the last minutes before the curtain went up. (He used to! He no longer does. He no longer will. It gives me so much pain to relate all of this in the past tense that I feel like rewriting it all. "He does and he will do so tomorrow and the next day and the day after that." Unfortunately, the bitter truth requires the use of the historic past tense.) He used to try and calm the restless actors backstage and then rush to the foyer to talk to the journalists, the critics and the guests. Although he was well ahead in his years, he took care of every little detail with a youthful energy that his body seemed unable to contain. Nothing escaped his attention, not even a stain on a cushion placed on the wooden benches in the galleries or a mistake in the selection and presentation of the food and drinks served in the foyer during the intervals. "We must serve proper food, not just some make-shift sandwiches," he often said, adding that the people came to the theatre for entertainment and that they needed to be properly entertained like in the olden times. "All this is part of the face my theatre shows the world. I shall not tolerate any mistakes." As soon as the curtain went up, he dashed to the lighting control console at the back of the Lower Gallery where he stayed during the entire play, making notes while his hawk-like gaze scanned the audience and the critics to gauge their reactions. That night three weeks ago, however, he was getting ready to take the stage.

Despite having gone through the drafts of the programme dozens of times before, I opened the copy I had taken as I entered the auditorium and, starting from the last page, checked once again if the names of the backstage staff were spelt correctly. (I have no tolerance for any mistakes there, not even a wrong letter.) At long last, the lights began fading, as did the noises from the chattering audience. In my mind, I could hear the instructions backstage. "Lights are off. Act One opening actors, get ready please."

I immediately took my first note. "Musical director. Lowering of the music – fading of the lights in the auditorium. Synchronisation."

One scene followed another. Everything was going fine, although there were several small details which I thought definitely needed attention. Act One, Scene Five. Enter Feste. The sound of the church bells is too weak, too distant. Keeping my eyes on the stage, I took another note, "Musical director: I.5 – Feste – church bell effect." When the house was full, it sort of swallowed the sounds. I thought I should underline this point once again for the new play, the rehearsals of which were soon to commence.

My father was playing Clown Feste again. He had completely shaved off his hair, which, although going white in places, was still very thick. With his upright posture, his muscular body more impressive than many a younger man, and his energetic gait (which made it tiring even to watch him), he hardly looked his sixty-six years. He might have given up doing back handsprings ten years ago, but the somersaults he insisted that he do in the fourth act, despite our objections, easily made the Feste he portrayed not an old man of sixty-six years but a man of thirty-six, even a youth of twenty-six. It was as though he were timeless, in line with the main theme we highlighted in all our plays at Theatre Twenty Hundred. Despite the timelessness of the costumes and the decor, however, Feste was a clown who, willingly or unwillingly, accentuated the passage of time, a clown who often reflected upon death.

Let her hang me. He that is well hanged in this world needs to fear no colours.

To convey the double-entendre, which was impossible to convey in the translated version, he held his crotch to show what Feste actually meant by "well hanged." A few laughs rose from the audience.

The lights. Shouldn't the white filling light be turned off and the blue light be more intense at this point, underlining the weight of my father's next line? Note: " _He shall see none to fear_ – Blue light more intense." The wise lighting systems were apparently not so wise. There had to be something wrong with the colour filters.

Up until then I had watched the play five times from beginning to end (once at the read-through on the first day of the rehearsals, once in the rehearsal room, once at the technical rehearsal and twice at the dress rehearsals) but everything changed when the house was full. The audience was like the final piece that completed a jigsaw puzzle. Their presence had an incredible effect on the actors. However, it was not how their presence and reactions, or the lack thereof for that matter, affected the performance of the actors that I watched out for. That was something my father was interested in. What concerned me was how the laughter or the applause affected the timing of the technical matters, how their bodies absorbing the sounds and altering the strength of the music and the sound effects changed the acoustics of the auditorium.

Now the melancholy god protect thee; and the tailor make thy doublet of changeable taffeta, for thy mind is a very opal. I would have men of such constancy put to sea, that their business might be everything, and their intent everywhere, for that's it that always makes a good voyage of nothing. Farewell.

The scenes with my father were a great delight to watch. His presence relaxed the other players and the play went on smoothly. Towards the end of the second act, a few minutes before the interval, I left the auditorium and went backstage to ask my father if there were any problems. Everything was fine. After fixing a minor conflict between the dance director and one of the concubines dancing during the intervals, I returned to my place. The third act commenced. I was slowly unwinding, even enjoying the play, I might say.

But indeed, words are very rascals since bonds disgraced them.

As usual, these last words reminded me of what had befallen the dramatic arts. I remembered how, seventeen years ago, Theatre Twenty Hundred – just like the Old Playhouse of four centuries ago – had been forced to give no more than two performances a week, a privilege really, considering that all the other theatres had been closed down by the order of an advisory committee inflicting a level of medieval fanaticism that put the deterioration of the Dark Ages to shame. I was twelve years old then. My brother and I, we had been in the cast of _Twelfth Night_ , which had always been part of the annual programme of our theatre. I had been playing the tambourine and my brother the goblet drum as part of the musical performances during the intervals.

The third act continued almost flawlessly. One might say that most of the scenes were even perfect for an opening night. And then that treacherous fourth act began. And that treacherous second scene.

Bonos dies, Sir Toby; for as the old hermit of Prague, that never saw pen and ink, very wittily said to a niece of King Gorboduc 'That that is, is'; so I, being Master Parson, am Master Parson; for what is 'that' but that, and 'is' but is?

Through my father's unbuttoned white shirt, I could see the movements of his diaphragm. He used his breath so well. He was a master of it.

Why, it hath bay windows transparent as barricadoes, and the clerestories toward the south-north are as lustrous as ebony; and yet complainest thou of obstruction?

As he finished his line, he took a few steps back towards the panel acting as a wall. His knees seemed to be giving in. He turned his back to the audience and held on to the panel. I could see the panel almost move under his weight. And then ... Then I saw his face as he collapsed onto the floor. His lips were slightly curved upwards, as if in a smile. Several laughs rose from the audience. Those who did not know _Twelfth Night_ well must have thought he was acting. No, he was not acting. I jumped to my feet and ran towards the main exit, heading backstage, only to stop short after a few steps. Malvolio's line, which was supposed to be brief, went on and on.

I am not mad, Sir Topas.

I say to you this house is dark.

Dark! ...

Very dark!

I turned around to look at the stage. My father was still on the floor. Perhaps he was acting after all. Improvisation. He loved to improvise, to startle everyone. No! Never on an opening night. Something was wrong. Terribly wrong. I rushed towards the stage. I remember shouting, "Call the doctor!" as I climbed the stairs.

I look at the sea through the dirty glazing of the window. A very thin line vacillates with each gust of wind where the orangey blue sea meets the bluish orange sky, a meeting that gobbles up the horizon, offering a sense of infinity. It must be a sailing boat. Or perhaps not. I can't really figure it out. Although Auriga, the coachman, has not included it in his lecture on the winds, I can tell that what has been blowing fiercely from the land towards the sea for the last hour is Bura. The shrewish Bura. The bitter-sweet love of all sailors.

I cannot say I categorically do not like nature, to be honest. It is only that I am not quite passionate about being alone amidst the desolation it offers, all too silent and quiet for me. I do, however, love its free-spirited, untamed character. Nature has a mind of its own, accommodating a peculiar order of things, a rebellious order full of surprises, an order that the human mind can never totally take control of. It boils my blood to grapple with its hard-headedness without being able to plan exactly what to do, since one never knows what might happen or when it might happen. A test that is no less alluring than those put forward by the fast-paced life of the metropolis, a much tougher arena, in fact, to substantiate one's power.

Bura, not letting a single cloud linger in the sky, has really cooled the weather. The setting sun, which has long lost its strength, might very soon lose its tug-of-war with the fierce wind. Its light, however, is still surprisingly strong for this time of the year, dazzling my eyes, its reflection on the water distorting everything, making it difficult, for instance, to tell if the sailing boat is coming in or going out.

I can almost hear my father's voice. He is singing.

What is love? 'Tis not hereafter;

Present mirth hath present laughter;

What's to come is still unsure.

In delay there lies no plenty,

Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty.

Youth's a stuff will not endure.

Then he calls out, "Good morning," from where he is sitting on the _Taht-ı Revan_. He is not alone.

The more I think, the more furious I get. This is nothing but treachery. I am betrayed and there is no other way to put it. I sometimes think that he should never have told me. Why did he have to, after hiding it all these years? Why? Why now? It was something I sort of suspected from a very early age but could never take on board, something that harrowed my very soul, something I eventually came to digest, so to speak, and to accept as part of our life, albeit under considerable strain. But this ... this is a completely different kettle of fish. My whole world has turned upside down from one moment to the next. How can anyone tolerate such deception and carry on with life as if nothing has changed? How can you look at everything from the same perspective after learning that you have been lied to from the very beginning and that the person you value the most has been deluding you all your life? How can things remain the same after realising that your greatest hero is not a hero but a traitor? Is it easy to swallow the duplicity of someone you trusted unconditionally, to come to terms with having been robbed of the right to love or to hate, of the chance to make such a choice? Mentally digging deeper, I ask myself: What other illusions do I have? Who else whom I trust will be playing me false? I have probably been stabbed in the back already and, being blissfully ignorant of it, am prone to yet another bitter surprise. I know that the falsehood of one of your most deeply-held convictions, which you never even thought of questioning, should not mean that the rest of your beliefs are false as well. I truly want it not to be so. I desperately try to convince myself that it is not so. An unavailing effort, really. I cannot help but be sceptical. Once your trust is undermined, a fear cripples your heart, a fear exacerbated by an acute suspicion that you have always been deceived and, worse still, you always will be. You start questioning everything you have so far taken to be true. You can no longer trust anyone, burdened with the premonition that someone might be pulling the wool over your eyes, intriguing behind you, letting you down or turning traitor – given that even your father did. I can't think anymore. There can be no justification for it. As painful as it might be, I have to repeat it: My father is dead. He is no longer living so far as I am concerned.

I do not actually want to talk about death right now. It is not, however, up to me to decide the fate of my writing, as Nanna pertinently put it once. According to my dear Nanna, who taught me to tell stories, or to be more precise, who taught me that I _must_ tell stories, I would simply be expressing my thoughts and feelings on paper and leaving it to the reader in me to decide where my scribbling would go.
2

In a land that never was, in a time that could never be, when yesterday was today, when the sieve lay in the hay and the camels spread hearsay, back far back in the mists of time when the fleas dressed hair and the djinn of the old hammam played hare, while the fairies fair and rare filled the air, such was the time when the sky was green and the pastures blue-grey, if you looked at the world upside down, that is to say.

Tara was upside down under the fig tree in the garden, watching the sea, as she often did throughout the summer. Nanna had taught her not only how to tell stories but also how to stand like this, on her head. "You must learn how to look at the world from a different angle," she often repeated. "It's probably more important – no, it's definitely more important – to see things from another perspective than to tell stories." For Tara, standing like this was nothing more than a game, a trick that made her feel different and special, attracting everyone's attention, a stunt that helped her show how much more courageous she was than the others, doing what nobody else could do. Nanna's mother Aslı, who was said to be only a couple of years away from celebrating her hundredth birthday, kept teasing Tara: "You would make a great acrobat. You must have inherited your Granddad's love of the circus." Nanna's husband, Granddad, was not an acrobat in the circus but kept recounting how, one summer in his younger days, he had worked in one and how that experience had altered the overall direction of his career.

They spent their summers on this island in this house, which Nanna said was built by Tara's sixth generation grandparents, a very long time ago, before a wretched war called the First World War. In time, it came to be neglected and then completely forgotten. Finally, forty years ago, Nanna and Granddad took it upon themselves to renovate it and, staying away from the conveniences provided by technological advances as best as they could, created a house that was considered a nature-friendly ecological oasis for that period. Nanna always said that it was her Seventh Heaven, relating a story which might have been a true story or part of a tale she had just made up, as she frequently did. "In those olden days, the island's name, like everything else, was different. They called it the Island of Thyme, since it was abundant in the herb. In time, the thyme, just like many other things, became prone to extinction. The island changed hands and its new owners decided to call it the Sunny Isle." Nanna, however, never stopped calling it the Island of Thyme; nor did she give up referring to the beds of thyme she had planted in one corner of the garden as the mausoleum.

That year they had come to the island much earlier than usual. Tara's mother, very much pregnant again, wanted to get away from the metropolis, saying that April rains depressed her. They had been here for two months now. The hot season had started prematurely and the weather was exceptionally suffocating for June. That morning, Tara had woken up with a great sense of joy, jumped out of bed jauntily, slipped into her playsuit and run down to the garden to her fig tree. Her father, Orhon, would be coming that afternoon to stay for two weeks. He hardly ever stayed that long; he worked too hard. When asked what he did, he said that he played make-believe, adding, "I've been into role-playing for as long as I can remember." He continually travelled because of those plays, which sometimes went on for so long that the whole family had to pack up and join him, wherever he was. Once they had to cross over the ocean to go to that most colourful city in the southern hemisphere where they had stayed for weeks. At the time, her mother was pregnant again and Amber had almost been born there. "It is not only your father who travels for work, Tara," her mother said, probably to give her some consolation. "There are other professions that keep fathers away from their families for long periods of time." But that summer, her words of consolation had changed. "Everything will be different from now on, sweetheart. Your father will be playing his games live on stage." Although Tara did not quite understand exactly what that change entailed, she was happy to hear that her father would be travelling less and staying longer in the metropolis, a fortunate change, meaning that he would be spending much more time with her. He had, in fact, been travelling less during these last few months and coming home every night, though late. Tara knew he did because no matter what time it was, he always came to her room to give her a kiss. She also knew that he sometimes did not come home. He said that he had to work very hard for his new project, preparing the place where he would be playing his games live. He was thrilled to bits. "This is the project of my life," he kept repeating. "My dream is finally coming true."

Tara loved their house on the island, her favourite spot being the _Taht-ı Revan_ , the large divan in the lower garden, by the fishpond under the acacia tree, which accommodated four people in the comfortable bosom of its fluffy white cushions, offering a cool repose under its canopy of white muslin to anyone jaded by the heat. It was actually her parents' sofa, but every once in a while they took Tara and her brother Sena on board. Amber, never letting go of her mother's hand, would undoubtedly be there. And so would be Sirius, who followed their father like a shadow.

Their house was like a zoo, an animal world reigned over by her father's dog, Sirius. To the surprise of everyone, Sirius had taken under his protective wings Hokus, Pokus and Mokus, three members of the endangered species of peacocks, a most valuable gift from Nanna. He could not, however, be so fatherly towards the squirrels, Peanut and Hazelnut, the latter of which in particular drove him mad, often making him wait underneath a tree for hours. Well, perhaps Sirius thought it was him who kept Hazelnut up on a tree for hours, but in any case they were the victims of their animosity. Another figure in this microcosm was Plato, Nanna's lethargic dog who frequently came to stay, sometimes for weeks. Seeing no threat in sluggish Plato, Sirius had accepted him into his circle as well. Othello, on the other hand, watched everything from a safe distance, preferring to stay almost invisible so that no one hurt him – a needless exercise in self-defence, since he would have no difficulty in swiftly withdrawing into, and taking timely shelter under, his hard shell at the slightest sign of anything alien, even if it were the gentle extension of a friendly hand promising a caress. Tara loved these animals like she loved her siblings – well not exactly like she loved her brother Sena, of course. Nobody could ever take his place.

Othello was standing right in front of her. Every time she stood on her head, he came over with unexpected speed and stuck his wrinkled head out to examine Tara's face in total bewilderment. Her father said that Othello was a hundred years old; Nanna said, "perhaps even older." Tara wished she could live as long, but not the way Othello did. His was the most boring life. He needed hours to move from one tree to another. Initially Tara had thought he was sick, but Nanna had said that all turtles were like that, slow movers. "That is why they live so long, dear. They need that time to be able to do all they have to do in a lifetime."

Kali did not know how old she was. Neither did she know where she was born. She did not think any of that to be of any importance. She never knew her mother. They said she had died giving birth to Kali. And nobody knew who her father was. Along with her siblings, she had been put into an orphanage, only to be separated from them when she was adopted by a couple she never liked. She soon decided to run away from her new parents, who treated her really badly, and return to the orphanage; but she made it no further than the garden of the green house at the end of the street. The owner of that house happened to be a lovely lady who promised to help her, eventually making sure that she was adopted by a family who would truly love and cherish her.

Kali looked at her new father sitting opposite her on the train. He talked constantly. Every once in a while, he raised his eyebrows as if in surprise, opened his blue eyes wide and, without blinking, looked straight into the eyes of those sitting across from him, demanding their absolute attention. He did not need to make such a demand since everyone was deeply absorbed in what he was saying. Kali, on the other hand, was not so much interested in what he said; she mostly watched his movements and gestures, doing her best to figure out what kind of a family she would be a part of and what sort of life was in store for her. He talked as if in a hurry, as if he had a lot to tell in a very limited time. He almost swallowed the end of a word before jumping right into the next, as if he feared not being able to squeeze in all he had to say. He hardly paused between the sentences, not even for a breath. And then suddenly, he stopped. A question followed, to make sure that his audience had been listening to him. "Am I right?" "What do you think I should have said?" His words found expression in his hands, in his eyes, and at times even in his whole body. Once in a while he sprang to his feet, then sat down the next instant and carried on with what he was saying. He was full of beans, a bundle of nervous energy. One second, it was his right ankle resting on his left knee, the next his left ankle on his right knee. Then suddenly he put both his feet down, placed his elbows on his knees, clasped his hands and started twisting his wedding ring round and round on his finger. When others had a chance to join in, he sporadically broke into bursts of laughter, edgy, overwrought outbreaks that died away precipitously and left him pensively pressing down with his finger onto the same spot on his trousers, as though he wanted to get rid of an imaginary stain. At long last, a smile appeared on his face, a bitter smile reflecting a disturbing thought, perhaps. And then he took off with another fiery soliloquy. Was he always like this or was he overexcited today for some reason or other? This spectacle of exuberant effervescence drained Kali of almost all her energy. "How old is he?" she wondered. He must be in his late thirties or early forties. His curly hair had gone grey in places. His eyes, which initially bore nothing more than compassion, eventually showed signs of affection for Kali. Yes, there was love in the way he looked at her now. However, more importantly for Kali, in those eyes she found the reassurance she needed. She knew the moment they had met that he was someone she could trust; she could tell from the way he hugged her, carefully so as not to hurt her, but firmly enough to assure her that he would never let her go. He had said that his family would love her too.

They were going to her new family's summer house on an island. She didn't know in which country the island was; she didn't know what language they spoke there or what their religious persuasion was. None of that mattered. The only thing she knew was what everyone in the metropolis said: "That place does not belong to this world." She had met her new mother before. Now, she would be meeting her sisters but would have to wait for a while before meeting her brother, who was at a camp for a fortnight.

The gentle rocking of the train was making her sleepy. She remembered a story she had once heard.

Judgement was passed on Inanna and she was turned into a corpse, hung on a hook to rot in the Underworld. Without Inanna, love perished on Earth and the world went dark. After three days and three nights, Inanna's maid appealed to the gods to rescue her mistress. The gods wished Inanna to stay in the Underworld, so they refused.
3

The sailing boat seems closer now. Or am I mistaken? Looking at the sea, one cannot judge distance so accurately. The vision of another boat from another time approaching the shore sails into my view, a small fishing boat with a little girl on it.

In the gathering darkness, everything appears even gloomier. It is so stuffy in here that I can hardly breathe. I open the French windows and the grating of wrought-iron flowers behind them, giving on to the veranda. Through some other iron flowers on the other end of the veranda, I see the dining room. Blankly, I gaze at the empty birdcage on the buffet table, the birdcage in which my mother used to display her glass bell jars. Only she herself knew why she did that. No more bell jars, but I still feel suffocated. An intense sense of being trapped. Stifled. Dragging my eyes away from the birdcage, the dining room, the iron flowers and the veranda, I return to my sofa. The round fireplace in the corner resembles the entrance to a dark cave. The wall above it no longer shows its true colours, its seductively sweet hue of honey being veiled behind a dark and pungent shade of mustard. The brush, the shovel, the tongs and the poker are rusted beyond recognition.

I remember the cool late summer evenings of my childhood when a wood fire was lit in this fireplace; a time when the people of this household sat around the fire and exchanged stories, stories much like those told by the nomads in the ancient times, I cannot help but think, moving from one geography to another in search of game as the seasons changed; stories telling the prowess of the hunter, the agility of the gazelle, the sharpness of the wolf or the cunning of the fox, stories narrating events in the sequence they happened, then Nanna's shocking stories distorting everything, and finally my favourites, the fairy tales. Nanna's words ring in my ears: "The fairies appear only to certain special people who can see them. They do many a good deed and at times much mischief. Then they just fly away." I smile. I think of how badly I need a fairy. That desperate, am I?

I stand up. The milky-white mermaid elegantly reposing on the coffee table is no longer a blonde. Her golden curls have long darkened to a chestnut brown under a thick layer of dust. I sense fear in her eyes, not an innate characteristic as I recall. She is extending her arms towards the sea, yearning to go home. One of these days, I should set her free. A born swimmer, the wooden mermaid will survive the waters. But alas! She might have forgotten how to stay afloat, having been away from the sea for so long; she might have changed along with everything else. I think of how much the house has changed, how different it used to be when I was a child. How much more – how shall I put it? – how much happier it was. Or perhaps it was me who thought it was a blissful household, at least until that day, that miserable day when my life took a drastic turn for the worse.

I walk out of the living room into the hallway and peek through the kitchen door next to the staircase leading upstairs. The kitchen is the largest room in this house, a detail that should not be taken as an indication of my mother's skill or even the slightest interest in the art of cooking. It was actually Nanna's kitchen and remained exactly the same as she had made it years ago; my mother had changed nothing in it. The onions, the dried tomatoes, the almost-dried red peppers and an army of copper pots and pans carried on assaulting my father – a hard-liner who never learned how to bow down, in every sense of the word.

My suitcase is waiting for me in the hallway. Hand in hand, we climb up the stairs. The loggia – the upstairs terrace as dubbed by my dad – which provides access to all the bedrooms except for that of my parents, gives on to a view resembling a never-fading painting, a painting once framed by the heavily-perfumed jasmine extending from the veranda downstairs along the stone columns up to the loggia. Without the obstructive jasmine, the vista is more of a boundless beauty. The canopy overhead has been shedding its white paint like a bad habit. Ignoring the foliage from the deciduous structure shrouding our breakfast table, I enter my bedroom. I push the window wide open. The mosquito net over my bed shivers as a gentle breeze floats in. Not a speck of dust around. That is a surprise. One expects broken windows, a thick film of grime coating everything, wall-to-wall spider webs, all in harmony with the prevailing mood of dreariness. Instead, one notices a peculiar tidiness subtly holding sway as if the house were still inhabited. My father must have been paying someone in the village to come around and give it a good clean every now and then, the Good Old Milkman's wife, for instance. I can guess why my father would do such a thing, have this long-forgotten place cleaned despite knowing very well that no one will be setting foot here anymore: to create a line of work for that poor woman.

My heart sinks at the sight of my empty treasure box resting in its perennial place next to my bed, clearly indignant at being deserted. A strange sense of compassion sweeps through me, threatening to fill my eyes with tears if I prolong my gaze on it. Why? Was little Tara to be pitied? I think of my childhood, the years my father often reminisces about as "one of the best times in the history of mankind," a time when the Information Age gave way to the Age of Truth. To be honest, I do not remember much from my infancy, but one single feeling dominates all the others whenever I summon up the memories of my early life; the feeling that my family might readily fall apart. And I blame my mother for that, since she was the reason why my father stayed away from us for so long. It was a time when no one travelled for business; but my father trotted the globe, leaving us alone for weeks, sometimes even for months. It often happened that directing a play overseas, for instance, he would be absent for three whole months, an absence that would be followed by a short stay at home, after which he would disappear from the face of the earth again for weeks, this time to act in a movie. Sometimes we did not see him for months on end when he had to move to another town to both direct and act in a film. He would eventually come home; but he would not stay put for more than a few weeks before swishing off to another city to direct another theatre production, not returning for months. It always amazed me how he survived such a demanding schedule, an impossibly punishing itinerary I could not have tolerated; too difficult to survive the acute sense of yearning his hectic lifestyle imposed upon me. My mother always stayed with us, but her presence never sufficed to compensate for his absence.

My mother, a born painter, (almost literally so, since – as she often brags – she had created her first painting at the age of eighteen months) suddenly changed track when my father moved from the movies to the theatre; taking crash courses, she became a set and costume designer. Once her training was finished, she began working at the Famous Theatre and before long – in fact within a year – became the assistant of the Great Master, a great achievement due to her ambitious nature and exceptional talent, or so says my father. If you ask me, it was thanks to my father's exceptional place in the world of theatre and motion pictures, as well as to the breadth and depth of his contacts, that she rose so sharply in that world of fierce competition. She carried us everywhere, to her office, to the museums she visited for her research, to the archives (where we had to remain dead silent), to the construction workshops, to the rehearsals, on tours, rather like a suitcase, so to speak. We used to stay in hotel rooms for days. The first few days were all right and I must admit that I somewhat enjoyed the novelty until that sense of drifting even further away from my father crept in. That was when I forlornly wanted to go back home even though I knew that he would not be there. My mother, on those rare occasions when she could take time off from her work, took all of us to wherever my father was. We sometimes stayed in a hotel room in a land thousands of miles away from home, sometimes at our house in that ancient city where Nanna was born, and sometimes at our flat on the seventy-seventh floor of a skyscraper over on the other side of the globe, spending a couple of days with my father to make up for our time apart. Our brief encounter would always be much shorter than I needed to satiate my longing heart. I spent the early years of my childhood like a nomad, dragged from one place to another, shuttling between our three houses in three different countries. We could never be ordinary like other families; we were always on the move. We were like disseminated seeds that hardly came together and, if we did, were immediately scattered across the globe again. I sometimes felt like a tired flower, uprooted and prone to wither. The uneasiness inflamed by my father's absence gnawed at me; a sense of foreboding that we would readily fall apart never left me in peace. My mother's response to my misgivings was always the same: "We did not fall apart, did we, Tara? And we shall not. Never." My mother was wrong, dead wrong. We are falling apart. We already have. My life has gone to pieces. The worst nightmare of my childhood, a nightmare of the most extraordinary verisimilitude, now looms before me as harsh reality.

Three weeks ago, when my father collapsed on stage, the first thing that came to my mind was that he was having a heart attack – we all thought so. The doctors, however, said that it was exhaustion. His body, unable to keep up with his soul, had finally rebelled. In this day and age when there are no incurable diseases left and the transplant and implant of almost all the organs in the human body is possible, the medical experts found one single remedy for my father's illness, a remedy that he categorically refused: to rest. He is, after all, a naughty, disobedient and hyperactive little boy of sixty-six. "I'd rather die on stage than in a cold hospital room," he said firmly. The doctors, on the other hand, advised him to put the brakes on his frenetic tempo and withdraw from the stage, at least for a short while. He told them that he would slow down. "I shall step aside," he said in an obviously evasive tone. Just like everyone else in the room that day, including the doctors, I knew that he was not being serious, or rather I _thought_ he was not. At the time I still presumed that he shared everything with me. I could not have guessed what he had been thinking, what he was planning to do.

The day after he was hospitalised, he was in a terrible mood, constantly complaining. "Ten years ago, after the Great Fire, we were filled with hope, dreaming of a renaissance like the one that followed the Great Fire of four centuries ago, the fire that marked the turning point towards an awakening from the darkness of the Middle Ages. Unfortunately, all our expectations went down the drain as we moved back to where we were fifty years ago."

We managed to keep him in the hospital only for two days. No one doubted his determination when he exploded, "If you don't take me out, I will get up and go by myself." Eventually, ignoring what the medical staff prescribed and proscribed, we signed numerous documents and extricated my father from that "miserable hole," to use his expression.

The following evening, although he had convinced us that he would not be going back on stage, he nonetheless went to the theatre and watched the play from start to finish at the lighting control console. Next morning he was at his usual place for the rehearsal of the forthcoming play. He had arrived before all of us and, as was his custom, was waiting for the others to come. Wearing his customary Panama hat, he was sitting on his tall stool behind the high wooden table set in the middle of the Yard for the rehearsals. With his elbows resting on the table and his chin propped on his clasped hands, he was gazing fixedly at the empty stage. Throughout the rehearsal he, contrary to his usual self, was very quiet, his eagle eyes riveted on the actors. There was no sign of the man who never sat still, jumping to his feet every other second and, with the thrill of a new idea, showering instructions left and right. Just once, he summoned my mother to ask her views on some details about the costumes and made a few suggestions. He would be staging a totally different take on Macbeth. "I want everything to be black and red, Rev. Blood, smoke and sexuality must dominate the whole play. I will spread a black sheet over the audience in the Yard. A giant black sheet. I want holes in it through which people can stick their heads out. They should feel that they might, if necessary, tear the sheet to make those holes larger. I insist that all the costumes be black. Only Lady Macbeth will wear grey. We must show the most villainous as the most innocent. And as for the witches, well, I want you to think of them as part of the set design. I will make them take different poses, as if they were part of a painting. You must help me on that. At the very end of the play, I plan to have these witches dressed as soldiers. They will enter the stage through the spectators in the Yard, suddenly appearing from underneath the black sheet. What do you say to that? Can we do it? And the chains. We need to hang chains down from the Upper Gallery. Some of the actors might descend to the stage, climbing down these chains. What about using chains elsewhere as well? During the fights, for instance. You need to work on this, Rev. Let's talk to the Fight Director tomorrow, shall we? And what else? Let me see. As I've already mentioned, the atmosphere during the intervals should be entertaining and light-hearted in sharp contrast to the mood of the play. This is of utmost importance; it will accentuate the darkness of the whole atmosphere. You can go wild with the colours. Be as festive as you can." After going over many other details that he had already gone over time and again, and showing that he would do his best to make the play even darker than it was intended to be, he, rather unwillingly, gave in to my mother's pleas to go home and give himself a rest – if a five-hour sleep could be considered a rest.

I go out of my bedroom and walk through the corridor leading from behind the loggia to the staircase next to my parents' bedroom. I climb down to my mother's studio. The generous French windows give on to the garden, then on to the _Taht-ı Revan_ and finally on to the sea. The stains on the faded wooden table in front of a window remind me of a bygone time. Squeezed tubes of paint, brushes left to die in a jar filled with some bluish liquid that might be water, sable brushes of various sizes and shapes in a copper pot, colouring pencils in a ceramic cup, bottles of every shape, width and length, tins of spray of every shade, some rusty, some shiny, papers, papers and more papers, scribblings on some, colourings on others, nothing on many, several crumpled and thrown onto the floor. Paint buckets and paint jars on the floor. Books, books and more books on the shelves. Boxes, jars, untouched paint tubes. All is gone now. A single paint tube on one of the shelves. Burst open, the paint in it oozed out and dried.

My mother's studios have always been extremely untidy, untidier than the rest of the house. A mess, in fact. It is hard to believe but Nanna says that she herself was once like my mother, adding, "Women take after their mothers-in-law, dear." It is a miracle how my father could put up (and still puts up) with such a mess. My mother's quick response to infrequent criticisms on this issue has been consistent over the years: "It might seem a chaotic jumble to others, but there is an order in it all." I used to find it rather difficult to detect that order but eventually came to understand that my mother does, after all, have a peculiar design in all that untidiness, a special design that is almost exclusively within the range of her own perception. Those who do not know her well might think that everything is thrown about at random in her studio. Not in the least. She notices the tiniest change in that apparently anarchic realm of hers. When you take her augmented reality glasses, for instance, which seemed to have been forgotten beneath a pile of crumpled sheets of paper on the floor, and place them where they should be on the crowded table, or remove a paint brush stuck under the cushion of a chair and leave it next to the other brushes in a cup, she fumes, saying that this formalism that others call order creates havoc for her mental and creative faculties, disrupting her concentration and killing everything that inspires her. She ends her diatribe with the customary flourish: "I can only be creative in chaos." Her order is others' mess. Nanna says that my mother lives upside down, looking at the world from a thoroughly unorthodox angle. "Therefore she does not need to stand on her head, dear," she often says.

I reach out for Little Red Riding Hood standing where she has always been, on one corner of the faded wooden table. My mother kept her cookies in this jar – Nanna's Cookies that she loved to have with her morning coffee. The recipe belonged to Nanna's grandmother, or perhaps even her grandmother's grandmother, but they were nevertheless called Nanna's Cookies. Looking at the eyes of Little Red Riding Hood, I notice, for the first time, how doleful they are, as though in the throes of some dreadful sorrow. I pick up her hood, knowing perfectly well that there will be nothing inside. My olfactory memory triggers an instinctive smile, unconsciously expecting a delicious smell of cinnamon and raisins to emanate from the jar. My mouth waters but without requital. I put her hood back and take her along with me; I walk towards the hammam behind the studio.

The white marbles of the hammam are spotless. In all fairness, I must admit that my mother is full of surprises. Despite her impossible untidiness, her bathrooms have always been shipshape, impeccably clean and hygienic. Evidently, she needs no inspiration in the bathroom or in the hammam, or perhaps, I venture to say, there are other details to inspire her in those chambers. Milk baths sweetened with the honey from the Honey Estate, bowls of rose petals, herbs, oils, wood coyly crackling in the fireplace in one corner of the hammam on cool late summer nights; and who knows what else? I guess I never truly deciphered my mother – or rather my mother's relationship with my father. She has always lived in his shadow. And she still does. In fact, she has become his _fidus Achates_ , almost his double. All her life, she yielded to anything and everything he said, welcomed all his desires, took his word as law and religiously obeyed his every whim. She even changed her career for him, for crying out loud. She organised her whole life in line with his. She must have dreaded losing him. It is beyond me to understand what a man like my father, who hates weak and self-effacing women, finds in a woman such as my mother who loves being a slave to her husband. It is probably that, after a strong mother like Nanna, he, in subliminal rebellion, was attracted to such a permissive female. "Your parents' story is a bit like that of Sleeping Beauty," I remember Nanna saying. Act One: The innocent heroine is a victim of fate. There is a stain on her perfect world. She feels all alone, hopeless. Others attempt to help her but nothing works. One day, the hero, searching for what is missing in his life, is wandering around in the woods. Act Two: Something catches his eye. He decides to go after it, taking a great risk. As a prize for his courage, he finds the innocent heroine and true happiness. They fall madly in love. But there are obstacles which they need to overcome to be together. And Act Three: They dare to pay the price for overcoming those obstacles and live happily ever after. The end.

I leave the hammam and return to the studio. I sit on the black velvet sofa, an ancient thing with a single raised armrest, a chaise longue christened after a lady of olden times by the name of Madame Récamier. The wooden frame on its back undulates like the waves of a dark brown ocean. I lie back, extending my legs on its soft upholstery. A vision snaps into my mind's eye, the vision of a man lying here half-naked, the vision that would soon turn into a marble-like body on a canvas.

"It boils my blood to see a woman blushing because of me," he says.

The vision next to him replies: "It's all in vain."

"You know that I won't give up on what I desire, Revan, not until that desire is satisfied. Besides, I see no reason why I should hide my feelings."

Whispers. Hand in hand. Eyes glued to each other's.

"I don't know how I can explain it, how _we_ can explain it. I fear the reaction we might get, which, I'm sure, will be dramatic. Perhaps we should go on like this. Perhaps it would be best if it remained a secret."

I look out the window of the studio. The sailing boat has disappeared. It must be behind the rocks now. Perhaps there was no boat in the first place. Perhaps it was all a visual game the setting sun played on me.

Little Red Riding Hood is still watching me, with her lachrymose eyes, from the jar in my hands. After a bad fall following an incidental slap from my mother during one of her inspirational bouts, she was broken – miraculously only into three pieces. I clearly remember Nanna carefully gluing the pieces together. The glue, which did not show twenty-three years ago, has oozed out and turned into an ugly yellow scar across the face of Little Red Riding Hood.
4

Once upon a time and twice upon a time and all times together as ever, I heard tell of a bird who flew over a tree or a bush, or of a bird that was not a bird, when all at once in between times Tara saw her mother's feet at the very end of the garden, her lazy steps flying in the green sky and her head turning right and left on the blue grass.

"Tara? Tara! Where are you? Where on earth has she gone this time? She'll be the death of me, this child."

She was walking at a slow and leisurely gait, one hand shielding her eyes from the strong sun while the other rested lovingly on her belly, which resembled an over-stretched balloon. She was pregnant with a new baby, expected to join their family in September, a baby they had already decided to call Sim.

"Tara! Enough of standing on your head. We're going down to the beach. Come and play with your sister for a little while."

From in between her mother's long legs, Sirius hove into view, wagging his tail; and Amber toddling along. Her little sister Amber, a pest who constantly bugged Tara, refusing to give her even a moment's peace and quiet, was a true chatterbox although not even two years old. Always running about carelessly, with her head thrust forward like a ball rolling down a hill, she looked as if she had her mind in her feet, as Nanna would say. Now, sucking her middle and ring fingers, as was her habit, and holding possessively on to one corner of her Ninni – a piece of cloth cut from one of her mother's old nightgowns – dangling from her hand, she was running enthusiastically towards Tara to pester her.

Tara bent her knees and pulled them towards her belly, as Nanna had taught her. She then extended her legs towards the ground and placed her toes on the lawn. "You should return to your ordinary world very slowly, dear," Nanna always said. "Otherwise everything will turn upside down." She put her knees down, slid her body backwards and, resting on her feet, placed her forehead on the ground. Amber jumped onto her back and started bouncing up and down.

"Stop it Amber! You're hurting me."

"Stop it Amber! You're hurting me," echoed Amber.

They both rolled over on the lawn. "Miss Echo! Do you have to repeat everything I say? Are you a parrot or what?"

"Are you a parrot or what? A parrot or what?"

As soon as Tara got rid of her sister, she grabbed her swimsuit from her mother's hand and changed into it, before following them down to the beach where they spread their towels on the sand and settled down. Tara was really bored of the games Amber played, stupid games of her own invention, such as filling her bucket with sand and then emptying it time and time again. Spotting a big stone on the sand, she picked it up and threw it as far away as she could towards the sea. "Come on, Amber, it's your turn now," she challenged her sister. "Let's see if you can throw as far as I did."

Amber took a handful of sand and threw it towards the sea with all her might; not a single speck reached its destination, all ending up on her mother's legs. Tara walked away in search of a bigger stone. When Amber made to follow her, their mother urged them both to build a sand castle.

"Amber can't do it. All she does is to spoil everything I do."

"Never mind, Tara. She will eventually learn by watching you."

After playing for a while, they gave in to Tara's pleas and went in for a swim. Amber, it goes without saying, was in her mother's arms; she did not know how to swim yet and did no better than flapping her legs like the wings of a silly bird, getting everyone wet. Tara immediately went under the water. She loved the challenge and every time she went under exerted herself to stay a little bit longer, hoping that very soon she would be able to stay under longer than her best friend Nadir. She could even stand on her head in the water. Truth be told, it was much easier to keep one's balance in the water. Knowing perfectly well that she would be upsetting her mother, she pressed her hands into the sand and stuck her legs out through the surface, straightening them to full stretch. She enjoyed the feel of the breeze on her wet legs. A fish swam by, staring curiously at her. A bigger one followed, swaying gently, and passed between her arms. She brought her legs down and left the silent world of the fish to return to her own.

"Did you bring bread for the fish, Mum?"

Amber was crying. She must have been scared of the fish, silly girl.

"We're getting out, Tara."

Her mother took Amber back to the shore. Tara felt an irresistible urge to jump into the water from the top of the rocks. She got out of the water and made a dash towards the other end of the beach.

"Tara! Where are you going? Come back here right now."

She would now tell her that it was forbidden for them to climb the rocks.

"You're not allowed to climb those rocks, sweetheart. You know that."

Grumbling about the restriction, she returned to where her mother and sister were. A few minutes later, when Amber started whining, they picked up their things and went up back to the house.

"Your breakfast is ready, Tara. I'll be in my studio. Come over when you're finished."

Tara drank the orange juice she loved, forced down the egg she hated and finally devoured the two slices of the farmhouse loaf she adored, especially when spread with the organic butter and that delicious anchovy paste Nanna made – and none of Tara's friends had ever heard of. In a few minutes, she was ready to go to her mother's studio, unfortunately accompanied by Amber, who had been waiting impatiently for Tara to finish her breakfast.

She was surprised to see her mother dressed, given that she was hardly seen in anything but her swimsuit or at best a bikini top with a Pareo sarong wrapped around her waist. From dawn to dusk, she stayed in this outfit, even if she spilled paint all over them, or an accidental nail or something odd in her studio created a hole or a rip. Sometimes she even went down to the village like that.

"Take a cookie, Tara, why don't you? Give one to Amber as well, please."

No matter how full she was, she loved Nanna's Cookies. Raising the hood of Little Red Riding Hood, she chose two, rich in raisins, and handed one over to Amber. Gorging on her favourite cookie, she began watching her mother paint.

"What are you painting, Mummy?"

"Some sketches for the set designs."

"What does that mean?"

"Huge paintings, sweetheart. They are for your dad."

Tara loved her mother but, if she had to be honest, she did not rank number one on the list of her loved ones; that place belonged to her father. She didn't even rank second; that position was occupied by Sena. Although they were born on the same day, her brother Sena was actually older than Tara by a couple of minutes. He was a very naughty boy. A daredevil, in fact. They said he would climb a wall if given the chance. He had gone to do something dangerously adventurous again: to canoe in a furious river down a very high mountain. There would be grown-ups with him, but he had nevertheless kept bragging for days on end about being the youngest adventurer among them. Each time their mother complained about how concerned she was about Sena, Nanna said that by now she should have become used to the men of this family being addicted to danger. Tara also loved to do dangerous things, but they never let her go along with Sena.

Amber was standing on tiptoe to reach for the thinner tin. Eventually she succeeded in toppling it over. Tara ran along and quickly straightened it up. "Amber!" she shouted. "Stay still!"

"What's going on, Tara? Why are you shouting at your sister?"

"She knocked over the thinner tin. You didn't even see."

"Sorry, my love. I was trying to concentrate. Amber, come here."

Tara held Amber by the hand and dragged her towards their mother. "You're too quiet, Mummy. Is there something wrong? Don't worry. Dad will be here soon. He'll take care of everything."

"Would you please help Amber do some finger painting? That seems to be the only way to stop her being a pest. I'll be going upstairs for a minute."

"She can't do it. Only she herself understands what she does. She wastes all the paint, Mummy."

"You were the same when you were her age. Let her do whatever she wants. She'll soon learn."

Reluctantly, Tara placed Amber's finger paints on the floor. From the cupboard next to the staircase, she took out the small white-washed hardboard panels Nanna had prepared, and put them next to the paints. She then dashed to the kitchen and, doing as Nanna had taught her, put some green lentils in a bowl, some red lentils in another and finally rice and pasta in two others. When she was a little girl, this was how Nanna used to help her do artwork. She carried the bowls into the studio where Amber had already seated herself on the floor, dipping her fingers into the pots of paint, already immersed in the wild exuberance of the messy pastime in wait for her. She went haywire when she saw the lentils, the rice and the pasta. Tara sat aside and started watching her sister. She wanted to paint as well – with her toes, for instance. She was a little shy though, for it would be rather childish. She should ask her mother if she could use her paints. "Mum?" she called out as she ran towards the stairs. Her mother was coming down. She had changed her clothes again. She must be excited about my father coming home, Tara reasoned. Just like I am. The two of them were always in high spirits on the days when her father was to come home. However, there was something unprecedented in her mother's behaviour today, something Tara could not quite deduce, an edginess perhaps. It might be because of her pregnancy, she concluded. Nanna said that pregnant women became more emotional than they usually are.

Sirius, lazing about on the threshold of the French windows, suddenly jumped to his feet and ran towards the back garden. A few seconds later, they heard the sound of the hooves of Auriga's horses approaching. Her father was coming. "Dad!" she shouted, hurling herself out of the studio. "He's here! Dad is here. Dad!" As she ran towards the garden gate, she stopped dead in her tracks at the sight of her mother's friend Erol, a sight that instantaneously deflated her uplifted spirits. Then Nanna came into view, reviving Tara's good mood. "Nanna!" she whooped, sprinting towards her grandmother, and sprang into her arms. When Nanna lost her balance, she stepped back.

Following Nanna came Kim, a friend of Tara's father, and Suzan, Kim's girlfriend. Suzan, as was her habit, kissed Tara, drawing in deep breaths as if checking if her cheeks were clean, and then squeezed her really tightly between her arms, all the while showering her with terms of endearment.

Kim had put down his suitcase and was formally shaking Revan's hand. Then he gave her a peck on the cheek before swiftly turning to Tara and bending down to shake her hand, the expression on his face losing none of its unyielding sternness. Tara reluctantly extended her hand, knowing from experience that his long bony fingers would hurt her. He grabbed her hand and shook it several times, as if he meant to tear it away from her wrist, then gave her cheek a squeeze and smiled. His extremely thin lips stretched open, displaying a perfect set of teeth too small for his towering rangy figure and scraggy long face. His smile was not genuine at all. He hardly smiled at all and when he did, it was more like a mocking laugh or a condescending sneer. Tara could never decide whether she liked him or not. She sort of did, but his intimidating dourness discouraged her from showing her feelings. She felt that he might readily scold her for something or other. He never had, but one never knew. She took the present Kim brought for her and impatiently ripped the packaging apart. It was a book, a book with pictures: _Twelfth Night for Children_. She flipped through its pages, immediately recognising Viola in one of the pictures. "This must be Viola!" she exclaimed. She wanted to give Kim a hug but knew only too well that he did not approve of such breaches of etiquette. He had already walked away from her. He was giving Amber her present. Seeing that she could not open the packaging, Tara went to help her. Hers was a simple book full of drawings, a book for babies, since she could not read yet and used all her books to sharpen her teeth.

"You're spoiling them, Kim, like you always do."

Tara shot her mother a vexed look for the comment she had made before glaring at the arm around her shoulders; she cast an incensed glance at the owner of that arm: Erol.

Erol was like the antithesis of Kim. He was blonde, for one thing, so blonde that under the sun his hair turned almost white in places. His face, hands and arms were full of freckles. He smiled constantly. He was smiling now. Noticing Tara's gaze on him, he dashed towards her in one huge step, squatted in front of her and, holding her hands, kissed her on both cheeks. When the welcoming ceremony thus came to an end, they all walked towards the house.

Nanna had arrived with her loyal companion Plato but without Granddad – something not unusual at all. Granddad must have gone somewhere with the boys again, the boys of eighty like himself. Nanna said that he never grew up. Plato, their lazy dog and a much-loved member of the whole family, talked with his ears and, as Nanna's mother Aslı often put it, his eyes looked like the shutters of a grocery store secretly open for business during the curfew hours in her youth. The good old indolent Plato was actually Plato the Fourth. Nanna and Granddad called all their dogs Plato. This must be the only area where Nanna lacked originality.

"Did you bring the materials for our toy theatre?" Tara asked in keen anticipation.

They said that Nanna was stuck somewhere back in time, having a very limited interest in technological developments and, in particular, in the virtual world. "In today's synthetic world, which has sold its soul to the devil," she replied to all criticism, "I do my best to raise my grandchildren as naturally as possible, just like I raised my children." She created a new game, a new entertainment, every day, teaching Tara and her siblings a myriad of games no one knew. Hopscotch, hide and seek, wheelbarrow races, leap frog, piggyback races, toy theatre, the whole lot.

Ignoring her mother, who was telling her to let Nanna catch her breath, she started pulling at her suitcase. "Let's play theatre, Nanna. You brought the materials to build it, didn't you? Didn't you? Please show me. Please?"

"I certainly did. The title of our new play is Sleeping Beauty." Nanna turned to Revan and continued with the animation of a little child. "I have all the blueprints for the set design. She'll love them."

"Your zeal never wavers. I'm truly impressed by your patience."

"I'm helping her to become your fiercest rival, Revan."

They all entered the hallway. Tara ran upstairs and into her bedroom. Taking her favourite coloured book of fairy tales from the drawer of her nightstand and grabbing her dolls from her doll house, she hurried back down. Nanna was in the kitchen, emptying from her suitcase the items she had brought for the toy theatre and placing them on the counter. Tara scampered towards her, leaving her dolls on the kitchen table and extending her book to her.

"Can we use the pictures in this book for the set design, Nanna? I know we can't cut them but we can copy them, can't we?" She was flipping through the pages. "Look Nanna, look at this. We definitely must copy this one. I love it."

"Put it on the table, would you?"

"I brought down my dolls as well. Artemis will be Sleeping Beauty. Orion will be the Prince. He can be a prince, can't he, Nanna?"

"We'll make him a prince." Nanna squatted on the floor and from the depths of her suitcase took out the plans of the toy theatre. "Why don't you put these and everything else on the dining table? We'll begin after lunch."

"But Dad will be here by then."

"So much the better. This is a story he knows only too well."

Kali looked at the young woman sitting next to her on the train. She was very young, perhaps in her teens. She stroked Kali's hair ceaselessly, occasionally holding her hand and giving it a light caress. Her fingers resembled matchsticks, her hands tiny as a little kitten's paws, although they looked gigantic next to Kali's. Her straight hair, reaching her shoulders, was the same colour as her trousers and vest top: an insipid black. Her eyes, on the other hand, were the antithesis of insipid, shining a dauntless green. "In fact, they are a little bit like mine," thought Kali. She could not decide whether she was beautiful or not. Her lips, for instance, were pretty. She never smiled, though. Kali judged her to be too serious for her age. Perhaps her teeth were so ugly that she did not dare show them. The line where her narrow forehead ended and her hair began made a tiny triangular drop in the middle, a widow's peak they call it, giving her face a wild expression. When her eyes met Kali's, she smiled. A smile. For the first time. Her teeth were not bad at all. Quite the reverse; they were so perfect that only years of incarceration behind braces would lead to a line-up of such a soldierly fashion. She turned towards her brother sitting next to her by the window. "She's so sweet, isn't she?" she said, sliding her hands underneath Kali's arms and taking her on her lap. The young man nodded his agreement, keeping his eyes fixed on the lines and lines of giant windmills parading outside. He blew a balloon from the gum he had been aggressively chewing for the last hour. The balloon snapped, spreading a strawberry flavour into the compartment, briefly overriding the perfume emanating from the young woman. The perfume could have been the natural perfume of her skin. Kali sort of liked it but thought that she had better not get used to it. This young woman did not belong to her new family. She slid out of her embrace and went over to the opposite seat to climb onto her new father's lap. This was much better. "You're like an untimely present, unexpected, unique," said her new father. Did he mean her or the young woman sitting opposite him? It didn't really matter. She was so exceedingly happy. With a great sense of joy, she looked out the window. They went up the hills, down the hills, by a lake and through the woods. They saw trees short and tall, animals fly and crawl, hills big and small. Once in a while, an ugly structure went by. For lunch, they gave Kali a tuna fish sandwich, without asking what she fancied. It must have been the sweet and compassionate woman in the green house who had told them that she adored fish. After lunch, they travelled through a plain, flat and monotonous, nothing but an unbroken chain of fields as far as the eye could see. Kali could not remember the rest of their journey, for she had fallen asleep.

When she woke up, they were in a small seaside town. They got off the train at the station and walked towards the port, licking the ice-creams they had bought from a drugstore that was no longer a drugstore. Everybody was surprised at Kali's dislike of ice cream. She did not have a sweet tooth at all.

On the boat to the island, they all went out onto the deck and seated themselves on one of the benches in the shade. Kali loved the heat, so she went over to the bench bathed in sunlight and sat with her back to the sea. The young man was chewing a mint-flavoured gum now. He squinted at the sea. His blue gaze had a ruthlessly gelid tint to it. He seemed as if he hated the sea deeply. Perhaps he hated everything, because that ruthless streak in his eyes never dwindled. With one of his eyebrows constantly raised, he looked disdainfully cold and grim, even more so than his sister. His short-cropped hair stood erect, either from being too agitated or from having too much gel on it. He was wearing a tank top, one of those born with sleeves that were amputated in later life. Both his arms were crowded with tattoos. He had himself embellished with all sorts of animals, from a crocodile to a lion, from a ladybug to an eagle. He resembled a mobile zoo. Suddenly the crocodile stretching towards his throat moved his jaws. The young man was speaking. Kali left the crocodile's jaw alone and turned her attention to her new father who was listening to the young man. His fingers moved around his cheek, playing with his two days' worth of stubble, which gave his face a harsh expression. Then he took his lower lip between his thumb and forefinger, deeply lost in thought. He had become dead serious, his chin slightly raised, his stare going blank for a few seconds, betraying a certain degree of arrogance. It could also be that he felt the need to look down upon the world, in self-defence, during this momentary lapse into abstraction. Gradually a tentative smile touched his lips, a smile much like the one he had displayed on the train, a smile that reflected the passage of a heart-rending memory. He held his lips tight, as though he wanted to hide that smile. "I thought I hated her, but I actually hated myself for having lost her," he muttered.

Kali was feeling very sleepy, the heat relaxing her muscles. She pulled her knees to her tummy and rested her head on the bench. The conversation of the others slowly lost their meaning and eventually gave way to other sounds, colours and smells.

A smell woke her up. She had dozed off again. Where was she? They had arrived at the island. The air was impregnated with a smell she could not quite make out, an inviting smell nevertheless. Thyme. Yes, it smelled of thyme. Or perhaps another herb. Whatever it was, it made Kali feel very much at home.

The boat anchored. The passengers filled the small boats that had come from the shore for the purpose. Kali hated being so close to the water. She cuddled up to her new father. They sailed towards a tiny bay. A couple of fishing boats. A few tacky old fish restaurants with lines of tables draped in white. A grocery store. As old as the hills. Next to it, a gift shop. In the background, two-storey stone houses scattered between the trees on a hill. People lazing about on the benches on the shore, watching the passers-by while nibbling on pumpkin seeds. A young man leaning on a bollard, busy kissing the girl in his arms. A midget of an olive tree on the waterfront, keeping guard on one of the fishing boats, a boat pretending that the tree was her own tiny private orchard. Further on stood a baby palm tree, confined within the protection of an iron cage. A group of people ran towards the pier to make sure that they would not be late for the boat, which would be leaving for the mainland soon. A young woman, there before the rest of the crowd, stood with her hands around her waist, watching the sky. There was nothing there to watch, but she was probably a city-dweller who missed looking at nothing in particular. At that instant, as if commanded by an extra-terrestrial force, a fleet of sailing boats irrupted into the bay like a flock of migrating cormorants. Kali could see the people on board, blessed by the exclusive pleasure of visiting an island that somehow remained a virgin, so to speak, at this time and age. She could tell from their body language how curious and enraptured they were.

As soon as they reached the pier, Kali threw herself onto the shore before all the others. An influx of holiday makers scuttled along the waterfront towards the boats waiting to be refilled. They dragged their bags, which apparently felt much heavier than they did when they had arrived either because they were too relaxed now or, like the surfers, thoroughly exhausted. The new arrivals, on the other hand, moved energetically towards the various guesthouses and pensions of the island. A lanky youth, darkly tanned, left the scene on an obtrusively loud motorcycle, herding a group of tourists to his bed-and-breakfast.

Kali climbed into a horse carriage with her new family. Squeezing through the crowd of people, they moved ahead on the narrow promenade by the sea. People on board the sailing boats, now hunting for a place to dock, were arguing with each other, a different language, even a few different languages, rising from each boat. The horse carriage passed the gift shop where one would find anything and everything. Its owner, courageously opening all of its shutters in defiance of the searing heat of the noontime, bowed low, inviting prospective customers to his shop, which invaded a major part of the width of the promenade. An array of necklaces and bracelets made from tiny sea shells, piles and piles of sunglasses, a rainbow of balls of every size and breed, gregarious clusters of swimsuits, bikinis, towels and sarongs. The odd plastic garbage container. An army of postcards hung on a line with wooden pegs, much like a retake of the white sheets drying on a washing line on the balcony upstairs. A woman passed by in hurried and angry steps. With her hand resting on her waist, she was shouting something at someone, waving her other hand, her arm and even her head about. At the sight of the angry woman, an old man in the cafe ahead rose to his feet, picked up the shopping bag filled with vegetables and left his lethargic friends and the beer he had been drinking to overcome his hangover from last night. As he moved away, he discreetly gestured to his mates that he would be back soon. The owner of the thyme shop next to the cafe was diligently sticking labels onto little bags of thyme. Boxes, bags and sacks of the herb crowded his shop, which, according to the sign on it, was called the Thyme Corner, although it was not on a corner. And then a sponge diver came into view. And his sponges. Dead sponges. True curios. Baskets of them. Everything for a coin. An old woman clad in black appeared from among the sponges, carrying a baby girl. Her emaciated face shone in a warm smile as she walked away into one of the narrow side streets. A group of boys wearing nothing but shorts were playing ball in the street. One of them, the skinniest, kicked the ball with all his might; the ball flew past the head of the old woman clad in black, bounced on the ground right between the street cat and the street dog challenging each other in mutual immobility, and hit the wheel of the horse carriage. Auriga, the coachman, shouted something at the boys. Kali thought how brave the street cat was.

The human traffic on the promenade had lessened, for most of the holiday makers had gone their separate ways towards the inner recesses of the island. Auriga whished his whip in the air to encourage his horses to go faster. They broke into a gentle trot.
5

I go out, the cookie jar still in my grip, and walk towards the hammock hung between the two maritime pines overlooking the lower garden where once the _Taht-ı Revan_ resided. Checking if it is safely attached, I am amazed at how it has remained intact. The Good Old Milkman's wife must be taking care of this as well. I recline on it, watching the sky send desultory peeps of cerulean blue through the canopy of the trees above. The wind, knowing that it will have to calm down soon as the sun sets, blows viciously to flaunt its last drop of vigour. The sea, whipped up by the wind, has unveiled everything feral in its nature. Just the right time to go sailing.

The sea, with its unpredictable changes of mood, has a special place in my heart. I think a tête-à-tête with it is the best way to apprehend the power of nature. As I already mentioned, it is not that I don't like nature; it is just that I enjoy being in nature when it challenges me, when I struggle to control it, to overpower it. It has been so ever since I was a little girl. I have always been interested in challenging sports, sports not much favoured by the faint-hearted, therefore not much in vogue, so to speak. Encouraged by my father, I gave every such activity a try, even if I happened to be the only girl in the group. I can't remember when I started learning how to sail, for instance. My father says that I and my brother Sena were not even two months old when we had our first boat trip, and our feet were weaned off the shore before we were weaned off our mother's milk. He often repeats that a sailing boat is better than any cradle and that was where we took our first steps at the age of ten months, adding, though not without a tinge of jealousy, that I said wind before I said dad. My oldest memory on the boat is my father teaching us how to make seaman's knots. When we were a little bit older, we used to clean the fenders, shine the lifelines, tidy up the ropes and make large pizzas with them on the deck. I clearly recall the feeling of exhilaration that swept through me when, after proving ourselves to be efficiently competent in those tedious tasks, we were asked to sit by a winch for the first time. I recollect feeling very proud of myself, as if I were the only person in charge of the sails, waiting for my father's instructions with utmost attention and, despite being impossibly thirsty, not leaving the important post my father had bestowed upon me. I also remember the first boat race Sena and I took part in and how proud we were. We were not even twelve at the time. Amber and Sim, on the other hand, have never been keen on going out to sea, choosing to stay on land with the rest of the female members of our family. I differed from my sisters in that I spent all my vacations with my father and my brother throughout my childhood and even most of my adolescence. Their itineraries were much more fun, more adventurous, more exciting. I never had as much fun in my life as I had during those trips I had with my dad. No, that's not quite true. Nanna's stories, which took me on virtual trips to realms beyond anyone's wildest imagination, were as much fun as those trips.

Nanna is my paternal grandmother. They say that one of the first few words I babbled was Ganana, a meaningless utterance I used for Grandma. Eventually Ganana somehow changed into Nanna. She told fantastic fairy tales. I must admit that some of her stories were quite weird, some truly scary and some very sad, but they mostly evoked a wealth of warm and comforting sensations in me. She always had a new story to tell. The first series of tales I remember – and I guess my favourites – were dozens of short stories she called _The Underground World of the Ants_ , stories that she said she had learned from her own grandmother. She had written them in her beautiful handwriting and illuminated them with drawings, like she did with all her tales, and gave them to me as a present. They were, and still are, among my most precious possessions; I would never let Amber or Sim, or even Sena, touch them. It is a great pity that she never published any of her work, other than one single book she had written when she was a young woman, a book she said had changed her life, often referring to it as, "a book I had to write." She never called herself an author, nor did she allow others to call her so. She also refused to refer to herself as an artist, although she had graduated from the best school of fine arts in the world with first degree honours and, after the publication of her one and only book, had returned to painting – her first love. In other words, Nanna has always been simply Nanna, without any denomination. For her, it was completely inane to stick labels on people, grouping them into precast categories. "I write for my grandchildren," she frequently said, offhandedly, "and for their children. But ... but that book was different, my dear child. If it wasn't for that book, neither your father nor your aunt nor, for that matter, you would have come to this world." At the time, I did not have a clue what she meant by all that and, seeing Nanna always ebullient, reasoned, in my guileless innocence, that the first rule of happiness was to be a storyteller. I thought that anyone who wanted to be as content as Nanna needed to write at least one book. Nanna may not have given me the courage to write novels, but she certainly instilled in me the ability to get lost in my own wonderland whenever I could. "Never give up telling stories. Never stop dreaming. Be brave," she always said. "Talk about your dreams. And one day, you'll see that they will all come true." We were so busy losing ourselves in the worlds Nanna created for us that we never learned what _her_ dreams were.

One of Nanna's favourite fairy tales was Little Red Riding Hood. "Once upon a time," she would start as usual and, after a long preamble filled with camels, fleas and so on, would begin the main story. "Many young daughters of wealthy families wore red hoods, red bonnets, red capes or red dresses. A vibrant, burning red. Attractive, irresistibly alluring."

I cannot help but think, "and sexy." The symbol of sin. I look at Little Red Riding Hood on the jar in my hand to see if she has any sexual attraction. Not quite.

"And the notorious wolf, the Big Bad Wolf ..."

The sexually predatory young man in pursuit of satisfying the carnal desires of his flesh.

"... gobbled down Little Red Riding Hood. But at the end, the Huntsman came along, opened up the belly of the Big Bad Wolf and rescued Little Red Riding Hood. As a punishment, he filled the wolf's stomach with rocks, before stitching it up."

The Huntsman representing reassuring patriarchal protection.

Years later, when I was old enough to grasp the true meaning of the fairy tales, Nanna told me more. "But in some stories, the roles change at the end. The Big Bad Wolf is actually the Huntsman in disguise; he returns to rescue Little Red Riding Hood, who is not happy with her new life."

I remember asking her once if she had plotted her one and only book on the basis of this fairy tale. "That book was based on a true story," she had replied. "But then, fairy tales are nothing but the dreamlike shadows of real lives, are they not?"

Nanna truly had unbridled imagination. She used to tire of telling the same stories over and over again and make changes that would startle us all.

I met only one other person who had a more fertile imagination than Nanna. She told me a story, a most illuminating story, with which she edified me on how to step into the real world. During the short journey we embarked upon, she made me realise, in a rather painful way, that the time had come for me to move on from fairy tales to stories. She had a mysterious personality, an enchanting voice. To be honest, I truly hated her when we first met, but I never wanted her to die.

_Twelfth Night_ , downright uninteresting without my father, carried on for eleven days and, on the _Twelfth Night_ after the opening, my father announced that he wanted no more of it, claiming, "It's a flop." We all objected, telling him time and again that he was going through a very difficult period and definitely needed a rest, that we were still playing to full houses and could not understand why on earth he had decided that it was a failure. Our crusade to persuade him to change his mind was a Sisyphean effort. In the end, the rest of the performances were cancelled.

As the production manager, it was my job to organise the get-out, the burial ceremony of the play, and return the theatre to what it was before the production. Unwillingly, I initiated the works, still hoping that I might convince my father to change his mind. That evening at dinner, I brought up the subject again. It was the day before yesterday.

"We're making a mistake, Dad. We should carry on at least for a short while longer. The play gets good reviews, despite your absence."

Remaining silent, he took another forkful of the fish on his plate. We watched him chew it slowly and then swallow it. He then turned to me and said, "Tara," before looking at Sena, Amber and Sim to continue, "Sena, Amber, Sim." This meant only one thing: He was about to say something very important. Whenever he articulated our names in such a grimly serious tone, a major blow followed. His gaze had gone blank. He was staring out the window into the darkness. "Your mother and I," he finally said, "we've made a decision." I was certain that he was about to announce their divorce plans. It was something I expected. I remember thinking, "Finally!" My father was avoiding our eyes. Then, in a dispirited tone, he blurted out: "I sold Twenty Hundred."

"What?" I snapped. What did he mean? "How do you mean 'I sold'? Sold what, which part?"

He took a deep breath, as if he wanted to relax at the peak he had reached after having climbed a steep hill, and let it all out in one large exhalation. "All of it."

I felt my devastation slowly giving way to sheer anger, rapidly growing inside me. "Our company, Dad! Our playhouse!"

My sisters and my brother were saying something, their words no more than distant mumblings.

"That beautiful building. The Fairy Castle of our childhood."

"I sold it, children. I sold everything."

"You couldn't have, Dad. You couldn't have done this to us."

He had not even let us know, let alone ask our opinions. Sena and I, we had grown up in this theatre. We had grown up with it. We all had. We swallowed the sawdust during its construction. It was there where we learned about the theatre, about acting. We all worked there. Amber knew what theatre was before she knew who she herself was. And Sim. She was born at the same time as Twenty Hundred. Didn't we celebrate our birthdays, our graduations there, Dad? Wasn't it on its stage that we bid farewell to Granddad before his last voyage to eternity? Wasn't it there we had our biggest fights and shared our biggest joys? "Twenty Hundred is our life. Its every corner is filled with our memories." He couldn't have sold it. He said he had sold the costumes as well, the costumes he always said were to be mine. He had sold my masks. My everything.

"No, Dad. You didn't sell it. You just couldn't have." I remember jumping to my feet and, as the furniture in the dining room went around me in circles and my eyes went dark, collapsing back onto my chair. "You couldn't have done this to us. You couldn't have stabbed us in the back like this."

My father carried on, almost nonchalantly. "Your shares from the sale will be deposited in your bank accounts by tomorrow."

I broke out crying in huge sobs. "What do we need the money for? Do you think that Twenty Hundred is something we can recreate with money?" This was a bad dream. A nightmare! A nightmare that would soon end. I was squeezing my fists, burying my fingernails in my palms, trusting that pain would wake me up. The incubus, however, continued. "You could have given us Twenty Hundred instead of the money. You thought we wouldn't be able to make it, right? What do you take us for, Dad? Are we so helplessly incompetent?"

Instead of answering my questions, he kept saying the same thing. "There are a lot of things you can do other than the theatre."

Then, averting his eyes, shiny behind a threat of tears, he rose to his feet and said his final words. "The theatre is dead. Dead. They finally killed it. There is nothing we can do anymore. Everything is swiftly sliding back to where it was fifty years ago. Humanity is returning to the pit of hell."

I start at a deafening sound. The cookie jar has fallen out of my hand. It seems to have shattered to a thousand and one pieces despite the soft landing the earth must have offered. I climb out of the hammock and start picking up the broken pieces of ceramic, several wet with teardrops. Why? Why did he do it? He did not have faith in us. He does not. But why?

I carry the broken pieces of Little Red Riding Hood to the kitchen. Unable to bring myself to throw them away, I reason, "I'll take them to the metropolis and give them to Nanna, who will glue them together." I hardly believe my wishful reasoning. Gently placing the remnants of the cookie jar on the counter, I move to the back of the kitchen towards the wicker chairs that once resided under the maritime pines in the garden. They have long lost their true colours, the intricate braid of their wickerwork undone in places. Their white cushions (white only because I know them to be originally so) have turned greenish under a lacy veil of mould. I leave the mould-green cushions in peace in their eternal repose and, accompanied by a non-cushioned wicker chair, return to the garden. Placing it under the pine trees, I sit on it with my feet resting on the hammock. The sound of the sea beating against the rocks down below reaches my ears. I listen.

Why? Why doesn't he trust us? Does he think that we cannot carry forward the flag he left us? That we will fail to sail the ship he has just abandoned? Can't he see that we can take up the fight he started and carry on with the struggle to which he devoted his whole life?

For years, my father has been the leader of the Global Cultural Heritage Fighters, a group he founded when he was still an undergraduate. He often complained that his childhood and adolescent years had seen the worst of humanity. "Those were miserable times when people were led to believe that wealth was the only sign of virtue and that the ideal world was built on strong market power and corporate success." We listened to him with the same eagerness we used to listen to Nanna's stories when we were little. They were more like a potpourri of fairy tales for the adolescent.

"Then came a time," he would carry on, "when everything went from bad to worse. When I was ten years old, my parents – Nanna and Granddad – were already talking about humanity sinking into a dark age that would be no less Stygian than the Middle Ages. Their most frequent complaint was that we would never be able to see the light again. The technology galloping ahead at a pace far too swift for nature to evolve in synchrony, the steep rise in Internet consumerism and the loneliness it fomented, the ever-increasing stress levels, the unhealthy diets, the pollution, the scaremongering by governments, the media inflating problems to unrealistic proportions, the security precautions claimed to be necessary because of terrorism, the energy crisis and the blackouts, the plague alerts, the heat waves with temperatures in some cities rising to unsupportable levels, the frightful increase in right-wing nationalist governments ..." He would then take a deep breath before resuming in distress, "Eventually the people started showing signs of irreparable psychological damage. My adolescence was marked with people suffering from stress, anxiety and depression. Those were terrible years. One out of every three people had some sort of mental disease. The number of psychogenic cases among those living in the urban areas, in particular, rose continuously. And more tragically horrifying was the power bestowed upon the new dictators-to-be by surveillance and enforcement technologies, a power that the old dictators lacked. The imbalance in our century was said to be a mirror image of the imbalance in the previous one – with one major difference, though. This time, the scales shifted not towards governmental control but towards commercial entities. Multinational corporations had become larger and more powerful than many a nation. The largest economies were not countries but companies. And these corporate giants were using our environment like a waste bin, like a cesspool even. They used and abused every disaster as yet another opportunity to help them add to their wealth and reinforce their power.

"People, as though mesmerised by the magic of an illusionist, by those seemingly impossible acts of a conjuror, believed beyond almost all doubt everything they heard on the corporate-controlled media. Even the alarming increase in the frequency of the chain of natural disasters could not break that spell. Nature revolted. Every single day we were shocked by the news of another flood, another tornado, a new earthquake, you name it. This went on for years. And then there came a point when we realised we had no other way out than to fight for a better world. We felt it was our duty to help safeguard the future of the human race. Dreaming of societies that strived to meet the deeper exigencies of human beings, we advocated for addressing emotional needs. Our ideal was a world where material values were not taken as a gauge of life-achievement, a world where the sole criteria for success was happiness and spiritual fulfilment. We fought for a world where energy resources were not used only to sustain economic growth but also to alleviate poverty and to ensure equity, gender equality and access to healthcare and education for all."

My father took great pride in their first victory, a victory that saw the end of gun culture. "Guns were everywhere, in the schools, on the streets. People, profoundly concerned and terrified, reached a level of awareness that eventually broke down the gun makers' lobby. This was the turning point. The human species had hit the bottom and started to climb up again, albeit at a very slow pace. It took them years to wake up, as it were, but they finally did. Leaving their long slumber in the depths of the world of illusions, they took action to change, to change themselves and the world."

My father would carry on with great zest, telling how they had fought for twenty long years before their struggle began to bear fruit in the fifties. The world, tired of the ups and downs of swinging between periods of abundance and acute shortages for centuries, had finally seen the end of the Age of Scarcity, which had lasted for four decades. He always said that the happiest time of his life was when the values no longer appreciated, the values such as the environment, family, community, culture and cultural heritage, came to the forefront and the Age of Information gave way to the Age of Truth. I remember him reminiscing with longing, "The fifties were the happiest years of our life," and then adding, his voice somewhat losing its verve, "perhaps the happiest years of all humankind." Theatre Twenty Hundred was the culmination of his mission, a link to the past, a reminder of values long forgotten, a tangible memory accentuating the place we, as human beings, occupy in time and space, a special window opening on to the future. I still cannot believe he sold it.

Perhaps I should watch the sunset. I leave the almost colourless, literally spiritless, partly unwoven (nevertheless still perceived as what it is in essence: white) wicker chair, and walk towards the other side of the garden where it gives on to the beach. Sitting on the stone bench overlooking the sunset, I let my eyes hang on to the sun hurrying down towards its final dip beyond the horizon.

"Others might get hurt but not me. Nothing bad will ever happen to me. My dad will always protect me. I'm his favourite child. He will never love anyone more than he loves me. He will always be by my side and therefore I need not fear," I remember thinking. How idiotic. How very tragically comical.

The sailing boat is still there, perhaps a bit closer to the shore now, changing from a triangle to a thin line as gusts of wind hit its sails. It should be coming in.

The sun has just left the scene, but its light continues to illuminate the sky. The twilight zone Nanna used to call the blue hour is here, that magical hour when the frogs turn into princes, the pumpkins change into richly decorated white carriages and Sleeping Beauty wakes up from her hundred years of sleep.

I return to my wicker chair beneath the maritime pines. From the orchard extending along the house towards the back garden, I hear a noise, a rustling sound, not quite the sound of the hurrying steps of a stray cat (which the island has an abundance of) or of the measured stride of a human being at _largo_. It is a continuous, determined, unwavering rustle. Curiosity strikes; I stand up and walk to the edge of the orchard. Not a soul in sight. The rustling seems to have stopped. Then I see it. There, right next to the second tree, two tiny eyes stare at me intently. A turtle, tucked underneath its shell, not much larger than my hand. It is frozen stiff. Othello? Yes! Yes, it's him. His withered face has not changed a bit. Still very old. I wonder if he has recognised me. Should I stand on my head for him to identify the Tara he knows? I squat and extend my hand. He suddenly pulls himself back into his shell. He _has_ forgotten me. Feeling like an impertinent intruder disturbing the peace and quiet of his tiny world, I retreat to my abode on the wicker chair.

Every now and then, a gust of wind, punitively excessive in its force, drives me mad. On land, its aggression is quite unbearable, being of no use other than raising a lot of dust. Here it goes again. I'd better go inside. Oh, yes. Go inside and get totally depressed. What I want right now is to listen to some music, full blast, but unfortunately I can neither do that, nor read, nor watch a movie. I feel totally helpless. Incredible how I forgot to bring my computer, my third hand really. More unbelievable is how I forgot my communicator chip, something I rarely take off even when I go to bed. Perfect! I am blind and deaf. I am going back to the metropolis tomorrow. At the crack of dawn. I can no longer take this.

I might as well go to sleep now. Sleep will put an end to this torturous isolation. It is not even seven, for Heaven's sake. Not even dark yet. A chicken, are you, Tara? Even they don't sleep at this hour. A book? There surely must be a book somewhere in the house, a book of Nanna's. As if I could concentrate on a book. What about a jog? Yes, sure. An excellent idea, jogging with these sandals. Well, I might run barefoot. There you go. Running up the hill, down the hill, through a hole, down the drain, up the creek, down the peak, devoured by a wolf or poisoned by a prick. Not a bad challenge at all. I should have a go at it. But definitely not at this moment in time. Wait, Tara. Wait until tomorrow and go back home to the metropolis. Home? Is there any home left? Has there ever been a home? Or rather, has there ever been that wonderland I took to be home? I should go somewhere else. Farther away. Somewhere really crowded. To the most populated city in the world, for instance. To forget about myself altogether amidst billions of people. It was a superb idea to come to this lonely place, Tara. Good for you. Enjoy it. Look how beautiful it is around you. Watch the darkness set in. Listen to the suffocating silence. The wuthering of the wind. The clamouring of the waves. A cigarette! Smoke one. To spite all this fresh air.

I hunt in my pocket for my tobacco pouch. A stingy pinch of the exquisite leaves more costly than ever now, leaves only available in the black market at exorbitantly expensive prices since, following the ban on cigarette production, tobacco is cultivated and sold only by a limited number of farmers rigorously selected. I roll the precious leaves in a wafer-thin piece of cigarette paper, a scarcity dearer than tobacco, even dearer than gold was before the Gold Crash of twenty years ago. The lighter? Taking advantage of an ephemeral pause as the wind catches its breath, I light my cigarette. Boosh! The sound of the flame. The sound of the flame? Does it have a voice? The first draw. Yes. Feeling much better now.

It will be pitch-dark soon. Is there any chance of finding a light in this house? What did we use for light in the garden? Candles? Oil lamps? Yes, Nanna's oil lamps. She hated the conveniences of modern life, complaining time and time again, "They're only good for killing our _joie de vivre_." She did not allow any modern gadgets, not only in her own house but also in this one, which she adopted as her own, although she stayed here only for a short while during the summer months. My parents teased her with a nickname: Retro Nanna. Looking back now, I see that they actually were no different than her in that respect.

I finish my cigarette and go inside. In the kitchen, a score of oil lamps are waiting for me, neatly lined up on the counter against the wall. They are ready to be used; but am I ready to use them? I have no idea how I am supposed to light them. I take two and return to the garden. You need not be a genius to figure out how they work. Removing their glass shades, I raise the wicks an inch. When my lighter fails to resist the wind, I go back inside, complete my mission and return to my post, with the lamps shyly shedding their flickering light around me. I hang one on the hammock, putting the other one on the ground next to me. No, better hang them both on the hammock. Would the flame eventually burn the hammock? Yes, sure they will. I sit down, propping my feet on the hammock. Lamps gently sway at the impact, their flames dancing a timid waltz. I close my eyes.

The rustling continues. It has moved a bit to the left. My watch says it is seven-thirty, which means that in the last thirty minutes Othello's rustling has travelled (most likely inclusive of a meal break or two) no more than four or five metres. I reach for my tobacco pouch to roll myself another cigarette.

"Tara?"

My feet start with a jerk and fall back on the hammock of their own accord. I skip a breath. The tobacco pouch falls to the ground. I freeze.
6

They ate a little, ate a lot and, before their lips said stop, they swiped clean the fish, the pie, the dish, the lie, the spittle and the pot. And finally the lunch under the pergola came to an end on the spot. No longer able to contain her enthusiasm, Tara impatiently begged and eventually convinced Nanna to come inside to the dining room before having her coffee. She had brought down a lot more from her doll house for the decor of the toy theatre. They began to set it up on the dining table.

Erol and Suzan were clearing the table under the pergola while Revan was shoving and clattering everything into the antiquated dishwasher. Nanna placed the wooden box they always used for the toy theatre on the table lengthwise. Some of its slats had been removed to allow the entry and exit of the actors. Nanna shook the dust from the red velvet cloth that would serve as the stage curtain and draped it on the back of a chair where it was to wait its turn to join the game.

"We're lucky that Amber is taking her nap now, Nanna. Otherwise, she would be ruining everything." Tara started humming a tune. She was in excellent spirits. "Nanna? You know what? This time, let's not have the orchestra in front of the stage." She put aside the photograph that showed an orchestra. "Remember what we did for Swan Lake? Why don't we cover that area with velvet instead of this photograph? We can also stick some pearls and sequins on it for decoration, can't we?"

"We certainly can. We'll extend the stage like this towards the audience and place the orchestra underneath it. We should have other musicians as well, on the stage, in the auditorium, just like it was in the Old Playhouse."

"What was the Old Playhouse like, Nanna?"

"Once upon a time several centuries ago, there was, in a very big city..."

"Was it in the metropolis?"

"It's not important which city it was, dear. This city was home to all sorts of people, people who differed from one another. Some called it the Quilt Town, some the Metropolis Disunited. Well, anyway. One day, the Master of Grocers ..."

Revan extended her head through the archway separating the kitchen from the dining room. "a.k.a. John Cholmley, ' _a citizen and a grocer_ ' of the Metropolis Disunited."

"Why not? Might as well be."

"What is a Master of Grocers, Nanna?"

"A greengrocer, dear. A big one. Let's leave it at that, shall we? One day, this Master of Grocers and his partner set up a playhouse. They called it the Rose Playhouse. It was similar to the most popular animal baiting arenas of the time. Come away time, wither away rhyme, with not so much of a straw of thyme from the time of that mime, someone else set up another playhouse. They called it the Old Playhouse, although it was a new one." Nanna had brought the cartons they would be using for the set and spread them over the table along with the colouring sticks. "Now then, let's see. You need to colour the sections marked '5' in red, all right?"

"All right, Nanna." Tara started colouring with great ardour.

"All sorts of people lived in this city. There were those who filled the playhouses, seeking for some entertainment, as well as those who wanted to burn such houses down."

"Evangelical Puritans, claiming to be purer than the pure – or rather, taking themselves to be so – just like Malvolio in _Twelfth Night_."

"Please don't interfere with our tale, Mum."

"All right, all right. Mum is the word." Revan retreated to the back of the kitchen.

"Nanna? When I finish with the red, which sections should I fill in?"

"What about sections marked '6'? They should be coloured yellow."

"Please carry on with your story, Nanna."

"From day to day the city was divided into parts separated by deep crevices, eventually transforming itself into a great beehive swarming with people of all ages, natures, sexes and callings. It looked like a gluttonous hive with a voracious appetite."

Tara had lost interest in the story. This tale is not for me, she thought. Leaving the colouring sticks, she began choosing the costumes for her doll who would be playing the role of Sleeping Beauty.

"And then the Civil War broke out. Famine swept the city. The plague killed thousands of people. The kings were executed. The theatres were closed down. They demolished the Old Playhouse. Its players lost no time in setting up an Underground Playhouse, which they claimed was a circus."

"Shall we be gathering weeds to make the woods?"

"Yes, we shall."

"Let's make the woods really deep, Nanna. Really, truly deep. Deep and dark."

"And finally the Great Fire broke out, burning most of the city down. That incident marked the dawn of an awakening, a point in time when everything started to change."

"What happened to the Old Playhouse?"

"None of its players lived long enough to see that change."

"Nanna, this is a very boring tale. Why don't we talk about the set decorations for Sleeping Beauty?"

Revan, shuttling between the kitchen and the pergola, carrying the empty plates, stopped. "I do hope we don't end up like the Old Playhouse."

"I do appreciate Orhon a lot, you know," said Kim. Comfortably settled in one of the armchairs next to the windows overlooking the garden, he took a sip from his cognac, something he never refused after a heavy meal, even on a hot day such as this one. "His courage is truly exceptional."

Suzan came in with a tray full of empty glasses. Following Revan into the kitchen, she asked, "What makes you say that? Is it because he is opening with Shakespeare?"

Kim gave Suzan a condescending look. "Of course not. It's not like he's playing Shakespeare for the first time in his life." He took another sip from his cognac. "I'm talking about his courage for having revived the Old Playhouse, about him being one of the heroes striving to keep the dramatic arts alive. He is a true fighter, never losing hope. He says that everything about Twenty Hundred will be exactly the same as it was in the old times, as it was before everything went digital and murdered the art of live performance."

Tara thought Kim looked like the rocks on the steep cliff; dark, dead serious, angry and sturdy. Nanna said that persistent waves, relentlessly beating at the rocks for years, ultimately change their shapes. Did Kim lack the wave that might soften his contours? What sort of a wave was Suzan? She seemed to be too soft. But Nanna always said, "It's not important how soft or harsh the wave is as long as it is patiently persistent."

Back from the kitchen, Suzan came over and sat down opposite Tara, examining the plans of the toy theatre.

"Are you patient?" Tara asked.

"About what, darling?"

"About the toy theatre. You need a lot of patience to build it up." Tara thought it would be better if she did not reveal her thoughts.

Revan, unable to open the tightened lid of the coffee pot, handed it over to Erol, who was leaning on the wall underneath the arch. "In one sense," she said, "Suzan's query is not totally off target. It is, after all, an audacious choice to open with Shakespeare. Orhon did play Macbeth and Hamlet several times before but always in a movie. This is going to be his first Shakespearean play on stage, both as an actor and as a director – and in his own theatre into the bargain."

Erol gave the coffee pot and its lid back to Revan, walked over to the window and sat on the bergère opposite Kim. "Have you ever thought about directing the plays you write, Kim?"

"I'd probably go mad if I were to go through those endless rehearsals, one after another. Being a director would be an absolute bore for me. As a matter of fact, that's something else I admire Orhon for – being a director in addition to being an actor."

"Why is daddy so late, Nanna?" complained Tara.

"He'll be here soon enough. You need to be patient, dear."

"Perhaps he had an accident."

"What on earth makes you say that?" Nanna gave Tara a carton with some designs on it. "What about cutting out the furniture for the palace?"

Tara started to cut out the throne for the king and the queen. Would a carton throne be strong enough to carry the dolls playing the role of the royal couple? She decided not to worry about it. Nanna would surely find a way to strengthen it. She noticed her mother lean towards Erol's ear and whisper something. She became all ears.

"It might be better to tell her about it when Sena is here."

"What would be better, Mummy?"

"Nothing, Tara. We're planning a surprise for you."

"All right then. I'll wait until Sena is back."

Revan returned to the pergola and, clearing the rest of what remained on the table, came back in. "I won't think about it anymore. I've been racking my brains over it. Enough now." Putting the empty plates down on the counter, she walked over to the stove and poured coffee into several cups.

Tara saw one of the columns of the toy theatre leaning dangerously to one side and hastily fixed it. "Mum is really energetic today, isn't she, Nanna?"

"Yes, dear, she is."

Suzan stopped scrutinising the plans of the toy theatre and turned to Revan, who had just brought in the coffee. "Why Shakespeare for your first play?"

"For being one of the first heroes of the professional theatre, that's why."

"Why _Twelfth Night_ then?"

"The opening will be on the _Twelfth Night_ , on the Feast of the Epiphany, with the hope that it will be an epiphany for the dramatic arts."

"What does epiphany mean, Mum?"

"It's the _Twelfth Night_ after Christmas, sweetheart, the night when, many centuries ago, the new-born Jesus was visited by the Three Kings. Once upon a time, it was the tradition to stage plays on this day in the palaces and the houses of the nobility."

"Epiphany, my child," Nanna interfered, and continued to say, as she often did, something that made things a little bit more confusing for Tara, "is liberation from illusions."

"What is that?"

"Having an illusion is being unable to see the truth, to take what is not real as real and what is real as not."

"I didn't understand anything."

"To make yourself believe that something that does not exist, exists."

"The fairy tales are allusions then, aren't they?"

"Not allusion, dear. Illusion."

"I know that the fairies don't exist, but I like to believe they do. I find it comforting to know that they would always help me out." She suddenly thought of the roles her father played. "What about the roles dad plays? They're not real but look real. Are they also effusions?"

"Not effusion, Tara. Illusion."

"There's a challenge for you. Answer her if you can," Revan said as she took her coffee cup and walked towards Erol. She perched on the armrest of the bergère he was sitting on.

"We'll discuss the answer to that question in twenty years, Tara. Now then. Shouldn't you be taking a nap?"

"I won't be sleeping today. I'll wait for daddy."

Revan carried on her conversation with Suzan. "Moreover, we wanted to open with a comedy because we wanted it to be compelling, compulsive. We wanted to appeal to the mind. We thought it should be anarchic, take the existing order and stand it on its head. Thus we decided on a comedy."

"I can stand on my head too."

They all laughed.

"The true comedy," said Kim, his voice sounding over the laughter, "is the one that has to do with people's recognition of their unimportance in the universe." He paused, staring at Erol and Revan. "Thus said Anthony Burgess," he concluded. "I should definitely write a comedy one day. Black humour."

"As befits our dear old Kim," snapped Erol, suddenly sitting up straight. He pulled the sleeves of his shirt up another notch, saying something about the weather being too hot.

Kim was silently watching Erol with penetrating eyes.

"Kim!" hissed Revan. "Please. Sometimes, you can be truly coercive."

Kim jumped to his feet. "Sorry, Erol. I'm sorry. Professional deformation. I can't help observing, trying to read people's minds. To observe and paste all that I observe onto my characters, something I do almost instinctively, like breathing, as if my writing would suffocate without it."

"How many pages do you write each day?" asked Erol.

"Unfortunately, it's only hearsay that a writer has great ideas swarming in his head, ideas which he can readily convert into a novel or a play, that he can embark upon wonderful writing at the dawn of each new notion for a plot. Ninety per cent of the writing process is about planning. People think that writing a play is nothing but writing dialogues. If I spend one month in a year all alone, inventing dialogues between imaginary people in imaginary situations in imaginary settings, I spend the remaining eleven months thinking and planning, planning and researching."

Suzan's roll phone was ringing. She went out onto the garden with it. Returning to his seat, Kim continued. "Sometimes it's nothing but research for weeks," he carried on, his eyes fixed on the window, watching Suzan. "On some days, I write nothing. I mean nothing that would eventually be printed or staged. I do take notes, certainly. Notes, passages, detailed character studies, planning, developing a series of ideas and then planning again."

Revan picked up a leaf that had been nestling on Erol's head and threw it on the floor. Combing his hair back with her fingers, she commented, "Kim's strength lies not only in his incredible creativity and powerful imagination but also in his structural virtuosity and inexhaustible energy for research. He orchestrates the story he wants to tell incredibly well."

Kim pulled his eyes away from Suzan, while the edges of his lips briefly curled up in a vague smile. "When eventually the research ends, I start writing. The words start pouring out like a waterfall racing down in a series of cascades. I haven't known any other source of pleasure as powerfully gratifying as the fictional creations of those initial moments – a unique intellectual orgasm."

Revan stole a side glance at Suzan, who was pacing up and down the garden. "You apparently haven't had a proper sex life, haven't met the right woman." She stood up to squeeze Kim's fleshless cheek between her fingers, as one would an endearing child's, spoiling his serious demeanour. "Should I deduce that appearances might be misleading then?" she said sassily, and returned to her place next to Erol.

"I classify my sex life, my dearest Revan, into two epochs: BS and AS. You may be right as regards my life 'Before Suzan.' Point and paragraph."

"You sound like a cheap novel. Rather unbecoming of you, I should say."

"It is the truth. I'm not to blame if only cheap novels can be created out of what is the truth."

"We've already discussed it on the boat," Erol intervened in a serious tone, implying that he was more interested in Kim's literary personality than in his carnal activities, "but we were interrupted. I've always wondered if one would eventually run out of inspiration, unable to find anything that would fire up one's creativity. Do you ever get stuck? Writer's block, you say, right?"

"Every play or novel I write is full of ideas, of seeds, so to speak, for the next one or even for several forthcoming novels or plays. I come up with the draft of my next novel or play before I finish the one at hand." He turned to Nanna. "It would be far more interesting to hear what you might tell us on this." He looked back at Erol. "She always says that her novel, the only one she wrote, is seeded with ideas for future books but never tells us why on earth she did not bring them into fruition."

"It should be up to my successors to sow and cultivate those seeds – if they can spot them, of course."

"Nanna? I cut out all the furniture, but I don't like Sleeping Beauty's bed. I have a better idea."

"And what would that be?"

"We can use one of mum's glass bell jars. I'll decorate it really nicely."

"We can, if it's all right with your mum."

Tara turned to her mother. "Mummy? Can we use one of your glass bell jars for the set of our play?"

Revan, completely engrossed in her conversation with Suzan, who was back in from the garden, did not even hear Tara. "I've never witnessed Orhon impose his ideas on a designer. Ever. You'll never hear him say, 'I want the setting to be exactly like this or that.' He never dictates anything. It's every designer's dream to work with him. 'What if we do this? I have an idea and I want to hear what you might think of it. You must tell me where I'm wrong. And please do feel free to make any changes you might deem necessary.' Such remarks are not so easy to come by, you know. He lets them stretch their creativity and imagination as much as they can and then, just like a magician, he assembles everything together into a perfect whole. Often even the designers are surprised at what they end up creating. He maintains that, as the director of the play, his most challenging task is to be able to reveal the essence of the play as effectively as possible, without imposing his own personality on it."

"Exactly as a director should be. That is where Orhon's greatness lies. It was long past the time he formed his own theatre company."

Ignoring Kim's interruption, Revan carried on. "Therefore, he's extremely fastidious, especially when casting actors." She threw a glance at Erol, murmuring indignantly, "Unfortunately, he does flop at times."

"Are the auditions over?" asked Suzan.

"Yes, they are. We finished two weeks ago, as soon as Orhon decided who should play Viola. We do have our sweet Viola now: Maya."

"No one can play Viola. _I_ am Viola! I don't want anyone to play her."

They all looked at Tara with questioning eyes.

"Nanna," Revan explained, "has a special approach to the games children should play, so much so that she created a special children's version of her favourite Shakespearean play, _Twelfth Night_. Tara always plays Viola and Sena plays her twin brother Sebastian." She turned to Erol to whisper, "The fact of the matter is that Orhon might as well cast Tara – considering that Maya's experience is almost as little as hers."

"You must trust Orhon."

"Not on this."

My father will always protect me, thought Tara. I'm his favourite. He can't love anyone more than he loves me. "I am Viola! I don't want anyone to play me," she insisted.

"All right, sweetheart. There will be no other Viola but you in your games."

"No one can be a better Viola than you are, Tara."

"Nadir!"

Nadir was standing at the door opening on to the pergola. Tara sprang to her feet and dashed towards him. Not minding the huge basket in his hands, or the fidgety lobsters within, she leapt onto his back, reached over his shoulder and gave him a peck on the cheek. Nadir was her best friend, always taking her side, always protecting her. He was much older than her, seventeen years old to be exact, more like an elder brother to her, really. Tara, however, preferred him not to be her brother but her friend. Her family was crowded as it was. Nadir lived in the next bay. His father was a fisherman, his mother an angel. Nadir said that she had become one this winter and left them to go and live with the other angels. She was not to come back, he had said. He must be missing her terribly, Tara thought, but he never showed his feelings; he was that strong. He had arrived with another one of those heavy baskets. Tara's mother had asked him to bring their entire catch from that morning.

"Get down, Tara. You're too heavy now. Thank you, Nadir. Come on in. You can leave the basket here."

"No, I'm not too heavy. Not for him. He is very strong."

Nadir stepped in, smiling at everyone as he crossed the dining room towards the kitchen, with Tara at his heels.

"My dad will be arriving shortly. You'll come to dinner, Nadir, won't you? Please do. Please. Please?"

"Do come, Nadir. And do please bring your father."

"Thank you very much, but you know that it's impossible to convince him to go out, except for fishing. I don't think he'd come, but I will. With great pleasure."

"How much do we owe you for these?"

"My father says these are the gifts of the sea – a specialty for your special guests."

"Do we have special guests, Mum?"

"Yes, dear. I already told you."

She had not, but it did not matter.

As soon as Nadir left, Tara's mother scolded her. "I told you to ask me first before inviting people."

"But dad invites others without asking you first."

"You can't do everything your father does."

"I want to be like dad."

"She has a terrible crush on him," Revan whispered to Suzan.

"On whom? On dad?" Tara asked.

"On Nadir."

"I don't have a crush on him. I only want him to come to dinner."

"That's what happens when they are away, her father and Sena," complained Revan, turning to Suzan, whose eyes, fixed on the lively contents of Nadir's basket, showed repugnance. "She can't tolerate being away from them and hangs on to anyone who comes along."

They heard Amber's cry from upstairs. Revan walked away through the door into the hallway and disappeared from sight. The sound of her steps climbing the stairs was shortly followed by whoops of delight from Amber.

Tara thought that her mother did not understand anything. And Tara could not understand how Sena could stay away from home for so long. At that instant, it occurred to her that Nadir was older than Sena and younger than her father. That meant he could be both.

Nanna had come into the kitchen and was busy emptying Nadir's basket into the sink. Tara grabbed a stray crab that had fallen off onto the counter, held it carefully, as her father had taught her, and threw it into the sink, only to pick a prawn from the basket, with a sudden curiosity to see how many legs it had.

"Me too. Me too." The copycat Amber had made an entry in Revan's arms, showing fatuous interest in the crabs and the prawns.

"Stay still, Amber!"

In her nonsensical euphoria, Amber struck her foot against the wine glass next to the sink. The glass fell onto the floor; shards of glass scattered around; the red wine spilled and splashed, speckling Revan's feet red.

"That's all we needed." Revan put Amber on the floor before bending down to pick up the broken glass.

"I'll take care of it. You shouldn't be doing that, Revan." Nanna took the prawn from Tara's hand and put it in the sink. "Tara, take your mother outside and hold the hose to help her wash her feet."

"I'll do that," interjected Erol, holding Revan's arm.

"Don't treat me as if I were sick. I'm only pregnant, for goodness' sake!" She wiped her hand over her feet nervously to get rid of the red blobs.

Amber, suddenly disinterested in the crabs, the prawns and even in Tara, toddled after Sirius. She hit a chair. Frightened by the crash, she backed a few steps and bumped into Erol. Her Ninni slipped through her fingers. "Amber! Look where you're going." Hearing Revan's outburst, she burst into tears, grabbed her Ninni and crawled towards Nanna's feet. "Watch out for the glass!" A window banged shut. Silence.

"Maestral! Finally a breath of fresh air." Revan walked towards the door leading to the back garden and opened it. A sudden smile lightened her face. "Orhon is here."

Tara ran to the door, the broken glass crushing under her feet, pushed her mother aside and went out into the garden. At long last, she thought. At long last, her dad had arrived. Thrilled to bits, she raced towards him, shouting "Dad" in a series of mirthful shrieks, and jumped into his arms. Hugging him tightly, she drew in a deep breath. How much she had missed even the smell of his skin.

"Calm down, Tara. You're getting too heavy for this."

Unwillingly, she climbed down from her father's arms, held his hand and started dragging him towards the house, when something caught her eye, a young woman standing stock-still in the shade of the big tree next to the garden gate. She could not quite make out her features, most of her face being hidden behind her sunglasses. She was holding a large bag, almost a suitcase. She did not move; as if she were a statue, as if posing in wait for her photograph to be taken. The shadows of the leaves, now restless in the wind, danced on the ground beneath her feet, giving the false impression that she was on the move. Then she actually moved. She walked slowly towards Tara. A whiff of her heady perfume arrived before she did.

Everyone had come out to the garden to greet the newcomers. Amber scampered towards her father. Revan followed her, her hips moving in an easy sway. "Hello there, stranger," she said to Orhon before turning to the other arrivals. "Hello, everyone."

Orhon grabbed Amber under her arms and threw her in the air. Catching her, he kissed her cheek and threw her up again. And again. Amber was giggling uncontrollably.

"Me too, Dad," Tara implored, despite knowing the answer to her plea. "Me too. Me too." She was jumping up and down in eager anticipation.

"They must be my new sisters," thought Kali, walking somewhat timidly alongside the young woman. "The blonde one looks pretty ridiculous jumping up and down like that. She is far too old for such childish behaviour," she murmured to herself between her teeth. "She is no better than a spoiled little baby." Tara, they called her, if she had not misheard it. Kali looked at the others standing as if in a ceremonial line-up. Who were they? Did they all belong to her new family? Too crowded a pack, they were. Worse still were the two dogs. She hated dogs. For the moment, however, she would have to do her best to get along with them.

Her new father, Orhon, had put down his younger daughter and was now holding Tara's hand. "Say hello to our new guests, Tara, would you?"

Tara smiled at the young man with the chewing gum. "Hello."

"This is Sumer," said Orhon, introducing the young man.

Sumer's lips stretched in a forced smile, his head moved brusquely up and down, gestures apparently meant to convey a salute.

"And his sister, Maya," Orhon continued, extending his arm towards the young woman next to Kali. He then introduced Kali before placing his hands on Tara's shoulders and proudly announcing, "And this is Tara, the apple of my eye."

The apple of his eye? God, she must be spoilt rotten.

"And Amber."

The little girl, clinging on to her father's leg with her fingers stuck in her mouth, seemed determined not to show any hospitality whatsoever. She must have been discouraged by Sumer's stony gaze. Then she suddenly let go of her father's leg and staggered towards Kali, eventually giving her a hug that nearly squeezed the life out of her. Tara, on the other hand, said nothing more than a gelid "Hi" in greeting.

Kali's new mother, Revan, whom she had met before, kissed Maya on both cheeks. Polite. Civilised. Formal. Utterly lacking in emotion. She then gave Kali a hug. No less dispassionately. She shook Sumer's hand. No less formally. This time, she seemed to be hesitant whether or not to keep that bland smile of hers. Kali noticed that her gaze was engaged elsewhere.

Orhon was now standing by Revan with his arm around her waist. "How are you, Rev? Everything all right?" He gave her a brief but passionate kiss on the lips. "How is Sim?" he asked, caressing her bloated belly. Then, as if all that was not enough, he bent over and kissed it. Once his excessive show of affection came to an end, he walked over to Nanna.

Kali had already met Nanna. She was a very friendly and warm-hearted lady. With extended arms, she waited for her son and, placing her hands on both his cheeks, kissed his forehead. "Welcome home, _mon trésor_."

_Mon trésor_. The apple of my eye. What was all this gibberish about?

Sumer extended his hand towards Nanna for a handshake; Nanna took it and pulled him closer, giving him a warm kiss on each cheek, breaking the ice. Sumer did not kiss her back.

"How have you been, son?"

"Very well, thank you," he replied, forcing a smile, his eyebrows tenaciously furrowed.

What followed was even a longer ceremony where they were introduced to the rest of the group, seemingly the guests. A frighteningly serious man with a dark face by the name of Kim. Next to him, his wife or girlfriend, Suzan, looking, in stark contrast to her consort, more blonde and jovial than she actually was. And Erol, a happy-go-lucky, friendly, all-smiles young man with no tags to his name relating him to anyone around. Orhon and Kim shook hands and then threw their arms around each other, as would do two old friends. They probably were. Orhon placed an inconsequential kiss on Suzan's cheek. A slight punch on Erol's shoulder and a wink. For Kali, who knew only one single type of salutation, this exaggerated ritual was over the top. They seemed to have a special greeting for each member of this eclectic group. Kali disliked such crowded gatherings and decided not to stray too far away from her new father.

Once the welcoming ceremony was over, they all went into the house and, leaving their luggage in the hallway, settled into the armchairs on the veranda to sip the coffees Revan and Nanna prepared for them, a reviving caffeine boost after their long journey. Kali, on the other hand, was given some milk. "Milk?" she scoffed. I'm too grown up for milk. Can't they see it? They wouldn't listen to me even if I told them that. Erol was having a glass of milk as well. Odd, at his age. How old is he, Kali wondered? He looked very young, but he was probably in his thirties. He was extremely good-looking, his blonde hair shining in platinum streaks where the sun hit it. Or perhaps he had it highlighted. He had a baby face, although the looks he had been giving Maya – whom he had met only a few minutes ago, mind you – were anything but babyish. His gaze, probing into her green eyes, was far from displaying any infantile innocence. He whispered something in her ear, causing an instant blush on her cheeks. She tore her eyes from his and started fiddling with her fingers before taking Kali onto her lap. Needlessly. She then turned to Nanna and asked, "How is your husband? I'm really sorry that he couldn't make it."

Tara was dragging at her father's arm, repeating over and over again that she wanted to show him something called the toy theatre. Eventually Orhon followed her to the dining room. Kali, not too keen on a cuddle, given the heat, grabbed the opportunity and left Maya's lap to join Tara and Orhon. She rose to her toes to have a better view of the toy theatre, faking an interest in Tara's jabber. Her new sister was a true chatterbox. A few minutes later, Orhon took Kali on his lap. Now she could see everything much better.

When Tara was finally finished with what she had to say and ask, they returned to the veranda, where they spent some more time with the grown-ups before Revan and Nanna took Kali and Tara upstairs to Tara's bedroom. They had prepared a bed for Kali, a bed that was really comfortable. She looked around the room, her eyes scanning Tara's toys with envy. A treasure box, filled to the brim with colourful toys, caught her interest. An empty perfume bottle. A lavender pouch. A saffron harmonica. A tin soldier, a real one cast from tin and lead. A white car with a long tail. A golden goat with small green gemstones for eyes. Tara was so lucky. Would they let her play with these toys, Kali wondered? They probably would, since she was now part of this family.

"Tara! We're off for a swim."

It was Orhon calling from downstairs. Kali watched Tara hurriedly slip into her swimsuit. She, on the other hand, had no intention of putting one on; she did not know how to swim and had no desire to learn, given her hatred of water. She did not have a swimsuit anyhow. They hastened downstairs and out into the garden to follow the other guests down to the beach. Kali succeeded in keeping away from the water, sinuously outmanoeuvring Tara's annoying persistence that she put on a swimsuit, and blithely ignoring her condescending remarks. She sat on the sand, watching them play in the water, though not without a slight pang of jealousy. She might, she speculated, have to learn how to swim after all if she wanted to be accepted as one of them.
PART TWO
7

"Tara?"

I freeze. The phantasmal echo of my name in the middle of nowhere, amplified by the impossibility of having anyone around here who might know me after all these years, arrests my breath. A paralysing wave of panic undulates through me. Then a momentary flicker of hope warms my heart. Dad? You wish!

"Tara?"

Pressing my hands onto the tattered armrests of the wicker chair for some support, both physical and emotional, I turn around. Someone is standing there, almost a statue, dim in an unreliable twilight zone, a fleeting grey presence prey to the darkness.

"Tara!"

I can't see his face. "Who is it?" I ask, attempting a stern tone.

He takes a step forward, a small one as if not to frighten me, then a few more no less tentative than their predecessor. The light streaming out the windows hits his face. Not a face I know. How can it be? No one I know knows I'm here. Even if they knew and wished to come and rescue me, they would not be able to do so, since no means of transport would take them here at this hour.

"You didn't recognise me, did you?"

A smile reveals a set of perfect teeth glimmering between his moustache and beard covering half of his face. I stand up. Squinting my eyes in the hope that the act would help me see better, I focus on his features to find a familiar hint.

"The blonde fig of Mount Ida," says he, still smiling.

The same voice that used to tease me when, as a little girl, I stood on my head under my fig tree. "You look like an unripe yellow fig, fallen off untimely and stuck in the ground upside down." This is Nadir's voice!

"Nadir?"

Of course it's him. Who else could it possibly be? The biggest crush of my childhood. After my father, that is.

"Nice to see you here, Tara."

He walks over and stops right in front me. As far as I can see in the feeble light of the oil lamps dangling from the hammock, his dark green eyes are still gleaming, though the gleam is somewhat warmer than before. He extends his hand, a gesture too formal for someone clad in such shabby trousers, apparently cut to act as shorts, and in such a faded T-shirt, which must originally have been dark blue. I extend my hand, no less formally.

"Nice to see you, too."

We shake hands with the solemnity of two businessmen about to hold a boring meeting. The serious tone of our encounter disperses as he kisses me on both cheeks. His beard smells of sea. Salt. Fish. Another smell from my childhood, long-forgotten. I can't tell what it is.

"You've grown up so much."

He has too, although the ironic smile, with a slight curve on one edge of his lips, has remained exactly the same.

"You too."

He must be in his thirties. No, older. He is much older than me. I try to remember the age difference between us. Ten years? I was six years old then; he was seventeen. Eleven years. It was such a big difference at the time. He was unreachable. Now the difference seems to have melted away. Hard to believe that he is forty. Looks much younger. Even younger than me, if you ask me.

"I saw the lights. I thought I should check. I wasn't expecting to find anyone but the Good Old Milkman's wife, who comes around once in a while to clean up the place. You surprised me."

"And you me."

"What a privilege to have you with us here on this island. To what do we owe this honour?"

"I need to clear my mind a bit. Sort things out. Think." Stop it, Tara! What is it to him why you're here? This is your home, is it not? You can come and go as you please, right? "I wouldn't have recognised you, had we come across each other in the street. The beard and all." I would have if I were to see his eyes, though. Perhaps. With his antediluvian beard and moustache, he looks like someone from the history visuals. It is the first time I have seen a man with a beard and a moustache other than the actors who grew them for their roles. With the uneasiness of having not much to talk about after twenty-three years, I ask, "Well, how are you?" as if I saw him only yesterday.

"I'm fine. And you?"

His eyes are fixed on mine. Given my awareness of it, I must be looking straight into his. He climbs onto the hammock and starts swinging his legs back and forth like a little child. The oil lamps and their flames join the dance.

"I'm good," I lie, as I lower myself onto the wicker chair. "Perfect." I'm not going to plunge into the details of my miserable frame of mind and why I feel that way, am I? "Are you still living in the next bay?" Great question, Tara. Of course he does, unless he just dropped from the sky by parachute.

"Yes, I do."

"A fisherman like your dad, then?"

"Not as good as him, I'm afraid, but I do my best."

"I too followed in my father's steps. Well, let's say, more or less I did."

"I always thought that you'd go into fine arts. They all said you were very talented. Your parents were convinced that you would make a better artist than all the others on your family tree."

"I didn't want to become an artist because ... because I've had enough of painting, you know. When you spend your entire childhood amidst the odours of oil paints and turpentine, you kind of grow tired of it all. You end up wanting to do something different."

"You seem not to have grown tired of all that talk about acting throughout your childhood then, given your choice of career."

"I'm not an actor. I did learn the trade though, from the best teacher ever – my father. He was my knowledge facilitator. After university, I worked with various masters, but dad has always been in my education team. And my granddad as well. I believe they did an excellent job with my orientation. I knew right from the very beginning that my talent did not lie in acting. They never forced me into it. I'm much happier being behind the stage. And much more successful, I guess."

"I should put it another way, then. You seem not to have grown tired of all that talk about theatre and of your father's love for it."

"Put it any way you want," I wish to blurt out. I came here to run away from all that, Nadir. The theatre. My father. Leave it alone and tell me about your boring life here, why don't you? "Well, are you married?" I ask, an ill-chosen question posed purely on impulse, in an unconscious effort to ignore his satirical remark.

"Nope."

A rather difficult venture if one does not step out of this island. Contrary to what I expect, he does not ask, "And you?"

I reach out for my tobacco pouch on the ground. "Would you care for one?"

"No, thanks. I stopped smoking long ago."

I roll myself a cigarette. Suddenly a strong wind gets up. Lighter in hand, I wait for it to take a break. My hair declares its freedom, blowing all around my face, slapping an eye, catching a few eyelashes. I know it would be a wasted attempt to control it. He reaches out and takes the lighter from my hand. Encircling the flame with his fingers, he leans towards me. I try to stick the end of my cigarette through his fingers. I can't. He takes it and lights it before placing it between my lips.

"I'm surprised you recognised me after all these years," I say.

He shuffles my already tousled hair, just like he used to do to tease me as a little girl. "There is only one person with such curly blonde hair whom I might expect to find in this house, Tara." His hand slows down to a caress, a reassuring caress for a little girl. "I had a strange feeling these last few days. I thought of you a lot."

"Why was that? What made you remember me after so many years?"

"I dreamt of you the other day. And you have remained with me since."

"Was it the six-year-old Tara you saw in your dream? It must have been, since our last encounter was when I was a silly old six-year-old baby, head over heels in love with you, and you a seventeen-year-old, very resentful adolescent, who kept teasing me."

That summer was the last one I spent on this island. Once the Theatre Twenty Hundred opened, my mother, proudly and religiously working as its set and costume designer, hardly took a break. I wasn't too mad about coming here anyhow. If my memory is not failing me, I was dragged here once by my mother when I was thirteen. Then once again I dragged myself here, to please Nanna. I guess that was when I was seventeen. My last sojourn was nothing but a suffocating four-day-nuisance at the end of which I rushed back to the metropolis with my father. I never liked it here, really. I hated the idea of lazing around with my sisters, my mother and Nanna, tremendously bored among the females.

Nadir climbs from the hammock, cups a hand over one of the oil lamps and blows, putting the flame out. He repeats the ritual with the other one before sitting on the ground in front of me, facing the sea. "The moon is about to rise."

A moonrise ritual of the island, is it?

"Look, it's rising. You just missed the full moon. Last night someone took a tiny bite from it."

He definitely thinks I'm still six years old.

With his eyes focused on the moon, he sits there in silence for ten, perhaps thirty, minutes. A sense of ennui threatens to overtake me. I find it odd that two friends meeting after more than two decades sit down and watch the moonrise only minutes after their reunion. Nadir is something of an eccentric, I reason, not to say weird. Loneliness must have sneaked up on his soul, depressing it on the sly. Too young to be all alone. One could lose one's mind. I roll another cigarette and finish it, finding it very difficult to stay put and silent. I am dying to get up and go but strangely can't, thinking that it would be rude. What if it would be? I just can't. It is as if I am bewitched.

"Anger is the best way to hide one's fears."

"I beg your pardon?" Almost a reflex of mine, pretending not to have heard a comment when I want to gain time.

"You're right, Tara. I was a resentful and angry lad when I was seventeen, but I'm no longer so bitter against life."

Why should he be? No stress, no hectic schedules, no deadlines. He looks so relaxed, sitting back and watching something that recurs every single day. His biggest concern must be the size of his daily catch. What else could possibly disquiet him on this godforsaken island where he spent his entire life shuttling between a fisherman's hut and a fishing boat? Having your goal in life fixed even before you are born, enjoying the comfort of the hereditary right to become a fisherman (fishing being one of the most privileged – and certainly the most tedious – professions of the last fifty years, bequeathed from father to son), the lightness of walking on the path pre-prepared for you without questioning your aim in life, living insipidly, without any ambitions, without even thinking that you need to reach anywhere, to surrender to what life has in store for you instead of creating a life for yourself. It is more like the death of your soul. Doesn't it ever occur to him to get out of here, to change his life?

"I don't want to remember that summer."

I stop short of asking why, remembering that it was when he lost his mother. Instead of changing the subject though, I come out with an almost inaudible, "Neither do I."

"Have you brought something to eat?" he asks, changing the subject himself.

"Something to eat? Well, no. It was rather a rushed decision. And food was the last thing on my mind."

"The kitchen? Anything there?"

"Oil lamps." What else was there? "I have no idea. I didn't look."

We move on to the kitchen. Nadir rummages through the cupboards as if it were his own house. Empty through and through.

"A corkscrew?" he demands.

The corkscrew? Where did we keep it? "Not a clue."

Nadir finds it. He also finds several wine glasses in another cupboard. He washes two, can't find a tea towel to dry them, gives them a few shakes to get rid of the extra wetness. I watch him, amazed at his excellent housekeeping skills. We descend to the cellar. A nauseating odour strikes my nostrils, the horrendous sight of undulating mould on the walls assaults my eyes. Poor wines, why do they need to stay in the underworld to acquire their exquisite taste? A few bottles. Nadir reaches for one; I for another. He uncorks his and pours an inch into each glass. Tasting. Vinegar! Another bottle. Vinegar again. Another. We give up the idea and return to the kitchen.

"You really came unprepared." He extends his hand. "Would you give me a hand?"

I cannot quite figure out whether there is a double meaning in his question, but I opt for the obvious figurative sense and refrain from holding his hand.

We go down the steps leading to the beach. Side by side. He runs, god only knows why. I keep pace with him. A sailing boat tethered to the pier. Others to join us? No, please no. This must be the boat that changed from a triangle to a thin line as the gusts of wind hit its sails. Nadir! It is Nadir's boat. Isn't he supposed to have a fishing boat? He is a modern fisherman then, our Nadir, not only shuttling between a fisherman's hut and a fishing boat but also shuttling up and down the open seas on his sailing boat, a boat he says he built this year. Not being prehistoric, it is in complete disharmony with this island. Once aboard, however, I realise how wrong my presumption was. Everything, the rigging, the electronics, you name it, are fit for a Retro Nadir. "Technology? Just enough to let me sail on my own," he explains. "Anything more than that kills the pleasure of sailing." His words remind me of my father. Nadir obviously loves a good challenge. We go down into the cabin. He fills a basket with the catch of the day. Also a few onions, several potatoes and a lot of herbs I don't recognise. He must be spending a lot of time on this boat. A bottle of wine. And another. Do we have other guests? He pulls out a drawer, takes out several knives and hands them over to me. "My knives. Very important. Crucial, in fact." One of them is like an axe. What on earth is he going to do with that one?

We climb back to the house with our arms full. In the kitchen, neither the oven works nor the stove. As a matter of fact, nothing works. Nadir fixes the stove and then the oven.

"Do you like bouillabaisse?"

"Do I have an option?"

"Of course you do. Fish à la ..."

"I'm joking, Nadir," I cut him short, surprised at his ingenuous reaction to my question. "I love it."

The gigantic knife, which he uses with an elegant agility unexpected from such strong wrists, creates wonders. The catch of the day becomes a mouth-watering bouillabaisse in the blink of an eye.

"You should have been a chef, not a fisherman."

Ignoring the chill in the air, we eat at the faded wooden table in the garden. The wind blows like crazy. Neither of us cares.

"What do you do backstage?" he inquires.

"I'm the production manager in my father's theatre." An inner voice corrects me, "You were, Tara, you were." I cannot get myself to articulate it. "Do you know what a production manager does?" I ask. Silly question. How could he possibly know? I carry on without waiting for his response. "A production manager is in charge of everyone and everything except for the actors on stage. She must be disciplined enough to finalise the boring routines, flexible enough to communicate with a wide variety of people, patient enough to cope with the changing moods of the artistic crew, and energetic enough to be able to run around even when dead tired." He listens to everything I say without uttering a word. What can he say? What can he know about the dramatic arts, being confined to an island that does not even have a movie theatre? Doesn't it depress him to look at me and see where he could not reach in life? I continue with my response to his – or rather to my own – question, although I know I may be stretching the limits of his patience. "One must be smooth-tongued with the team, praise them, support them, settle disputes between them. A stringent follow-up of the financial picture, never-ending meetings, planning, planning and planning. Preparing for a new project before the one at hand ends. Preparing for the one after that, even. And most importantly, remaining calm during the whole process." I can't believe he is still listening to me with interest, his eyes tenaciously focused on my lips.

"Are you all of those things?" he asks, his voice filled with incredulity. Do I perceive a faint tint of derision as well? Perhaps he is just envious. I shouldn't be talking about myself too much. I leave his question unanswered.

"You're not eating. You didn't really like my cooking, I guess."

"I do like it, Nadir, but I'm full. I can't eat much."

"Your body betrays that. You're just a bag of bones."

"Food is only a necessity for me. Long lunches or never-ending dinners bore me stiff. They take away from the time required for my work. I eat not because I'm hungry but because it's time to eat and, more often than not, without being hungry at all."

"Your dad really makes you work hard. It's a highly demanding job you have."

"I love it, nevertheless. The pleasure and the stamina that working with my dad give me makes me forget about all the difficulties. I don't know if I could ever manage without him." My voice trembles. I shut up.

"How are your parents?" he asks.

"They're fine, thank you. Fine."

"Is your father all right now?"

"Yes, yes, he's perfect. For generations, the males in our family have left this world before their spouses. I guess they eventually have had enough of the females around them. Dad seems intent on breaking that spell. I hope he does." In a double take, Nadir's question rings in my ears again. "How come you know about it, him not being well?" I snap.

"I read it in the papers."

"Then you're also up to date with the latest turn of events."

"How do you mean?"

"He sold the theatre, Nadir."

"He did mention it when I went to see him at the hospital. It's nothing new, though. He's been thinking about it for over a year now."

What? What does he mean, he's been thinking about it for over a year? I can't believe that even Nadir knew about the prospective sale of our theatre before I did. "I didn't know you saw each other so often," I say, trying to compose myself.

"I wouldn't say we did. Only three or four times in a year."

"He ruined everything," I hiss. "He ruined my life. Our lives. We had the perfect life."

Silence. Too long to be comfortably survived. A sip of wine. Another sip. And a question more disquieting than the preceding silence.

"Was your life really perfect, Tara?"

"What kind of a question is that? Of course it was. At least until a few days ago."

"It all depends on how you describe perfection."

Another sip of wine. Mouthful. "Happy."

"How do you define happiness?"

I can't think. My mind is at a standstill. It must be the opposite of unhappiness. When am I unhappy? The immediate answer to that question reverberates in my mind: I'm unhappy when I'm away from my father, suffering from an unbearably painful sense of having been deserted, fearing that such desertion might last forever.

"Were you happy as a child?" he probes deeper.

"What about you?" I ask, evasively, in reply.

Nadir watches me intently, without a word. I regret my question. A chill runs through my spine.

"You're cold."

"No, I'm fine." I'm not cold, but I can't help shivering.

"Something tells me that you didn't bring anything warm with you," he says, before standing up to go down to his boat to bring a sweater despite my objections.

As my eyes follow Nadir, I think about happiness. How can one define happiness? Or unhappiness? I guess I had a happy childhood, in the wider sense of the word, notwithstanding that persistent feeling of longing for my father and the acute apprehension of an imminent break-up of my family. I remember feeling somewhat different than the other children, feeling special, privileged. We belonged to a generation that grew up in the hands of caretakers, but we were lucky enough not to have been entrusted to anyone other than to Nanna and Granddad – and that was only on those rare occasions when my mother could not take us with her to work. She never allowed the domestic help even to touch us. Looking back now, I can see that it must have been my dad who insisted on such an arrangement, thanks to Nanna always being willing to fill in the blanks. He always said that a mother should concentrate on her children, leaving all housework to the help. "They should serve us and we should serve our children," he often repeated. I am sure it suited mum perfectly well, given that she was not quite taken with (and was, in any case, terrible at) domestic chores, considering them a total waste of time.

My father – and my mother, who has always been his shadow – had a different take on life compared to the rest of the world. To the shock of everyone, we never had a television set, for instance. My father had banished it from our home long before it became obsolete, even before we were born. His war against the Great Temptation carried on for years. We frequently heard him fulminating against quantum games, complaining that they turned children, teenagers and even some adults into lazy, introverted people. "Like Othello," he always added, with a rather sour smile. He spent large amounts of money and time to have them banned. It might sound absurd, but he even risked his life in the process. We grew up without so much as touching a quantum game. Instead of getting lost in the virtual reality those games created, we were encouraged to lose ourselves in the dreams we ourselves created. Dad was categorically against allowing his children to become slaves to the nanobots that ruled the neurons in the brain. Once, we heard that a child was trapped in a virtual environment when the nanobots in one such game refused to detach themselves from the neurons. They were removed surgically, but some of the nerve cells were already irrevocably damaged. It was only after this incident that more and more parents decided to ban quantum games from their homes.

Another detail that made us feel atypical and, I should proudly add, unique, was that our parents never bought us any toys. My father asserted that toys were pushed by corporations via addictive mental hooks and were imposed upon children, or rather upon their parents. "It's nothing but virtual child abuse," he fumed. That, of course, does not mean that we did not have any toys. We certainly did. We had the most special kind of toys, custom-made by either Nanna or Mum, toys that no one else had or would ever have. Several of our toys were inherited from our parents, toys that they had inherited from their parents and so on and so forth. Nanna mended them and they looked brand new. In later years, talking to my friends about all this, I could read in their pitying eyes their thoughts. "Poor thing, she must have had a terrible childhood." To be honest, we, as children, did fancy other children's toys, feeling somewhat ill-at-ease for being so different. Eventually though, we came to appreciate all of our toys. I treat them as if they were museum pieces, keeping them in pristine condition so that I can pass them on to my children. My children? The desire to have children. That frantic search for immortality. Mortality. Death.

My father's collapse on the stage triggered in me an instantaneous and shocking awareness of mortality, which soon deepened into an impossibly unsettling realisation of what it truly meant. Surely, as a twenty-nine-year-old, it was not my first encounter with death – in every sense of the word. That had happened more than two decades ago, here, on this very island, on a suffocating summer night, or I thought it had. I was six years old at the time. Then for years, I dreaded the idea of losing a loved one, fearing that my father, my mother, my brother, or even one of my sisters might die.

Nadir is back. He is wearing a sweater. As he places the one he brought for me over my shoulders, I feel his slight squeeze. The wind has stopped, I notice. Nadir's scent brushes against my nose, not the scent of the sea, of the salt or of the fish but something more, the smell of his skin perhaps.

"Bura has finally given up." He sits down.

Unwilling to go back to our interrupted conversation, I steer away to safe seas, asking, "How is your father?"

"He passed away, Tara. Two years ago."

"I'm sorry. I didn't know." How could I have known? We have been away from here for so long. We practically abandoned the place.

"They found him in his bed the next day. The doctor said he had died peacefully in his sleep."

"You weren't with him?"

"No, I wasn't." He takes a swig of his wine. "I was in the metropolis." Another swig. "He was eighty-three years old. Seemed one hundred." He draws little circles with his glass, blankly gazing at the whirling wine. "He seemed ageless. He's always been old, you know, old and wise."

My father, on the other hand, has always been young. He still is! He'll never get old; he'll never die, it seems to me. He mustn't. "I'm angry with my dad," I exclaim without thinking. "I'm angry at him for not taking good care of himself, for having worked so much, so absurdly much."

"Don't be angry with him. He will, sooner or later, leave you and this world. Not because he wants to, obviously." His fingers gently caress my cheek. "You shouldn't be cross with him for having sold the theatre, either. I'm sure he suffers from it more than any of you does. But he had to, Tara. He had to sell it."

"You don't understand anything, Nadir. It's not just that he sold the theatre."
8

Even the hunchback fate of olden times, burdened by lice, or the velvet doublet, doubled by mice and shielded by rice, would not have been able to put up with all that had happened. Tara felt a sudden pang of uneasiness, an unfamiliar sense of anxiety, the moment she saw Kali's green eyes shining brightly against her coal-black hair. She had a very strong sixth sense that never failed her. She did not quite like the flagrant contrast between the rapacious expression in her savage eyes and the warm intimacy she displayed towards people she had met only minutes ago, a contrast that actually irritated her. Had she arrived with that woman whose perfume preceded her, or with the guests who had arrived earlier on? How come she had not noticed her? She smiled and showed her some attention, even taught her how to build a sand castle once they were on the beach, albeit all against her will. She would never have left the game of piggy in the middle she was playing with her father and the guests in the water, had it not been for her father demanding that she entertain Kali, who, almost hysterically, had refused to go into the water. In the afternoon, they were sent upstairs for a nap, followed by another visit to the beach. This time however, Tara, ignoring Kali's capricious behaviour, swam and played with her father to her heart's content, although the whole episode did not last very long. Her father rushed her out of the water, saying that it would be rude to leave their guests alone any longer. Then everything took a turn for the worse, darkening Tara's world. For the rest of the day, Kali did not leave Tara's father's lap, not even for a second, not even at dinner. At one point, she even climbed onto Nadir's lap, forgetting all her manners. As if all that were not enough, she followed Tara to the steps leading down to the beach to see Nadir off after dinner, behaving as though she were the hostess, and an intolerably impudent one at that. Now she was sitting on Tara's father's lap again, under the pergola.

The straw that broke the camel's back was the sight of her father's hand caressing Kali's hair. That was it! She was not going to take it any longer. She had to lure Kali away from him. Reluctantly, she asked Kali if she would like to play with her.

"Shall we play a game?"

"All right."

"What would you like to play?"

"How about a quantum game?"

"Dad doesn't buy us quantum games. We can play hide and seek if you like. Do you know how to play it?"

"Of course I do, but it's a bit dark for hide and seek, isn't it?"

"The darker the better. Don't tell me you're scared of the dark. We can skip rope if you preferred."

"No, no, no. Dark or light, it makes no difference to me."

"Very well then. I'll be it. You hide."

Tara chose a tree as home base, closed her eyes facing it and counted to twenty. "Ready or not, here I come," she shouted as she opened her eyes. Sirius was standing beside her. They started looking for Kali. Plato, who hardly ever left the comfort of Nanna's company, sauntered lazily after them, joining the search with unexpected keenness. Sirius stopped in front of a bed of pink flowers, below one of the living-room windows, eagerly wagging his tail. Tara spotted Kali's green eyes twinkling behind the flowers.

"I see you! I see you, Kali. You're there behind the pink flowers."

She raced back to home base and touched the tree's trunk, beating Kali to it. It was Kali's turn to be it. Tara, Sirius and Plato hid. After a few more rounds, thirst beckoned them to the pergola. Tara and Kali each took a glass of Nanna's lemonade and went to sit on the floor by the dining table, where the pergola's stone paving met the lawn. Tara sat cross-legged. Kali somehow could not sit like that, so she bent her knees and sat on her feet. Plato returned to his place by Nanna. Sirius took off running after Peanut and Hazelnut, towards the orchard, only to stop short upon hearing Orhon shout, "Sirius! Come here, boy!" He changed direction towards his master, rather reluctantly, but switched to a zealous mood at the sight of his hand and set about licking it with a sudden display of avidity.

Maestral had long dropped. It was a very hot night. Orhon's eyes were fixed upon Revan who, seated across the table, was fanning herself fervently. "It's beyond me how you can possibly not understand what Kim means, Rev."

"What he's saying is nothing new. Conveying meaning through the melody of the words already exists in poetry."

"What I mean is something totally different, Revan," said Kim, in an unexpectedly softened tone. "Deconstructing what is seen into its basic elements, doing in literature what cubism once did in painting, accentuating the simplest structural elements, distorting them, shocking the reader with unusual, unheard of combinations, making them think. Literature is still nowhere near achieving abstraction. It cannot move beyond reflecting reality as it is. A shame, I say, a shame on the world of letters ever since its inception."

"Forget about the content, then? Is that what you're saying? No one will read it. Then what is the point of writing it? You're the one who always argues that there is no point in writing unless someone reads it. Do you honestly think that form would suffice to attract readership?"

"Of course it would. Much like a painting, can't you see? Not a painting of photographically depicted pretty landscapes, mind you, but paintings of reality observed from unusual points of view, depictions of it that startle, aggravate, even disgust so as to make readers think, so as to open the doors to the secret chambers of their inner worlds."

"I think language should remain what it is. It shouldn't be anything more than a physical tool to convey thoughts and feelings. It should never be in the foreground."

"Language is far too important to remain only a physical tool, Revan. Think of the harmony between various geometrical shapes. And think of the same harmony between the words of different intonations and lengths, of the harmony between various syllables and letters. The auditory feast of words and sounds, much like the visual feast of shapes and colours. The harmony of sentences, of paragraphs ..."

"Then they need to be read out loud or performed on stage, right? We're coming to the same point, Kim. Like poetry. Like a play."

"I think you don't want to understand, Rev," snapped Orhon.

Silence followed. Maya's voice became audible. She was talking with Erol. "After her death, I had this inexplicable, totally abstruse feeling, the feeling that there was more to life than what I had had so far, that a much happier life awaited me. I feel much stronger now that my intuition is validated."

"Orhon, I think Tara should be going to bed now." Revan's voice rose over Maya's.

"The words have a sound even when they're not read out aloud," whispered Orhon as he stood up. "They evoke a harmony in the reader's mind." His voice was back to its normal volume. "Kim is talking about that harmony, about forgetting the content and creating an effect solely with that harmony. Call it what you may, poetry, prose or play." He was now squatting by Tara. "I'm told that it's past your bedtime, princess."

"Please, Dad, please let me stay a while longer. Please?"

"All right then. Half an hour more. And then off to bed."

As Orhon walked away, Kali extended her head towards Tara's ear. "Who is your favourite? Your dad or your mum?"

"What about you?"

"I never knew my dad. He went away before I was born."

"To where the angels tread?"

"I don't know."

"Did he abandon you like Hansel and Gretel's father did? Couldn't he afford to feed you any longer? What happened to your mum? Did she leave you as well?"

"No. She died giving birth to me." She was suddenly dead serious. "Life is not a fairy tale, Tara. Real life stories are not as short as fairy tales. Things don't get right to the point. My life story isn't short either, although it does have a tale-like ring to it; I also have skills to survive, just like Hansel and Gretel."

"Was there a witch in your life too, a witch whose gingerbread house you ate?"

"You're far too old to get carried away by those fairy tales, Tara. You'd best start learning more interesting ones."

"My stories _are_ interesting. Everybody says so. They always tell me that I have an active imagination. But I don't always need to use my imagination to make up a story because sometimes I tell what really happens. For instance ..." She fell silent, thinking. She had to find something really intriguing – and real. "For instance," she beamed, "Tara's story. Not mine of course. The story of the real Tara, my namesake. I'm not the real Tara, you know. I simply carry her name. The real Tara was the greatest of all the Goddesses of Wisdom." Suddenly she gave up the idea, for it would not be an intriguing enough tale. "I'll tell it one day, if you like, when the time comes. Now, I should tell you what happened today. In the morning, I saw a sailing boat flying upside down over the waves in the deep blue sky. It was moving towards the shore, its sails swaying in the water as transparent as the sky." She stopped to look at Kali, who seemed stupefied. "It wasn't a dream. I was just standing on my head."

"I understand. One can see a myriad of things when looking at the world from a different angle. Birds flying in the sea and diving into the sky, fish jumping out of the sky towards the sea." Kali stopped. "How old are you?" she asked.

"Six. Almost. And you?"

"I don't know."

"How can you not know?"

"Let's say I'm as old as you are. I should be."

"I think you must be younger; you're smaller than me." She was so tiny that she looked less than two years old. Talking so well, though, meant that she was surely older than Amber. Some of the things she said were so wise that she might as well be older than Nanna, come to think of it. "When is _your_ birthday, Kali?"

"I already told you that I don't know. And yours? When is your birthday?"

"They say that we started our lives in our mother's belly on a day dedicated to lovers. Riddle me this, riddle me that; tell me my birthday, you little rat."

"You were born on 23 November."

She was too clever, this Kali.

"Yes, 23 November. We have the same birthday as our Granddad. Have you met my Granddad?"

"Yes, I have. He seems to be a very nice person."

"He is. And not only towards us, mind you. Everybody thinks he is very nice. They sometimes call him Saint Paul."

"Why is that?"

"I don't know. I guess because he is a good person. The saints are good people and Granddad is as good as a saint." Finally there was something Kali did not know. "Nanna says that Saint Paul is not only a good person but also a very clever one. He apparently marketed a product that billions of people couldn't do without for more than two thousand years, and still can't. That's what she says. She doesn't explain what the product is, though. It must be a very nice toy."

"Might it be a drug?"

"What does that mean?"

"Never mind. You wouldn't understand. What were you saying? Something about sharing a birthday with your Granddad, right?"

"Yes. My dad and aunt would also have had the same birthday, had they waited the full term but, as Nanna says, they rushed it a bit and decided to come into this world on the tenth day of the tenth month of the tenth year of this century, meaning that they were born on the exact same date as her, only a century later."

"As whom? As Nanna? Can't be."

"Don't be silly. Of course not."

"Tara!"

Hearing her father call out her name, Tara sprang to her feet and ran to him. Cheerfully, she jumped into his lap.

The grown-ups were still at the table under the pergola, some sipping their coffees, some quaffing their drinks and some chattering.

"What were you playing?" asked her father.

"Riddles."

Kali had followed her. She must be dying to sit next to Tara, but there was no room for her on this lap now.

Tara's gaze stopped on Maya, who was talking to Suzan almost in whispers. She was so tanned. Or was it the natural colour of her skin? She was fidgeting with her turquoise bracelets. She had crossed her legs and curled her foot around her calf. She looked entangled, an indecipherable knot, impossible to untie.

Suzan, looking highly interested in the subject matter, was showering Maya with questions. "Do you get nervous during the auditions?"

"Of course I do. You stand all alone at the very centre of a huge stage with a spotlight blinding you. You deliver a pre-prepared script to a faceless director sitting somewhere deep in the dark auditorium. You're petrified you'll make a mistake. Your anxiety peaks as you approach the end of your performance, the thought of the director shouting 'Next!' filling you with dread. But on that day I felt none of this, because I knew that they did not hold cliché auditions at the Theatre Twenty Hundred. I was tense, that is true, but the reason behind my uneasiness was ..."

"I've been holding workshops during the auditions ever since the first play I directed at the Famous Theatre."

Tara was surprised that her father, who hated to be interrupted, had cut Maya short.

"To watch various groups of actors playing different parts of the play in different combinations and to see how they interact with one another is, for me, more efficient than auditioning them individually."

Kali was still standing next to Tara. No one but Tara heard her whisper, "In some fairy tales, the hero has to solve a very difficult riddle to win the freedom of the beautiful captive princess."

"Nanna," entreated Tara, "Ask me a riddle, please. You have to make it very difficult, though."

Nanna took a deep breath and furrowed her brow. She was thinking. It was going to be a very difficult riddle indeed. A sudden smile changed her expression as she turned to Tara. "Are you ready, you riddle monster?" she said impishly. "What has one voice and walks on four feet in the morning, on two in the afternoon and on three at night?"

"Asked Sphinx to Oedipus," joined in Kim, completing the riddle.

Nanna leant across to Tara and gave her cheek an affectionate tweak. "Don't forget that the Sphinx ate those who could not answer correctly."

"Did Oedipus give the right answer?"

"Yes, he did. And the Sphinx got so depressed that she killed herself. The happy people of the kingdom made Oedipus their king."

Tara fell to pondering over the riddle. This was really a tough one. Walks on four feet ... Amber? Amber walked on four feet and on two, but how was she supposed to walk on three? Othello? No. He hardly walked on all fours. Plato, drowsing by Nanna's feet, took a deep breath and changed his position. Plato! He sometimes walked on his two feet, especially when he begged for the leftover lamb chops from the table. And sometimes when he had something hurting his paw, he hopped on the other three. "Plato!" she sang out.

Plato raised his heavy eyelids to figure out why Tara called out his name. Seeing no lamb chop leftovers around, he went back to his slumber.

"Not bad, Tara, not bad at all. Think harder and you'll find the answer."

Before Tara could think any further, Kali approached her ear and whispered the answer. Tara repeated what she had heard to the others. "The right answer is a man. As a baby, he crawls on all fours like Amber; as an adult, he walks on two legs like we do; and in old age, he leans on a cane like the mother of the Angry Owner."

Her father gave Tara a kiss on the temple. "That's my girl."

Tara watched Kali walk away. She is not so bad after all, she thought as she nestled closer to her father.

"Fathers play a special role in their children's lives," Suzan said. Tara's interest was suddenly kindled. "A role much more special than being their mentor or play partner: to encourage them to meet the challenges of the world outside the protective walls of the family. This is certainly not as easy as it sounds. A great deal of determination is required to stand by as your children put their hands into the fire, so to speak, to let them do it and sometimes even prepare the ground for it."

"It's rather easy to preach on parenthood when you're not one, isn't it?"

Ignoring Kim's sarcastic remark, Suzan turned to Revan and carried on. "This is a must, Revan, if the children are to gain emotional security that will persist into their adolescence. Unless a father sensitively supports the autonomy of his children – of his sons _and_ of his daughters – it is impossible to raise emotionally strong people."

"Orhon not only encourages his children, he practically obliges them to be autonomous. Sena has already declared his independence. Tara, however, is rather different."

Tara sat up straight on her father's lap. "No!" she cried out. "I'm not different. Sena and I, we are the same. I want to declare my independence too."

"You have a tough job, Revan," said Suzan. "The twins are ..."

Tara was bored stiff. She remembered that she needed to ask her father a few questions about the toy theatre. "Dad? Shall we go to the dining room for a second? I need to ask you something about the toy ..."

"Not now, Tara. We have guests, don't we?"

She was sick and tired of these guests. Couldn't she have at least a moment alone with her dad? Angrily, she climbed from his lap, ran across the lawn and sat down with her arms akimbo on the stone steps leading to the lower garden. Her mother would soon arrive to scold her for sulking.

"Please do behave yourself, Tara. You're being rude to our guests."

"Do they know how long it's been since I last saw daddy?"

"He'll be staying home much longer from now on and you'll be seeing him as much as you like. Come along now, be a good girl."

After making her mother beg for a while longer, she took her hand and returned to the pergola.

"How about a story?" Sumer's question made Tara almost forget about her disquietude.

"I'd love to hear one. Are you a good storyteller?"

Sumer seemed harsher than Maya, but apparently he was friendlier.

"Tara, do let people alone, sweetheart. It's not the time."

"Please Mum, let him tell a story. Please."

"It's not the time, Sumer," Maya interjected softly.

Tara swished her eyes towards Maya in anger. She would not let her spoil the fun. She pulled her hand away from her mother's and ran to stand between Nanna and Sumer on the other side of the table. Staring straight into the young man's eyes, she beamed, "I love telling stories as well. And I'm really good at it. My stories are real stories, not fairy tales. Is your story a fairy tale?"

"Not quite. It does have a giant, though."

Tara leaned her back against Nanna, readying herself for Sumer's story. His expression had suddenly become grim.

"Once upon a time, and a very good time it was, on a distant island in a distant sea, an island called the Olden Island, lived a giant hunter by the name of O, a mighty strong hunter who was the most handsome of the earthborn. One fine day, bored of living on the Olden Island, he decided to walk to find another fine island. Gifted by his father, the Sea God, he could walk on the waves, and thus he did, walking hither and thither, and hither and yon, finally ending up on an island covered in trees famous for the uniquely perfumed resin of their own. The king of this island had a daughter more beautiful than the fairest of angels born. O fell in love with her at first sight and her hand in marriage he sought. Her father, for some unfathomable reason, refused to consent to the marriage with scorn. In frustration and desperation O drank, and drank too much, so much so that he kissed his beloved on the mouth. When the news reached the King, he became furious and infuriated, until his fiery fury blinded O. Devastated, O left for the seas. He was flung from shore to shore, above and under the waves, until one fine morning when he heard the sound of a hammer. He followed the sound till he reached an island known for its mild climate, where lived the God of the Blacksmiths, a god in charge of all weapons and armour, and of fire and volcanoes. Despite being the ugliest of all the gods, he was everyone's favourite, for he was a Samaritan at heart. He had a cure for O's blindness: to go to the farthest reaches of the east, where the healing rays of the rising sun would shine on his face, making him see again. Carrying the servant of the God of the Blacksmiths on his shoulder as his guide, O set off for the road. At the end of his long journey, he finally found the rising sun and recovered his sight."

"I know O," Tara interrupted. "Nanna? Isn't he the giant in the painting in your living room, the one with the tiny man on his shoulder?"

"Yes, dear. He's O."

Sumer carried on. "Healed, O returned to the island famous for the resin of its trees, to reunite with his beloved. She was, however, nowhere to be found. Heart-broken, disappointed and despairing, he finally headed for home, the Olden Island."

"And he lived unhappily ever after?"

"Let's end our story here, shall we? Mythology offers a somewhat different take on it, but I took the liberty of making a few changes so as to adapt it to the reality of our day."

Tara turned to Nanna. "What does mythology mean?"

"It means telling stories, Tara, stories that use the supernatural to explain the unaccountable nature of the universe and of humankind."

"To heal his broken heart ..."

Tara was surprised at her father's interruption, an unlikely occurrence happening for the second time this evening. "Is he going to tell a story as well?" she asked herself. He did not really know how to. She nevertheless held her breath and readied herself to listen.

"... O started a brand new life, dedicating all his time and energy to hunting, while travelling the globe. One of his journeys took him to where the Goddess of the Hunt lived. They instantly fell in love with each other. The Goddess of the Hunt, who had never loved anyone before but her brother, the Sun God, was completely besotted. The Sun God, displeased with this new turn of events, tried to talk his sister out of the affair. Eventually realising that he would not succeed in his venture, he thought of a ruse. One day while they were at the seashore, he challenged his sister that she could not hit a small speck far out in the water. An expert archer, the Goddess of the Hunt could not resist the challenge and fired an arrow, hitting the target. When she saw that the target was O, she went insane with grief. Devastated by his death, and crushed by an acute sense of guilt, she rushed to her father, the God of the Sky, and begged him to place O among the stars. Being the most powerful of all the gods, the God of the Sky made his daughter's wish come true. He placed O in the darkest corner of the sky so that he would become the brightest star in heavens."

Kim let out a brief, dry laugh. "I didn't know you too had a knack for telling stories, Orhon."

"I know I shouldn't be sticking my nose into unknown territory, and I should leave storytelling to Nanna, but this story has a special place in my heart."

"Your dad," whispered Kali into Tara's ear, "I mean, our dad ... What does he do for a living?"

"He's into plays. His games, however, are not like our games. Not exactly."

"What kind of games does he play then?"

Tara beckoned Kali to shush, focusing her attention on what her mother was saying. Apparently, it was her turn to tell a story.

"You should have ended this story differently, Orhon. Come away time, go away rhyme; O, having healed his broken heart in time, fell in love with the Goddess of the Hunt, who in turn fell in love with him. They tied the knot in a wedding that lasted for forty days and forty nights and then lived happily ever after."

"A happy ending, right? We can't manage without one, can we?" grunted Kim. "It drives me mad."

"Snip, snap snout, this tale's told out. Step on a tin, the tin bends; this is how my tale ends. Three apples fell from heavens; one for the teller, one for the listener and the last one for he who spots the bluffer." Nanna ended it all, showing her prowess in the matter. "Let's not forget that the ending of a fairy tale is actually the true beginning of the story. And most importantly, the 'once upon a time' is not a past designation but prospective. The timelessness and the lack of geography gives it utopian connotations."

Tara reckoned the storytelling session was over. She was about to leave her place between Nanna and Sumer to go back to her father's lap when she saw her father stand up and walk towards Maya. She stopped. Who was this woman? She turned to Kali. "Who is she?" she asked.

"Which one?"

"The one you came with, the woman dad brought along. You came with them, didn't you?"

"As a matter of fact, I was here before them, but you couldn't see me."

"Did you come with Nanna, then?

"No."

"Did you come on your own?"

"Let's say that the reason I'm here is the presence of that woman."

"Riddling time is over. Just tell me who she is."

"She's a neighbour who took pity on me."

Tara's eyes slid towards her father's hand, the hand that rested on Maya's shoulder. He was speaking, his voice brimming with excitement. "I'll be playing Feste. A very active Feste I shall be. I'm planning a few back handsprings in the second scene of the fourth act."

"You want to be really comical, I understand."

"Clowns are not funny, Suzan. It is the people who laugh at them. Feste is a despondent clown, who often thinks about death." He was suddenly lost in thought, his gaze momentarily skimming the sea. He closed his eyes; his expression changed as he started humming a tune, and a sad tune it was.

Come away, come away, death;

Kim let out a chortle. "A rehearsal. What a splendid idea! Considering that _Twelfth Night_ is set in Illyria. We have the perfect setting here on this island. And we have the protagonists."

Tara could not tear her eyes away from her father. A bitter smile flitted across his face. His voice trembled. He opened his eyes and fixed his gaze on the sea again.

And in sad cypress let me be laid;

Fly away, fly away, breath,

I am slain by a fair cruel maid.

My shroud of white, stuck all with yew,

O, prepare it!

My part of death no one so true

Did share it!

All of a sudden, he bent in half and collapsed on his knees, his face contorted in pain.

"Dad! What happened? What's wrong with my dad? Dad?" Tara darted towards her father. Taking his face between her hands, she started shaking him. "Dad! Wake up, Dad!" He would not open his eyes. Something awful must have happened. He must have been very cross with Tara and left for the other world, the world with no return, the world of the angels. He was dead! No! No, Dad! No! You were supposed to be stronger than death. You are. You already proved it. You beat it when it came to take Sena away from us. You can't let death win now. In panic, she kissed him on the cheek, again and again. Wake up, Dad. Please wake up.

Suddenly, he snapped open his eyes and smiled. Putting his arms around Tara, he hugged her really close to him. "I was only acting, my love." He turned to the others. "She thought I was dead, which means I'm rather good at acting."

Kali had followed Tara and was now hugging Orhon.

"How slimy she is," thought Tara. Then a warm kiss from her dad made her forget about Kali and about death.

"How naive she is," thought Kali. She could not understand that he was acting.

"It's way past your bedtime, Tara," said Orhon as he stood up.

Tara ran to Nanna. "Nanna? Can we look at the stars before I go to bed? Only for a short while? Please?" She grabbed her hand and started pulling her towards the stone benches, before looking over her shoulder to call out, "Kali, why don't you come with us?"

Kali ran after them. They all settled onto the soft cushions on one of the stone benches.

"Nanna? Are you going to die?" asked Tara.

"What makes you say that?"

"I don't know. I just asked."

"Of course I will, dear. I can't stay here forever. One day we will all die."

"Will dad die too?"

"Now, don't you forget one thing. None of us, neither I, nor your dad, nor your mother, will die before you grow up and have a family of your own, have your own children and even grandchildren."

"I don't want to grow up."

Why should she want to, thought Kali, being so spoiled in the comforts of her childhood?

Tara let her head back on the cushion, turning her eyes towards the sky. "The stars are really bright tonight, aren't they, Nanna?"

"Yes dear, they are. There's no moon, that's why."

"They disappear when the moon is full. Does it shoo them away?"

"No, it doesn't but we can't see them. Being invisible doesn't mean being non-existent."

Kali looked at Tara. Had she the capacity to grasp what Nanna was talking about?

"In our family, the stars have always had a special place. Some of us were named after them, some were inspired by constellations, some shone like the brightest star in the sky, some remained an unforgettable star long after leaving this world, some passed by like a shooting star, swiftly, briefly but most brightly. You too, Tara, are a tiny star."

Sirius arrived. Kali was ruffled by his presence. She didn't mind the sluggish Plato, curled beside Nanna's feet, but Sirius intimidated her. She moved closer to Nanna and pulled her legs up onto the bench. The silly dog was moving back and forth in a ludicrous display of animation. When Tara stroked his head, he completely lost it and put his front paws on Tara's lap in an effort to lick her face. Nanna's authoritarian order, "Steady boy! Calm down now!" snapped him back to his senses.

"I forgot which one is Sirius," said Tara.

Kali made to answer but Nanna beat her to it. "You know that we can't see it in early summer; it'll be visible again in a few months."

Kali decided to keep mum. Nanna deserved respect.

"Would you tell the story of Sirius again?" pleaded Tara. "Please, Nanna," she insisted.

"Aren't you tired of it?"

"No, I'm not. Please tell it once more."

Nanna looked up at the sky. "Back, far back, many many light years ago, in the mists of time, when the world was very young, there lived Sirius, the brightest star in the sky. Sirius was the dog among a heroic group of stars. From a distance, it looked like a single star, but it actually had a slightly smaller twin sister. Getting really tired after having roamed the heavens for months, it would go to sleep and become invisible, to the disappointment of those who looked for it after sunset. After a long rest, it would wake up and rise most brightly and lively, just a blink before dawn, while the sky was still dark. It would wink at the world, shining with glints of red and flashes of blue, right above the horizon. As the sun rose, it would disappear in the blink of an eye. In a land not too far from here, people would wait for that moment when, after its long absence, it would appear on the horizon right before sunrise and give the world a wink. They believed that if Sirius shone brightly that morning, it would usher in a fortunate year. If it was dull, then they were to expect a year of misfortunes. They took the day Sirius winked as the beginning of the hottest days of summer and said that the dog days of summer were about to begin. They all begged and prayed Sirius to send a whiff of a fresh breeze. Now it has all changed, like many other things; it has turned on its head, so to speak. The rising of Sirius marks not the beginning of the hottest days of summer but their end."

"Shall we wake up at dawn again to see its first wink?"

"We shall, if you so wish."

"What else, Nanna? What else did Sirius do?"

"Following its first wink on that morning, it rose again just before the next dawn to give the world two winks, then on the following morning three winks, and so on and so forth. So, each time, it stayed a bit longer in the sky, disappearing as soon as the sun rose. Everyone thought that it shied away in the face of the sun and hid, but there was something nobody knew: it did not hide. It was only that those blinded by the bright sunlight could not see it during the day."

"It's a very complicated story, but I love it. I will learn it properly and one day tell it to everyone."

"Sirius is asleep now. That's why we can't see him. But we will, soon enough. So it always has been, so it always will be, Tara. This is just another cycle that will repeat itself to eternity. It is neither the first nor the last performance played on the stage of the universe."

Tara was distracted. She was holding Sirius's head and rubbing her nose against his. "See? You're the dog of a heroic group of stars." She looked at Nanna. "And dad is the hero of that group, right? That's why he named his dog Sirius, isn't it?"

"Yes, dear." Nanna paused, momentarily lost in thought. "There have been many heroes in our family, Tara. Once – more than a century ago – there was a hero, for instance, who fought to save people's lives in a war, a war that devastated the whole world." She caressed Tara's cheek. "Your father is also a hero, fighting to save lives and, more importantly, fighting to salvage the dignity of mankind. At this time and age, though, when the circumstances have somewhat changed and the world has become quite a different place, his struggle might not be considered a war in its traditional sense. It is, however, no less a war, dearest. And he is no less a hero, a hero engaged in an onerous battle to preserve values vitally important for the future of the human race." She hugged Tara, smiling. "And most importantly, he's your hero."

"I want to be like him. I want to fight by his side. Be adventurous. Do dangerous things. Be a hero."

"Your father is a hero; but not because he is adventurous and likes danger, Tara. Heroism is something else altogether. It is to undertake courageous actions to help others despite the possibility that those actions might result in your own injury."

"Tara!"

Orhon was standing in front of the veranda, beckoning Tara to come over. She stood up reluctantly and, taking Nanna's hand, walked towards him. Kali followed them. Tara seemed to have forgotten all about Kali.

Orhon put his arm around Nanna's shoulder and extended his other hand to hold Tara's. "It runs in the family, I guess, the art of stargazing."
9

Nadir left almost an hour ago. I should be dead tired but I do not feel in the least sleepy. I am sitting in the loggia upstairs. A disturbing calm prevails since Bura has stopped. Peaceful? Not really. Phlegmatic is more like it. Eerily pacific. Not even a leaf moving. The sky is completely overcast now. The clouds which, according to Nadir's rendition, "are inherently murky and gloomy," seem angelically white in the dark. The moon is no longer visible except for an occasional blink through that purportedly innocent shroud. We talked for five hours, Nadir and I. A miracle how we found so much in common after all these years, a fisherman from a little bay and a metropolis girl from the world of drama; or rather the hero-wannabe daughter of the Hero of the Dramatic Arts.

I try to remember when my father became my hero. Actually, he has always been my hero, but the day I decided that he was a truly great one was when he saved Sena from drowning. He was, as Nanna remarked at the time, "a hero who finally broke the curse," a hero who stood up to death and defeated it. I wasn't even four years old then and far too little to grasp the true meaning of death, so I reasoned that it was a powerful villain to be avoided at all costs, a villain only someone as strong as my father could defeat. Two summers had to pass before I was to learn what death really meant.

As I have already mentioned, I don't remember much from the early years of my childhood, only a few sporadic memories, but I would never forget what happened that summer, every single moment having been indelibly engraved in my memory. I wasn't ready to grow up so fast, but things took such a turn that I matured in one single day at a speed faster than I ever did afterwards. Looking back now, I refer to it as the summer that witnessed the tragic demise of one of my childhood beliefs, perhaps the most important one. Anyway, I really don't want to talk about death right now. I should go to bed, get some sleep and first thing in the morning go back to the metropolis.

I stand up, walk across the loggia, pass through the corridor and enter my parents' bedroom. A shiver runs through my body as I lie on the bed. I cover myself with the blanket neatly folded at the foot of the bed, the orange and blue chequered blanket of my childhood, the warmest blanket I have ever known. Any chance of repose under the soothing protection of this sanctuary? Not quite. Insomnia seems intent on sticking around tonight. My eyes meet the fan on the ceiling. It is dead still now, but I can hear its rattling from another time. Other voices mingle in. My mother's voice plays on my ears. "Sometimes I can't help asking myself why you married me, Orhon. Did you really love me? Or did you delude yourself into believing you did, desperately trying to convince yourself that you could love again?" My father is leaning against the window sill, my mother sitting on a chair by her dressing table. They are having a serious conversation. I don't want to hear what they're saying. My eyes scan through the clutter on the dressing table. A total mess. A mystery how she can find what she needs. Brushes. All sable. When a woman, seemingly wearing no make-up, has such an armada of blushes, powders, eye shadow, lipsticks, brushes of every shape and size for the cheeks, the eyes and the lips, then it is either her artistic streak that pushes her to such indulgence, where she has all but uses none, or everything is make-believe and she uses every single item but uses them with such adroitness that the effect created denies the effort spent. The only part of her body she doesn't bless with the touch of a brush must be her hair, which has always been short – even shorter than my father's – and gets increasingly shorter as she gets older. The list of her mental faculties hidden under that apology for coiffure, however, gets longer with age, says my father.

Two paintings of my mother's creation adorn the wall opposite. The one on the left has a black background. A blood-red cloth. Silk. Perhaps velvet. A male body, almost white. Only his upper body is included on the canvas. His right hand pushes against the frame. The muscles on his arm are contracted, the veins on his hand swollen. He is putting a great deal of energy into the act. In contrast, the expression on his face, at least the lower part which is shown, is relaxed. Not a sign of the effort he is expending. His lips are soft. Even a vague smile at their edges, if you look carefully. Reminds me of my father's smile. The other painting has the same blood-red cloth. Another body. Almost white as well. This time a woman's, as one can tell from the waistline, and from the roundness of the breasts, as far as they are visible. A large male hand rests on her waist. Might belong to the man in the other painting. Big. Finely shaped. Powerful.

Nadir's words of a few hours ago ring in my ears. "You shouldn't be cross with him for having sold the theatre, either. I'm sure he suffers from it more than any of you do. But he had to, Tara. He had to sell it."

There is no way Nadir can empathise with me. No one can. No one can even imagine that something like this could actually happen. I should not expect him to understand why I make such a big deal out of it, why I am so completely unhappy. Perhaps I had better tell Nadir everything: how he played me false, how he brushed aside his beloved daughter who had dedicated her whole life to him. I will never forgive him. He has ruined my life, turned it on its head. I don't want to see him ever again, or at least for a very long time.

"I want you to transfer my share to the Global Cultural Heritage Fighters," says a subdued voice. "I have no right to a share in Twenty Hundred." I can't see the owner of that voice. Then I hear my father mumble something in response. His final words penetrate my heart like a dagger. "It is your right as much as it is theirs." A fatal wound.

I can't sleep. I throw the blanket aside in one brusque movement and get up. My feet touch the floor. Stones ice-cold. Grabbing a pillow and the blanket, I walk out of the room and climb down the stairs at the end of the corridor, down to my mother's studio. The pungent smell of thinner exuding from the walls offends my olfactory senses. Reclining on the velvet sofa, I feel something against my back. A fan. My mother's. A prominent figure, the fan, having been an extra in many a painting of hers, taking the leading role on hot summer days when it is cherished by all, moving from hand to hand. I gently put it on the floor. My eyes rise to the wall over the chimney, to the two dark patches exhibiting the original colour of the wall, patches that remained protected behind the two masks purchased in the city of the gondolas, the most melancholic city on earth before it surrendered to the tides. I remember my father telling us how he had not seen anything during his first visit to that city on the opposite shore, since he had not been born yet, but how he heard the gentle lapping of the water on the walls, how the chimes of the church bells echoed in his ears and how he felt the happiness the enchanted city gave Nanna. I remember the masks perfectly well. One of them sad, even in tears, the other one laughing, laughing out loud. Tragedy and comedy in Ancient Greece. _Forza_ and _Forda_ in Dante's _Hell_. Or force and fraud. The ogre and the child in the fairy tales. The lion and the fox in the fables. The duality between physical and mental strength. The plots of the body versus the plots of the mind. A sad comedy where they converge. Tragically comical. That's me.

The glass bell jar she had spent years carefully building around her was slowly closing in on her. There came a point when she could no longer stand up. Raising her head, she hit the glass. That hurt. She felt trapped. For the first time in her life, she realised how her glass bell jar had been imprisoning her. She was frustrated. She was angry.
10

In a place neither near nor far and a time neither now nor then, an ancient time when the goat was a barber, the buffalo a pallbearer and the bat a harbinger, God only knew or did not know why, in the passage of three blinks of an eye while the blind blindly cast an eye, Tara woke up. The morning had not broken yet. Kali was not in her bed. She must have gone to the toilet, Tara reasoned. Picking up Snow White, she went out of her room and crossed the loggia towards her parents' bedroom. As she approached the door, she heard her mother's voice and stopped short, for she knew that she would send her right back to her room if she saw her. She was talking almost in whispers; her voice had an angry ring to it. Tara was suddenly all ears.

"You can't give the leading role to her, Orhon. It is our first play. And she's a rookie with no more than two years of experience. You just can't, no matter who she is. Are you out of your mind? You're taking a huge risk." Silence. "There must be some other way to pay the price of your mistake."

"I won't let you judge her before seeing her on stage. She might be inexperienced, but no one should underestimate her exceptional talent." Another short lapse into silence. "Besides, you seem to be forgetting our mission at Twenty Hundred. We're supposed to give a chance to young talents, remember?"

Footsteps. Silence again.

"I think you're being jealous, Rev."

"What nonsense. How can I be jealous of someone who is dead? Jealous of a ghost, is it? Huh!"

Footsteps again. Angry whispers.

"Sometimes I can't help asking myself why you married me, Orhon. Did you really love me? Or did you delude yourself into believing you did, desperately trying to convince yourself that you could love again?"

"Post-partum blues again, Rev? Pre-partum this time? Always the same old argument. Pregnancy puts you out of sorts. Can't you see how absurd your chain of thought is? Of course I loved you. I still do."

A long silence this time. Were they still there? Alarmed by the thought that her dad, being angry with her mum, might leave them any minute, Tara decided to take a risk and enter the room to prevent him from doing such a terrible thing. Burning with a disquieting sense of curiosity, she pushed the door a crack and was frozen stiff at the sight. Her father was leaning against the window sill. On his lap sat Kali, sleeping, while his hand caressed her hair. He brought the glass in his other hand to his lips and emptied its contents in one large gulp. "You or me?" he asked. He was dead serious, even furious. Tara could not hear the answer her mother gave from where she was sitting in front of her dressing table. Her father's expression darkened more. "You yourself know that what you're saying is not true." He put his empty glass on the window sill and slowly rose to his feet. Holding Kali in his arms, he walked to the other side of the room. Tara extended her head further. Her father was putting Kali onto the sofa, onto the bed they had prepared for her there! Was she to sleep in their room? Her mother, who refused to let Tara stay with them even for a short while, was now allowing Kali to sleep there.

The rattling of the fan on the ceiling slapped her ears in painful strokes. She retreated silently to the corridor. She was not going to ask anything. She knew what they would say, had she done so. "She's just a baby, Tara." But Tara knew that Kali was not a baby. She ran to Nanna's room, slipping in without knocking on the door first. Nanna was asleep, but when Plato woke up and raised his head, she opened her eyes.

"What's wrong, Tara?"

"I can't sleep. Can I come in?"

"Of course you can."

Nanna's bed was reassuringly warm. "Would you tell me a story?"

"I would indeed."

Kali had seen Tara peeping in but, ignoring her, pretended to be asleep. The sofa was really uncomfortable. She would go back to her bed in Tara's room once her new parents were asleep. She waited. Perhaps she snoozed in the meantime. When she opened her eyes, they were in bed, lying motionless. From his deep breathing, Kali assumed her father to be asleep. Her mother, on the other hand, seemed not to be breathing at all, making it impossible to tell whether she was sleeping or awake. Judging, however, from the lack of any movement on her part, she must have fallen asleep too, she reasoned. She waited a while longer before silently sliding from the sofa and stealing out of the room. She was wide awake now. All of a sudden she was curious to know what others were doing. They always said that she was as curious as a cat. Yes, she was curious, curious about everything and anything.

She glanced at Amber's room. Dead to the world. Moving on to the room where Maya and Sumer slept, she pushed the door open an inch. Maya was brushing her hair in front of a window. Suddenly she stopped and, wagging the brush in her hand towards her brother who was nervously pacing the room, said, "You fire up too easily, Sumer. Fighting is not the solution to every problem. There are other ways to protect one's rights, or to claim them."

"I don't understand why you had to blurt it all out. And to Erol, of all people! You've only known him for a couple hours, for goodness' sake. I can't believe that you answered his questions so readily."

"He might end up one of my closest friends from now on."

"He was devouring you with his eyes, to put it mildly. Be careful, Maya, be very careful."

"As far as you're concerned, everyone who looks at me wants to ... devour me. If it were up to you, no one would come near me. I'm not a child anymore, Sumer. I can protect myself, you know. Just leave me alone."

"Our mistake was to accept their invitation to come here; but you never listen, do you?"

"Don't say that, Sumer. On the contrary, the mistake would be to turn that invitation down. What good would it have served to put it off? I would have to meet them sooner or later. Cowards die many times before death, as you often say. We won't solve our problems by ignoring them, nor will they vanish on their own. This new turn of events puts certain obligations on my shoulders, responsibilities I can't run away from."

"Did you say running away from responsibilities? Have I misheard you or do you want to aggravate me beyond control?"

"You're being judgemental. Why can't you be a little bit more understanding?"

"I cannot understand, Maya. There is nothing to understand in any case. Do you really believe him? Well, _I_ certainly don't."

"You brag about being tolerant, but even a flicker is enough to reveal how intolerant you actually are. As a matter of fact, you sometimes don't even need that spark to flare up."

"Well, well, well. Have you been having a crash course on psychology from Suzan? Why don't you go and analyse your own mind and leave mine alone?"

"Give me a break, Sumer. Take your anger out on something else. Go climb the rocks or something."

"I'm not angry. I just can't tolerate injustice. And I can't understand how you can swallow it all."

"There is no injustice. What about being a little less condemnatory?"

"You let them trample on your honour."

"You've got to understand me, Sumer. You've got to try harder. I needed to meet him in order to get to know myself better. I couldn't have carried on with life, pretending nothing had happened. I had to prove that my worst nightmare was not a reality. I couldn't let my faith in life be shattered altogether."

"Stop daydreaming, Maya. Good night."

As Sumer turned off his bedside lamp, Kali closed the door. She walked through the corridor and saw Erol in the loggia, standing with his back against the jasmine-cloaked column. He was gazing at the sea, now darker than the night. Kali hid behind the railings by the stairs that led down to the hallway. What was he doing here at this time of night? What might have made him lose sleep? A sense of guilt perhaps? The anticipation of a new affair? A few minutes later, he left his nocturnal post and headed towards his bedroom with half-hearted steps.

Kali heard Kim's voice surging through the open window of a bedroom giving on to the loggia. She moved closer to the window and rose on her tiptoes to get a better view of what was going on inside. Kim was talking; Suzan was sitting with her back to him, smearing creams on her face.

"If everyone behaved the way they should behave, I wouldn't be obliged to interfere as often as I do." Rudely oblivious to those sleeping in the other rooms, he was almost shouting, shouting at Suzan, at the walls, at the cigarette between his yellowed fingers.

"You can't decide how people should behave, Kim. You treat everyone as if they were characters in your plays. They can't behave the way you want them to. I'm not a character you created. Besides, even your characters sometimes act out of control. You say it yourself; they develop into unexpected personalities. You can be democratic in your plays but cannot stop seeing your friends and family as subjects in your kingdom. You have to learn how to respect my rights, how to listen to my desires."

"We do have a rather serious problem here though, such as your desires being endless."

"Everyone quarrels in this house," thought Kali. Would anyone be able to agree on anything?

"I'm not arguing with you, Suzan. I'm making a suggestion."

"I want to have a family, Kim. I want to have children – children of my own."

"Having children is quite different from helping others raise theirs. Life presents a reality that doesn't fit in with the patterns you learn from those books. I find it rather difficult to visualise you as the mother of my children. You might be the saffron, the cinnamon or the honey of our relationship, but I can't possibly imagine you as being its marrow."

"I wish you could spend only a tiny fraction of the energy you put into acquainting yourself with the characters in your plays, to get to know me."

"And I wish you would stop delving into the minds of other people and start analysing yourself a little."

Suzan is a gift for you, Kim. Appreciate her. You're old enough to be her father. Yet, contrary to general belief, her motive to be with you is not based on a strategic manoeuvre. She has no desire to be famous nor does she need the financial comfort you offer. It is beyond me to grasp how anyone can fall in love with someone as grumpy and lugubrious as you, but she has. Perhaps she never had a father, an authority who took charge of her, and that is what she finds in you. Who knows?

"You're scared of your emotions, Kim. You are, because you can't identify them. You don't even know they exist."

"My mistake was to fall in love with a psychiatrist at this ripe age."

Kali thought she had misheard him. Did he say that he had fallen in love?

"Life is not a power game, Kim. What you looked for in your marriages was not a partner and a shared life but a kingdom you could rule over. And your children are the unfortunate fruits of your frantic search for immortality."

"Please, Suzan, let's not get too serious at this time of the night."

Why would he, a mature man of fifty-four years, be so interested in a fourth wife who is half his age, thought Kali? An eleventh-hour desire to stop the clock? To go back to his youth? To have his sixth child, who would be younger than his grandchild, and thus prove his immortality yet another time? Was Suzan the new key to one last door in his search for immortality? Was it not enough that he has already become immortal through his plays and novels? Apparently not.

"Sometimes I think you should have married Orhon, you know? You and him being thick as thieves."

"I'm not so sure if I have yet decoded what it is exactly that sparks off your jealousy, Suzan. It knows no bounds."

"It is not jealousy. It's simply frustration for being left alone so much. We are on vacation, remember? And it is incomprehensible why you choose to spend all your time with Orhon. I am bored, Kim, bored stiff."

"You might not be the most interesting subject or for that matter the most beautiful woman in every group. You'd better get used to it."

"Do please stop taking me for just a pretty face."

"You're not just a pretty face; you're also a very hot popsy."

As Kim took Suzan in his arms, Kali moved away from the window and tiptoed to Nanna's room. She opened the door quietly. Plato perked his ears and showed his teeth. Kali pressed her finger to her mouth, beckoning him to be quiet. Silly Plato. You think you can daunt me? Bah! Plato gave up the idea and went back to sleep. Kali sneaked silently into the room. Nanna was sleeping.

"What are you doing here, Kali? Did dad throw you out?" That was Tara, poor Tara who had taken refuge in Nanna's bed.

"He certainly did not. They fell asleep; I couldn't. Can I join you?"

"All right. But you can't stay long. You must go back to your bed."

Kali jumped onto the bed. It was time she told her story. In fact, it was way past the time. "What about a story?" she asked. "Do you want me to tell you one?"

"Is it interesting?"

"I don't know. It depends on the listener."

"I think it depends on the teller, on how good she is at storytelling."

"Perhaps it depends on when it is told."

"Whatever. Let's hear it and see if you're any good."

"This is a story that takes place in the future or in the past, perhaps centuries later or perchance decades earlier, peradventure in a few years to come or maybe only a few years ago. As a matter of fact, time is of no consequence in this story because everything that is to happen in the future has its roots buried deep in the past. Isn't that so?"

"How should I know? Are you going to tell this story or not?" Tara's little brain seemed to be confused. "Your story is going to be even more weird than Nanna's stories, I guess," she said, knitting her eyebrows.

"It was my granny who used to tell this story. She used to take me on her lap and, looking straight into my eyes, say, 'Listen to what I'm going to tell now and listen well, Kilili.'"

"Your granny called you Kilili?"

"Kali, Kilili, Lililtu, Lilit ... What difference does a name make? The names, the places, the times and the beliefs might change, but people remain the same. Human beings will never change in their essence."

"Get on with your story, chop-chop!"

Once upon a time, not five nor five hundred but five thousand years ago or perhaps five thousand years later, a time when the sieve lay in the hay, as they often say, and when faith and politics offered nothing but a secretive interplay, a time when the kings begged the priests to pass the law and the priests worshipped the royal claw, in a land far, far away or no farther than a straw, there was a kingdom famous for many a palace and a temple, a kingdom that lay between two big rivers, deep, wide and ample, rivers that had flowed from the eyes of the Goddess of the Fresh Waters when this Earth did first tumble. It was a land where the soil was fertile, the people healthy, the animals plentiful and the civilisation more advanced than any. The people from various cities of this wonderful country, the people who looked different but in essence were altogether the samey, the people who had already invented writing in a world still struggling in the darkness of ignorance blindly, the people who, despite living in abundance on this fertile land of plenty, could not stop fighting with each other fiercely for the domination of their country. Nothing could unite the conflicting people of this smouldering kingdom but Inanna, the beautiful and the lovely. Each city called her by a different name although she was the one and only, the goddess of all love and fertility, the Queen of Heaven, the daughter of the Moon, the sister of the Sun, the morning star and the evening star, to put it briefly. Her hair was as black as ebony, her skin shone like mother-of-pearl, a secretive abalone, her cheeks smelled as fresh as roses smooth and rosy, and her almond-shaped eyes sparkled as brightly as the rarest of the most precious green jewellery. In this kingdom known for its talented jewellers and builders, all masterly, the most skilled craftsmen dedicated their most exquisite jewellery and their most magnificent shrines and temples and many a sanctuary to Inanna. The greatest and the most spectacular of all these temples was in a small city located where the two rivers embraced each other before reaching the sea, a city known for its hanging gardens, a city where the date palms reached the heavens. This famous temple was called the Seventh Heaven. Decorated with octagonal stars and roses made from stones black, pink and white, the Seventh Heaven had a huge door where stood two strong lionesses made of stone to guard Inanna with all their might.

One fine day, the beautiful Inanna decided that she was ready for the throne. She spotted a tree, a tree that was once planted by the God of Wisdom by the banks of one of the rivers, now uprooted by the South Wind and carried away by the current. She plucked it from the water and planted it in her holy garden. It was no ordinary tree, with its roots embedded in the darkness down below, its branches extended throughout the world, offering food, shelter and knowledge to mankind while its crown reached out to the heavens. Inanna cared for this tree for ten years, watering it every single day and pruning it whenever called for. Most importantly, she loved it dearly and truly. The tree grew taller and taller; its trunk grew thicker and thicker. Inanna waited for it to split open so she could make herself a throne out of it. Come away time, go away rhyme, the tree would not grow anymore because a snake, who had just shed its old skin, made its nest in its roots, a wise and knowledgeable bird set his young in its branches and a rebellious dark maid built her house in its trunk. Inanna needed to convince the snake, the bird and the maid to leave the tree before she could build her throne. And she had to do this herself. She cried and cried, begged, implored and entreated, but to no avail. They were not to be charmed away from the tree. Finally she asked for help from her brother, who came along and in one blow killed the serpent. The bird, frightened, flew with his young to the mountains. The rebellious girl fled to a wild, uninhabited land. Inanna's brother loosened the roots of the tree, cut off its branches and from its trunk carved a beautiful throne for his sister. Inanna, happy and smiling, settled on her throne.

Tara had fallen asleep. Kali tiptoed out of the room. She knew that she would not be able to sleep, so she went to the end of the loggia and sat on the balustrade. The night was calm, deadly calm. In that nocturnal silence, she could hear the barely audible rustling of the leaves and the crackles of the insects. The sea, smooth as a perfectly ironed sheet now, occasionally licked the rocks on the shore, the vague sound of their caress mingling with the sounds from the garden. She closed her eyes.
11

The day is breaking. How long have I been sleeping? Not for too long, I guess, but I slept so deep that it seems as if centuries have gone by. Othello ... The twilight ... "Tara?" Did it all happen last night? Or was it the night before? Or perhaps the night before that? "In heaven and in dreams, there is no time," Nanna once said, quoting from an author whose name I no longer remember. Let us say that it was last night and carry on. The last thing I expected to hear in the midst of this godforsaken place was someone calling out my name. My immediate reaction was, I now realise, a fervid wish for that voice to belong to my father. Although the brain registered it to be a different – a much younger – voice than my father's, all five senses pretended to perceive an altered version of reality, desolately and desperately hoping the unexpected apparition would be my dad so that we could go back to that miserable day and start all over again.

I don't want to open my eyes. My eyelids feel as if they are glued together. Sleepy. I want to enjoy the sweetly lethargic indolence of this moment when the dreams overlap with the reality. You should write in the morning, says Dorothea Brande in a book she wrote sometime in the last century. I happen to have an invaluable copy of that book, invaluable not only because it was the first book Nanna gave me but also because of being a truly rare antique, as it had been printed on paper and, more significantly, because of its content, which is, contrary to its physical self, very much up to date. She says that to kindle your creativity, you should write in the morning, in that dreamlike state before fully waking up when the subconscious has not yet surrendered to the conscious mind, in that unique twilight zone when reality mixes with dreams and creativity is unharnessed. Write without leaving the bed. Write anything that comes to your mind. Write last night's dream, if you like. Write without fear. Write without reading what you have written. Write without allowing your critical faculty to sieve the words that jump out of the secret corners of your mind. Something I can never do. I cannot help but read what I have written every few phrases, to see if any editing is required. Nanna says that even my subconscious lacks the right to be imperfect.

The sun is rising. Quite fast, in fact. The studio is already warming up, almost a greenhouse, being flanked by tall French windows. Suddenly I feel hot. Too hot for comfort. I should open a window and try to get some more sleep. I don't want to wake up yet. Thoughts will rush in as soon as I do. I shut my eyes.

Through her bell jar, she suddenly saw a giant caliginous cloud blot out the sun. Scared of the dark, she took a few steps back and hit the glass. She shut her eyes tight. The darkness intensified. The storm must be moving closer. She heard the thunderous sound of lightning. The raindrops began hitting against the glass walls, their sound more like a metallic tapping. A distant muffled voice said, "Time to wake up from one hundred years of sleep."
12

Once asleep, once awake on a very confused daybreak when the horse was a baker, the ant a carpenter and the cock an imam, when the hammam was without a drop of water, the rowdy without an axe, the towel without a thrower and the talebearers without a stopper, Tara snapped open her eyes. She was in her bedroom. Nanna must have carried her to her bed last night. She threw an apprehensive look at Kali's bed. It was empty. Did she spend the whole night in Nanna's room? Perhaps she had woken up really early and went to her parents' room again to beg for some undeserved affection. She jumped out of bed, flung herself out of her room and across the loggia, then raced down the stairs. Upon reaching the hallway, she saw Nanna coming out of the kitchen with Amber in her arms.

"Tara! What are you doing here in your pyjamas? Go and put your swimsuit on. We're going to the beach for a swim."

Tara dashed upstairs and into her room, put on her swimsuit in a hurry, grabbed her playsuit and Snow White, before running back downstairs and out into the garden. Nanna was standing next to the guests, who were seated on the stone benches. Among the guests, Tara saw her mother and, sitting on her knees, Kali, snug as a bug on a rug. A sudden fury sent her blood rushing to her head, violently throbbing at her temples. "Good morning, Tara," they all hollered in a discordant chorus.

"Good morning," she mumbled perfunctorily as she walked towards Nanna, her eyes searching for her father, who was nowhere to be seen.

"As Laurence Sterne once said, digressions ..." Kim was already into subjects too serious and impossibly boring for this time of the day.

"Excuse my ignorance, but who is Sterne?" cut in Sumer.

"An author. He's famous for a book he wrote, namely _Tristram Shandy_. Well anyway, he called digressions in a novel the sunshine of reading. 'Take them out and you might as well take the book along with them – one cold eternal winter would reign in every page of it,' he said. 'A cold literary winter' would be a better way to put it, really."

Tara could not prise her eyes away from her mother's hand petting Kali. "On the other hand," she heard her say, "according to André Gide, the first condition of art is that it contains nothing inessential."

"The water is superb. Highly recommended." Suzan was back from a swim. "It's going to be a hot day, I guess, hotter than yesterday. Not a drop of wind." Suzan's eyes were defined by a dark brown, almost black line right at the roots of her eyelashes. Were they part of her natural make-up or did she wake up before Kim every morning to put on her eyeliner?

Sumer stood up. "I need to get away from literature for a while," he said as he walked towards Nanna and Tara. "Can I join you?"

"You certainly can," said Nanna.

They moved towards the steps heading down to the beach.

"Does your name have a meaning?" asked Tara.

"Sumer was a great civilisation."

"What about Maya? Was that a civilisation as well?"

"It was. However, I believe our mother had something else in her mind when she chose that name for her."

"I'm sure she wasn't thinking of the Battle of Maya," interjected Nanna.

Sumer and Nanna giggled.

Tara was curious. "What did she have in mind, then?"

Amber started yelling and screeching feverishly, her inarticulate vocabulary making no sense to anyone except to herself. She was pointing at Peanut and Hazelnut. The squirrels were scurrying along the wooden handrail by the steps, resembling self-assured miniature tightrope walkers. Amber's shriek sent them fleeing to a tree and then to another, vanishing into the woods.

When they reached the beach, Sumer said he would take a plunge from the pier. "Shall we jump in together, Tara?"

"Yes! Can you dive?"

"I'll have a shot at it."

"I'll teach you if you wish. It's really very easy."

"You're so naive, Tara," Kali said. "How can you believe that he doesn't know how to dive?"

Tara had not noticed Kali arrive. "Come along if you want," she offered half-heartedly. "We'll be diving from the end of the pier."

"I don't fancy swimming now."

"You can go in from the shore if you're afraid of diving."

"I don't like swimming. I already told you that."

Tara decided not to insist. She probably did not know how to swim. How could she, poor soul?

Sumer learned how to dive double quick. Or perhaps, he already knew how to, as Kali had guessed. Whatever! They dived time and again. She also showed Sumer how to stand on his head in the water, although he was not so good at it. As they were getting out of the water, she asked him, "Shall we build a sand castle?" Sumer bragged about being an expert. They settled down on the sand. Tara seated Snow White next to her. Kali changed places and moved next to Snow White. Sumer and Tara began building their castle. After a short while, Nanna and Amber came out of the water and joined them.

"Be careful, Nanna. You almost sat on my friend."

"Oh, I'm sorry, dear. I didn't see her." Nanna picked Snow White up and seated her on the other side of the castle. Then, addressing Sumer, she said, smiling, "All her toys are her friends."

"Who is your best friend?" Sumer asked.

"Nadir."

"How would you define friendship, Tara?"

"Your friend loves you and never hurts you. You can always trust him. You can share your secrets with him. You like the same games and always stay together." She glanced at Kali. Was she her friend? She could not decide. "Sometimes, though, your friend might not be so good, because ..." Why couldn't she think of Kali as her friend? "Because ..."

"Because she pushes you to do mischief," Nanna said, helping her out.

"Or she might push you into a tug of power," Sumer added, "start competing with you. Without warning, you find yourselves on opposing sides. Cooperation comes to an end; inequality emerges. One leads; the other follows. Support gives way to conflict."

"And the friendship ends," Nanna concluded, putting an end to this story as well.

"Or at best, it retreats to the shadows for a while."

Amber, for some incomprehensible reason, started moving her arms about, hitting the castle in the process and demolishing one of its pinnacles. "Stay still, Amber!" shouted Tara. "You're ruining everything." Amber, in a state of frenzy, began throwing sand all around her. Tara, her hair covered in sand, jumped to her feet in vexation. "She's so annoying! Why can't she leave me in peace? I'm going in for a swim."

When Tara came back, Amber had calmed down. The ruined castle was replaced by an even bigger one. "Thank you," she said to Sumer. He was going to be a friend of hers, that was for sure.

Nanna was still talking about friendship. "In this day and age, is there anyone left who knows the true meaning of friendship? Anyone who remembers what it really is?" She gestured to Tara to change her wet swimsuit. "A strong friendship requires mutual understanding, not only of the spoken word but also of feelings. It is imperative that both sides have the same or at least similar backgrounds, similar life experiences."

Tara wrapped her towel around her back and, taking its two corners between her teeth, took shelter under it to change her swimsuit.

"Come here, Tara. Let me help you."

"No, thank you, Nanna," she said. The towel dropped. She hastily snatched it to take cover. She was embarrassed.

"I didn't see anything," Sumer said, closing his eyes, amplifying Tara's embarrassment.

Nanna was talking without a break. "To be able to share everything, your social life, your professional life, your friends, everything; to support each other during those traumatic transitions in your life ..."

"Utopic."

Tara finally managed to pull up her dry swimsuit, which had been stubbornly sticking to her wet body.

"Yes, utopic indeed, Sumer. Utopia, a place where everything is perfect, a place where no one has ever been. Literally, no place, as the Greeks once said."

After building a further wing to the castle, adding a sand theatre next to it and taking another dip, they went back to the house. Neither her mother nor Maya was in sight. Suzan and Kim were lying in the deckchairs, reading. Sumer went over and sat next to them on the lawn. Kali sprinted after him.

Tara's eyes searched for her father. She could not see him but heard his voice coming from the lower garden. He was singing.

What is love? 'Tis not hereafter;

Present mirth hath present laughter;

What's to come is still unsure.

In delay there lies no plenty,

Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty;

Youth's a stuff will not endure.

It was not a sad song like the one he had been singing the day before. With a surge of exultation, she ran towards the lower garden. Her father was standing next to the _Taht-ı Revan_. His song was finished. She could not see his face, for his back was turned, but saw him gently put his arms around the woman in front of him, around _that_ woman, around Maya! Holding her tightly, he kissed her hair. Tara was rooted to the spot. She watched them with presentiment as they sat on the _Taht-ı Revan_ with their arms around each other. "What is she doing on that sofa? It belongs to my parents," she thought resentfully. "My dad can sit there only with my mum. And with us."

Maya suddenly stood up. She was shouting. One could tell from the swollen veins on her neck that she was very angry. Gradually her anger subsided. She was begging now. Tara could not hear what she was saying, so she moved closer. Her father was on his feet as well now. "What is her story? Tell me," he said. Maya let herself down onto the _Taht-ı Revan_ , her voice trembling as if she were about to cry.

A blank, my lord. She never told her love,

But let concealment, like a worm i'th bud,

Feed on her damask cheek. She pin'd in thought;

And with a green and yellow melancholy

She sat like Patience on a monument,

Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed?

Her father had furrowed his brow. He leaned on one of the posts of the _Taht-ı Revan_ , rubbing his chin. Was he cross with Maya? Tara hoped he was, with a surge of contentment.

"This is not your acting, Maya. This is how Montavanni acted when you were her understudy last year." He bent over and held Maya's face between his hands. "Think. Feel. Feel what Viola feels." He sat next to her. "Close your eyes." He closed Maya's eyes. "What is Viola thinking at this moment? What is she feeling? Put yourself in her shoes."

Tara had a painful cramp in her stomach. She pressed her hand against it as strongly as she could, but it would not go away.

"Don't act like Viola. Be Viola. What are you feeling, Viola? Are you in love?"

"No!" whispered Tara.

"Yes," said Maya.

"Then show your love. Show how much you love him. What sort of love is it?"

"Hopeless."

"Feel that hopelessness. Feel it. Show it. With your whole body." His face was really close to Maya's now.

"Just like when he says he loves my mother before kissing her on the lips," thought Tara. "No!" she cried.

"Good morning, Tara." Her father had seen her.

She turned around brusquely. She had to find her mother. Looking around in a panic, she spotted her walking in an unhurried stride out of her studio towards the table under the maritime pines. Once there, she reached for her drawing pad on the table. The brush in her hand fell on the lawn. She bent down and picked it up. After a brief moment of hesitation, she turned her head towards the _Taht-ı Revan_. Was she smiling? How can you smile, Mum? Do something! She did not do anything but turned around and walked back to her studio. Tara dashed after her. At the door of the studio, she suddenly came to a halt. Her mother was standing next to her easel. She was, as had become her custom lately, caressing her belly gently with one hand while, with the other, was dipping a brush into the paints on a palette resting on the small table next to her. The canvas on the easel showed an unfinished naked male body. Erol was lying on the one-armed velvet sofa. He was, as far as Tara could make out, naked. Stark naked perhaps. His skin was almost as white as the skin depicted on the canvas. Snow-white. The depicted skin, however, had none of the freckles covering Erol's body. Tara squatted behind the giant earthen urn next to the door.

"It boils my blood to see a woman blushing because of me."

Tara peeped over the urn to see her mother's face. Yes, she was blushing. Alarmed, she squatted again.

"It's all in vain, Erol."

"You know that I won't give up on what I desire, Revan, not until that desire is satisfied. Besides, I see no reason why I should hide my feelings."

Tara, hearing them whisper, peeped again. Her mother was now next to Erol, holding his hand between hers, saying nothing.

"I don't know how I can explain it, Erol, how _we_ can explain it. I fear the reaction we might get, which, I'm sure, will be dramatic. Perhaps we should go on like this. Perhaps it would be best if it remained a secret."

Her mother put Erol's hand on the arm of the sofa and stroked his back. "Could you straighten your back a little? I want you to bend your left knee and dangle your other hand from it. Yes, that's it."

A tremor of dread slid through Tara's heart. Her parents loved not each other but others. They would get a divorce, just like the parents of some of her friends. Her father would leave them.

"I hope you're not pushing Orhon into this theatre business just to keep him tied to one place, Revan."

"It's his idea. It's him who wants to do it, not me."

"I hope he won't feel penned up."

"How can you even imagine Orhon being penned up? He would tear down the pen along with everything else around it, and everyone who dared to attempt such a venture. Even if he had a job that confined him to one location, he'd carry on trotting the globe for pleasure."

Erol's hand moved away from the arm of the sofa. Tara could not see well but he seemed to be holding her mother's hand. "Nevertheless, I very much doubt your motive on this one. I have a feeling that you have launched a four-pronged, fully-fledged attack."

"What on earth does that mean?"

"The twins' formal education will be starting in September, right?"

"Yes, but what has it got to do with what we're talking about now?"

"How come their knowledge facilitator will be Orhon and not you?"

"Because he chose it that way. You know that I can't possibly push him into anything he doesn't want to do." She sat down next to Erol. "Besides, being their knowledge facilitator won't require him to stay put forever."

"All right, let's say it won't." A brief silence followed. "Orhon has changed you a lot, Revan. I feel I've lost the free-spirited, independent Revan I knew. The more you become a slave, the more you seek to make those around you your slaves. It's so unbecoming in a woman like you."

"Don't be ridiculous. I don't want to enslave anyone, nor am I a slave myself. Don't talk as if you don't know me."

That sense of dread sank deeper into Tara's heart. Her friends whose parents were divorced lived either with their mother or their father. She would also have to choose one or the other. She would surely choose her father, because she could not tolerate being away from him. But then she might miss her mother. She did not know what it was like to be separated from her. No, no, she would definitely choose her. In that case, however, she would miss her father terribly. Perhaps they would both leave her, Sena and Amber on their own, just like Hansel and Gretel. She did not even want to think about it. She had to straighten things out. She had to do something to bring them back together again. And she had to do it right away before it was too late. What could she do? What should she do? She had to think of something. She could not think of anything. She made a dash for her fig tree and stood on her head under it. She thought much more clearly in this position. The top of her playsuit folded over and covered her face. Nervously, she blew to free her vision, though with no success. She blew once more, harder this time. The obstructive fabric made to rise, only to fall over her face again.

"When the grown-ups talk about boring subjects, they sometimes mention something called consciousness."

That was Kali's voice. She was worse than Amber, never letting her alone.

"And when they do, their fingers show upwards. Then they start talking about something called the subconscious. This time their fingers turn downwards. Burying into the subconscious, they say, and bringing what is buried deep down in the subconscious to the surface. Come to think of it, if they were to behave differently, say, stand on their heads like you do, would consciousness swap places with the subconscious?"

Tara was fed up with this bumptious smart-boots Kali. "Why did they have to adopt her? As if our family wasn't crowded enough, as if I didn't have enough siblings," she thought. "I wish we had another dog instead."

Suddenly her vision cleared. Kali had lifted the top of her playsuit away from her face. She lay down on the lawn and started watching Tara. "The colour of your eyes is beautiful, Tara," she remarked, smiling.

"Nanna says that my eyes are more beautiful than my dad's. They can't be, because his are the most beautiful eyes in the whole world."

"Does your brother look like you?"

"Of course he does; he's my twin. The only difference between us is that I'm a girl and he's a boy."

"They say that Sena is a miniature spitting image of your father."

Tara lost her balance. She quickly lowered her legs and sat down. "We both look like our father."

"Fortunately, your nose took after your mother's."

"What makes you say that?"

"I don't know. That's what everybody says."

"What's wrong with my dad's nose?"

"Perhaps it's not suitable for your face."

Kali could not help but feel pity for Tara. She must be impossibly jealous of Sena. "Can Sena tell stories as well as you do?" she enquired.

"Sena is very good at everything but storytelling. The only story he knows is a stupid and boring one. He doesn't even remember where he heard it. I think he just made it up himself. He must have dreamt it or something. It's a story about some drops of water separating themselves from the sea, total rubbish."

"I know that story and it's not a stupid one at all. One day you'll understand its deeper meaning. At least I hope you will."

Tara bent her knees and pulled her legs to her chest, hugging them. She had fallen silent. She seemed somewhat disquieted.

"Your mother is looking for you," said Kali.

"I don't care. Let her worry about me."

"Why do you say that? Did she upset you?"

"No, she didn't, but that woman... I can't compete with her. I can, with my mother, because dad loves me more than he loves my mum. But she is different."

"Who is different?"

"What do you mean, who? Maya, of course."

"Do you need to compete with her?"

"Of course I do. I'm sure dad loves her more than he loves my mother – even more than he loves me." She grabbed Kali's hands. "You've got to help me, Kali. Maya must not take my father away."

"What makes you think that she might?"

"The harder I try to keep him close to me, the further he drifts away from me."

Kali said nothing. Tara had a lot to learn. She should carry on with her story. "You fell asleep last night, listening to my story. Do you want to hear the rest of it?"

Tara did not say anything. Kali considered her silence as tacit acquiescence.

As Inanna matured and gained confidence, she realised that to establish her queenship and guide her people, she needed the gifts of the gods. With courage and ingenuity, she set off to obtain them. In her quest, she paid the God of Wisdom a visit. After drinking and feasting at the table of heaven, the God of Wisdom, who loved Inanna dearly, gave her all his holy possessions. Accepting these Gifts of Wisdom, which contained a myriad of information required for civilisation, Inanna left the table of heaven in great spirits. A short while later, however, the God of Wisdom, for no reason apparent to the immortals and much to the chagrin of Inanna, retrieved all the gifts, except for a few, an unfortunate gesture that depressed and devastated Inanna beyond measure.

Fortunately for the beautiful Inanna, the suitors who wanted to be her husband and make her forget her misfortune were plentiful. Inanna, however, loved no one but the God of Agriculture, caring for the fertility of the land above everything. Her brother, on the other hand, insisted that she should marry the Shepherd God, who might be coarse but who loved Inanna dearly. Finally, Inanna took her brother's advice and married Dumuzi, the Shepherd God, on a day when the night equalled the day.

Kali's eyes lit on a fig, prematurely fallen to the ground. She stretched out her hand and started playing with it, rolling it back and forth.

"Don't eat it. It's not ripe. You'll have a tummy ache." Tara snatched the fruit and flung it away across the lawn. "And then what happened? Is it finished? If it is, you should have said, 'A mouse did run; my story now is done.'"

"It's not over yet. I'll continue later on." She reached for another fig on the ground. "Did you ever see a fig flower?" she asked. "You couldn't have because it grows within the fruit. In other words, the figs we eat are not the fruit but the flowers, a bouquet of tiny flowers, a fake fruit."

"That means I have seen a fig flower, hundreds of them in fact, every time I ate a fig."
PART THREE
13

I open my eyes. Where am I? My mind refuses to wake up. The Sunny Isle creeps in. My mother's studio. I must have dozed off again. What time is it? I sit up. The darkness in my dream retreats. The sun hurts my eyes. The metallic sound against the glass repeats itself. I turn around. Nadir is tapping the end of a knife against the window. I get up and open the glass door I carefully locked last night, ignoring Nadir's insistence that there was no need to do so.

"Good morning, sunshine."

"Good morning."

"I thought you'd never wake up; you were sleeping so deeply. Did you have a good night?"

"For the last ..." I check the time. Ten o'clock! "I must admit that for the last three hours I've slept like I have never slept before. I can't, however, say that I had a very good night."

I watch Nadir walk through the door leading to the kitchen and leave the tray in his hands on the table there, a tray overflowing with food and kitchen utensils, an indication of his concern about me starving to death and my carcass being devoured by a Gyps fulvus (the good old Griffon vulture, I should explain for the blissfully ignorant, the last surviving specimens of which were spotted on this island). Not to worry, Nadir. They died out years ago; they are extinct like many other species. The jolly chirping of the birds in the garden reverberates in my ears. On second thoughts, it might be that he simply finds me too thin. Perhaps he is used to plump, well-fed women. Knock it off, Tara! You're being preposterous.

"I'll go and take a shower."

I go upstairs and shower without soap or shampoo. Leaving the bathroom, I hear the oil sizzling and smell the egg frying. Digging into my suitcase, I pull out my playsuit. No. Something else. The red thin strap dress. Why? Should there be a reason for every choice? I simply feel like putting on a red dress. With thin straps. And that is that.

As I climb down the stairs, I feel a pang of hunger. In the kitchen, the sound of the sizzling oil has been replaced by Nadir's voice, quietly singing a melody I can't quite make out, and the smell of the frying egg by the toasting bread.

"It rained last night. After ninety-nine days. You brought us good luck."

Yes, sure.

"Can you smell the wet earth?"

This pungent odour comes from the earth, surely. Have I forgotten that too?

"The air is so fresh. And the hills. Look at them. After the rain, they are shining like glass. The tears that had been standing at the rim of their eyes finally rolled down in torrents."

There is a little bit of a poet in us, is there, Nadir?

The Poet Fisherman Nadir divides the eggs equally onto our plates before handing me the bread basket. He might as well be the host in this house, which makes me the guest. I follow him out. He has already set the table under the pergola. A bright red rose on the plate intended for the one seated facing the sea. That's me. Olives of various sizes, hues and shades lie in wait in a bowl. At their flank rests the olive flatbread. "Did you bake that?"

"Nope. That's from the village."

Slices of bread spread with anchovy paste. Anchovy paste? I smile. Red grapes in a wooden bowl, the reddish mauve ones, the rarest of their race. They must have left their branches a few minutes ago. A wooden cutting board with cheese on it. I spot the cheese with thyme, a long-lost memory. A platter of blood-red tomatoes, unshapely, distorted and marked, the genetically unmodified children of the countryside. The only thing missing is Nanna's milky-white tablecloth with embroidered flowers.

Nadir sits at the wrought-iron chair at the head of the table. My dad's chair. With great appetite, he dips a piece of bread into the olive oil and gobbles it down accompanied by a forkful of cheese. Hungry, he is.

I take a sip from my tea. The pang of hunger of a few minutes ago has unexpectedly taken its leave. Not hungry at all now. Not in the mood to speak either. God only knows why. My eyes travel over the stone paving and stop where the vine that once covered the canopy over us sprouted up from a small opening left for the purpose. Two separately born trunks, which, at the sight of first daylight, hugged each other for support and, entwining around one another, set off for their long climb up one corner of the pergola. I notice a young shoot at the very bottom of its double trunk, a fresh youth looking upwards in hope.

Nadir adds the lyrics to the melody he was humming a while ago. "What is love? 'Tis not hereafter; Present mirth hath present laughter ..."

I press my fingers against his lips. He stops. I don't want to hear it. He holds my wrist and takes my hand between his. He smiles. Contrary to the harsh features of his face, two gentle dimples appear where his beard loses its density, displaying a peculiar attraction, an attraction stronger than I'm inclined to admit at this very moment in my life. He carries on singing, his eyes penetrating mine.

"Youth's a stuff will not endure." He abruptly stops, faking self-contempt and changing the tune. "Oh God, I blew the lyrics. It's like Moses forgetting the Ten Commandments."

He surprises me. "How do you know that?"

My father loves to improvise and this is one of the jokes that are accredited to him, jokes everyone expects him to make when he is on stage. He says that this one, despite having become something of a trademark of his, is not actually of his own creation but borrowed from a singer who lived overseas in a time long-forgotten. Although he maintains that it is almost impossible to improvise Shakespeare, since the rhymes and rhythm come before the feeling, he cannot help do some mischief in _Twelfth Night_ , especially when he sings Feste's songs. He _could_ not help, Tara, he _could_ not! Past tense. It's all history now.

"Is there anyone who doesn't know it? I rarely miss his plays, neither the ones he acts in nor those he directs. And I never miss _Twelfth Night_ , especially when he plays Feste."

"His favourite play in recent years. It was the first play they staged in Twenty Hundred, you know."

"I remember very well."

"We staged it at least once every three years. He played a different character each time. Last time, he was playing Feste again."

"It was also Feste he played, wasn't it, when they first staged _Twelfth Night_?"

I don't want to remember those times. I have to change the subject. And I have to leave this island after breakfast. I have to.

Nadir starts singing again. His voice is deeper now. Caressing. Strong.

What is love? 'Tis not hereafter;

Present mirth hath present laughter;

What's to come is still unsure.

In delay there lies no plenty,

Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty;

Youth's a stuff will not endure.

As he offers me the slice of olive flatbread he has further fortified with a generous layer of pitted olives, he asks, "I'd like to repeat my question of yesterday, the one you answered with another question."

"Which question was that?"

"Were you happy as a child? When you look back at your childhood, do you see happiness there?"

"My childhood memories are dominated by an acute sense of longing, longing for my father."

What are you doing, Tara? Are you going to spill all your beans? Quite out of the blue? And to Nadir, of all people? It must be the effect of the flatbread with olives. Or of the anchovy paste.
14

"Not in your time, not in my time, nor for the matter of that in any one's time in a faraway land where the future lay in the bale, where God's creatures were sundry, some witty some nutty but none nuttier than the teller of this tale, where fights were plenty, some with no beginning some with no end but none more meaningful than a twist of tail, where clothes were trendy, some with no buttons some with no holes but none prettier than the seeds and pips of a kale ..."

"Stop it, Kali!"

"You're too silent."

"I don't feel like talking, all right?"

"Shall we play a game?"

"I don't want to. Leave me alone."

Tara grabbed her drawing pad and her colouring pencils, walked away from Kali and lay down on the lawn. They said that she was very good at drawing, never missing a detail. She did her best to capture even more details in each new drawing. Nanna had taught her how to draw or rather how to observe. "Don't look without seeing," she always said. Tara drew the trees first, then the dining table under them, the blue chequered tablecloth, the tall iron candleholders and the even taller vase with white flowers in it.

The table was overcrowded with plates; some empty, some in the process of being emptied and some to remain untouched, with glasses of different shapes and sizes, some meant for sipping wine and some for drinking water, with olive oil bottles fat and skinny, tall and pigmy, with water bottles, carafes, a white porcelain saucer stained crimson by the red sauce it had initially contained, with slices of bread, some bitten once, some half-eaten and some ignored, with breadcrumbs of a variety of sizes spread all over the table, with used napkins, some crumpled, some neatly folded, with ashtrays overflowing with ashes and cigarette butts, with cherries hanging limply from over the rim of a bowl filled with fruits of every colour and shape.

It was as crowded around the table as it was on it. Reinvigorated by Maestral, which, to a certain limited extent, intimidated the heat, everybody was talking, and talking simultaneously. Orhon, sitting at the head of the table with his fingers interlocked in front of him, and his eyebrows slightly raised as if he were struggling to keep his eyes open, was listening in silence. He brought his hand to his face and with the tips of his fingers rubbed his eye. He leaned his elbow on the table and placed his chin in his palm. His eyebrows were knitted now. He was dead serious again. It was not so clear if he was bored or was listening attentively to what Sumer was saying.

Sumer had perched on the edge of his chair, looking as if he might get up and go at any moment. "The two-hundred-year-old traditional trading system has to change now. The prices will drop, and drop to such a level that everything will eventually be free of charge. The corporations that fail to keep up with this trend will disappear. This is how the Age of Scarcity will come to an end."

"How would that be possible?" asked Orhon, rather despondently, as he stood up.

"Technological innovations. In the traditional system, the consumption of a product means one less product available, something that increases scarcity. However, in the digital system, the use of one product – or let's say, its being copied – means at least one more product available, leading to a decrease in scarcity."

"They can't do anything as far as food is concerned. How can you feed people digitally?" Orhon lay down in one of the deckchairs lined up under the trees next to the dining table, placing his arm over his head and dangling his hand behind him. His other hand reached out towards Revan, who had followed him, and started caressing her hip gently, almost imperceptibly.

Revan moved closer to Orhon. "Human beings have no choice other than learning how to use limited resources more efficiently."

Erol removed the pip of the cherry from his mouth, left it on his plate and picked another one from the fruit bowl. "With the end of the Age of Scarcity, we will wake up from our forty-year-old nightmare. The Neo-Nationalism fuelled by the nations doing everything they can to hoard and to protect their resources will end as well. However, this will not mean the end of all our problems. Very soon, we'll need to fight for a brand new cause." He put the cherry in his hand on his plate, apparently no longer having the appetite for it. "Have you heard about the solution for the millions of people still starving to death in the southern hemisphere, the solution they came up with in this day and age, when moon tourism is at full tilt? A solution no less inhumanly barbarous than that implemented by Hitler, the greatest exterminator of all times: Designer babies. Pre-programmed embryos. Chosen people. They're even talking about manipulating the brain to improve intelligence, behaviour and personality. They want to create a new, machine-like human race. This is what we need to fight against in the very near future."

"Tara! Come and get your fruit." Nanna had prepared a plate of sliced fruit for Tara. Extending it towards her, she turned her attention back to the table. "Science is advancing too fast. Far too fast. Faster than the speed at which human beings can evolve to keep pace with it."

"Rumour has it that they have already reached the level of synthesising one hundred million cells in a single organism. We all know what that means – a synthetic human being."

Revan walked away from Orhon. "I want to bear a child every year, year after year, just out of spite," she said zealously. "And I will. Believe me, I will." Picking up several empty plates, she walked to the pergola and into the dining room, disappearing from sight.

Tara took the plate of sliced fruit Nanna was holding out to her and returned to her drawing. Kali was there, waiting for her.

"I don't like fruit. How can you eat those things?"

"Watch me." Tara popped a cherry into her mouth. "Yummy. It's so sweet." She took out its pip and ate another one before carrying on with her drawing.

Sumer, hardly able to sit still, leaped to his feet. "The end of scarcity might not mean the end of all our problems, but it will solve quite a large number of those problems. All conflicts in the history of mankind have been driven by competition over available resources. Even wars ostensibly over ideologies were truly about scarcity. Political and ideological dominance is a means to an end, rather than the end itself."

Kali was looking at Tara's drawing. "You should have drawn Sumer angrier and more resentful. The expression conveyed by the shape of his eyebrows is crucial."

"He's not angry at all. He's anxious." Tara stopped drawing Sumer's face and picked up a coloured pencil to draw the tattoos on his arms.

Sumer carried on with his fiery tirade. "The world will not know the true meaning of social stability and peace until an environmentally sustainable global economy is achieved."

Erol, after finishing the last cherry on his plate, stood up and walked to the deckchair next to Orhon's. "Human nature is constant; human beings are inherently a war-like species. They will always find a reason to fight a war. What changes is the ethics; it is the way they fight."

Revan was back with a large plate of watermelon slices, which she placed on the table. "We can be sure that in a post-scarcity economy, leaders will find ways to enhance their ability to find causes to create war. Rest assured that these causes will be of a kind that might seem trivial during scarcity. Fortunately, certain acts that were once considered tolerable by the majority of society, such as slavery and indiscriminate slaughter, are now condemned as crime – in principle, at least, if not always in practice." Revan was now behind Erol, resting her hands on his shoulders. She looked at Sumer to explain. "Erol is a fervent Global Cultural Heritage Fighter, like us. He's also a climate change reversal specialist. For years now, he's been fighting to save Antarctica." Revan's smile was filled with obvious pride.

"The debate over the amendment of the Antarctic Environmental Protocol is still going on. It has been five years. They are like vultures waiting for its mineral and energy resources, but we shall not allow the exploitation of even an inch of that continent."

Tara finished her drawing and turned a new page. Thinking of what to draw next, she scrutinised Kali. She had closed her eyes. Was she asleep? Why not draw her? No, not really. She looked around and her eyes were caught by the sight of Maya sitting on the step to the veranda. She was wearing a turquoise halter crop top over a pair of turquoise trousers, which looked more like a skirt and, when she sat down, generously revealed her thighs. What was she doing there, away from all the others? She was gazing at the horizon, in that same peculiar entwined posture, with her elbow resting on her knee and her chin in her palm, a posture that seemed to be a habit with her. Suddenly, she undid her corporeal twists and turns, knots and bows, rose to her feet and walked determinedly to the table. An indecisive moment followed while she figured out where to sit. Then, hesitantly, she seated herself at the very edge of the deckchair next to Erol's. Tara decided to leave the table and those around it to their peculiarities and set about drawing the house.

"Are you drawing a gingerbread house?" Kali had opened her eyes.

"No, I'm drawing _our_ house."

"You have a beautiful house."

"Nanna's grandmother's grandmother used to come to this island for the summer. She was the one who had it built. After the war, when their country lost the island, they lost their home."

"Which war was that?"

"One of those great wars they call the world wars. I don't remember which one." She ran to her father. "Dad? That old great war, the one ..."

"Don't interrupt me, Tara."

Her father was talking to Suzan, who was sitting in the deckchair opposite him. Tara needed to wait for him to finish what he was saying. Suzan's ponytail attracted her attention. Her hair was as blonde as straw and as straight as a witch's broomstick, as Nanna would describe it. She had pulled it up in a tail that looked more like a fountain on top of her head. Her black sunglasses were pushed up to nestle between the squirts of straw-coloured water jetting out of that fountain. She was gorging herself on a slice of watermelon, pale red juices trickling down from in between her fingers at every bite. Suzan ate ravenously but was nevertheless all skin and bones. Tara looked around. Everybody was engrossed in the watermelon feast, silently indulging themselves in the cool sweetness of the fruit – except for her father, who was engrossed in a heated monologue.

"Hopefully, the pre-production will be finalised by the end of the summer. We plan to start the production in September, at the latest. Then we'll have four months before the opening night." He rubbed his brow. Was he tired? Perhaps he was anxious. "This is the most dangerous adventure of my life," he said, with a deep sigh.

Tara, waiting patiently for the moment she would be able to ask her question, climbed onto her father's lap and leaned her head on his chest. Cosying up to him, she realised that she had forgotten what she meant to ask him.

"The opening night, the night when everything comes together in front of the audience, produces an energy I can never find in films, neither as an actor nor as a director."

"What about the costumes?" Suzan asked, between two juicy pink bites from her watermelon slice.

"We'll be using the costumes neither of the time of the play nor of today. They'll be timeless costumes. The content is timeless anyway, still up to date after so many centuries."

"Timelessness!" Kim joined in enthusiastically. "So important, so very important. And so difficult to capture."

"The play will be performed, in some of its aspects, exactly as it was performed at the time of Shakespeare. It will be, first and foremost, an entertainment. We will make the audience enjoy themselves and thus ensure that they listen to the story we'll be telling them. We'll also make them think. Uninterrupted attention – that's what we demand. And music. There will be music. Lots of it. Just like in the Old Playhouse. But we will be using the rhythms and the instruments of today to accentuate timelessness."

"We're looking for a musical director," interrupted Revan, as she sat down on the lawn between Orhon and Erol.

"There will be music during the intervals," Orhon carried on. "And dancers. The clown Feste will continuously enter and exit as if there were no interval. The show will go on. I want interaction with the audience. Close contact. They must be included in the play."

Erol took a short break from feeding Maya with carefully diced watermelon pieces and turned to Orhon. "I once watched _Twelfth Night_ in the city of brume and fume. The music, the set, the costumes, everything was predominantly influenced by Middle-Eastern themes, creating an amazing harmony with the music of Shakespeare's language. Feste, playing a goblet drum to the rhythm of _dum tek-ka dum tek_ , and girls dressed like concubines playing the tambourine. It was so striking."

Nanna smiled at Orhon. "Not a bad idea at all, considering that the Kingdom of Illyria was, for a while, part of the Ottoman Empire."

Kim started keeping a tempo with his hands on his knees. " _Dum tek-ka dum tek!_ Long, short-shorter, long, bang! Tempo, tempo ... The tempo of the new play. Why not?" He turned to Sumer. "I'm writing a play for Orhon, a play he will direct and act in," he explained, before turning back to Orhon. "Why not, indeed? Would it be plagiarism from Salman Rushdie? I don't think so. It's only being inspired by him. Perhaps that was Shakespeare's source of inspiration as well. Not Rushdie, of course. Wrong timing." He let out a laugh. "I mean he might have been inspired by this rhythm as well. Why not?"

"Shakespeare's rhythm, at least in _Twelfth Night_ , is more like short, short, long, short-shorter, bang! _Tek, tek, dum, tek-ka, tek!_ Whatever his inspiration was. Come to think of it ..." Orhon narrowed his eyes, knitting his eyebrows. "We need to look at the rhythm of the scenes. There might be a Maqsoum variation hidden there." He started keeping time with his hands on Tara's legs. " _Dum, tek, tek-ka tek, dum tek-ka, tek tek-ka_ ..." He also let out a loud, cheerful laugh. "What about one of Maqsoum variations, Kim? An excellent rhythm."

"I might actually do that, you know. A fast play. Very fast. Breathless."

Suzan was up on her feet, dancing on her own to the rhythm Orhon was keeping. She circled around Kim several times, brushing her fingers against his cheek and then against his neck at each turn.

"In case you need dancers during the intervals, Suzan will be at your service, my dear friend."

Suzan's plunging low-cut dress, already leaving one of her shoulders exposed, slid further down and denuded the other one as well, while its deep slit became even deeper.

Revan waved her hand up and down in front of Erol, who seemed to have been mesmerised by the seductive sway of Suzan's hips. "We can't deny that she uses her body extremely well," she commented before addressing Suzan. "You've got to teach me a few moves."

Kim lit another cigarette with the one he had almost finished, while keeping his fuming eyes firmly riveted on Erol.

"You're going to kill us all, Kim," burst out Revan. "Enough is enough. You shouldn't smoke so much."

"Leave him alone, Rev, at least when we're outdoors," Orhon snapped, protecting his friend as he usually did.

Sumer butted in with another question, changing the subject, "Are there any rules to writing fiction, Kim? Or is it just an instinctively driven vocation?"

"On that, I agree with Mister Somerset Maugham. There are three rules of writing fiction. Unfortunately no one knows what they are." He chuckled almost impishly, though his eyes lost none of their darkness. He pulled Suzan, now sitting on the chair next to him, closer.

"Aristotle gave us the formula once and for all," joined in Nanna. "Exposition, development, resolution. This framework, dear Sumer, can be used whatever your subject matter might be. When you have enough of it, you can take the mythological structure as your guide. When you're bored with that, you can go for the monomyth template. And there you go, simple as that. The three-act structure is a projection of life on this earth as perceived by us, mortals. It is a perfect match for a blueprint hard-wired in the human brain, which is constantly seeking to rationalise nature and all that goes on around us, relentlessly seeking to create patterns. This structure, therefore, remains an inevitable part of any successful novel, whether its author is aware of it or not."

"Are you saying that the five-act plays of Shakespeare are no good?"

"His plays might have five acts but they nevertheless have the three-act structure." It was Revan who answered Suzan's question. "The reason behind his choice, however, was not pressure from the likes of Hollywood or Bollywood or even Virtualwood executives, compelling the playwrights to conform to certain industry standards. He was luckier than us."

"We only know too well," Orhon said with a weary sigh, "that he too had to conform, not to standards perhaps, but to certain rules that imposed the worst kind of constraints."

"There is no need for such blueprints or standards," Kim declared. "Once you experience the beauty and the freedom offered by the stream of consciousness, you'll never let anyone coop you up ever again. It does, however, require some elbow grease on the reader's part. Not a _prêt-à-manger_ , unfortunately." His anger had frothed back to its customary dark intensity. "Why does it always have to be cause and effect, cause and effect, cause and effect? They cross out and throw away anything that doesn't carry the plot ahead. Their justification? Not to dilute the dramatic effect of the story. Why can't they be blunt and admit that it is to keep the tempo of the reader's interest – and the sales – up?"

"Could someone please tell me," Suzan cut in, turning to Nanna, "in words I can understand, the difference between a plot and a story? I need to read so much material for work that I can spare no time for literature."

"Fiction can teach you so much more than those articles on psychology," remarked Nanna.

Kim hastened to answer Suzan's query. "Kim died. Suzan died. That's a story."

"That was really very enlightening, Kim," said Suzan.

"Kim died. Then Suzan died of grief. This is a plot."

"I much prefer real life cases to fictionalised stories," Suzan remonstrated. Then, after a brief pause, she turned her eyes to Kim. "Should I have said plots?" she added, smiling somewhat bitterly. "I shouldn't have asked in the first place," she finally murmured to herself.

"Let me explain," Orhon interfered. "Each life is a story. For it to become a work of fiction, it needs to be developed into a plot. In the real world everything happens for a reason but, even if we can't make out what the reason is, we can be satisfied with an explanation based on chance, luck or coincidence. Unfortunately, in the world of fiction, there is no room for chance. In a plot, the reason why something happens must always be evident at some point in the story. In old times, in old dramas, gods took care of this problem. While the characters suffered through their dilemmas and inner conflicts, some god suddenly appeared and, waving his magic wand, solved the problem – or killed a few characters. In this time and age, the readers have no tolerance for anything too convenient or too coincidental. They can't tolerate not being able to make out what the reason is."

"I detest lazy readers," carped Kim. "They can't be bothered to think, to go after the clues, to dig deep to find out what the causes might be. Everything must be presented on a silver platter for them to wolf down. I think they should, perhaps not as much as the writer but at least to a certain extent, spend some time and energy on the book. I want every dialogue in my plays to be listened to carefully and every sentence in my novels to be read diligently. I demand it." He looked at Orhon. "I demand that they be absorbed with the mind's eye, right?"

"I totally agree with you. We must entertain the spectators and the readers, but what we produce as entertainment should nevertheless have its roots strongly embedded in thought-provoking ground. They need to be pushed to think, to discover, to question. Not only the fictional characters but also the readers and the spectators should develop from what they are at the beginning of a book or a play. The last page or the last scene should bear witness to an inner change in them. This is imperative."

"Have you ever thought why nearly all works of fiction tell stories that show characters improving themselves?"

With some unfathomable urge, Suzan, who had nothing to do with literature, gave a shot at answering Kim's question. "Because of the writers' nature to be optimistic, I guess."

Kim carried on with his question, ignoring Suzan's comment. "Why do they continuously fabricate stories that are socially and morally constructive? Why?"

"To satisfy the need for mythology in today's society, I should say. Fairies and myths are the most effective ways to provide a light of hope in a world on the brink of a catastrophe. So it always has been, so it always will be."

Encouraged by Nanna's reply, Suzan burst in again. "I repeat: the unfounded optimism of the authors."

Erol, either because of a complete lack of interest in the current conversation, or due to his acute interest in some other issue at hand, was listening attentively to Maya, who was talking about how much she disliked city life. "I become really cantankerous if I don't go somewhere I can be alone in nature, or rather with nature, at least once a week. Crowded cities suffocate me. My favourite time of the day is the early hours, those mysterious hours when everyone is asleep, when everything is disrobed of its cloak. Sometimes I go out before dawn to walk around. That's when I feel most alive."

"A pure-bred Amazon," said Orhon, under his breath.

Tara bent over towards Kali, who had come over and was now sitting on the lawn next to Orhon's feet. "What is an Amazon, Kali?" she enquired quietly.

"Being an Amazon means being strong, being fearless, risking everything for one's freedom, bravely walking into the darkest of forests to help those in need."

Kali's words mingled with what Sumer was saying. "She always played with the boys. She was the fastest runner among them."

Tara was bored. She climbed down from her father's lap and returned to where she had left her drawing pad. She started observing Erol, focusing on his eyes and where they were looking.

"That's wrong, Tara. Erol's eyes are not directed towards your mother." That was Kali, who had followed her yet again.

Tara looked more carefully. Yes, Kali was right. Erol was listening to Maya. But Maya was not saying anything. He was not listening to her; he was just watching her. The happy expression on Maya's face and her needlessly smiling lips, a countenance Tara had initially found absolutely motiveless and unbearably annoying, seemed less enigmatic than they did when she had arrived.

"Life can't be pain-free," Kali said. "The human soul is bound to suffer. Therefore when something good happens, it is only reasonable, even essential, to smile and derive whatever happiness you can get out of it."

Tara decided not to listen to Kali's gibberish anymore. She would leave Erol's drawing unfinished. She had made a mistake and it was difficult to correct it. "I'd better draw Kim and Suzan," she reasoned. It was really easy to draw Kim, him being black through and through, a monochromatic whole.

"Look closely, Tara." It was Kali butting in. "His gaze might be black, but his eyes are hazel. If you're patient and wait long enough you might even catch a smiling glimpse in those eyes – when he writes, for instance."

No, Kim never smiled. His gaze was angry. The look in his eyes was dark, even when he talked about something he enjoyed. He sort of resembled the Angry Owner in the village. That must be his umpteenth cup of coffee since this morning. The only time he did not drink coffee was when he drank alcohol. A chain smoker of the worst kind, he was hardly seen without a cigarette between his lips or between his fingers, except for when it fell off during an occasional lapse of self-control at the climax of a writing session, a brief and rare incident followed by an instantaneous replacement.

"Some people who are unable to express their feelings sometimes try to fill the emptiness created by that inability with an addiction or, at times, with a variety of addictions." Kali had read Tara's thoughts, or they had started to think of the same thing simultaneously. "Terrified of their own feelings, or rather of the possibility that their emotions might make them dependent on another person – or simply dependent on love – they can't even admit their feelings to themselves. They can't, however, blunt their need to be dependent on something. That's why Kim drinks cups and cups of coffee, and when he stops doing that consumes alcohol, glass after glass, while smoking like a chimney all along. That's also why he works so unremittingly."

"I've never looked it that way."

"How do you look around?"

"I look at the colours and the shapes."

"What creates the colours and the shapes is hidden in the essence. You need to look deeper."

"Now you're talking like Nanna. Did she preach to you too on how not to look without seeing?"

"I already knew that."

"Being emotional is weakness," roared Kim. Had he heard Tara's and Kali's conversation? No, he couldn't have; he was busy scolding Suzan.

"Would you please let me finish?" Suzan seemed determined to stand her ground, but it proved to be a pointless exercise, since Kim had already turned his back on her and was now talking to Orhon.

"Sooner or later, you must play Duke Orsino, Orhon. These cliffs, this violent sea could turn anyone into Orsino overnight."

"I will definitely play him one day. I have this urge to interpret his love for Olivia." He walked over to Maya and held her hand, pulling her up to her feet. "Act Two, Scene Four. Duke Orsino is talking to Viola, who is dressed up as a man. He is telling her about his love for Olivia." He suddenly burst out in a rage, shouting at Maya. He seemed to be someone else altogether with his eyes fuming.

But mine is all as hungry as the sea,

And can digest as much. Make no compare

Between that love a woman can bear me

And that I owe her.

Tara jumped to her feet and ran to Erol. "Can I call you Dad?"

"Tara, come right here!" His father's voice was still filled with anger, although this time the fury he expressed did not belong to Duke Orsino.

Tara left Erol and walked over to her father.

"Come with me," he hissed.

They walked to the veranda.

"You know you're being ridiculous, don't you? What do you think you're doing?"

"I'm playing a game, Dad. Just like you do."

"You're not old enough to play the games I play."

Kali had run after them. "It's no use trying to hurt your father, Tara," she whispered into her ear. "Things will get worse. Why don't you use some magic like they do in the fairy tales?"

"I wish I had a magic wand and made her disappear at a touch," she murmured before abruptly pulling her hand away from her father's and running back to her place on the lawn. She snatched the pencil Kali handed over and began pirouetting on her toes like a fairy, waving the pencil up and down and around as if it were a magic wand. She stopped next to Nanna and touched her shoulder with the tip of her pencil. "I wish you lived forever." She went to her mother and touched her shoulder too. "I wish you could bake us nice cakes and cook nice dishes." She then raised her head to look at her father, now standing beside her, and touched his chest with her pencil. "I wish you always stayed with me and always loved me." Then she rushed towards Maya. This time she did not articulate her wish. Maya insisted that she did. Tara said nothing. She would keep silent no matter what. She glanced at her father, who was whispering something into Nanna's ear. Picking up all her courage, she shouted, "I wish Maya would disappear."

"What's wrong with you today, Tara?" she heard her father roar. The look he shot at her was ominously black. "Go to your room, right now."

Kali put her arms around Tara for some moral support. As they climbed the stairs to their bedroom, Tara kept repeating over and over again, "I want Maya to disappear. And this wish will never change. Never!"

Kali decided that it was time to give Tara some advice. She was truly out of line, behaving like a silly little girl. "You might lose all your loved ones if you behave like this, Tara."

"Behave like what?"

"Like you just did downstairs."

"It was you who told me to use magic."

"Yes, but it was you who decided what your wish would be."

They entered their room. Tara ran towards her bed and gave the nightstand a kick. That must have hurt but she obviously pretended it did not. Throwing herself onto her bed, she hugged Snow White. Keeping her eyes shut tightly and biting her lower lip, she lay there motionless, clearly at pains to hold back her tears. "Perhaps I should talk to mum and tell her everything," she finally murmured in a trembling voice.

"Tell her what?" asked Kali.

"What I saw."

"What did you see?"

"My mother seems indifferent to everything, but she might help me after all."

"Help you in what?"

"We must get rid of Maya, Kali."

"It's not so easy to get rid of Maya."

"I know that much."

"First of all, you should stop being jealous of her."

"I'm not jealous of her. She simply gets on my nerves."

"Let's leave it at that, shall we?"

They fell silent as Nanna entered.

"Tara dear," said Nanna in a soft voice, seating herself on Tara's bed. "You're a big girl now. You'll be starting your formal education in September. You're about to step into the world of adults. You need to behave a little bit more..."

"I don't want to be educated."

"You and Sena, you've both known how to read and write for a year now. Your education must start soon."

"I want to work with my dad."

"You need to be educated before that can happen and you haven't even started yet."

"Is that the only way?"

"Yes it is, dear."

"It's too long. I can't wait that long. And why do I need an education anyhow? I already play Viola so well."

"Education is so much fun, Tara. You're much luckier than we were in that respect."

"How do you mean?"

"For us, education meant forgetting about our childhood, forgetting about being a child. It meant being turned into something like a racehorse."

"Racing is real fun. The sailboat races, for example, the regattas my father competes in. I want to grow up and race as well."

"Those races are different than the races I'm talking about, dear. I'm talking about children becoming the status symbols of their parents."

"What does status mean?"

"It literally means height but in this context it refers to someone's place in society."

"What is a status symbol then? Did parents always want to be where their children were?"

"Wishful thinking. Quite the opposite. They used their children to reach the status they aspired to. Their children were their greatest projects, the most efficient tools they used in a ruthlessly competitive race. The schools they were to attend were chosen and their places were reserved even before they were born. The perfectionist parents refused to give up using their children to meet their own psychological or social needs. The children were like trophies proudly displayed on a shelf for all to admire."

"Their relationship was quite complicated."

"Yes, you might actually say that. Being a status symbol is a concept that emerged only a century ago and remained a shackle for the human race until very recently. It is thanks to your father and the likes of him that such concepts have long been defeated."

"Nanna? How did you race when you were a child?"

"You want to know about the schools of my time, right?"

"Yes, Nanna. But tell it like a fairy tale. It would be really boring otherwise."

Nanna smiled and lay down beside Tara. "In a land that never was in a time that could never be when yesterday was today, when the sieve lay in the hay and the camels spread hearsay; back, far back, in the mists of time when I rocked the cradle of the old mother of mine, there were children who left their warm beds before even the rooster cock-a-doodle-dooed and the sun cracked the dawn. Some climbed into shiny grey cars or truck-like jeeps used for purposes different than originally intended, some were crammed into colourful minibuses spewing out black clouds of exhaust, while some less fortunate of their kind trod on foot up a hill, down a hill, over a rock and beyond a block. They all travelled many miles, some for as long as fifteen songs on their iPods, some for scores of unrealisable dreams, eventually reaching the buildings called the school, buildings many an unfortunate child who had no school to go to yearned for. In those buildings they stayed and were not allowed to leave until the sun sank below the horizon late in the evening."

"Were they like the lovebirds in the cage in your house? Like Cinnamon and Sesame?"

"Almost. Every child was obliged to sit at a desk allocated to him or her in rooms called the classrooms and listen to the educators, called teachers, to learn the lessons they taught. None of them was allowed to leave the classroom or, in some cases, even stand up before a bell rang to announce the end of the class. At the first sound of that bell, they all threw themselves out of the classroom and into the corridors or, if they were lucky to have one, into the yard to take some fresh air, to run about and to play. When the bell rang again, it told them that they needed to go back to their classrooms. This time another teacher came to teach them another subject. These teachers were different from today's knowledge facilitators in that they were dictators of some sort, dictating everything. They told; the children listened. They gave homework; the children did them. The subjects taught at these schools differed from the subjects of today. They did not, for example, learn anything about ecological sustainability. Cooperation was not taught. The subject of peace did not exist and they studied military science instead. The content of the subjects taught did not change as rapidly as they do today. Information was not so easily accessible, at least in some parts of the world. The teachers did not work in partnership with the community. There was no such thing as an education team."

"How did they decide what everyone needed to learn, then?"

"It wasn't so important what the children needed to learn. What mattered was what they wanted to teach. Everyone was taught the same thing, the same way until university."

"What about the universities? Were they like ours?"

"Not quite." Nanna lapsed into silence. Her tale had apparently come to an end. Then she asked, "What does university mean, Tara?"

"The education level I need to complete as soon as possible. I need to do that because that's when I'll be able to work with my dad."

"University means the community of educators and the educated. It is like a large family. In my youth, this family had to come together physically to function. We lacked the communication and sharing platforms of today. Now it is as though the whole world is a university. We are a giant community of educators and the educated. By the age of fifteen, you'll have learned everything we used to learn by the end of the university."

"Then what is the point of me having a university degree? If I'll know as much as you do when I'm fifteen, I won't need to learn anything else."

"You'll need a university education to fully assimilate all that you'll have learned by then, my dearest, to learn what we learned through life, to gain concentrated life experience, to become a Master."

"You mean a Master like dad?"

"No university will suffice to teach you to become like your father, neither the universities of olden times nor those of today."

"How can I become like my father, then?"

"You can learn it only from your father. No education can teach you how to become a Master of Life."

"Did dad learn it from Granddad?"

"Yes, dear. Your grandfather is a great Master of Life."

"Was Granddad like my father when he was young?"

"He was. And he still is."

"Was Granddad always away from home like dad is?"

"He was. Your father and aunt missed him terribly, just like you do your dad."

"I hate being away from him. I want him to stay with me all the time. All the time. He will, won't he?"

"Of course he will, Tara." Nanna picked up the fairy tale book from the nightstand and gave it to Tara. "Now you rest for a while. Afterwards we'll continue with the toy theatre, all right my lovely?"

As soon as Nanna left the room, Kali jumped on Tara's bed. "Nanna is right. Education is important. It is what will set you free. The magic is in your mental power. You don't want to remain a silly little girl, do you?"

"I'm not silly."

"Actually, you might even be considered clever for a six-year-old, but you have to move ahead. Education is a must in the world you're craving to be a part of. Otherwise no one will take you seriously, especially your father. There are certain things you might want to start doing if you want to be taken seriously."

"Like what?"

"I'll tell you all about it, but first you need to listen to the rest of my story."

"All right, all right. Be quick, though."

"Where were we? Yes ... Many years later ..."

Many years later, or perhaps only after a few brief moments, Inanna heard the crying of Ereshkigal, her twin sister, the Queen of the dark Underworld. Ereshkigal was quite lonely because she could neither leave her dark kingdom nor have any visitors; no one went to see her in the Underworld, for they could never return. Inanna, gathering up all her courage, decided to descend into the Underworld to help her sister.

"She really loved her sister," Tara cut in.

"Yes, more than she loved her own self."

"You mean as much as I love Sena?"

"Inanna," carried on Kali.

Inanna visited each of her temples in the seven cities of her kingdom to bid farewell. Knowing that she needed to be very strong for the coming ordeal, she prepared herself adornments and clothes from the most important seven Gifts of Wisdom. She put on her crown, embellished with golden rose petals and engraved with red and dark blue gems, wore her exquisitely crafted necklace of precious stones brought from the secret corners of faraway lands and shells found in the depths of the deepest seas. She prepared herself a pectoral embellished with red and blue beads and golden balls. She put kohl on her eyelids. She adorned her wrists with golden bracelets, her finger with a golden ring, one of her ears with a golden crescent earring and her hair with golden wreaths. Finally in her hand, she took a lapis lazuli measuring rod.

Once ready, she called for her maid and instructed her that if she did not return from the Underworld in three lengths of time, she should ask her father for help.

Tara had fallen asleep again, although Kali's story was far from being over yet.
15

It might be the palliative effect of the flatbread with olives, or it might be that strange, long-forgotten phenomenon I would refer to as the anchovy paste effect, or perhaps it simply is the spell cast by the melody Nadir is humming that drives me to dive head first into the subject he is curious about. "My father says that his childhood, just like ours, was marked by a continuous feeling of longing for his father, since Granddad was almost always absent from home, travelling on business. He often complained about how he failed to keep a promise he had made to himself, the promise that he would definitely have a permanent workplace and never leave his children alone. 'You never know what life has in store for you,' he often said, adding that he had found the peace he sought for only after the opening of Theatre Twenty Hundred." Words flow out of my mouth of their own accord. Nadir's eyes have an unusual effect on me. I carry on. "He did in fact change after setting up Twenty Hundred and stopped leaving us for months, since he no longer directed films or acted in them. His hectic social life, however, continued at full tilt. The evenings when there was no performance were scheduled for a promotional meeting, a symposium, a party or an opening he had to attend. He said that almost everyone he socialised with was a business contact, complaining about having far too many acquaintances of no depth, relationships embellished by a veil of feigned friendship. He sought to minimise, as much as possible, those shallow relationships, which he disliked immensely, allocating more and more time to his close friends, who numbered no more than a few, or to those friends of my mother whom she kept around her rather possessively. There were times when he took off on his own and went to some godforsaken place in some remote corner of the world to unwind, doing something that would help him exhaust that boundless energy of his. He would not miss even the slightest opportunity to take a break for a day, even for a few hours, either with his male friends or sometimes even on his own. He could never convince my mother to join him. Despite having run after him for years to countries thousands of miles away, so as not to leave him alone during his business trips, she, for some unfathomable reason, stubbornly refused to go with him on those holiday breaks. Perhaps she was afraid. To put on wings and fly off the highest peak of a mountain is surely not for everyone. Such challenges never put me off, though. I always joined him on such trips. In recent years, however, he has mellowed, so to speak, no longer putting on wings and flying off mountains."

Nadir smiles.

"He has nevertheless lost nothing of his creative streak; he still seeks adventures too dangerous for his age. Each year we go somewhere nobody has ever heard of, or do something together that no one else around us has ever done before. I think this is the only way we can unwind and alleviate the stress our workload creates." A sudden pang of anger grabs me. "It would be best if I said we _used to_ unwind since, after all that has happened, all this is history." A cigarette! Smoke a cigarette, Tara.

"What are you going to do, Tara? What plans have you got? What kind of a life do you envision for yourself?"

"I feel like a fish out of water." I hastily roll myself a cigarette. "I could work for another theatre but that would be breaking faith with the memory of Theatre Twenty Hundred... and with my father. I could set up a new theatre company, but it would not be the same thing. And what is the point, anyway? Perhaps..."

"I meant your life, Tara, not your career. You do have a life besides your career, don't you?"

"If you mean my love life, well, do I need to plan that? My heart should adapt itself to my mind. It's not like I'm going to mould my life according to a man. I will never give up my independence for a man. Not everyone can be like my mother." I light my cigarette.

"A young woman, apparently independent, dedicated to her career. She rides over the mountains, driven by the power that her profession gives her. Free and independent." He leans over the table and looks straight into my eyes.

I cannot tear mine away.

"Are you as strong as you think you are? Independent? Really independent? Emotionally independent?"

I finally pull my eyes away.

"You say that your independence is very precious and that you will never give it up for a man." He holds my hand on the table. "However, it seems to me that you have already, a long time ago in fact, given up your independence for a man, Tara. For your father."

I wrench my hand free of his grip. Don't strip me of my defences if you have nothing better to offer in their stead, Nadir. A drag of smoke. "And for everything I did for him, all he gave me back is a Judas kiss. Do you think that is fair? No. It is injustice, absolute injustice." Another drag from my cigarette. Deeper. Sucking on it. "Do you know?" This time it's my turn to probe into his eyes. "I can be tolerant of everything, everything except being taken for a fool. The only thing I can never forgive is duplicity. My father, the greatest hero of my life... It hurts me so much that he could lie to me. I dedicated my whole life to him, Nadir, to him and to our theatre. But he... he..."

"Nothing is as it seems, Tara."

He is right. We are living in a world of deceit, a world of lies where nothing is as it seems. My family, everything, everything is falling apart and I never even noticed.

"Do you really think that your father deceived you? Lied to you? Has it ever occurred to you that you might have been lying to yourself about yourself, about your life? And that you're still doing it, that you might be living in a world of self-delusion?"

"How can you have a delusion about yourself? Yes, you may lie to yourself about others, about your relationship with others, but how can you lie to yourself about yourself?"

Resting his arms akimbo on the table, he stares at me in silence, his eyes saying, "You know the answer to your question." Then he leans back on his chair. "Are you sure you're angry with him because he lied to you? Or is your anger only a shield to hide your fear of losing his love, his protective wings?" He pauses briefly, turning his eyes towards the sea. "Anger is the best and the most primitive way to hide one's fears, Tara. Believe me. This is something I know very well. When you live in self-delusion, you have no tolerance for deception. But sometimes it is not the others but your illusions that delude you."

"All my life I was there to lend him a helping hand. I dedicated my whole life to him. And this is what I get in return."

"How sure are you of that, of having helped him all your life? Might it be that you simply wanted to keep him under control, by your side, in your hands, seeking to buy his love, so to speak, and bond him to yourself?"

"Now you're talking nonsense. You know nothing."

"I'm sure you sacrificed a lot. However, don't you think that we need to be careful when we claim to be helping someone? It is unlikely that the drives behind our sacrifices are always purely Samaritan. Sometimes a helping hand might be driven by a motive to make the other person feel indebted to us, so as to have the whip hand over him, a drive purely for emotional dominance, perhaps, but nevertheless a drive to manipulate him, to have power over him. Buying the freedom of the person we seem to be helping. This can go as far as controlling that person's freedom of choice, his freedom to choose whom he should love. I hardly think that such behaviour can be called helping someone."

"You don't know anything about what I did for Twenty Hundred, or for my father. You know nothing. Please don't be so unfair."

"I don't want to be unfair; but I can't understand how, at this time and age, when any kind of possession has long given way almost entirely to access, you still want to possess him."

Is this a joke? If it is, it means that his sense of humour is as underdeveloped as this island. "Perhaps when you no longer own anything," echoes an inner voice, "you hold on to the love you have access to and try to possess it, jealously."

The long breakfast finally comes to an end after two brief interruptions, once by the second cigarette I smoke, after having forced down two slices of bread, then by a third one, following another slice generously spread with the fig jam, the taste – or even the existence – of which I have long forgotten.

"It's very warm today, almost like summer." Talking just for the sake of talking, right, Tara?

"Once Bura drops, that's what happens. Maestral might even get up soon." He stands up and starts clearing the table. "Shall we go sailing? We should make the most of this weather, you know." He pauses as he picks up my plate. "Have you ever dived from the cliff over the Dark Cave?"

I hold on to Nadir's proposal like I would to a life jacket after our long breakfast, which tried my patience to the limit; all that talk about lies and betrayal. I realise that the reason I want to go sailing is not so much to enjoy this weather as it is to show Nadir what a good sailor I am. Why? I don't know why. I am used to being competitive, to going for the challenge, to proving that I am no less competent than men, especially when someone dares me to do something as scary as diving from the cliff over the Dark Cave. I wonder how many girls he has taken to that cliff to dive? Perhaps a shepherd girl from the village, taking time off from her goats? Are there any young girls on this island? Does Nadir have any girlfriends? Perhaps when he was an adolescent. Puppy loves. Brief and shallow flirtations with the insignificant girls, in his insignificant education team, in a boring seaside town.
16

In the old, old, half-forgotten times in the midst of the middle of a faraway afternoon when the rosehip syrup Nanna simmered for three days and three nights, a dollop of the creamy yogurt the Good Old Milkman made from the milk of his grass-fed cows milky white, and a spoonful of the thyme honey the bees of the Honey Estate collected in a hundred flights joined forces, Tara woke up from her uninvited respite. Or rather she thought she had woken up because she believed she had slept. Seeing Kali fast asleep in her own bed, she tiptoed out of the room into the loggia and, leaning on the balustrade, set about scanning the garden.

Her mother Revan, lying stretched out on a kilim spread over the lawn underneath the loggia, much like a recumbent effigy, was talking to Erol, seated next to her. "We have two angels now, very powerful angels indeed."

Sumer was dozing in one of the deckchairs. In another lolled Suzan, seemingly asleep behind her dark sunglasses. She wiggled the tips of her toes several times as if to shoo away a fly that had landed on her foot. Moving no body part except for her lips, she joined in the conversation. "Angels?"

"The investors sponsoring our production," Revan explained. "They're dying to see Orhon on the stage of his own theatre. They became even more generous upon hearing that he'd also be directing the play. I'm sure they're rejoicing in what they take to be their success, jubilant to have caged a very rare and expensive bird. Orhon, on the other hand, says that he has declared his independence."

"I hope it won't mean curtains for him," said Erol, rather acerbically. He took his shoes off and, placing his hands on his ankles, began massaging them in faintly perceptible movements.

Orhon, accompanied by Maya, stepped down from the veranda onto the lawn. Engaged in a heated conversation, they walked towards the orchard in the back. As they passed by Kim, who was reading a book in the hammock under the pine trees, Orhon said something. They all laughed. Kim climbed from the hammock and settled in one of the wicker chairs. Taking his notepad and fountain pen from the table beside him, he embarked on a new writing spree. Orhon and Maya strolled out of view towards the orchard.

Revan, who had interrupted her conversation with Erol to watch Orhon walk away, picked up where she had left off. "He would be declaring not only his own independence but the emancipation of the dramatic arts. In Twenty Hundred he wants, first and foremost, to eliminate the distance between the audience and the actors. As was the case four hundred years ago, we will shine a light on the spectators, saving them from their Cimmerian isolation. They'll feel free, moving around, talking about the actors and about the play, going out whenever they want, getting a drink and coming back. All these actions being visible to the actors will add a brand new dimension both to the play and to the players. Something seemingly anarchic would, just like in a developed society, be beneficial instead of detrimental to the whole. We intend to create a natural interaction, a strong rapport between the audience and the actors. I don't think there is a better way to remind people – especially the actors – that acting is not exclusive to those on the stage. Although it might seem that we'll be casting light on the spectators, we will actually be illuminating the actors. Looking at the people's faces instead of a dark auditorium, being eye-to-eye with them, this is what we want to achieve at Theatre Twenty Hundred; a difficult undertaking, since the actors might be easily distracted. They'll have to lock at the other actors and the play twice as hard and make sure they are really in the moment. It's incredibly dense and challenging but no less adrenalizing and exciting."

Revan, all pepped up, was now on her feet. She carried on, ignoring the fact that Sumer was snoozing, Suzan was ready to fall asleep at any moment behind her dark glasses, and Erol was completely uninterested in what she was saying, his eyes dreamily focused on the sea.

"In some plays, we're planning to raise the Yard and really diminish the distance between the actors and the spectators. And sometimes we want to set up the stage and the seating arrangements in a way that allows different sections of the audience to watch different scenes of the play. For _Twelfth Night_ , for instance, we decided on the settings used at the time of Shakespeare."

Tara could not find the courage to go downstairs. Her father seemed to have forgotten all about her. It was him who always woke her up from her afternoon nap, after which they went for a swim. She leaned over the balustrade to take a better look. He was still not back from the orchard.

Kim had stopped writing. He was now pacing the lawn between the two pine trees with his hands tucked under his armpits, his gaze on the ground, his face forbiddingly grim and his eyebrows furrowed. He must be thinking, reasoned Tara. Then suddenly he stopped and, returning to his armchair, resumed his writing. Every now and then he put his pen down, raised his head to the sky, narrowed his eyes, pursed his lips and then stretched them into a tense, thin line. He was thinking again, his thoughts pleasing him for a moment, displeasing him the next. He wetted his upper lip with the tip of his tongue and then gently bit his lower lip. After staying put like that for a while, he grabbed his pen again, as if under the command of a sudden inner urge triggered by a flash of inspiration. He scribbled on while his teeth slowly released his lower lip. His hand did not stop. A few minutes later, he paused again, took out his handkerchief and wiped his forehead. Reaching for the glass he had carefully placed on the lawn, he took a sip from his drink and looked towards the orchard. A faint smile appeared on his face. A while later Orhon arrived and settled himself on the white cushions of the wicker sofa opposite him. Maya followed suit, walking lightly towards them. She said something. They all laughed.

Sumer had woken up and straightened his deckchair. He was talking to Suzan. "At first I did all I could to prevent her from doing it. I was afraid that she might get hurt but she's very brave. She did not listen to me. She not only went to the auditions..."

"What are you doing here, Tara?" It was Kali. "Come on, let's play a game."

"Be quiet. I'm waiting for my dad. You go ahead; I'll come in a tick."

As Kali moved away, Tara turned her attention back to the garden, back to what Sumer was saying.

"And finally she got the role. She says her dream has come true, although she has a lot to do before she can arrive at the point she wants to reach."

Suzan said something to Sumer, which Tara could not hear. Sumer's answer, on the other hand, was so loud that it must have been heard by almost everyone on the island. "I did not have much time to think about what my dream was. I started working when I was sixteen because I had to earn a living and help my mother. I began university very late, only after I saved enough money. The reason I chose Quantum Technology was not to make my dreams come true; it's just one of the professions that offered fast employment. As a matter of fact, thinking about it now, I did have a dream, although I did not define it as a dream at the time. It was to make Maya's dream come true, to let her become an actress in the theatre."

Maya had come over and sat on the lawn next to Sumer with her arm on his knees.

"When my dad died during the Civil War," Sumer said, holding his sister's hand, "I was two years old and Maya four. Our mother never remarried. We could actually have had a very comfortable life, but mum was too proud to accept certain things."

Tara looked at her father. He was still talking with Kim under the pine trees.

"She never asked for help although she knew exactly where he was and how to reach him. I was twelve years old when I learned the truth. I wanted to stop her from telling me, but to no avail. She must have thought I would not be affected. We did not, however, tell Maya anything at the time." Sumer's voice had lost its vigour and dwindled almost to a whisper now. "When you're a child, you don't want to hear about the bitter truth. Sometimes it's better not to know certain things, at least not until you're ready, not until you're mature enough to deal with the truth."

"I don't agree with you, Sumer," said Maya, cutting him short. "I think the truth, no matter how bitter it is, should be revealed to children. Otherwise they feel left out, cheated by their family out of their right to know. I wish I'd known everything right from the beginning."

"Ignorance is bliss. At least in some cases. You're happy when you don't know that you don't know. Knowing fills you with hatred. And that hatred seethes in you. You keep asking, 'Why me? Why my sister? Why us? Why?'"

"Yes, perhaps you don't know that you don't know the truth, and live the happy or the semi-happy reality that you take to be the truth, but when you finally face that reality, your whole world shatters. Children should be told the bare truth, right at the very beginning, no matter how bitter it might be."

"I agree with Sumer on this," Suzan interrupted. "Children shouldn't be the confidants of their parents. When they confide in their children, they trespass the generational boundaries. They violate the rules, distressing the child, creating emotional difficulties. It's extremely difficult for the child to carry the weight of such secrets. He wants to help the parent. He desperately wants that but can't do anything, suffering in helplessness. More often than not, this helplessness pushes him to disobey every rule and eventually become a rebel. Sometimes, his lack of control over the events that precipitated such pain intensifies, triggering a horde of qualms about the future. There's something very important we must not forget. A simple event, which seems unimportant to us, the adults, may sometimes destroy the whole world of a child. Therefore I think children should not learn at a very early age what they should not learn at that age."

"You're right, Suzan," joined in Revan, who had been silently listening to the conversation. "Children should be told the harsh reality at the right age. But when is it? How would you decide what age? And how can you judge what to tell them and what to hide? It's something that changes from child to child. Doesn't the perception of each child develop at a different pace?"

Tara saw her mother turn her head towards the loggia. In panic, she hid behind the jasmine-swathed column. A few seconds later, she carefully peeked down through the leaves. Her mother was back into her heated discourse. Maya was up on her feet now, walking towards the pine trees. Tara leaned right over the balustrade to see her father. He was leaning back comfortably on the sofa, one leg crossed over the other, apparently enjoying his chat with Kim. He beckoned Maya to come and sit next to him. His frequent laughs, and his body language, conveyed how much he was enjoying himself. He spread his arms on the back of the sofa and turned his smiling face to Maya, who perched on the edge of a cushion. He was now caressing her hair. Then his fingers brushed against her cheek.

Tara felt frustration brewing up in her. Unable to put up with it any longer, she rushed back to her room. Kali had taken all her toys down and was sitting on the floor, playing. She sat by her without saying anything.

She has such unusual toys, thought Kali. "I've never seen toys like this before."

"No one has toys like ours. You can see the likes of them only in the Toy Museum in the metropolis. No one can touch those toys. Some are even kept under lock and key. Snow White, for instance, she's in prison there. It's such a pity. I really feel for her. She looks exactly like mine, almost a twin sister. There's also a teddy bear exactly like Sena's. He too is imprisoned, poor teddy."

"Your Snow White is really very beautiful."

"She was Nanna's when she was a little girl. And before that, she was her Nanna's. And her Nanna got it from her own Nanna. Of course they didn't call their grandmothers Nanna but it doesn't matter. For me, they are all called Nanna. Snow White is at least a hundred and fifty years old, but she never ages. She's always very beautiful. I guess she has changed a little over the years. Her hair, for instance. Nanna says that her hair was straighter and wasn't as blonde and curly as it is now. Her eyes, however, have always been the same, Nanna says."

"The eyes never change, Tara. They remain the same even after nine generations – at least in my stories."

"I don't remember the end of your story."

"My story is not over yet. In fact..." Kali stopped as she saw Nanna come in.

"Why didn't you come downstairs, Tara?" asked Nanna.

"I don't want to."

"Shall I bring your afternoon snack here?"

"Yes, please." Throwing a glance at her toys, she added. "Don't forget about my friends, all right?"

A few minutes later, Nanna came back with a bowl of yogurt flavoured with rosehip syrup and honey.

"Why don't you stay here, Nanna?"

"You play on your own for a while. I should be helping your mum in the kitchen."

As soon as Nanna left the room, Tara walked to the window, grumbling to herself, "Even Nanna didn't insist that we go downstairs."

Kali followed her to the window. The kilim on the lawn was empty now, so was Suzan's deckchair. Sumer, on the other hand, was still snoozing, a straw hat tipped down to his nose. He had taken his shirt off, exposing the lion tattooed on his chest, the cheeks of which inflated and deflated with each breath. From where they stood, it was not possible to see what was going on under the pine trees. Tara grabbed her Snow White and went out to the loggia. Kali darted after her. They leaned over the balustrade. Kim was alone.

"Will you always be an observer, Tara? Don't you ever think of taking action? Will you let them dictate everything all the time? You've got to make yourself heard." Kali had a brilliant idea. "Shall we go down to the beach to play hide and seek? One of them will be it and we will hide. What do you say?" Without waiting for Tara's response, she ran towards the stairs.

"Who's going to be it?" called out Tara, running after her. "My father? We need to find him first to tell him that."

"You don't get it, do you, Tara? We're going to hide without letting anyone know."

"What kind of hide and seek is that? How would he know that he needs to search for us?"

"If we hide for long enough, they will all start looking for us."

"I'm not so sure if I like this game."

"You can be sure that it's not going to be as boring as the hide and seek you know. This is a much naughtier game. Besides, don't you want your father to worry about you?"

Tara turned around without an answer and dashed to her room. Kali ran after her. She was digging into her treasure box. Eventually, she took out an old tin soldier and a white-tailed car. Then she put the car back, picked up some white marbles and stuffed them in the pocket of her playsuit. In her other pocket, she tucked in her green-eyed golden goat.

"What are you doing, Tara?"

"I'm taking my toys for good luck."

"This is not the story of Little Red Riding Hood. These are of no use. Nothing can save you from the Big Bad Wolf in our story. Haven't you ever prepared a survival kit? Stop looking at the world through rose-coloured glasses. Life is full of danger and difficult hurdles." Kali took the untouched rosehip-syrup-and-honey-flavoured yogurt, poured it into a container from Tara's toy kitchen and secured it tightly. She told Tara to take the water bottle from the nightstand. Finally she picked up the backpack on the shelf and stuffed everything in it. They went back to the loggia. Kali grabbed the matches on the table and the torchlight hanging on the railings and put them into the backpack as well.

"Why did you take those? It's not dark outside."

"They might not be able to find us before dark. The only solution to darkness is light, Tara."
PART FOUR
17

After clearing the breakfast table in haste, Nadir, most probably judging me a totally ignorant turd, comes over and says, "You should take a pair of trousers and something warm with you. It gets chilly at sea late in the afternoon." And then, as if poking fun at me, he adds, staring at my bare feet, "And you'd better put something on your feet, something with a rubber sole."

I go up to my room to follow his orders. When I'm back, Nadir points at the sea. "Maestral has got up. Look!"

The sea is divided in two by a line; the closer side is sky blue and flat as a sheet, while the farther side is dark blue and fidgety with the waves Maestral creates. It is rapidly moving towards the shore.

When we are down at the pier, the line has disappeared, leaving behind a dark blue expanse of jittery water. I breathe in the freshness Maestral has brought in. We practically jump on board and motor off the pier. I'm at the helm, pointing the boat directly into the wind. Nadir pulls the main halyard down, wraps it on a winch and starts cranking it. His eyes follow the rising mainsail. When the luff is tight, he cleats the halyard off and pulls in the mainsheet. Is there anyone left who does all this manually, Nadir? He is a Global Sailing Heritage Fighter, good old soul. Now he is hoisting the foresail. Surprisingly, it is a furling jib. We set off on a close hauled port tack. Nadir trims the sails before taking over the helm. Maestral is merciful, not creating much heel. I go to the foredeck and lean against the pulpit to feel the full strength of the wind. We move ahead, hitting the waves. I look for the dolphins. "My father says that once upon a time they used to swim with the dolphins here," I say, knowing that Nadir will not hear me.

He does. With the autopilot engaged, he is right behind me. "I once saw them. They swam by the boat for about an hour. I guess they were the last examples of their species." He is gazing at the water over my shoulder, his hands clutching the pulpit on both sides of my legs, his arms locking me in. "We're far off course. Time to tack, don't you think?" I ask, feeling hemmed in.

We go back to the cockpit. Nadir disengages the autopilot. We sharpen up. Faster. And faster. "Ready about!" As he releases the jib sheet on the leeward side, he shouts, "Hard a-lee!" We come up into the wind and slow down. The foresail flails about. Quickly bringing in the jib sheet on the portside, I start cranking the winch. The jib fills with wind. The boom crosses the centre line and the mainsail fills. We are heading up on the starboard tack now, regaining speed.

"Sheet in the genoa a bit more. Let's harden up," he says.

He trims the mainsail; we harden up.

"I find that knowing your winds backwards helps you understand human characters much better," he says, his hand on the wheel, his eyes on the jib, no room for luffing, the tell tales streaming back perfectly. "Some people are as gentle and sweet as a soft breeze, pleasantly surprising you when you're almost incapacitated on a suffocating summer day, refreshing you like a glass of iced water, making you thank heavens that you can finally breathe, a breeze you desire, wait for, a breeze much missed when belated. Yet there are others who are like gusts of wind. The stable, monotonous and predictable pace of life bores them to such a degree that there comes a moment when they unexpectedly flare up, letting go of the powerful energy they can no longer contain, creating havoc, trampling over everything and everyone around them. Then they suddenly stop. The gust of wind is gone as unpredictably as it has arrived. Everything goes back to its calm self – or you think it does. After a short while, another gust slaps you in the face, its unexpected harshness catching you off guard. If you're at sea, however, you can, if you know how to read the signs, see the approach of a gust from the tiny ripples it creates on the surface of the water." He gestures with his hand towards the winch. "Sheet in a bit more. We'll need to come about soon." He carries on as if talking to the sails, as if I were no longer there. "And some people are as destructive as a gale, either breaking out suddenly or gradually gaining strength. A gale will harm you in either case if you refuse to abide by its rules, haven't taken any precautions or do not recognise its inherent characteristics. Sometimes it is useless to fight against it; all you can do is take shelter and wait for it to calm down. There will come a time when even the most ferocious gale will give way to a gentle breeze, a breeze that will unexpectedly get up on an oppressively hot summer day."

I know about the winds at least as much as you do, Nadir. Me and my father, we sailed a bit on these waters. "And sometimes it blows from the same direction at a constant speed for hours," I interrupt him. "You sort of get used to its pace. And then it just stops. Drops dead. It takes only a few minutes before it starts blowing like crazy right from the opposite direction. If you're not familiar with these waters, you're caught unawares. You don't know what to do. You panic."

"Well, well, well!" His eyebrows rise above his sunglasses in surprise, one a little higher than the other. He stands up and extends his hand to me. "When that wind, the one that has been blowing steadily from the same direction for hours, stops, the waves it has been creating carry on," he says. He wants to leave the wheel to me.

We swap places.

"And then, when it starts blowing like crazy from the opposite direction, the sea turns into an old-fashioned washing machine."

"Hard a-lee!" I order.

Sailing on a close hauled port tack now.

"Harden up as much as you can. Try not to fall off," he shouts.

I know, Nadir. A childhood memory snaps in. I remember the first time my father left me the wheel and how proud that act of confidence made me feel. It is as clear as if it were yesterday.

Maestral gets stronger and stronger. Beating for only two more tacks, we reach Cape Blunt, the cape known to be the bluntest headland hereabouts.

"Your father has taught you well," he says, ruffling my hair more than it has already been ruffled at the mercy of the wind. I harden up, my eyes glued onto the tell tales.

"No need to harden up so much. You can bear away a little now."

He's right.

As we pass by Cape Blunt, we start running before the wind. Nadir is back at the wheel. The wind that has been slapping at our faces a short while ago seems to have dropped; we don't feel its true strength when sailing downwind. The indicators, however, tell us that it is still getting stronger.

"Wing and wing!" orders Nadir. Yes! Perfect timing. The wind is dead behind us. I go to the foredeck to wing out the jib. "Careful," he shouts. What does he take me for? Completing my task, I return to take care of the mainsheet. I remember my first wing and wing experience with my father. "Steering is very difficult when running before the wind," he says excitedly, his voice still fresh in my ears. "Especially if the wind is high. The boat may easily go off course. And sailing wing and wing is the most difficult of all. It requires knowledge, concentration, alertness. Not feeling the real strength of the wind, you relax and lose concentration. Failure to adapt to the minute changes in the wind may result in the jib tacking. Worse still is an accidental jibe. The moment you lose control of the boat, the boom swings so forcefully from one side to the other that it will send anyone in its way flying into the sea. That is of course one of the better scenarios in this case. I don't have to tell you what the worst scenario is – and believe me that it is not instant death. The best scenario, by the way, is a broken mast. Running downwind has no mercy for the absent-minded."

Nadir, on the other hand, is as relaxed as if he were luxuriating in a hot bath. I don't utter a word, so as not to distract him. He, however, does not stop talking. Maestral gets higher and higher. According to the wind meter, we should stop sailing wing and wing and change our course. Nadir carries on with great zeal. He must be pretty confident of himself.

Eventually Maestral wins the tug of war; Nadir gives in. We turn to broad reach. The jib moves behind the main sail, looking rather disappointed. We gain speed. The wind, the strength of which we did not feel sailing on a dead downwind run, now lashes. Jibing reach to reach again and again, we close in on the bay where the Dark Cave is. A port jibe then a starboard jibe, the boat gallops. Nadir coordinates the jibes like an experienced _chef d'orchestre_. "Ready to jibe!" I'm controlling the mainsheet. "Jibe-ho!" he calls out. I sheet in the main. As the boat turns, we duck our heads in. The boom swings to the other side, swishing past over our heads, and stops as if it had hit a wall. The jib follows the main sail and jibes rather clumsily. Then it balloons. Its sheet is under Nadir's control. Maestral is climbing from strength to strength, the sea heaping up, the white foam from breaking waves spraying in streaks, the white caps developing.

In no time at all, we reach the bay. The water is crystal clear, a transparent turquoise. We anchor from the bow and tether a stern line to a rock on the shore. I feel an urge to climb the bow pulpit and jump into the water as I used to do as a child. I walk to the foredeck and sit on the pulpit. Nadir follows suit.

"I've really missed it. Sailing, I mean. It's been so long since I've been out at sea. I come to life again when I'm on water – and in it."

"What else makes you come to life?" he asks, almost in a whisper. "When do you feel good? What makes _you_ feel good, Tara?"

"My career. I feel good when I'm at the theatre."

"That's different. That's when you feel protected. I mean something else when I say feeling good."

"What about being more specific? An example, perhaps? Unfortunately, we, the urban species, do not have time to think as deeply as you do." Don't get aggressive, Tara. "Why don't you tell me what makes you feel good?"

"The times when I think neither of a moment ahead nor of a moment ago. As I'm doing right now."

That means he is always feeling good or believes he does, given that he knows no better.

I climb onto the pulpit and dive into the water. Ice-cold with the freshwater springs flowing into the sea in these parts, it leaves me breathless. I go underwater and swim facing the surface, keeping my eyes as wide open as I can. The visual illusion of the dark patches on the water changes in shape and size, white now, blue a second later, then green, black. Why black? How come? I return to the surface. Holding on to the stern line extending from the boat to the shore, I raise my legs, wrap my feet around it and pull myself out of the water. Can I still walk on it? Like a tightrope walker, the way Granddad once taught me. I climb onto it. A step. Then another. Then another. I fall off. Nadir surfaces right next to me.

"You're too grown-up for that."

He goes under water. I do too. We swim towards the rocks. Sea urchins all around us. Nadir picks one. We surface. He drops the sea urchin into the net he takes out from the pocket of his swim shorts. As I'm about to go under again, he grabs my arm. "Be careful."

This is not the first time I've picked sea urchins, Nadir.

After taking the spiky animals to the boat, we swim to the shore and start climbing the rocks, moving from one to another with an agility and pace that would embarrass the goats. A ram appears, its horns resembling entwined ribbons. What is it doing here? "What are _you_ doing here, Tara?" it seems to ask with a derisive look in its eyes. It is laughing at us, surely. Despite the inclination, probably in excess of forty-five degrees, our rhythm does not slacken – even when the rocks give way to a slippery dirt track at a yet steeper slant. We sporadically break into a run so as not to slide back. Approaching the top, Nadir is many steps ahead of me. He stops and turns around, smiling and waving his hand to urge me to move on, before carrying on with his climb. His swim shorts have slid down, almost revealing the untanned part of his back.

Finally we reach the top. The water is so transparent that, looking down from up here, the boat seems to be floating in the air. Nadir puts his arm around my waist, reminding me that it is time to move on to the edge of the cliff, where the rocks drop away from us, sheer. A few steps. We're on the edge of the precipice for tombstoning. Precipice? Tombstoning? Don't exaggerate, Tara.

"The key is to trust the other person, to be able to let go," he says, holding my hand. "That's the first step."

I remember standing on the edge of another cliff at another time.

"Will you be able to jump?"

"Of course I will."

"Meaning? Meaning I'm not a weak little girl. Unlike other women, I'm not a coward. I will not admit that men might be more courageous ..."

I snap my hand away from his and take the plunge, hoping to vanish into thin air.

"... than women," I hear him complete his sentence as I shoot down towards the water like a torpedo, triumphantly, one jump ahead of him.
18

Here's a tale with a tail but no face, there's a gale with a sail but no pace, hare's a quail with a wail but no trace, patience is a grail with a veil but no grace; and thus walked Tara and Kali down the stairs. Tara could hear Nanna's voice coming from the kitchen. "Stop tormenting yourself, Revan. It's up to Orhon to handle this. And he will."

Tara wanted to go and talk to Nanna. "We might at least tell Nanna that we'll be hiding. She won't spoil our game."

"Be brave, Tara. You shouldn't expect others to help you in this game. Don't trust anyone but yourself because no one can help you."

She was right. As a matter of fact she should not be trusting Kali, either. "I don't need anyone's help anyway," she said, shrugging her shoulders.

They tiptoed silently along the hallway and went out through the main door into the back garden. Hiding behind the trees, they made their way to the front of the house. As they were sneaking past Sumer, snoozing in a deckchair, Tara tripped over a stone. Snow White flew out of her hand, landed on the lawn and, rolling over, ended up underneath Sumer's deckchair. Tara made to get it but Kali had already seized her arm.

"Let's not lose time, Tara. Leave Snow White there where she can sleep peacefully in the shade. Our journey is going to be a tough one. You have to leave your emotions aside; they will blur your mind and prevent you from making the right decision. Use your brains. Set your strategy."

Tara walked indecisively after Kali towards the steps leading down to the beach. Silently, they scampered down. When they reached the last step, Kali stopped abruptly. Tara hit her and stumbled.

"What's the matter, Kali? You almost made me fall."

"Shush!" Kali hissed, gesturing with her head towards the beach.

There was someone lying on the sand. Tara tried to see who it was. Was it Maya? Yes, it was. She was lying face up on the white sand in complete surrender to the sun's rays. She was wearing a silver bikini that shone like the skin of a fish, an almost non-existent bikini. She had bent one of her knees and dug her foot into the sand. Her other leg was stretched out. She did not mind the infrequent waves wetting her foot. All of a sudden, she raised herself on her elbows. Had she noticed them? In panic, Tara hid behind the bushes by the steps. Peeking through, she saw Maya taking handfuls of sand and then letting them stream down between her fingers while she briefly raised her eyes to the sky before lowering them back to the sea again. She was smiling to herself, or she looked that way; by contracting her eyes against the strong sunlight she was involuntarily pushing the edges of her lips up. Pulling her hair up, she lay down again. Tara glanced at Kali. She had squatted next to her. When had she changed her clothes? Or was it the bright sunlight giving them that disgusting mousy colour?

"Let's go to the hooded deckchair over there, Tara. That's a better hiding place."

On tiptoe, they ran towards one of the deckchairs lined up in one corner of the beach, closer to the rocks, and settled in the round one with the orange hood. Tara pulled her legs very close to her chest and hid underneath the hood. She could not see Maya now. That meant Maya would not be able to see her, had she looked. Taking out her tin soldier, her white marbles and her green-eyed golden goat, she lined them up next to her.

"Do you want to listen to the rest of our story?" asked Kali.

"Yes but you must be really quiet."

Inanna descended the steps leading to the Underworld, where her twin sister Ereshkigal ruled. The Underworld was a dark and dreary place, populated by demons, djinns, fiends, devils and hellhounds, a place where the dead wandered with nothing to drink and only sand and dust to eat.

Kali fell silent. And then, hugging Tara, she said, "When we were little, we were so scared listening to this part of the story that we would hide underneath the blanket. It was only after we were convinced that there was nothing to be afraid of that we would pick up our courage and peek through the little holes of the blanket's colourful granny squares." She paused. "I will stop here if you don't want to listen to the rest of it."

"I'm not scared. What is there to be scared of? Carry on."

"All right then. As you wish."

The palace of Ereshkigal, the Queen of the Underworld, had seven gates. At the first gate, Inanna knocked and demanded to be admitted. The gatekeeper asked who she was.

"I'm Inanna, the Queen of Heaven."

The gatekeeper wanted to know why she wanted to visit the Underworld. Inanna said that she wanted to attend her brother-in-law's funeral rites. Her actual intention, however, was to conquer the Underworld ruled by Ereshkigal, to gain power and knowledge over death by witnessing others' funerals. The Underworld, however, would let her be a witness to only one funeral: her own.

The gatekeeper told her to wait while he delivered her message to Ereshkigal. Hearing of Inanna's arrival, Ereshkigal told the gatekeeper to bolt the seven gates to the Underworld. To pass through these gates, Inanna needed to remove one of her adornments or clothes at each one. The gatekeeper, following Ereshkigal's orders, told Inanna that she could pass through the first gate only if she gave away her lapis lazuli measuring rod. "Why?" asked Inanna.

"That's what the holy traditions of the Underworld dictate."

Inanna gave away her measuring rod and passed through the first gate.

"Shall we go for a swim?"

That was her father's voice! He had found her. And he did so before it went dark. He had noticed that she had gone missing. She jumped to her feet with the exhilaration of her victory. And as soon as she did, she cringed back to her hiding place. Her father was standing right next to Maya, holding out his hand to help her up to her feet. He was not looking for Tara. He had not even noticed that she had gone missing. There was not even a trace of distress on his face. She watched him take his shirt off and walk towards the sea. He was going in without her. She could hardly hold herself back from going after him. Dismayed, with a jaundiced pang of jealousy, she watched Maya walk towards the end of the pier. Was she going to dive, dive even better than Tara did? She should show her how well she did that. She made to get up, but Kali prevented her from doing so by grasping her arm. Maya was now standing at the end of the pier, looking at the water. She seemed to be hesitating about whether to jump in or not. Perhaps she was scared, just like a silly little girl. Her father hated little girls who were frightened of everything. "You shouldn't be afraid of anything," he always said. "Nothing should intimidate you."

Her father swam towards the pier and said something to Maya, who dived in without further ado. They started swimming together.

"It's not Maya who is supposed to be there but me," Tara hissed beneath her breath, her voice hardly audible even to herself.

Her father was playing with Maya as he always did with Tara, holding her hands and turning her round and round in the water. Tara felt her eyes burning. She was going to cry. No, Tara! You need to be strong.

She saw her mother and Nanna standing next to the wooden fence by the stone benches looking down onto the beach. Were they looking for her? No, they were looking at the sea, watching those having fun in the water. They both wore a most annoying smile, or perhaps it seemed so to Tara from a distance. She narrowed her eyes to see better. Yes, she was right; they _were_ smiling. Everybody was happy without her. No one cared where she was, what she was doing. No one was looking for her.

"There are so many better places to hide outside the house, Tara." Kali had climbed down from the deckchair. "Let's go and climb the rocks, shall we?"

"I'm not allowed to go there. Mum will be really cross."

"You need to decide what you want to do. Do you want to hide or don't you?"

"I do, but..."

"Then what's the problem?"

"What if I make the wrong decision?"

"I think you're scared."

"No! I'm not a silly little girl who is afraid of everything."

"It's not a crime to be a little girl, Tara, or to be scared of certain things. Neither is it so bad to act in a silly way at times because of those fears."

"Of course it is. My dad hates girls like that."

"What is bad is to stay that way. Your father is right. You have to learn how to be brave, to be strong enough to overcome your fears. You should be strong not because your father likes strong people but for yourself. When you're strong, you won't need anybody's protection."

She no longer wanted to listen to Kali. "Let's climb the rocks, then," she cut her short. Picking up her toys, she stuffed them in her pockets. Yes, she did want to hide. She would hide and not come out until it was dark. She would make them worried sick. She would punish her father.

They scooted off towards the rocks. Tara stopped to look back. Her father had still not seen her, being so wrapped up in his fun and games. She looked up at the garden. Her mother and Nanna had not even noticed her walking towards the rocks.

"Don't look back. You'll be turned to a pillar of salt if you do."

"You blame me for living in a fairy tale but you yourself are stuck in them. We're not the heroes of a tale, Kali."

Some of the rocks were flat and very slippery and some were round, without anything to hold on to. They needed to scramble up on all fours most of the way. Tara sneaked a last glance at her father. Seeing him embrace Maya, she quickened her pace in frustration. The rocks towards the top were really steep. She slipped and almost fell down.

"Kali! Help me. Please."

"Can't you manage on your own?"

"You're so mean."

"It's all for your own good."

Holding on to the little weeds in between the rocks, Tara finally managed to reach the footpath at the top, leading to the woods. Kali had arrived before her.

"Shall we go to the next bay?" she asked, challenging Tara.

Tara was not allowed to do that either, the next bay being an even more strictly forbidden territory. Last summer Sena had once gone down there, infuriating their parents. But that was last summer and they were too little then. She wheeled round to take stock of the situation on the beach. Her father and Maya were getting out of the water. "Let's go!" she declared. I have climbed up the rocks, so I can easily climb down them, she reasoned self-encouragingly. It was a bit scary but she could. She wasn't a baby anymore. And she wasn't alone; she had Kali with her.

Kali watched Tara, who had made her way down towards the next bay, as far as where the rocks reached the water. She did not want to go that far down, finding the sight of the little waves splashing against the rocks impossibly nauseating. Tearing her gaze away from the water, she went down a couple of paces. On the rocks further ahead, she spotted four goats, each a different colour. What were they doing there? She retreated a few steps. And then she saw Nadir and the Fisherman come out of their hut at the other end of the bay. She squatted hastily behind a rock. "Tara!" she called out. "Hide."

Tara hid behind a large rock. Looking at Kali over her shoulder, she said in a loud whisper, "Shall we go and talk to them?"

"I don't think it's a good idea to let them see us."

"Why? Nadir will help us hide."

"What about the Fisherman? I think he'll take you straight home to your mother."

Tara moved away from the rock and started climbing up.

"Stop! They'll see you."

The white marbles fell out of Tara's pocket and rolled down the rocks. "My marbles!" she shrieked.

"Never mind them. They're not important. The white stone symbolising innocence is history now. The judges no longer use white and black stones to show what their decisions are. We don't have much time. We must hide, and hide quickly."

The marbles vanished. "I'm losing everything."

When they were back on the footpath at the top, both Nadir and the Fisherman had disappeared from sight. Tara, not being as agile as Kali, was breathless; she had been struggling not to lose her balance.

"Kali? I can't find my tin soldier. Have I dropped that as well?"

"Didn't you notice? You dropped it climbing from the deckchair."

"Why didn't you tell me?"

"You should have been more careful."

"You're really mean, Kali."

"I told you already. It's for your own good."

"You're talking nonsense."

" _You're_ talking nonsense. Do you expect your tin soldier to protect you?"

"I don't need anybody to protect me. And I will not go back home. I'm not going back until dad notices I'm missing and gets really upset."

Kali looked at the woods. It was really dark among the trees. "Have you ever been in the woods?" she asked in a challenging voice.

"Of course I have. We've been there many times with dad. To pick mushrooms. But there are no mushrooms at this time of the year."

"I mean, have you been there on your own?"

Without saying anything, Tara spun round abruptly and dashed into the woods.

Poor girl, thought Kali. She does more and more courageous things to suppress her real fear. She called after her. "Don't rush. Think. Have you ever thought about why you're pushing yourself so hard to act bravely? Might it be a fraught attempt to hide a much bigger fear of yours? Think about it."

Tara paused briefly. "What is there to think about? Hurry up."

"There are no wolves, ghosts or witches in the woods, Tara, but neither are there any fairies to help us. Think, and think hard." Then she murmured to herself, "And here begins our short story, _Into the Woods_."

Tara was already too far away to hear what Kali had said.

"Wait for me," she hollered as she ran after her.
19

After taking the plunge, hoping to vanish into thin air, I cannon into the water like a bomb. Surfacing, I look up; my gaze travels along the steep cliff, rising in layer after layer. The rock at the very top, where I was standing in no man's land only a short while ago, seems so far away that I cannot help thinking, "My God, I am something, aren't I?" Nadir has not jumped yet. With his face turned towards me, he bounces up and down on his toes a few times. Then, after a slight jump upwards, he dives. He must be mad. From that height! Head first! Is he showing off or what?

He cuts the water like a spear. I cannot see how deep he goes. He surfaces right next to me, looking highly content with himself, the edges of his lips extending in an upward curve, almost reaching his ears. "Shall we?" he asks, his head beckoning us to swim somewhere. I turn my head. The Bat Rocks. Like everyone else on this island, I too know that those rocks, resembling a bat with open wings, are right above the entrance to the Dark Cave. I'm shivering. The water is very cold. I want to get out.

"What about going into the Dark Cave?"

The Dark Cave? That wasn't bargained for. Our goal at the outset did not include going into that cave. I can't admit that I don't want to go in.

He whirls around and swims to the boat.

The Dark Cave. What a stupid name. Caves are dark anyway, aren't they? Are there any light caves? A cave is no longer a cave if it is not dark, right?

A few minutes later Nadir returns with an underwater torch. Do these things still exist? This place does not belong to the world of today, Tara, have you forgotten?

"Go on. Be a sport. There's nothing to be scared of," he says.

"Scared? Scared of what? Don't be ridiculous," I snap, before swimming away in a fast crawl. I wonder if there are any bats in there. Are there bats in the caves? Of course there are. Just the right place for them. Stop being such an idiot. How can there be any? The bats can't swim, can they? How are they supposed to come in and out? Perhaps they have been living there for centuries, ever since the times when the tide was low and the cave was open to everyone and everything. Watch out for your toes! You won't even notice when they bite you. _Light as a bat's kiss_.

Nadir stops right in front of the bat's wings. "You've been in there before, haven't you?"

He sallies forth to explain, before I can say I haven't. "We'll need to stay underwater exactly one minute and ten seconds – that is if we swim really very fast. Can you do it, being such a heavy smoker?" Without waiting for my answer, he tells me how I should prepare my lungs and how I should fill them with air before diving.

"I don't need any breathing lessons, Nadir. Have you forgotten? I used to stay underwater much longer than you did."

The slightly sardonic smile on his face makes me cringe with shame. Only a six-year-old silly little girl can believe that a seventeen-year-old young boy cannot stay underwater longer than a six-year-old. And it is of course quite ridiculous for a twenty-nine-year-old young woman to make such a comment in all seriousness. I try to convince myself that his smile has been triggered by his conviction that I was joking. I squirm at the possibility of him clocking my naivety.

"You need to accept that you might have something to learn from others every now and then. And you should give up showing extra resistance when that other person belongs to the male population." He touches the tip of my nose. "Let's relax, shall we? Let's float face up on the surface to slow down our pulses."

Has he noticed that my heart is throbbing?

Letting go of myself, I float on the water like a piece of wood. I close my eyes, inhaling and exhaling deeply. The water is velvety against my skin, its beguiling softness harbouring an unyielding strength, taming my hair into soft and pliable strands of seaweed. There is a strange murmuring sound under the water. I have goose pimples. A while later, feeling Nadir's finger on my nose, I open my eyes. His hand brushes through my hair. Or is it my imagination? I straighten up.

"I want you to dive here before going into the cave."

"Why is that?"

"You ask too many questions."

"Are we in for a crash course in diving?"

"Do as I tell you, Tara. Please."

I take a deep breath and dive in. A breaststroke. Then another. I'm heading deeper. I cannot see the bottom; it is too deep. Is that a starfish resting on that rock? I reach out for it. Suddenly I feel something coiled around my ankle. It is pulling me. Involuntarily my mouth opens and I swallow a good mouthful of water. I pull my foot away with all my strength, but to no effect. Closing my mouth tightly, I turn around. It is Nadir. He is smiling. He lets go of my ankle. Some of the seaweed he has wrapped around his hand remains on my foot. Downright furious, I push myself up. Nadir is there on the surface before me.

"What do you think you're doing?" I spit out quite out of breath. "Do you think that's a joke?"

"Calm down, Tara. I just wanted to see what your reaction would be if on our way into the cave something caught your foot or something unexpected happened. To be honest and more precise, I wanted _you_ to see that."

"You're crazy! I nearly drowned."

"Oh, don't give me that." He wraps an arm around my waist. "Let's take a rest," he says in a tone annoyingly soothing. "We'll carry on later."

"This is not a game."

"You can discover more about a person in an hour of play than in a year of conversation." He lets go of my waist. "Said Plato."

Clever clogs! How come he knows that? He must have educated himself. As a matter of fact, his father, the Fisherman, was a very wise man. Nadir will probably be like him in old age, given that there is nothing much in this wasteland other than reading.

We swim back towards the bat's wings and stop in front of a rather flat rock underneath one of the wings. He pulls himself up onto the rock in one swift movement and extends his hand to help me do the same. I accept this act of benevolence, although I don't need it. We sit side by side.

"I'm sure you're better prepared now," he says, his eyes penetrating mine, "for the threats you might encounter in a situation you're not accustomed to." He is so serious that I cannot understand if he is being sarcastic or not.

"Any other lessons you might want to teach me?" I ask in a no less serious tone.

"It depends on what sort of lessons you're willing to take."

"A course on fishing, for instance." Spot on; it is his strongest suit.

"I sometimes see myself in you, Tara, my old self." His eyes are fixed on the water now, possibly on the horizon. My eyes join in. Boredom. A tinge of uneasiness perhaps? A long rest. Do we need one?

"Let's go into the cave," he finally says. "If we dive a few yards ahead, that will be the shortest way to its entrance."

"You lead the way, knowing everything so thoroughly well."

We are back in the water. A few strokes later Nadir looks at me and, without saying anything, takes a deep breath and dives in. I exert myself not to think much while sucking in a few deep breaths. A final, even deeper one. I hold it. And I go under. The rocks are as steep as a wall. I follow Nadir. We go down and down. The water is crystal clear. Cerulean blue this time. He suddenly disappears through the rocks. I quicken my pace. He vanishes through a huge hole. The mouth of the Dark Cave. Don't think about it, Tara. Just swim. A feeble streak of light teeters towards me. He must have turned on his underwater torch. The water has become very cold now. My face is freezing. We swim through a wide passage. My lungs hurt. Everything is becoming blurred. I keep my eyes securely fixed on the weak light and on Nadir. The passage ends. My lungs are about to burst. I exhale a little bit. Nadir heads upwards. I raise my head. It is dark up there. We are in the cave. Swimming towards the surface, I beat my feet vigorously, while emptying my lungs completely. An acute pain clenches my chest, intent on squeezing the life out of me. A last-ditch effort and I shoot up through the surface. Air! A breath! A deeper one. And another. What a relief. Nadir is by my side. He is breathless as well. Smiling. I can't smile.

We are in the cave. So what? Why did I have to do this?

As my breath goes back to normal, I look around. The walls of the cave are dark, very dark. The water, however, is the most beautiful blue I have ever seen. Fluorescent. Glittering. Flat as a mirror. Even a slight blow would create ripples. Nadir's arms reflect a curiously silver gleam. We swim to a large, flat rock and climb on it. He lies down, facing up; I sit by him. Our bodies undulate in amazing shades of blue. The rocks, on the other hand, stubbornly remain pitch black, an eerie background I avoid by reverting my eyes to the water and keeping them firmly fixed on that slice of thalassic refuge, which, seemingly blurred when we were under, now resembles a soothingly transparent but menacingly bottomless well. The stalagmites in their aquatic abode scintillate in silver, looking daggers at us. The passage to the outside world, reassuringly white, provides a blotch of visual relief. As my eyes adapt themselves to the dark, the rocks lose their blackness, revealing their inherent dark greyness marked with an occasional faint blue tint. Stalagmites of all sizes and shapes among the rocks reach up, emaciated ghosts sprung from the underground and petrified at the touch of fresh air. A few of those, giant ones, right opposite us pretend to be the columns that hold the cave erect.

"I wonder why they call it the Dark Cave. It should have been christened the Blue Cave."

"We haven't reached the Dark Cave yet," he says, before standing up and extending his hand. "Come on." He is beckoning me to climb the rocks behind us.

Ignoring his hand, I follow him.

"Watch your step."

Things were going well so far, Nadir. Why don't we stay here?

We carry on. A few rocks later, we are forced to bend our heads down as the rocks above make it difficult to remain vertical. The darkness intensifies. Nadir turns on the underwater torch, a collector's item much appreciated at this particular moment in time. We go through a very narrow passage, folded almost in two. "Be careful. Watch your head," he warns me unnecessarily, since I am already being very careful. Finally we straighten our backs. I take a deep breath. I think I can relax now. He puts his arm around my shoulders. An opening. Tartarean. He turns off the torch. We are in the Dark Cave.

"The cave where the pirates of olden times hid their treasures," he explains.

A thin streak of light streaming in from a tiny hole above us paints a light patch on a rock ahead. It's freezing cold. The water dripping from my hair gives me the creeps. I shudder. Nadir squeezes my shoulder, a surprising warmth emanating from his hand.

"Too tiny a hole for the bats to enter," he whispers, lighting his torch again.

We stand dead still. For the first time since our entry, I notice the smell of the cave, a humid, peculiar smell. I want to go back. My eyes scan around, following the light of the torch. The rocks resemble waterfalls frozen in a snapshot. Silent. An abundance of the ghost stalagmites here. More unsettling than them are the stalactites above, threatening to drop unexpectedly like a dagger into the heart. Hundreds of them. Thousands? Drippings from a giant candle that have been burning on the cave ceiling for thousands of years. I feel like a midget. In wonderland.

"Shall we go back?" he asks and, without waiting for an answer, holds my hand and leads me to the narrow passage. I would run, if I could, towards the refreshing blue water. Nadir moves ahead slowly. Eventually we reach the end of the narrow passage and start our descent. All of a sudden, I feel my hair get entangled in something. Pulling it, I realise that it is not entangled in anything; there is something in my hair. Be careful! Bats might get caught in your hair. In panic, I move my hands, my arms, my head around, frantically ruffling my hair. My arm hits Nadir. He stumbles and tries to hold on to the rock next to him. He can't. He slips. He is falling down. From one rock to the next. Then to the next. His torch goes out. "Nadir!" Don't go, Nadir! Don't leave me here all alone. I dart after him. Squatting, I touch his arm. "Nadir? Are you all right?"

"I'm fine. What happened? Are _you_ all right?"

"Yes, yes, I'm OK. I thought I had something in my hair."

He runs his fingers through my wet hair, dishevelling it. A reassuring smile appears on his face as his touch brushes softly across my cheek. He sits up and pulls me closer to himself. I feel his head to make sure he is not hurt. Much to my relief, I see no blood on my hand.

"I'm all right, Tara."

A comforting feeling cocoons me as we sit in a silence that lasts a few short breaths.

"I might be stealing your thunder, but I want to tell you a story," he says, almost in a whisper. "The only story I know, in fact. The story I know the best. Perhaps I shouldn't be calling it a story. Well, anyway. Here is how it goes." He holds my chin and turns my head towards the rocks opposite us. "In a time of timeless thyme when the chimes rhymed and the mimes primed or the rhymes chimed and the primes mimed there was a cave as dark as the thickest grime. In that cave lived prisoners, who, chained since birth, were bound in such a way that they could only look straight ahead at a huge rock. Behind them burned a fire. And between that fire and the prisoners there was an elevated path where puppeteers held up puppets, moving them about as they wished. The puppets cast their shadows on the rock opposite the prisoners, while the noises they made echoed on the walls of the cave. The prisoners, never having known anything other than these shadows and echoes, took them for real, ignorant of the fact that they were only a reflection of reality."

He turns to look at me. "You're not cold, are you?" he asks, gently touching my cheek. "Come, come away time, fly, fly away rhyme," he continues as he puts his arm around me, "there came a day when, heaven only knows why, someone came along and freed one of the prisoners from his chains. When the prisoner turned around and saw the puppets on the path behind him, he could not understand what they were or how he should name them. For him, reality was the shadows on the rock; what he discovered on the path was nothing but a reflection of that reality. The light of the fire hurt his eyes. In panic, he diverted his gaze back to the shadows on the rock, back to the reality he knew. Then his saviour forced him to go out of the cave. Overawed by the unknown, he became angry and resisted. Eventually, however, he agreed to go out. The sunlight blinded his eyes. He wanted to return to his own reality, but his saviour did not let him. A short time later, the prisoner got used to the sunlight and began seeing the reality around him. In time, he was even able to look at the sun itself."

"And he never went back to the dark cave."

"Well, actually he did. He went back to liberate the other prisoners. None of them believed him, though. They made fun of him, taking him for a fool, mocking him for not seeing well in the dark anymore."

Nadir falls silent. The sounds the cave offers amplify into unreal echoes, its hidden corners revealing themselves one by one as my eyes penetrate through the dark. The water lures me into its cyanic depths. I climb down, jumping from one rock to the next, self-assured as if walking on a well-known path. Nadir follows me to the edge of the water.

"You're becoming braver by the moment," he says, this time with no irony in his voice, before jumping into the water. The reflections of the ghost stalagmites undulate over the ripples his body sets in motion. I join him, plunging in, not minding the ghosts. A deep breath before going under to swim towards the white hole. The exodus is easier.

When I surface, the strong sunlight dazzles my eyes. I think about Nadir's story. I smile.

"The courage you showed entering the Dark Cave means nothing, Tara. It requires a lot more to get out of the dark cave in your inner world."

I swim away. Back on board, we dry ourselves. A pleasingly satisfying sense of fatigue envelopes me. Nadir comes out of the cabin with a small piece of white cloth. He brushes his hair with his hands, although his short hair does not need any such grooming. Then he wraps the white cloth around his head in a way that a pirate would do, leaving half of his forehead exposed, and ties it at the back of his neck. The two long edges hanging down from the knot sway on his tanned back in the gentle breeze, caressing his shoulders every now and then. My eyes travel down to where a triangular shadow starts at his waist, a shadow which is in fact a patch of curly hair, almost blonde after having been exposed to the sun throughout the summer and will probably never get darker, a shadow that is lost to view where it meets his swim shorts.

"I love being on the water," I say.

Nadir sits opposite me, leaning back on the fenders lined up on the deck, spreading one arm over the lifeline, resting the other on his head. His moustache and beard shine in occasional blonde streaks. His eyebrows are almost blonde. He is gazing at the sea.

"It's so relaxing. Your nerves, your muscles, everything lets go. Rocking so very gently. My dad used to say that the best cradle ..."

"Our strongest instinct is to stay alive," he cuts in.

He is not listening to me.

"How many people are really appreciative of having satisfied that instinct, just that single desire? If we're to go deeper, we see that everything we human beings desire or need are only elaborate derivatives of our inherent urge to live and to reproduce. The desire to eat good food, for instance ..."

What on earth is he talking about?

"... or the desire to be beautiful so as to attract the strongest, or the desire to be strong so as to attract the most beautiful and the most fertile, or the desire to dress well, the desire to have fun, to love and to be loved ... when one becomes a slave to such gilded versions of one's basic instincts, one forgets that he is actually living." He turns abruptly and looks at me. "One should enjoy the simple fact of being alive."

I don't feel like talking at all. The sound of the wind. The sound of the wavelets splashing against the hull. I don't care for anything else. I close my eyes. We say nothing. I hear Nadir stand up, go below deck and come out again. I open my eyes. A plateful of sea urchins. Pitch black. Shiny. Alive. Spiky. A few drops of lemon. We eat them ravenously. I watch him clean the lobster he says he caught and cooked this morning while I was fast asleep. A few splashes of bodily juices from the lobster on my cheek, then on my forehead. A lobster sandwich generously bathed in olive oil, accompanied by white wine, ice-cold. I'm so hungry.

In the fullness of time we decide to go back. "Anchor aweigh!" Leaving the bay, port tack, close reach. Then sailing close hauled _per forza e per amore_. Sharpening up as much as we can. Nadir steers almost as well as my dad. He heads up with such a trim that the jib does not luff, even for a second. It's like walking on a thin line. Finally there comes a moment when we can't head up any longer and tack. The wind blows at almost gale force. The sea heaps, the waves breaking into white caps. We heel more and more. Time and again, the waves lick the deck. I glance at the cabin. The portholes at the galley go down the waterline and come up again. We reef the main sail. "Let's furl the jib in a little," Nadir says, leaving the wheel to me before moving to the foredeck. Am I ready for this weather? I sure am. "Ease off the jib sheet!" he shouts. I follow his orders while he pulls in the furling line. "Now the furling line!" I pull it in; the jib shortens. Nadir is back. He takes over the helm again. On we go, surfing over the waves heaping in the wind, our eyes fixed on the speed meter at the peak of each surf. We go faster and faster. The splashes from the breaking waves wet my face. I lick the salt of the sea. We are flying.

After three tacks, we reach Cape Blunt. As soon as we turn around the cape, starboard tack, reach. We slacken the sheets a shade. A few minutes later, broad reach. The boat runs. Nadir sets such a course that we sail many a wave, many a wind, up a surf, down a cap, without a single jibe and almost without a single word. While the sun shines in golden patches on the water and the waves rock the boat like a cradle, he asks, quite out of the blue, "Are you as strong as you think you are?"

"What makes you say that I consider myself strong?"

"Do you think you're weak, then?"

"Please, just let me be. Let me surrender myself to the wind without thinking about anything for a while," I snap, sheeting the main in unnecessarily.

"Ease off," he says softly. "I mean ease off the main sheet," he adds, smiling impishly.
20

They walked far and beyond, here and near, hither and thither; they went up the hill, down the dale and yonder into the depths of the woods darker than the dark woods of the toy theatre; they travelled the length of autumn through prairies, grass and pasture, picking daisy, rose and aster, sipping cold and clear water, only to look back and see that they travelled no more than the length of an ear.

Tara felt somewhat tired. They sat down on the trunk of a tree covered in moss and eaten by worms after having died and collapsed to the ground months or perhaps years ago. Kali started at even the slightest rustle, crackle or crunch. Was she scared?

"Memorise the things around us, Tara. Memorise where they are. That tree, for instance, the one with a huge hollow that looks like the mouth of a lion. Remember that it is very near the footpath."

"Why?"

"Because you won't be able to see anything once it gets really dark. That is when you'll need to see with your memory. Nothing changes in the dark, but you think it does because you can't see things. Besides, you might lose your way, even in daylight. We're not going to drop breadcrumbs to find our way back home, are we? You know perfectly well that the birds would eat them."

"I don't need to find my way back. My father will find me and take me back home."

Kali smiled. It was a twisted, scoffing smile. "You shouldn't trust anyone but yourself to find your way back home. Therefore, you'd better listen to what I tell you," she said. After a brief pause, she continued. "The smells, they are the most important thing in the woods, even more important than the sounds. Sometimes it is your nose that shows you the way. You need to recognise the various smells, the smell of the leaves for instance, the smell of wet leaves, of dry leaves, of bark, of moss-covered tree trunks. You must know them all by heart."

A bee was buzzing around them. A bee from the Honey Estate intent on avenging the theft of the honey in the yogurt in the backpack? After flying frantically round and about, it landed on Tara's thigh and headed upwards towards the shorts of her playsuit. It would sting, if it felt trapped underneath it. In panic, she pulled up her shorts.

"Don't move, Tara! It's licking the salt on your skin. It'll go away. It doesn't mean to sting you."

"I know, Kali. Just like those butterflies, licking Othello's tears for salt."

The bee must have had enough salt, for it flew away.

"We've sat for too long," said Tara as she sprang to her feet. "Let's find somewhere to hide."

They charged ahead, Tara at Kali's heel. After a few steps, she caught sight of some red spots on the leaves in front of her, blood-red spots. Was it blood? Yes, it was. Kali was bleeding. "Kali, stop! I think you're hurt."

Kali halted. The toes of her right foot were bathed in blood.

"What happened to your foot?"

"I don't know. I must have hit it somewhere. I didn't notice."

Tara bent down to take a closer look. There was a very thick thorn stuck in Kali's big toe. Or was it the sting of a poisonous insect? Would a fatal poison eventually kill Kali, leaving Tara all alone in the dark woods?

"What do you mean, you didn't notice? Something huge is stuck in your toe. Don't move. Sit down right here and let me pull it out."

Kali suddenly burst out crying.

"Don't cry, Kali. There's nothing to be scared of." She had to take care of Kali's wound. She did not want to be forced to go back home. She would not give up so easily. Very carefully, she took the end of the thorn between two fingers and gently pulled it out. The wound started to bleed more. "Stay still," she ordered while squeezing the flesh around the wound. A little blood, with the poison if there was any, had to be oozed out. In fact, she needed to suck it, but even the thought of it was enough to turn her stomach. She squeezed a bit more and then placed Kali's hand on it. "Press your finger right here." The wound needed to be cleaned. She took out the water bottle from her backpack. It would not open; its cap was stuck. She tried to turn it with all her might. The cap suddenly snapped open and the impact sent the bottle flying from her hand. It fell onto the ground and tumbled away. Reaching out to catch it, she hit her backpack and toppled it over. The container with the rosehip-syrup-and-honey-flavoured yogurt rolled out, hit the trunk of a tree; its lid opened and the yogurt it contained sprawled over the leaves. When Tara got hold of the water bottle, she saw that it had emptied.

"Don't fret, Tara. Human beings can survive for at least four days without drinking water."

"We're not going to stay here for four days. Dad will find me."

She tore a large piece off the hem of her playsuit top to dress Kali's wound.

"Shall we go back, Tara?"

"No, we shall not. We'll stay right here."

"You flinch from going back because you dread the punishment they'll give you."

"Not at all. I don't want to go back, because... because I'm going to be the one to win in this game. We shall hide until my father finds me. This hide and seek is an unusual hide and seek, where you win when you're found. You said it yourself that this was a different kind of game, didn't you?"

"They once told me that the woods destroy all rhyme and reason. Now I know what they meant."

The sun had not set yet but it was almost dark in the woods. The foliage above, intertwined like a tight mesh, blocked the rays of the sun, unsettlingly weak now as it sank swiftly towards the horizon.

"Don't look at the darkness, Tara. Look at the sea, at the last rays of sunlight glittering on the water." Kali had shrunk. She looked really small and fragile, hesitantly humming a tune, most probably making up the lyrics. After a few more faltering notes, her drone turned into a feeble whistle, which eventually died out, leaving her dead silent.

"Shall we go and hide in the hollow of that tree, Kali?"

"My toe really hurts. I won't be able to walk."

"I'll give you a hand."

Tara helped Kali stand up. They walked to the tree hollow, which was large enough to accommodate them both. Kali lay on the ground.

"Don't do that. You'll be cold. Sit up and wait until I make you a bed, just like the one in Nanna's stories."

Tara went out of the tree hollow. Without going too far, she gathered an armful of branches, moss and dry leaves and returned to make a mattress, on which they sat side by side. From her backpack, she took out her torch, hung it at the entrance to the hollow and turned it on. A weak light spread from it. She took out her green-eyed golden goat and seated it next to the torch.

Kali put her head on Tara's lap. "This is as thick as my mattress at home. Thank you, Tara."

The tree hollow smelled of wet wool, sticky with humidity. The light of the torch trembled once and then twice before dying out.

Kali was murmuring a riddle. "Mrak mrak said the frog."

"You can't scare me. It's not me who is lying down. Mrak can only lie on _you_. It can only strangle _you_."

"I'm not from this island and I don't believe in Mrak. Therefore it can't strangle me, can it?"

"Neither am I from this island, nor am I stupid enough to believe in Mrak. Besides my frogs say 'Croak!' So there's no way you can scare me."

"I'm not your frightening master, Tara. I'm your friend, a friend at your service, although it's up to you to make it so."

Kali's toe hurt so badly. The bleeding had stopped but there was a painful throbbing. Perhaps what Tara had pulled off was not a thorn but the sting of a poisonous insect. Could she have been poisoned? They said that saliva was the best cure for wounds. It might be best if she undressed her wound and licked it.

"The sun is about to set. Isn't my dad concerned about me?"

Entering the woods was a brave idea but it wasn't a clever one. Their game was no longer a game. Tara must have been scared as well, although she apparently did her best not to show it. Since Kali could not convince her to go back, she should find a way to while away the time. A story! She should tell a story. "No tree can see, no rock can wee, no bee can flee, so let me be and tell you what your dad does without thee," said Kali, snuggling up closer to Tara.

"How do you know what my father does? Can you see him?"

"Perhaps not with my eyes but certainly with my mind. Yes, I can see him with my mind's eye." She held Tara's hand and began her story. "I tell you I belled the cat and grabbed a flea, cracked its knee and stretched its belly; then its harness I laid, its girth I fastened and its tail I dangled; now are you ready for a tale I braided, twisted and tangled?"

"I've never heard such a riddle in my life, not even from Nanna. I think you're making it all up. But anyways, go on, tell it."

"Once there was, twice there was not a time when three arrived and four disappeared and then five returned to turn the day into an upturned oven. Nanna, after bringing a bowl of yogurt flavoured with rosehip syrup and honey to Tara and Kali who had woken up from their afternoon nap, went to Amber's room to see what might possibly have made her cry so desperately. Amber was a spoiled little girl who whined and wailed all the time, thinking that she would get what she wanted if she cried long enough."

"And she does get what she wants."

"Whatever. Amber's role in our story is trivial. We might even say that it is inconsequential. All she does is hold out an occasional mirror to Tara."

"Leave her alone, then. I don't care what she does."

"Nanna picked up snivelling Amber and went down to the kitchen to help Revan prepare the tea. Some of the guests were in the garden, some were on the beach. One was dreaming in a seemingly eternal slumber, another daydreaming in the depths of his scriptorial endeavours like a diligent scriber. Meanwhile, Orhon went to Revan's studio in search of the set and costume designs in that chaotic yonder. There were certain details he wanted to share with Kim, the scriber. In that disorderly chamber of artistry, he looked for the designs up a desk, down a chair, through the shelves and through the air, by the sofa, the easel and the hair, finally finding what he was looking for in a remote corner less travelled and bedevilled by the maiden rare and fair. Eventually, he moved on to the kitchen to debrief Revan about the designs that he very much cared about. Revan was more than willing to abscond from the detestable chores of the teatime rite. Leaving behind the tea, insidiously brewing to a hue as dark as hare's blood, and the variety of cakes, savouries and biscuits – all lovingly baked by who else but Nanna – waiting to be transferred to their temporary abode on plates galore, she answered Orhon's queries in minute detail. After three lengths of questions and five lengths of answers, Orhon, enlightened by Revan's elucidation of the finer points of her designs, returned to his place under the pine trees next to Kim, the scriber. A few lengths of cricket chirps and many lengths of bird tweets later, teatime began. Although not too keen on teatime liturgy, Orhon and Kim gobbled the too-delicious-to-resist savouries while discussing the designs. Sumer was still snoozing in his deckchair, oblivious to all that was going on around him. He had not seen Nanna, Revan, Erol and Suzan come out of the kitchen with the overfilled trays. Neither was he aroused by the delectable smells of cinnamon, cheese and coconut spreading to the garden, nor was he disturbed by the tinkling sounds of the metal spoons hitting the glass teacups as cubes of sugar were stirred in, nor did he hear Nanna telling Amber a fairy tale while forcing her to finish her afternoon snack, nor was he annoyed by the senseless noises Amber made in return. On second thought, it might have suited him better to pretend not to have noticed any of that."

"This part of your story is really very boring, Kali. Tell me what my father does."

"Come, come away time, fly, fly away rhyme, Orhon, much oppressed by the hot clime, decided to have a swim and pass the time. As he moved towards the steps leading down to the beach, he heard Revan call after him between a bite from a coconut biscuit and a sip from her tea. 'Why don't you take Tara with you? She's still in her room.' Orhon, having no tolerance for hot weather, was in a hurry to go down. He did not have much tolerance for spoiled behaviour either. He said he would have a quick swim and be right back, turned around and moved on. Amber, fidgety on Nanna's lap, begged cheekily. 'Take me, Dad. Take me. Take me.' Orhon carried on, ignoring her plea."

"I know very well what my father did afterwards on the beach."

"But you don't know what happened elsewhere, how Nanna, after giving up on spoiling Amber with a tale, stood up and walked over to the wooden fence in front of the stone benches to watch Orhon and Maya have fun in the water. You also don't know what she, standing there by the fence, told your mother..." Kali paused briefly and corrected herself, " _our_ mother, who had stopped sipping her tea, eating her biscuit and listening to know-all Suzan's impractical advice on how to raise a child."

"No, I don't," said Tara resentfully.

"Revan was complaining. 'Tara is still in her room. And no one but Orhon can convince her to come out.' Nanna tried to console her, 'I'll go and check on her in a few minutes.' Of course, none of them knew that they were playing hide and seek. They would have been looking for Tara, had they known, and would have eventually found her. Orhon, blissfully ignorant of his daughter's absence, happily, merrily, much more cool-headedly and even more light-heartedly, followed Maya out of the water, running and jumping about like a child, for no reason apparent to the reasonable mind. After chatting for three lengths of time, giggling for five and reminiscing for two, under the sun, Orhon left Maya alone on the beach and climbed up the steps to the house. He went to Revan and whispered something in her ear, whispered it so quietly that no one, not even Nanna standing right next to them, heard what he had said, or she pretended she did not. Orhon and Revan walked to the house hand in hand and went into the hammam."

"Dad would never go into the hammam in this weather."

"Then let's say that they went upstairs and into their bathroom en suite. I'm not going go into the details of what they did there. You wouldn't understand even if I did. Either a long or short – or long for some and short for others – while later, they were finished with what they were doing in there. When they finally put on their clothes and came down to the garden, the weather was less suffocating, the sun a bit lower in the sky, the crickets a little less screeching and the lawn underneath their bare feet a bit softer. The garden had changed its costume after surrendering itself to happy hour, which had long ago supplanted teatime, whereupon the sound of the metal spoons tinkling against the glass teacups had been replaced by the sound of ice cubes rolling about in glasses filled with a variety of sundowners. Nanna was helping Kim and Suzan refresh their drinks under the pine trees. Spotting Orhon and Revan, she walked towards them. 'Where is Tara? Is she still in her room?' she asked. 'We thought she was with you,' they replied simultaneously. No one knew where Tara was.

And thus everyone joined in that unusual kind of hide and seek. In the panic of having been included in a game they did not know the rules of, they searched Tara's room, then all the other rooms, including the bathrooms and Revan's studio. The apple of their eyes seemed to have evaporated. They checked Tara's favourite corners in the garden in vain. Sirius found Snow White under Sumer's deckchair, but the tongue-tied young girl with skin as white as snow, lips as red as blood and hair as black as ebony told them nothing. Now wide awake, Sumer joined the game with great enthusiasm. They looked in and about the _Taht-ı Revan_ , underneath it, above it and around it, in its every nook and corner and among its snow-white cushions. They scanned along the stone wall on the edge of the cliff, above it, below it, even underneath it. Looking down gave Nanna the creeps. Once she looked and twice she could not. 'She's not going to climb down those rocks,' others reasoned. 'I'm not afraid of her climbing down,' she muttered, 'I'm scared that she might have fallen off.' Orhon said she blew everything out of proportion. Revan said she had a very vivid imagination. None of them, though, could come up with a panacea to Nanna's distress.

Not finding their dearest Tara on or around the stone wall barring the cliff, or in the lower garden reigned over by the _Taht-ı Revan_ , they decided to go down to the beach. 'She would definitely be down there,' they consoled themselves as they went down the steps, some running, some hopping, some in slow steps with the support of the handrail, but all of them as quickly as they could. Maya, who had been sunbathing on the beach and Erol, who had come down a while ago, joined forces with the search party. They searched and searched but all they could find was the tin soldier lying on the sand next to the orange-hooded round deckchair. At the sight of that tiny toy, Revan went berserk. Blaming Orhon for having been too harsh with Tara, she boiled inside with fury against him. Eventually, no longer able to contain her anger, she broke out shouting at the top of her lungs. She yelled a lot, she yelled far and beyond, she bellowed until the hills howled, the rocks roared and the waves wailed. She cried, sobbed and wept until her tears drenched each and every grain of sand completely wet. Orhon carried on running around in alarm with the whining, whimpering and snivelling Amber in his arms, and with a sense of disquietude in his trembling heart. He looked for his daughter in and around the bushes by the beach, up and under the pier, here and there, hither and thither, but he found nothing. Nanna, finally in control of herself, managed to smother her distress, which had been clenching her heart, and tried giving solace to Orhon and Revan. Nothing they did, however, proved to be anything more than a futile undertaking."

"Nanna is very strong. She always finds a solution to everyone's problems."

"Unfortunately, neither Revan calmed down, nor Orhon found success in his search, nor Nanna managed to prolong her self-control. None of them, however, was willing to abandon the hope of finding Tara. Despite Kim's callous grumblings, fanned by his dark anger, they decided to go and take a look at the footpath. Leaving behind the whining Amber and depressing Kim in the loving and understanding care of Suzan, they returned to the steps leading up. Some took twenty, thirty steps, some ten, fifteen, some only a few before they stopped at the fork halfway up where they turned one after the other onto the footpath. Nanna, doing her best to keep calm, was no longer able to conceal her anxiety. A deep wound had suddenly started bleeding."

"What does that mean? Did Nanna have a wound?"

"Yes, she did. But that's another story. I will, one day, tell you that one as well. Let's concentrate on our own story for now, shall we? Walking on the footpath for three lengths of untimely rooster cock-a-doodle-doos, two lengths of donkey hee-haws, one length of an unidentifiable howl for dear life and umpteen lengths of cricket chirps, they reached the top of the rocks. Orhon was unflinchingly valiant. Following Sirius, he fearlessly climbed down the rocks and set off to search every inch of every nook and cranny. The others stayed put in glum silence, not knowing what to do, as if a spell had bound their arms and legs, burned their tongues and blunted their minds. Orhon scouted around the rocks, probing beneath and between them, searching on and under each stone. Leaning over the rocks on the edge, he scanned through the transparent water, which allowed incredible visibility despite its depth and offered visual access to even the slightest movement of a starfish peacefully resting at the very bottom. He left no stone unturned, hunting through and through, in and around the weeds sprouting from between the rocks. He looked around, he grubbed about, he went through everything with a fine-tooth comb throughout, finding neither Tara nor any sign of her at the end of his scout. He was alarmed; he was frustrated. A few specks of fear sprouted even in his brave heart, making his courageous self cringe in shame. Jumping from one rock to the other, with an occasional spring and an odd leap, he returned empty-handed to where the others were waiting. Everybody was decidedly concerned now. Their sanguine eyes were pinned on Sirius, who was their only hope since, being immune to spells, he was not supposed to have his arms and legs bound, his tongue burned or his mind blunted. The feather-brained Sirius, however, was running around aimlessly, engaged in an exercise that served no purpose. He was, despite being the dog of a heroic constellation, slightly dappy. His nose was not very good. Tara's smell was mixing with the other smells, confusing him. Plato, from where he comfortably nuzzled up in Nanna's arms, glanced at the woods a few times, barking weakly, but no one took him seriously. They thought he was agitated by Peanut and Hazelnut scurrying in and out of the woods. Nobody realised that the squirrels were in fact showing the way to those in hiding. The search group moved ahead on the footpath for two lengths of bee buzzes and three and a half lengths of frog croaks before they called out towards the woods. 'Tara!' called out Sumer. 'Tara!' called out Erol. 'Tara!' called out Revan."

"My father called out as well."

"Yes. 'Tara!' called out Orhon. 'She wouldn't have gone into the woods. She'd be scared. It's pretty dark in there now,' he reasoned."

"He was wrong. I'm not scared."

"Don't interrupt me, Tara. Listen. And listen carefully. Nanna was pleading, 'We must go and check the sea. She might have walked along the beach and crossed over to the other side, over to the rocks beneath the cliff.' Everyone was so worried about Tara."

"You're making this all up just to make me feel better. This is nothing but a fairy tale."

They heard voices.

"They're coming, Tara. Listen." Kali sat up, all ears.

Revan's voice was becoming louder and louder.

"Do you believe me now?"

"Hush!" Tara moved further, deep into the tree hollow, to hide better.

"Tara!" That was Sumer's voice. Then they heard Erol shout, "Tara!" Then Revan's voice again.

"Dad, where are you?" Tara murmured in a pleading voice. "Isn't my father there? Isn't he looking for me?" Suddenly gripped by impotent exasperation, she snapped, "These voices are not real. We're imagining them. They're part of your story."

"Tara!"

"Dad! That's my father's voice. He's looking for me." She hugged Kali with a whoop of joy. "His voice was so upset, have you noticed? He still loves me. He's never going to leave me."

"You have to learn how to fight, not against the ghosts but against your fears that create them," whispered Kali. "When you overcome your fears, the ghosts will automatically disappear."

"Shut up Kali! Shut up, right now!"

They heard Revan's voice again. "It's all because of her."

Then Erol's voice echoed on the tree trunks. "It's not her fault. It's nobody's fault. At the moment, we're dealing with a complicated situation that is becoming incrementally more byzantine and impossibly difficult to handle."

A cacophony of voices. Then Orhon's voice. "She couldn't have gone into the woods. She'd be scared. It's pretty dark in there now."

"No, Dad, I'm not scared."

Nanna implored Orhon to check the sea. "She might have walked along the beach and crossed over to the other side, over to the rocks beneath the cliff."

"There is no way she could have climbed those rocks, Mother."

"She might have swum there."

"She won't go into the water on her own," said Revan, in an attempt to soothe Nanna. "She's not that daring." Then her voice sank into an overwrought timbre. "She hates to be away from home. This is the first time something like this has happened. I'm terrified she might have been kidnapped."

"Who is going to kidnap her on this island, Rev? Please don't panic. You're working everyone up. Nothing of the sort would ever happen here. Everybody knows Tara."
21

Today, the day and night are of equal length, but it feels as if it were the longest day of the year, of my whole life to all intents and purposes, an exceptionally long day that was set in motion by the smiling face of Nadir trying to break my glass bell jar and pressed on with ups and downs in an endless blather and blither. I don't know why but I feel very relaxed now, unexpectedly relaxed, either because I'm exhausted or have had too much oxygen. I'm like a rubber band that has been kept tight for too long and was suddenly released. I guess it does me a world of good to concentrate on something else after all.

We have just come back from the Dark Cave. I am surprised at myself for having accepted, without giving it a second thought, Nadir's offer to dine together. I am even more surprised to find myself in his bedroom, getting ready to take a shower and not feeling uncomfortable about it. I feel absolutely at home, as though I have been taking a shower in this room every single day for years. I somehow feel alienated from myself.

Nadir lives in his father's old hut. It is no longer old nor does it look anything like a hut anymore. There is, nevertheless, a peculiar feeling of time having been suspended somewhere in a long-forgotten corner of history. Although Nadir claims to have renovated everything, there is nothing other than electricity and running water that belongs to this day and age. I don't see a single electronic device around. Visual communicators or sense conveyors have not yet made an entrance into his life. How could they have, Tara? On this island? In this bay? "I don't need any of those things," he says. "I've got everything I want here." All of the _objets d'art_ in his house are taken out of the sea, a lifeless starfish, a profusion of sea urchin skeletons, seashells of every shape and size, stones of every shade and hue, a horrendous stone object impossible to identify. It looks like a fossil, probably the fossil of a giant seashell. It has been given the place of honour. One of the seashells on the table by the window catches my eye. It has a mother-of-pearl coating, a detail that carries me to my childhood, to a seashell Nanna had brought from a faraway land, the seashell we used in the toy theatre as the boat the Swan Queen and the Prince embarked upon in Swan Lake. I've never seen anything like that seashell before in this part of the world. It seems manmade. Probably a mother-of-pearl sculpture of a seashell. I pick it up. It's as light as feather. If I held it a tad too tightly, it would readily crumble in my hand. Gently, I bring it closer to my ear and hear the sound of the waves. It's not a sculpture but a real seashell, a true seafarer that captured the sound of the sea before crossing the Styx. I smile. There is no way I can get away from Nanna's fairy tales. I don't think I want to, anyway.

The bedroom is flanked by glass walls. As a matter of fact, the hut itself has glass walls all around. A glass bell jar. The sense of being naked peaks. Apparently Nadir has nothing to hide. Even if he had, he would not need to hide it, since there is not a soul around here to peek into his inner world. Everything in his hut is made of either glass or wood. Natural. Plain. Open and clear. Is it really so? I think about how much I know Nadir. What is there to know about him? Not too much, surely.

I put back the mother-of-pearl seashell where it belongs, undress and go into the bathroom. I am taken aback at the sight of the painting covering one of the walls from floor to ceiling. I cannot be mistaken; it is definitely one of my mother's. I look for the signature. There is none. Its absence confirms my guess. The face of a woman, left side of which is not included in the painting. It is in fact the painting of a sculpture of a woman. Or of a woman like a sculpture. She has no pupils. Her snow-white skin is as smooth as marble. A piece of electric blue cloth is draped over her shoulder, exiting the stage half way down the canvas. My eyes follow its silky soft folds out of the painting and stop on the cyan, turquoise and white towels neatly rolled and stacked up in a niche in the wall. Next to them lies Nadir's watch. It looks exactly like my father's favourite watch, an old watch that once belonged to Granddad. I pick it up. Yes, it is the same model. The Submariner, the famous green design manufactured at the turn of the century to celebrate the fiftieth anniversary of the model, a rare watch, almost impossible to come across. It is probably an imitation. I hardly think Nadir would have the money to buy such a watch or, even if he did, would be ready to spend that much money on an obsolete accessory. I put it down. Don't get distracted, Tara. Take your shower. A giant shower cabin. Nothing other than a bar of green soap stuck in another niche on the wall. I turn on the tap. On second thoughts, I realise that I don't want to take a shower. I love the tightening feeling of the sea salt on my skin. I remember what Nanna used to say. "Don't wash off the gifts of nature straight away. Let your skin suck it all in."

I am not going to take a shower. I turn off the tap. A towel. One of the turquoise ones. I wrap it around my body. Checking myself in the mirror above the sink. Not too shabby. A toothbrush on the counter. A single one. A single. Not a couple. Cut it out, Tara! And get out of here.

I go back into the bedroom and look out the window. Nadir is nowhere to be seen. After rolling myself a cigarette, I go out, sit down next to a column on the patio and light my cigarette. The sun is slowly moving towards the horizon, its light glittering on the water, without a care in the universe. Taking a deep drag from my cigarette, I shut my eyes. Silence. Not quite. Footsteps. My eyelids snap open. No one around. Fabrication of my imagination. The boat we tethered to the end of the pier sways gently. Although the ferocious waves of the open seas cannot enter the bay, their offshoots ripple towards the shore. I watch the waves licking the sandy beach. At some point, two of them meet and, after licking the sand for a little while, return to the sea. A few seconds later, two others meet up. They hug each other in a passionate embrace. Then come two little waves. They can't meet. They're not strong enough to do that. Silently, they retreat in disappointment.

I finish my cigarette and press it into the sand. Another stub catches my eye. "Who might have left it here," I wonder, "given that Nadir doesn't smoke?" Another girl who entered his bedroom just like I did and came out here? Perhaps a girl who not only entered his bedroom but also his bed, spent the night with him? An ignorant broad so oblivious to environmental ethics as to discard her litter on a beach. I stub out my already-extinct cigarette in the sand. On a closer look, I see that what I took to be a cigarette butt is in fact a shrivelled piece of stalk. I relax. The reason for that sense of unexpected relief is surely not based on me being environmentally conscious at this particular instant. Raising my head, I see Nadir come out of the woods with an armful of cut wood and walk towards the beach. Without leaving my cigarette stub there, I jump to my feet. The turquoise towel tries to desert my body. In panic, I snatch it and dash back inside.

Didn't I come to this island to be alone? Why am I not still alone? Or better still, why haven't I left for home? Didn't I have enough of Nadir last night and all day today? Didn't he exhaust me enough since this morning, both physically and mentally? Haven't I had enough of his stupid questions? I don't know why but I can't go anywhere. I notice that my desire to be alone has not occurred to me, not even once, since this morning, when I began to descend the stairs as if spellbound by the irresistible attraction of the sound of the sizzling oil and the smell of the frying eggs.

I approach the window timidly. Nadir, carrying a tray filled with plates and glasses, is walking over the rickety wooden bridge connecting the beach to the Trabucco. The Trabucco is one of the last specimens of the huts that a historic organisation called Unesco took under its protection many a year ago when Nanna was a young woman, but apparently failed to protect, given that not many of them are left now. According to Nadir, his father had gone to great lengths to keep it intact. "It was his pride and joy. And I did my best to renovate it without altering its original silhouette." The Trabucco looks like a giant spider with extremely long legs, perched on the rocks extending towards the sea. Its thin legs seem so vulnerable that it is a miracle how they survive the strong winds. "It is made of strong stuff," says Nadir, "of the Aleppo pine, which is found in abundance on these islands. Its strength lies in its flexibility." He says that he is using a system developed by the people who immigrated from a faraway land and took refuge on these islands a long time ago, a system that enabled them to fish in stormy weathers when they could not go to sea. He claims to have changed nothing on the Trabucco except for an extension to the spider's legs, so as to widen the net he throws into the sea, and for a minor improvement of the fishing mechanism, making it more user-friendly, to allow himself to do on his own what was originally done by four people. The Trabucco is a strong candidate for winning the Ecological Development Prize of the year.

I watch Nadir leave the Trabucco with an empty tray and walk over the wooden bridge towards the beach with the competence of a tightrope walker. He has such a comfortable life. Comfortable and boring. What does he live on? On the couple of fish he catches? As a matter of fact, he shouldn't need any money here. What's he going to do with the money? Buy vegetables? I doubt if he even has a roll phone. Does he read at all, I wonder? What does he read? Given that he lagged behind the quantum revolution and that there is nothing around here that vaguely resembles a library, I conclude that he does not read. He does whatever he wants to do, Tara. And that's none of your business. Take your shower and come to your senses. Enough of sea salt and enough of mother nature. You've had your share of them, perhaps even far too much.

I enter the shower cabin. One of its walls is made of glass, overlooking the sea. I feel stark naked. You _are_ naked, Tara. Would Nadir walk by and see me through the glass wall? The shower cabin is large enough to accommodate two people. I wonder with whom he has showered here. Come off it, Tara. Amazing, you really are. The things that you come up with. Why don't you think of something else? Better still, why not think of nothing? Today you did something you never dared to do in your life. You conquered the Dark Cave. You proved yourself. What else do you want? Yes, me, Tara, the brave Tara, who takes every challenge even men do not venture to take, has never been too keen on that cave. I don't know why, but it has always evoked a sense of fear in me. Even my father could not convince me to go in there. I always found an excuse, unwilling to admit my fear even to myself. "I'm not feeling too well." "I have my period. It's really bad." "I've got a lot to do." Why now? Why did I have to go in now? Have I run out of excuses? Wasn't there anything better to do during these few days I was to spend here? What was I to prove at this ripe age, and to whom? To prove to Nadir that I am brave? For heaven's sake, Tara! Nothing but a twopenny-halfpenny feather in your cap, can't you see? Or has the time come to challenge death? The Dark Cave meant death for me? There is no end to your exaggeration, Tara.

I step out of the shower cabin and put on my red thin strap dress, which has been crumpling in my bag. I look out the window. Nadir, with the refilled tray in his hands, is heading towards the Trabucco again. He turns his head and looks towards me over his shoulder. He smiles.

I feel a chill run through my spine. Water is dripping from my hair onto my shoulders. I must dry my hair. With what though? A hairdryer? Am I expecting to find one here? Nadir doesn't blow-dry his hair, that's for sure. Even if there is one, I should best brush it before drying it – if I want to keep it under control, that is. I fish my brush out of my bag. Since I don't have with me any of those products that are meant to tame certain types of hair, I dread to think how long it will take me to untangle that thatch of straw on my head. They have a solution for almost everything but still have not developed a magic formula for unravelling such unruly manes, at least with a little bit more ease. I set out to brush my hair, an action promising to be rather like sweeping lightly over a path covered in pebbles and gravel. What a drag! Go on, Tara. Don't give up. You won't be able to make an appearance if you do. Slowly but surely, the pebbles clear away. On to the gravel now. That's much better. We're getting there. Almost. Carry on. I do. By and by, through with the left side. Also through with the strength in my arm. Relax. Let some blood flow to your hand. And charge headlong at the right flank now. The same ritual all over again. First the pebbles, then the gravel. Feels easier. One gets used to it, I suppose. Now the back, which is the worst of all. I have to bend my head down now, the quickest course open to me under the circumstances – although not necessarily the wisest one since, once the mission is accomplished and the head is propped up to its previous position, it will become impossibly tricky to unravel the newly formed knots and tangles. God! My thoughts are more tangled up than my hair. Pack it in, Tara. Leave it as it is and make a pony tail. Cringing at the possibility of having to let your hair down and reveal the witch you are? Why would you need to let your hair down in the first place? Wishful thinking, is it? Come on, straighten everything up. Nearly there now. A few more strikes and it's over. One, two, three. Yes. What a relief!

I hear Nadir's footsteps from the living room, mixing with the clatter of the plates. Water being poured down from a pitcher into a glass. No. More like water cascading from a cruse to a pitcher. That's more like it, given the circumstances.

A line of insipid clouds on the horizon heralding a magnificent sunset. The melancholy of the setting sun. The melancholy of the setting sun? That's really poetic, Tara.

Nadir's unanswered question on our way back from the Dark Cave, sailing up a wild wave down a white cape, rings in my ears. "Do you think you're weak, then?" Of course I'm not weak. I'm strong. At this moment in my life, however, I have no energy left. I have to collect my thoughts, perk up a little, so to speak. Then another question: "How would you define strength, Tara?" I cannot quite figure out whether it was Nadir or my inner voice posing that question, but I know perfectly well that it was Nadir who answered it. "To be able to see who you really are and admit this first to yourself and then to others. That is what I think real strength is."

"Tara! The sun is about to set. Hurry up."
22

Now you see, now you don't, once there was and twice there was not, her father's voice dwindled to a dot. Were they leaving? Without finding her? She came out of the tree hollow. There was no one in sight. She moved a bit further down to see better and vaguely heard her father say, "I'm going to ask the Fisherman," then her mother call out, "Be careful, Orhon." A long silence followed. Too long. Had they gone? She was all ears. No, there was some murmuring. Erol was saying, "Don't worry, Revan. She must be with Nadir. Orhon will definitely find her there." And then silence again. Perhaps I should come out, thought Tara.

"Don't give up. Let them look for you a while longer. Your father should see that you hid in the woods. He should realise how brave you are." Was it Kali who was talking or was it a brave inner voice? She turned around and looked at Kali, who had shrunk back into the depths of the tree hollow. She was dead silent, apparently having no energy left to say anything.

"She's not there. They haven't seen her." Her father was back. Now he would find her. She was filled with joy. "I won!" she exclaimed jubilantly. This was really a peculiar kind of hide and seek, a game you won when you lost. Inside out. Much like standing upside down.

Suddenly she noticed her father's voice was dwindling. Where were they going, leaving without her? Nanna kept repeating the same thing. "We must go and check the sea. If one of you doesn't come with me, I'll go on my own."

"Mother, please. Don't be so unreasonable."

They were going to leave her in the dark woods. The voices tailed off and eventually died down, dissipating behind the deafening screeches of the crickets. They were gone. Her father gave up looking for her. She was really frightened now. Going back to the tree hollow, she sat next to Kali. In blind panic, her eyes sheered away from the forces of darkness towards the sea, seeking some reassurance in its solicitous blueness dauntlessly standing its ground against the impending forces of the night. The sun was about to set. Nanna's words rang in her ears. "You have to come back home before sunset, Tara," she often said. "This is what has been expected from the youngsters in our family for generations." She had never been outside their home alone after sunset. She had never before heard the elm tree grieving in sorrow, the oak tree moaning in pain or the willow tree wailing in distress after dark. And she did not want to hear them. According to her father though, there were mostly acacia trees on this island and they neither grieved nor moaned nor wailed. "They only tremble," Nanna always said. She started trembling. She had made a mistake. She had acted foolishly. She should have made a noise while they were so close and thus helped her father find her. She did not use her brains.

"I told you. The woods destroy all rhyme and reason."

"Since you know everything so well, why don't you tell me what we need to do now, Your Royal Highness Kali?"

"I think we should go home," Kali murmured in a dog-tired tone of voice. She wasn't trembling, but Tara could tell from her eyes, firmly riveted on the sea, that she was scared. Finally she had let the cat out of the bag. She was a coward.

"No!" Tara declared. She did not want to go back. She would hide in a better place in the depths of the woods and make them regret having given up looking for her. "Let's get a move on," she commanded, grasping Kali's hand. "You can lean on me. I'll help you walk."

"Let's stay here. You might hurt yourself in the dark."

"I'll go even if you don't come."

Kali was exhausted. Her toe still hurt very badly. She leaned on Tara and they crept out of the tree hollow. They could hardly see around them as they moved towards the depths of the woods. Where were they going? This game had gone on for too long now. They should go back home. She raised her head to look towards the sky. The blue of the sky, visible through the tree branches above that resembled a dark cage, was turning into a duller grey by the minute. The screeching of the crickets suddenly stopped. A sinister silence took over. The other noises of the woods came out of their hiding places one by one. As the darkness set in, they became increasingly more audacious. The more venturesome they became, the more gargantuan they sounded. The leaves hissing and rustling, the insects sawing and munching, the bats screeching and the mice squeaking, a whistle, a whir, a swish, a moan, the muffled hoot of an owl, the lifeless lament of a bird, the distant murmur of a swarm of bees perhaps. Then suddenly a very different noise. Footsteps. They froze, filled with dread. Was it Orhon? It had to be him. Kali was all ears. The noise came from the other side of the woods, from the slope leading down to the Fisherman's Bay. It could not have been Orhon. He must have reached home long ago.

"What's that noise? Who is coming?" she said in a trembling voice as she grabbed hold of Tara's arm. "It might be a wolf ..."

"The sounds grow big in the dark, Kali. A little squirrel might sound like a wolf to you. Besides, wolves exist only in fairy tales. You don't need to be afraid of big animals. It's true that they will gobble you up in one bite if they wanted to, but they will not attack you unless they are threatened. Wild animals usually run away when they hear or smell a human being. They don't like being near people."

Kali knew all of this very well but it had slipped her mind for a moment. The footsteps were approaching.

"You should be on the lookout for small insects, for those creatures so small that they might be invisible to the naked eye but strong enough to kill you with a single sting or to make you sick as they suck your blood."

Kali's wound sizzled. Tara was stumping on the leaves.

"What are you doing? Are you crushing the insects?"

"No, Kali. This is something I learned from my dad. He says that if I hear a noise in the woods, I should make a noise back. If it's a wild animal, it will run away."

"And if it is someone looking for you, he'll find you in no time."

Tara suddenly stopped crushing the leaves. "I don't want anybody but my father to find me." She quickened her pace, almost running now, dragging Kali after her. They stumbled on a dry branch of a tree. Flies flew about. It was not a tree branch that they had tripped over but a dead bird. Tara broke into a run.

"Slow down," entreated Kali. "My toe really hurts."

Tara stopped abruptly. There was a little hut squeezed in between the trees, looking as black as pitch in the darkness of the woods.

"Let's hide in the hut."

"Will there be a witch inside?"

"Don't be ridiculous, Kali. This hut is not made of biscuits. It's a wooden hut, can't you see?"

They approached the hut with a sense of foreboding. Tara slowly pushed the door open a crack; it gave with a creak. It was dark inside. They entered in trepidation, their steps apprehensive. Kali's hair got entangled in a spider's web. Repelled, she set about disentangling it.

"Stop cleaning yourself. Let's hide."

They went to one corner of the hut and sat down on the floor, hugging each other. Tara lit a match, which enlightened but itself. She lit another one. And when that went off, another one.

The woods had gone silent. There was not a sound to be heard.

"Are you cold, Kali?"

No, she wasn't, but she could not help her chins hitting each other as if she were freezing. She thought she should carry on with her story no matter what.

As Inanna passed through the seven gates in her descent towards the depths of the Underworld, she removed an item of clothing or jewellery at each gate. When she finally reached Ereshkigal, she was totally naked, powerless and humiliated. She suddenly noticed that her sister was stark naked as well. The locks of hair falling over her shoulders were no more, since her hair was now short and straight as straw.

Inanna joined the funeral rites that she had come to witness and shared her sister's pain. They cried together. Inanna felt safe here. Being the first mortal to come face to face with Ereshkigal and survive that encounter gave her great strength.

Tara had lit the last match in the box which had gone off like all the others. "Perhaps it would not be a good idea to tell the rest of the story in such darkness," Kali thought. "Shall we go back to our own story?"

Tara did not answer.

"They all came up with ideas as confusion spread, some were at their wit's end while a few kept a cool head, some felt quite at sea but one remained a pillar of strength, some were as quiet as a mouse, some as nervous as a cat, while many talked daft and rot, but one as wise as Solomon said a lot, another thought it a wild-goose chase, called a spade a spade and cast a black veil, the rest put a bold face on it and carried on the chase, while someone with a tail dived into a tale."

"Stop stalling and tell me what my father did."

"Orhon went down to the next bay and asked the Fisherman and his son, who were mending their nets on the beach, if they had seen Tara. They hadn't. Orhon, doing his utmost to suppress his intensifying sense of alarm, ran back to where the others had been waiting for him. They all walked towards the house, not knowing what to do. When they reached the fork where the footpath joined the steps, Orhon said that he wanted to go and check inside the woods. Although he was pretty sure that Tara would not go in there, he did have his doubts. Taking Sirius, who was of no use but was expected to be so, he entered the woods. Unfortunately he moved in the direction opposite to where Tara and Kali were hiding. Revan, thinking that, 'She might have gone to see the bees,' took Erol and Maya to head for the Honey Estate. Kim and Suzan, upon Revan's instructions, set off towards the village. Sumer went to check the cliff. And thus everyone continued to search for Tara in this game of hide and seek which they had been forced to join."

"Weren't they looking for you?"

"They don't need to look for me, Tara. In this tale, they had found me a long time ago."

"I knew it. You're just making it all up."

"No, Tara, I'm not making it up. Shut up and listen. Nanna stayed put in the garden with Amber. She was about to lose her mind. The peacocks, Hokus, Pokus and Mokus, who usually did not like socialising, were now running around Nanna as if enchanted by this bizarre game. Sumer returned with no bad news from the cliff. Neither was he the bearer of glad tidings. They walked over to the garden gate to wait for the others' return. After not too long a while, Kim and Suzan came back, bemoaning the failure of their search. A short length of time after that Revan, Erol and Maya returned, also with their hands empty. They began waiting for Orhon. They waited a short length of time, they waited a long length of time, they waited and waited in panic and alarm. Revan's apprehension was becoming unbearable. Nanna endeavoured to lift her daughter-in-law's spirits but she herself was spent. Finally Orhon arrived, having found nothing in the woods, neither Tara nor a trace of her. In despondency darker than the woods, they brooded over what to do. Revan was shouting at Orhon. 'It's all your fault. You scolded her too harshly. You know how much she loves you.' Orhon's reply was no consolation: 'She should learn how to differentiate between love and discipline, Rev. She should understand that some things are for her own good. I will never allow misbehaviour.' Revan was now yelling at the top of her voice. 'Deal with your stress in some other way. You can't take it out on your children!' Orhon took Revan in his arms as she wept in great sobs. 'Calm down, Rev. Please calm down. We'll find her.'"

Kali suddenly stopped. She had heard a voice. Holding her breath, she glanced at Tara, who was as silent as a mouse. Her eyes were fixed on the door. Turning around, Kali saw the door slowly open, revealing a dark shadow.

"Don't be scared," she heard Tara say in a strong whisper as she moved in front of Kali, opening her arms wide. "I'll protect you."
23

Is this really happening or is it my imagination? Am I really sitting here on this beach, waiting for the sunset in Nadir's arms, or is it the little Tara in me looking out the window, plotting a story while watching Nadir?

I remember Nanna's words again. "In heaven and in dreams, there is no time."

"What are you thinking?" asks Nadir, gently touching his wine glass to mine.

"If I were to tell you everything that crosses my mind, you'd take me for a fool."

"Don't think too much then; watch the sky."

The sun sets silently. The pinkish tint its rays paint in the sky reflects on the water. Nadir stands up, walks towards the hut and disappears from sight. A few minutes later the seascape in front of me changes. As the chariot of Helios makes to leave the vault of heaven, it marks a coppery golden path on the water, extending towards me. So solid it looks that I feel I could walk on it, if I tried.

Nadir comes back with a plate filled with ice, whereupon rests a colony of oysters, a truly rare delicacy. He sits next to me and picks one. Holding it in his palm, he grabs a knife and sticks its tip through the hermetically closed shell. His penetration is gentle, whereas the slight but firm movement of his wrist proves that he will not take no for an answer. He presses his thumb against it and gives the knife a twist. The oyster gives in. Its shell opens up. A strong smell, the smell of the sea, emanates from it, a smell that dominates all other smells, even that of the sea itself. He brings it closer to my nose.

"Can you smell the thyme?"

A subtle smell of thyme. But then, the whole island smells of thyme.

"These are like wine, you know. Their taste and texture depend not so much on their type as the region they are cultivated in."

As the smells distance themselves from me, he squeezes two drops from a lemon into the oyster, which make it contract. "Only a few drops. Better if none at all, in fact. Never do as the geeks in the metropolises do, killing it with vinegar and chopped onions, an odd habit really." He uses his fork to sever the oyster from its shell and slip it into my mouth. The sea smell invades my nose, then spreads to the back of my mouth. A sensation as if I have been swimming for hours.

He opens another one. I watch him eat it with passion, keeping his eyes closed. "I pick them before they are fully grown," he says. "Then for four weeks I keep them with twenty other oysters in a basin of one square metre where they feed, purify and grow. This is a method they used at the turn of the twentieth century. I'm determined to keep it alive."

"Are _you_ cultivating these oysters?"

"Yes, I am. I have a basin surrounded by reeds on the shore on the other side of the island. For me, it's more important than fishing. There aren't many of us left in the world. The license for oyster cultivation is not easy to obtain these days. And I'd better not tell you the penalty they charge for picking wild oysters if you're not a licensed cultivator."

The sun disappears below the horizon, taking the golden path away with it. Maestral stops as if cut by a knife. "Hours of sunlight being over, let's have some night-time illumination," says Nadir, lighting a campfire on the sand with the logs, sticks and barks he collected from the woods. The fire, initially an indecisive flicker, eventually gains strength and starts blazing forcefully. My eyes are fixed on its cavorting flames. The crackle and the sputter of the logs dominate all the other noises nature confers on us. Nadir pokes the fire with a stick. The flames leap higher. "I reckon very few things make human beings happier than the thought of energy, not disappearing but only changing shape and lasting for all eternity," he says without taking his eyes off the flames.

"I don't think happy is the right word to use in this context. Hopeful would be a more appropriate adjective: more hopeful in their quest for immortality."

"The quest for immortality, indeed. Why, I wonder, doesn't one life suffice? Why do we want to exist in future lives? Isn't it enough that our imprints live on?"

"Some people leave this world without an imprint."

"Everyone leaves an imprint, Tara. Everyone. Actors, for instance, leave an imprint through their films, authors through their books, painters through their paintings. Don't you think that through their art they transform their energies into another form and become immortal?"

"Much like those who seek immortality through their children."

He stands up and goes inside.

I think about immortality, about my childhood when I thought my family was immortal, about that blissful period of my life when I lived happily under the naive conviction that my parents would never die, that the values I believed in would live forever. "She never told her love," I whisper.

But let concealment, like a worm i'th bud,

Feed on her damask cheek. She pin'd in thought;

And with a green and yellow melancholy

She sat like Patience on a monument,

Smiling at grief. Was not this love indeed?

"Viola. _Twelfth Night_." Nadir is back. On the sand, he places a huge bowl of salad and a tray filled with fish and squid, waiting to be cooked.

"I don't know what made me remember those lines," I say, shooing away the dark clouds hovering over my thoughts.

He sits beside me. "When you're unable to see the reason behind an incident, your subconscious, in pursuit of a meaning to that incident, embarks upon a journey, a brief or a long one, a journey not licensed by your consciousness. Sometimes an event, a word or a look, seemingly unimportant for others, cuts such a deep wound in your heart that you struggle to get rid of the pain it causes by doing everything you can to forget that such an event has ever happened, or such a word has ever been uttered. In time, the energy you expend to forget exhausts you, turning you into a time bomb ready to explode. Then quite unexpectedly, something seemingly irrelevant to everything that happened, makes your wound bleed again. The pain erupts like a volcano that has been smouldering for a very long time."

The colours are gradually disappearing. A single patch of dull pink line near the horizon is all that remains as a reminder of the daylight. The sea is turning into a darker blue by the minute as the clouds lose their whiteness, displaying surprisingly appealing shades of grey.

"Sometimes you hide yourself behind a veil, Tara, a veil to protect you from the bitter reality of life, an illusion. You create yourself a perfect world, a perfect Nadir, a perfect Tara, a perfect relationship. Then there comes a moment and something happens, removing that veil. That sense of being special, that self-deception of being eternally protected, that illusion which has been serving you so well, suddenly loses its persuasiveness. Without warning, the bitter truth lies before you, frightful in its stark naked bluntness. You are terrified as you face your illusions."

It is getting chilly. Without the sun, everything feels brumal. Nadir picks up several stones, which he has taken out of the sea and let dry in the sun, and tucks them under the logs, now gradually turning into embers.

"The only way to cook fish – on a hot stone that sucked in everything the sea and the sun offer." He continues with his homily without a breath, as if to avoid a possible interruption. "To hide behind such a veil will, sooner or later, bring pain. Though illusions often bring a transitory feeling of bliss and a dangerously frangible peace of mind, they ultimately and invariably constrict the spirit. My father used to say, 'The biggest illusion is to think that what we know, experience and learn through our mind and senses is the truth.' Our consciousness is too limited to know reality, he often said. We can justify our assertions only with the validations we find through what we can perceive. And what we perceive through our decidedly limited consciousness can never be sufficient to reach the absolute truth."

"Your father was a very wise man, Nadir." And you, by the way, seem to be no less so.

"I must admit that unfortunately I understood him too late." With a piece of wood, he pushes aside the embers over one of the stones and touches the stone with the tip of his finger. "Not hot enough yet." He covers the stone with the embers again. "When you are delusional, you can see, but that is not actually seeing. You live, but you can never be sure if it is the right way of living. Somewhat like not being sure whether you are awake when you are conscious and whether you are asleep when you are unconscious. You question why you came to this world and what your _raison d'être_ is. This is the game illusion plays with humankind. People are so alienated from their true natures and so deeply bogged down in the objects of their desires that they cannot see the truth of who they really are or what they should be."

He falls silent, as if waiting for me to digest all that he has been saying. In silence, we watch the sea slowly transform its crepuscular hue into a shade of nocturnal tenebrosity. A while later, he touches the stone again. "Perfect." He carefully lines up the skewered squids one by one on the stones, placing a basil leaf on each one. "We'll wait for a few minutes before adding the fish."

It has gone completely dark now, although a thin, light greyish-blue streak stubbornly keeps its post. Very soon, it will lose its livelihood as well, leaving the stage to the inevitable darkness. The stars are not visible yet. The moon is about to rise, says Nadir. The sea is pitch black.

I think of what Nadir has been talking about. "She only wanted to make me peek through the veil of illusion in front of my eyes and help me gain my independence," I think.

"I beg your pardon?" he asks.

I realise that I have articulated my thoughts. "Nothing. I just remembered a friend of mine who wanted to help me once," I murmur. "Actually, she might still be trying to help me."

He carefully lays down the fish, wrapped in vine leaves, next to the squid on the hot stones. "There! The moon is rising. Can you see it?" His fingers direct my eyes to an orange line over the horizon, a line rising at an incredible speed, rapidly becoming a bright orange plate. A few minutes later, it is already three-moon-lengths above the horizon, shining in a more reddish tint. I have never seen the moon so big.

"This is one of the best ways to grasp how fast time passes," he whispers. "Shortly it will turn white, bathing everything in light. We won't be needing oil lamps or anything else."

A few minutes later a thin cloud emerging out of nowhere cuts the moon in half.

"It might have been colonised," he says, "but nothing can spoil the romantic mood it evokes in me." Gently pressing his finger onto the squids and the fish, he checks their tenderness. "They're done," he concludes, licking his finger, and transfers them onto two serving dishes. I am asked to carry the one with the squids while he picks the one with the fish and grabs the salad bowl. The only ingredient in the salad that does not originate from his vegetable garden must be the salt, an ingredient naturally in abundance all around us. A snapshot from a time long forgotten. Under the rising moon, we walk towards the Trabucco.

The table is set among the fishnets at the heart of the spider, two plates placed side by side. "To get a better view of the moonrise," he explains as he pulls my chair to help me sit down, a show of decorum in sharp contrast to the background. Then he seats himself in his chair and, in breach of all etiquette, draws it far too close to mine, the laid-back informality perfectly befitting the whole atmosphere.

The squid looks delicious. He puts a fat one on my plate. Its tenderness under my knife makes my mouth water.

"Have a smell of it before popping it into your mouth, would you?"

"I've smelled it enough. I can't wait any longer."

"Its aroma reaching your nose is not the same as you smelling it. Close your eyes and inhale its scent. Inhale it deeply."

Nadir picks a piece of the squid with his fork and brings it closer to my nose. I close my eyes.

"Can you smell a trace of the basil leaf we placed on it? The smell of the sea salt?"

A rich medley of smells parade through my nose. I take them all in. My senses, all five of them, are aroused, sending a shiver through my spine. I open my eyes.

"Now you can start eating," he says, as he puts the piece of squid back on my plate.

I cannot remember ever partaking of any food with so much appetite.

"As a matter of fact, nothing is as it seems," he says. "You need to adopt a more profound approach to life if you wish to grasp its essence. Nothing will reveal its true self unless you smell it, taste it, listen to it, feel it and look at it through and through. More often than not, you need to be able to look at the world around you from a different angle."

"Are you telling me to look at this squid standing on my head?"

He lets out a laugh. His dimples kindle a flame in me. "I don't think that would be necessary. What I mean is this: Sometimes people resemble actors on a stage. One might take their role-playing as real."

"Are you saying that this squid is a crab playing the role of a squid?"

"All right, I've got it. You demand absolute silence. I will shut up."

Silently, we eat the offerings of the sea. When I finish the last squid on my plate, I break the silence, either voluntarily or involuntarily, I cannot tell. "I want to believe that my father is the hero I took him to be. My hero. My everything." The moonlight, the sound of the waves, the wine. My head is spinning. I fall silent.

He puts a fish on my plate and unwraps the vine leaf around it. Am I smelling grapes or is my imagination gaining strength?

"I had two important people in my life, Tara, people who changed my life. One of them was my father." With the tip of his fork, he strokes the dark patches on his fish, the marks left by the fire. "He was one of those people who belonged to an endangered species."

The pain of losing your father does not go away readily, Nadir. It will never go away.

"You never get over the loss of your father, Tara," he reads my thoughts. "It's curious that one of the most predictable aspects of life is also one of the most tragic, isn't it? Why can't we accept the inevitability of death?"

I don't want to talk about death.

He pulls his gaze away from the fish and turns it to the horizon where the sky, almost a light cobalt blue in the moonlight, meets seamlessly with the dark sea. His eyes reach beyond the horizon. "I had dreams," he says softly, almost below his breath. "I actually had one dream: to be rich and to get away from this miserable place, from this miserable life."

Weren't you in love with this island, Nadir, with nature, with all that is natural? Or is Nadir not the Nadir I know?

"I wanted to study law," he continues.

A feeling of pity sprouts in the depths of my heart. Now I understand much better how he must have envied my life. Poor Nadir. I listen to him with compassion.

"The law. A profession that would never fall out of popularity. Throughout the history of mankind, people have always litigated. No matter what happens, no matter where mankind finds itself, people will always argue with each other, never failing to find something to fight over. I dreamt of becoming a rich and famous lawyer, like those in the books I used to read, ruthless, filthy rich, wearing expensive clothes, living in an expensive house, driving the latest convertible and trotting the globe. My only desire was to be like those living in the metropolises, to become a sophisticated metropolitan, to become one of them. I knew that none of this would ever come true but I couldn't help dreaming about it."

I have to change the subject. The moonlight? The squids? Before I can come up with something, he carries on.

"My father didn't have a clue about my dream. I never talked to him about it, presuming that it would upset him. Later on, however, when I thought about it, I doubted if he did not know because he knew everything. His intuitions were very strong." He pauses. His gaze leaves the horizon.

"Nanna also ..." I begin.

"Then one day," he cuts me short, "my dream came true."

I am taken aback.

His eyes are in mine, his breath very close. "I was the lucky boy, fortunate enough to know someone who wanted to help his dream come true," he continues.

Is this a fairy tale, Nadir? Or do you just feel like taking the mickey out of me? "What do you mean?" I ask.

"I studied law with the best knowledge facilitators on the best university platform. I had the best education available."

Yes, that's a tale, all right. A true fairy tale. Are you seeking to improve your storytelling skills, or are you gauging my capacity to believe in fairy tales?

"As soon as I finished university, I started working. I was ambitious. I had nothing in my mind except for my career. I was passionately engrossed in it. My only entertainment was competition. I wanted to be ahead of everyone, more successful than everyone, richer than everyone, to have the things that no one could have, to become a magnate in the world of law."

I listen to his fairy tale in stupefaction, finding it absolutely impossible to perceive his story as real. "Fairy tales are no more than dreamy shadows of reality, are they not?" says Nanna from a distant past.

"I spent years within the four walls of a building under the shadow of masses of concrete, working day and night, sometimes not going out into the open air for days, even for weeks. My ambition bailed me out of every difficulty. I was rising through the ranks in great strides. But I had my eyes even further up. Then came a point when I was no longer satisfied with what I had. The metropolis had nothing more to offer me. That was when I moved overseas. I felt I had to conquer the whole world, to become one of the greatest lawyers of the globe, past and present." A bitter, somewhat sardonic smile appears on his face. "And I did become one," he says without taking his eyes off mine.

The rich and famous lawyer we have never heard of. This is even better than Nanna's tales. Are you trying to impress me, Nadir? There's no need. Tara, the little princess, was already head over heels in love with the Fisherman's son, as the fairy tale goes. And we are in a fairy tale, are we not?

"The turning point in my career was the Synthetic Telepathy Collapse in the sixties. When the markets crashed following the speculations that a revolution in telecommunication was due, I, like all the other lawyers, prospered – much like those after the Dotcom Collapse at the turn of the century. For years, I didn't have a minute to myself. It was a miracle for me to find the time to come here to see my father. Once a year? Maybe? He categorically refused to come and live with me, to change his life, which I took to be miserable. He did not even want me to send him any money and refused to touch the bank account I had opened for him, saying that he had everything he needed here. He told me that I should break free from that hectic pace that numbed my mind and start learning how to live by myself before it was too late. At the time I thought he was mad. I was ashamed of having a father who lived in a small village. I didn't tell anyone that he was a fisherman, that he lived here on this island in a hut. I was so embarrassed that I myself almost forgot that I was the son of a fisherman. I did everything I could to forget that. I don't know how many women came in and went out of my life. I don't even remember the faces of some of them."

He is not telling a story. The ruthless professional, the heart-breaker, the handsome and rich bachelor, an incurable womaniser. Is that Nadir? I search for his eyes, which he has diverted. "Who is the other person?" I ask timidly. "You said you had two important people in your life." I realise how much I dread the response he might give me and add, hoping against hope, "Was it your mother?"

He shakes his head and takes a sip from his wine. "I lost my mother, Tara, when I was seventeen. She didn't die; she just fell in love with a rich man from the metropolis and left us." Another sip of wine. "I told everyone that she was dead. Including myself. She was dead as far as I was concerned. And when she died," he says, his voice vaguely trembling, "when she died, the innocent Nadir died with her."

To my surprise, I realise that I have been holding his hand. As I gently make to pull away, he lowers his eyes and fixes his gaze on my fingers, a gaze so riveting that I can't move my hand.

"Certain events create tumultuous emotions in you; emotions such as disappointment, fear, hatred, anger; emotions that make you blind to what you really want in life, to what will really make you happy, to what you actually need to do to become a happy person – in other words, to who you really are."

He lapses into a long silence. Silence is unsettling. I must say something. I watch him as if spellbound. Nadir. The poor son of the poor Fisherman living in the next bay. I'm so ashamed of myself, of my stupidity, of all the things I've been thinking since yesterday with such naivety. Questions rush in. I can't articulate any of them.

Nadir breaks the silence to carry on with his story. "After my mother left us, it was as if a curtain came down in front of my eyes, veiling my vision. I couldn't see how I sought to fill up an impossibly large vacuum with such fleeting and empty things, how I strived to dull my wound instead of curing it. I couldn't accept that my life was a complete illusion." He straightens up and takes a deep breath, a breath alluding to the relief of having woken up from a nightmare. "It was my father who helped me awaken, to open my eyes to reality, to realise that my dream had turned into a nightmare. My father's death was a turning point in my life, Tara. It was only after his death that I could see how I had been living in an illusion of my own creation. Our losses leave a mark on our personality, changing us, shaping us." He looks at his hut with love in his eyes. "Artistic people like painters, writers, sculptors reflect their losses onto their work. Less creative people build memorials for their loved ones." His gaze moves away from the hut to the shore, wandering along the pier, over the rocks and finally on the Trabucco. "When I came here two years ago to bury him, I found myself alone with myself for the first time in years. The loneliness here made me realise how lonely I actually was, how alone I had been in the midst of a crowded city, lost in the hectic rhythm of my highly-strung professional life. The emotions suppressed to an ailing existence under that tempo resuscitated one by one. The memories resurrected. After a very compelling few days, I pulled all my strength together and made a decision. My father had tapped me on the shoulder with his magic wand and everything had changed."

He still does not tell me who the other important person in his life is. The love of his life? The most beautiful girl on the Sunny Isle? The peasant girl who made him return here? His ex-wife? His daughter? I can't pose the same question again, afraid that it may break the spell.

"When I returned to the metropolis, I paid a visit to your father," he continues. "I went to see him at the theatre, to let him know of my decision."

To _my_ father? What has he got to do with all of this? Do you have to remind me of him again and again, Nadir? Can't we talk without our conversation ending up on my father?

"I now realise how disappointed I was by your absence during that visit, although I was not quite aware of my feelings at the time."

I can read Nadir's soul in his eyes, now lost in the depths of mine. His finger caressing my cheek sets off a ripple of excitement in me. In return, I vaguely caress his finger with my cheek. The spell continues. Open your heart, Nadir.

"Your photograph in your father's changing room," he says, seemingly lost in thought. "The Tara on that photograph was exactly the same as the six-year-old Tara I had known. Her rebellious, curly blonde hair refusing to be framed in. Her dreamy blue eyes revealing that she often lost herself in her own world of dreams by standing on her head, although she did everything she could to prove that she had her feet firmly on the ground. And her smile... That photograph took me to another time, to a time long gone by. I don't know why but it really had an effect on me. It might also have encouraged me to stick to my decision."

An unexpected sense of anticipation fills my heart.

"That day, after chatting with your father in his changing room for a while, we went out to the garden. He prepared two of his famous gin and tonics. As we sipped our drinks, I was organising my thoughts to figure out how to articulate them. He was watching the river in silence, as though he knew what I was about to say and waited for me to ready myself. For the first time I realised how fast the river ran and ascertained how right my decision was. Time was drifting away. Life was drifting away. On a sudden impulse, I blurted out my decision. I was to stop practicing law, transfer all my shares, sell everything I owned and return to the island. I wanted to live, to live the life I had lost, or rather the life I had never found."

"What does my father have to do with this decision?" I ask. My mind is still stuck somewhere else: the most beautiful girl on the Sunny Isle. The thought wrenches at my heart. I notice that I'm terribly jealous of that girl who was probably the main reason for his return here, leaving behind his realised dreams.

"He had a lot to do with it," he says, "because I was about to ruin something he had built up. He had a lot to do with it, because..." He takes my hands in his, looking straight into my eyes. Suddenly, the most beautiful girl on the Sunny Isle withers away. "... because the person who helped me realise my dream, the person who paid for my education and who helped me set up my business was your father, Tara."
24

"Knock, knock, knock?"

The dark shadow at the door was speaking. Given the dark, Tara could not see who it was, or rather what it was. Then she suddenly recognised it: her green-eyed golden goat. She dug into her pockets in panic. "Have I dropped that as well?"

The green-eyed golden goat spoke again.

"Ding, dong, bell? Is he here?"

"Yes," mumbled Tara.

"What did he bring?"

"Trinkets and whatnots."

"Trinkets for whom?"

"For you and me."

"Whatnots for whom?"

"For the black cat."

"Oh where, where can she be?"

"She went up a tree."

"Oh where, where can that tree be?"

"Down it came by an axe."

"Oh where, where can that axe be?"

"Into the lake it fell."

"Oh where, where can that lake be?"

"Down it went into the cow's tummy."

"Oh where, where can that cow be?"

"Up the mountain he ran."

"Oh where, where can that mountain be?"

"Down it burned into ashes."

"That is so untrue." Along with the green-eyed golden goat entered the owner of the voice.

"Nadir!" Tara sprang to her feet, ran towards Nadir and jumped into his arms.

"He's not your father," Kali called out after her. "I thought you said you didn't want anyone but your father to find you."

"Nadir is different," Tara hissed. Nadir was different. He might not be her father but he was her best friend. He would help her hide. He would also protect her from the big bad wolves.

"Don't take me home," she implored.

"Are you all right? You're not hurt, are you?" Nadir was checking Tara's head, her arms, her knees. "Everybody is looking for you. Your parents are distraught."

Tara did not want to cry in front of Nadir but could not hold back her tears; she broke out sobbing in huge racking spasms. He would probably not help her hide after all. She had no strength left to resist; she was exhausted.

"There, there now. Why don't you jump onto my back and I'll carry you out of here?"

They went out of the hut. Nadir was taking her deeper into the woods. He _was_ going to help her hide. After two shakes of a lamb's tail, they started on a downhill climb. The trees on the slope were jungle-like, the ground dangerously slippery and the darkness around them blindingly dense, but they were all right because Nadir knew the woods extremely well and had a strong torch. They were down the hill in a jiffy, ending up in Fisherman's Bay in no time. Were they going to hide in the Fisherman's hut?

The Fisherman was sitting in his rocking chair on the patio in front of his hut, underneath a throng of sponges, an army of dried onions and a horde of red peppers hanging from the ceiling. Nadir put Tara down in front of him.

"Come here, Tiny Lady, come and sit by me," he said, rubbing his snow-white beard.

"Please don't take me home. Please don't spoil our game."

"What are you playing?"

"Hide and seek."

"Who is it?"

"My dad."

"Have you set the limits of your game?"

"Our garden."

"It seems to me that you've gone off limits."

"Yes, I have because this time we're playing a different kind of hide and seek."

"What kind of a hide and seek is it?"

"My father doesn't know he is it."

"But he's nevertheless looking for you."

"Yes, he is, but he can't find me."

"He can't, because you've changed the rules of the game." The Fisherman was on his feet now, standing opposite Tara. "Now, we ought to help him out a little bit. Come on."

"Where are we going?"

"We're going home, Tara. The game is over."

"Please don't take me home. Please? My dad will be so angry."

"You have to be brave, Tara. You set up a game and you lost. You lost because of your own mistake. Accept this and prepare yourself for its consequences. There's nothing to be afraid of."

I didn't set up this game. Kali did. Take _her_ back.

"Yes, it was me who set up this game," Kali interjected in an undertone, reading her thoughts. "But it was you who wanted to go deep into the woods."

"Can't I stay here? With Nadir? Please?" She threw her arms around Nadir. "Why don't you say something, Nadir?"

Nadir held her hand. "Let's go, Tara."

Hand in hand, they walked the length of the wooden pier. Tara could not stop her trembling. She held on tightly to Nadir's hand. Kali was limping behind them, silent as a mouse. She was in no condition to protect Tara. Tara, however, would protect her no matter what. Seeing the splinters on the wooden planks of the pier, she exclaimed under her breath, "Watch out for the splinters, Kali."

"Did you say something, Tara?" asked Nadir.

"No, nothing. I didn't say anything."

They all went on board the Fisherman's fishing boat. The sky was dark, the sea pitch-black.

Kali stepped aboard. The boat was rocking like a cradle. With difficulty, she trod her way through a crowd of buckets and tins lined up on the deck, some empty, some filled with unidentifiable liquids. She stumbled over one such bucket and her foot became entangled in the fisherman's net. Her wounded toe hurt. She held on to Tara's arm for support. After some strenuous effort, they released her foot and then sat down next to Nadir. Kali grabbed the end of the net and started fidgeting with one of the brightly-coloured buoys that resembled miniature wooden wheels. She had to carry on with her story even if Tara was not willing to listen to it. "After the funeral," she began.

After the funeral, Inanna wanted to embrace her sister Ereshkigal, but the all-seeing demons of the Underworld did not allow it, because they understood that Inanna had come to conquer the Underworld. Judgement was passed on Inanna and she was turned into a corpse, hung on a hook to rot in the Underworld.

Without Inanna, love perished on Earth and the world went dark. After three days and three nights, Inanna's maid appealed to the gods to rescue her master. The gods wished Inanna to stay in the Underworld, so they refused. The God of Earth and Waters, who valued the path of descent and understood what a difficult test Inanna was going through, decided to help her. From the dirt under his fingernails, he created two beings, neither male nor female, neither living nor dead. He gave them a cup filled with the water of life and told them to enter the Underworld like flies, to show compassion to Ereshkigal by moaning, groaning and sighing like her.

This they did so effectively that Ereshkigal, comforted by their sympathy, wanted to offer them a gift. They asked for the corpse that hung on the wall. Granted their wish, they sprinkled the corpse with the water of life and Inanna arose, born anew.

Inanna, however, like everyone else, had to pay a price to ascend from the Underworld. The judges of the dead decided what that price would be; they asked Inanna to send someone else to replace her. And to be sure that she did, they surrounded her with demons.

The demons were creatures who neither ate nor drank, fluttering between heaven and earth, knowing neither good nor evil.

Tara was not listening to Kali's story. She was trembling like a leaf, either because she was scared of the tale or knew exactly what awaited her at home. Kali needed to change the subject. "Wouldn't you like to know what happened afterwards?"

"No. Inanna's story is really very boring."

"I'm talking about what happened at home while we were away."

Tara's interest was rekindled. "Yes, tell me what happened."

"Revan kept shouting at Orhon; Orhon kept consoling her. At some point, he decided to go down to the village to talk to the gendarmerie. Nanna, who was about to lose her mind thinking that Tara might have been drowned, took advantage of Orhon's absence and, ignoring others' objections, convinced Sumer to take her out to sea in the small motor boat to check along the shore beneath the cliff. Nanna and Sumer searched everywhere, especially in and around, up and down, between and above the rocks."

"I saw their motor boat about half an hour ago," said the Fisherman. He had apparently overheard Kali. "There were two people on it. I couldn't see who they were, but ..."

"Can you see with your mind as well?" cut in Tara, eagerly.

"Yes, Tiny Lady. I can see with my mind. And I can also hear with my mind, although this time I didn't need to because I saw it with my eyes. Sometimes, however, what we see with our eyes is not enough to understand everything."

"It's more difficult to understand you than to solve a riddle."

"Nothing is as it seems."

"How do you mean, nothing is as it seems?" Tara pointed at a rock they were passing by. "This is a huge rock, not a fish, is it? It is what it seems to be."

"Not everything is as solid as a rock."

"Or as slippery as fish," added Kali.

"Think of the fairy tales, Tara. Is everything as it seems?"

They passed by another rock. The pier came into view. They were approaching the shore. Tara's trembling intensified as they moved closer to her house, which resembled a dark chocolate cake decorated with gold pearls for windows.

"I guess you don't want to listen to the end of the story," whispered Kali.

"I do."

"Orhon went down to the village with Sirius and, taking the gendarmerie along, set about a thorough search of the island up the hills, down the ravines, in the bays, around the waves, beyond the trees and beneath the seas. Revan, never losing hope, scanned again and again around the garden in every nook, cranny and crook, checking over and over again, everywhere, even where nothing shook or no one hooked. The more the guests tried to comfort her, the more her nerves gave in. She began to shout at everyone, accusing Suzan of being a clever clogs, Erol for being too optimistic and Kim for being so stonehearted. Although she did not say anything to Maya, she blamed no one but her for all this imbroglio. Filled with indignation, her resentment brewed in her like an approaching storm. Nanna and Sumer returned, having found nothing. Nanna, who had lost almost all hope, was no longer able to hide her panic."

"Nanna loves me a lot," Tara butted in. "And she's really scared of the sea. Well, actually she used to be. Thanks to Granddad, she got over that fear, as well as many others."

"Everybody needs a Granddad."

They were almost at the pier now. Kali continued. "Three time lengths ago, Nanna saw a fishing boat approaching. 'Revan!' she called out, 'The Fisherman has arrived.' Revan ran towards Nanna." Kali pointed at the house. "They're looking at us from up there. Can you see them? They're right beneath the tree by the dining table, below the oil lamp that looks like a huge cricket. Not knowing what the Fisherman is bringing, they harbour mixed feelings. 'He must have found Tara,' Revan says and then adds with apprehension. 'God, I hope she's all right.' Look, Tara! They've both turned around. They must have heard the gendarmerie's car coming up the road. Nanna runs towards the garden gate, while Revan anxiously heads for the steps leading down to the beach. Can you see our mother? She is running down the steps now, ignoring the size of her belly and the weight of the baby inside her, who has been turning around and around for the last couple of hours."

They could see Revan on and off, as she passed one oil lamp after another hanging from the tree branches along the steps.

"Where is my dad?"

"Be patient. He has just entered the garden. He looks exhausted. Nanna runs towards him, her features distorted with an acute sense of misgiving. 'We saw the Fisherman's boat coming in, Orhon,' she says. 'We don't know if this is a good sign or ...' She suddenly dissolves into tears and, throwing her arms around Orhon, gulps down her wrenching, silent sobs. 'I don't want to lose another one to the sea," she stammers. "You had broken the curse, Orhon. You had,' she repeats over and over again."

Kali fell silent. They were docking. "How the rest of the story will develop depends on you, Tara," she said as she jumped onto the pier.

Nadir took Tara on his back and disembarked.

Revan was running towards them, shouting at the top of her voice, "Tara! Tara? Tara?"
PART FIVE
25

"My father? _My_ father?"

"Yes, Tara, your father. The other important person in my life was your father. I thought I should ask him, get his approval. It was his right to know, to object. When I told him about my decision, I was expecting him to lash out at me for having disappointed him, for frittering away all he did for me. His reaction, however, was quite the opposite. He did not shout. He did not snarl at me. He did not say that he had lost faith in me. He simply patted my back, saying that he supported my decision with all his heart. 'One shouldn't be scared to change. The only way one can develop is through change. I think you've made the right decision, son,' he said, raising his glass in celebration of my new life."

I feel as if I have just woken up from an enchanted dream. "We never knew. He never told us that he helped you. But why? Why didn't he say anything to us?"

"Sometimes the favours one does are revealed only after death or after a taste of death, after a brief encounter with it. I'm sure I'm not the only one he's helped, but I know him well enough to guess that he does not like talking about such things. He does not because he believes that a helping hand should never be extended to secure the gratitude of the person in need or to obtain a better, more respectable place in society. He never lets those he helps be perceived by others as misfortunate. He never allows them to feel indebted to him. He is a hero, Tara, a real hero. At least mine."

He was everybody's hero. Everybody's but mine! Alas, I was not aware of it.

"As a little boy, I idolised your father. I wanted to be like him, rich and famous. He gave me the golden key to the paradise of my childhood dream. He helped me realise my dream, do what I wanted to do. When I look back, I see that I worked hard not only for myself but also to make him proud of me, to prove that I deserved his support. I also see now that among all the things I've done, the only ones I'm proud of are those I did for your father." With his fingers, he brushes away a lock of hair from my cheek. His gaze follows his fingers, caressing my hair. "We did many things together with your dad, Tara. We won very important cases for the Global Cultural Heritage Fighters. I wanted to pay my debt to him but that was not my only goal. He had shown me the importance of his fight, taught me what it meant to be a great man. I think I wanted to belong to his world, to be a little part of it at the least." He pulls his hand away from my hair; his eyes leave my face. "Without these two people, it would have been impossible for me to reach the point where I am now." He falls silent. "We shall not cease from exploration," he slowly murmurs after a few seconds, "and the end of all our exploring will be to arrive where we started and know the place for the first time."

" _Little Gidding_. The fourth of the _Four Quartets_. By T.S. Eliot," I almost whisper. Needlessly.

A longer silence enfolds us.

"It's one of the poems I learned from your father," he says. "Perhaps the first one." He smiles, briefly lost in thought. "There have been times when I questioned myself," he continues. "What is the use, I thought, of coming back to where you started." His eyes are in mine. "I wouldn't have been allowed to have a future until I returned to the past, Tara."

He puts his arm around my shoulders and pulls me towards him. I don't resist.

"Unless you see the rest of the world, unless you know what it is like out there, you will not understand where true happiness lies. I don't think there are many people who can achieve inner bliss without taking that tough journey. My father was one of those rare people. For him, it was enough to embark upon an odyssey into his inner world to find his own Arcadia. Initially, I did not understand him. I couldn't have. I had to venture beyond this island to be able to do that."

The night air is turning chilly. I feel the need to cuddle up to him, into his protective embrace. As the hand on my shoulder strokes my skin, I move closer to him.

"You're like a cat."

Unwinding to the sound of the waves lashing against the rocks, I ponder over the recent revelation about my life.

"Now it's your turn, Tiny Lady."

"What shall I tell you?" I don't want to talk. I'm gazing at the sea.

"What about a fairy tale? You used to tell so many of them when you were little, do you remember? You had a different story every time I saw you."

"I believed that no one – with the exception of Nanna – could tell better stories than I did. I'm no longer so sure about that, though." Watching the sea, a story leaps to my mind. "I do have a story to tell, a story rather like a fairy tale, although it doesn't begin with 'at a time when the sieve lay in the hay and the camels spread hearsay.'"

"Let's hear it then. Is it Sleeping Beauty?"

His sarcasm slightly annoys me. "No, it is not Sleeping Beauty," I retort brusquely. The mention of that tale, however, unexpectedly kindles sweet memories and I smile. "It's a fairy tale told at a time foregone on the edge of a precipice, actually a story which I took to be a fairy tale." I change my mind. "Never mind the fairy tales. Even the sound of the waves is too loud now, let alone my own voice."

"You're surprising me."

I too am surprised at myself for having such a good time in the midst of this dual loneliness Mother Nature bestows upon us. "It's worth coming here just for the fish and the squid," I mumble.

"There are other reasons – if you stop looking without seeing."

"Please, let's not get into philosophy."

He does not hear me. "It's very difficult to abandon certain beliefs, certain assumptions. You know that they are wrong, you know that they will eventually make you suffer, but you still can't relinquish them. You can't stop looking without seeing. You're scared of seeing. Everything has to do with being able to cope with your fears."

He gently squeezes my shoulder. A silence reigns, lasting for a few breaths, followed by staccato sentences obviously articulated with much difficulty. "For years, I strained every nerve to cope with my resentment at having been deserted by my mother. My way of getting even with her for leaving me was to wreak vengeance on all other women. It took me a long time to realise that not all women were like her. To be able to stop seeking revenge for my pain, I needed to know a lot of women..." He breaks off, as if he were at a loss as how to continue. "And to hurt most of them," he finally adds.

Under the enchanting spell of the moonlight, he is baring his soul to a person he has not seen for years. A flicker of a smile, a bitter, self-contemptuous smile passes across his face. I am taken by surprise when I see something of my father's in his expression. Nadir smiles exactly like him. Without judging whether I really want it or not, I raise my hand and touch where his beard surrounds his mouth, then caress his lips, parched by the sun and the sea.

"You're invisible, like the flower of a fig tree, Tara."

I cast my mind back to what I once learned under a fig tree. "The flower of a fig tree is invisible, for it blooms inside the fruit," I say, thinking of that day. The small orifice visible in the middle of the fruit is a narrow passage allowing a very special wasp, the fig wasp, to enter the heart of the fruit and pollinate the flower, whereafter the fruit grows seeds.

"Tell me, Tara. Tell me about yourself."

"What shall I tell you?"

"Tell me everything. Tell me why you're so angry, why you're running away. Tell me about the nightmare that made you come here."

The enchanting spell of the moonlight.

"Openness. To be open. Never to lie. This was what he kept nailing into our heads ever since we were little kids. To tell the truth no matter how painful it was, no matter how terrible we thought it to be. Not to hide anything from each other. We listened to this pivotal piece of advice throughout our childhood and adolescence. He always said, 'Whatever you do, it can't be worse than lying about it. Don't be scared to share your mistakes with us. Your mother and I, we will help you sort everything out.' And we never hid anything from each other, either from him or from our mother or from Nanna or from our siblings. But he ... he lied! He lied to all of us. For years. He used to preach impartiality, saying that the most difficult thing was to be objective, to be able to look at the world from the eyes of others, to consider their rights and to respect those rights. And what did _he_ do? He took away our right to love or to hate someone. Do you think that is fair? Is that the impartiality he advocated so feverishly?"

"Are you resentful of his secrecy about the people he helped?"

"It's not that, Nadir. It's just that..." Unexpectedly, the words leave my mouth of their own accord. "I can tolerate everything, but this is something totally different, an unbearable pain, a burden even someone as resilient as me would find impossible to shoulder. He hid Maya's true identity from us for years. This is like a retribution. But for what? What have I done wrong?" Is it me who is saying all these things? It hurts me so much even to articulate her name, but I have to tell him everything. He must understand me. "Do you remember Maya?"

"I know who Maya is, Tara."

"Maya. The famous actress we all know, the star publicised as one of the most beautiful women in the world. They pass their judgment as if they had examined the whole of the female population and succeeded in setting in stone the inconstant criteria for universal beauty. Much more fitting would be a subtitle such as 'One of the most beautiful women among those trapped by the media,' I should think. Whatever beauty might actually entail." Don't lose your focus, Tara. "As far as I'm concerned, Maya is neither one of the most beautiful women in the world nor a good actress nor, as some claim, very clever. She has a very different place in my life. Do you know who she is, Nadir?" Inwardly, I seethe. "She is the person who turned our life upside down."

"You realise that you're blowing everything out of proportion, don't you, Tara?"

"The person who shattered my faith in life, in what I knew to be the truth ..."

"Whoever she might be ..."

"You don't understand. You can't. It's not as you think." Like everyone else, Nadir doesn't know the truth. How can he?

"I do understand, Tara, but I still think you're exaggerating."

No, he does not understand. Hoping that I will not regret it afterwards, I decide to tell him everything. "I couldn't stay at home that evening, the evening when my father told us that he had sold Theatre Twenty Hundred." It was only three evenings ago, but it feels as if years have gone by.

After having walked for hours, my feet dragged me to Theatre Twenty Hundred that evening. I wanted to spend the night there, and the next day, and the next, until it was time to hand over the keys. For hours, I wandered around, going through everything, visiting its every corner, silently weeping. Eventually, I went to my father's changing room and fell asleep on the bed in the rear section.

After an uneasy and dreamless night, I woke up in the morning to my father's voice. Unaware of my presence in the rear section, he was speaking on the panel phone.

"I'll be transferring the money to your bank account today."

I couldn't see the panel but heard that he was speaking with a woman. Holding my breath, I listened on.

"I want you to transfer my share to the Global Cultural Heritage Fighters. I have no right to a share in Twenty Hundred," says the voice on the panel.

Who was she? Was he talking to Amber? Or was it Sim?

"It is your right as much as it is theirs, Maya."

Maya? Who the hell was Maya? What right was he talking about? I remembered another Maya whom I had met years ago when I was six years old, the woman who had entered our life shortly after Theatre Twenty Hundred had been set up, the woman who had remained my father's lover for years and who, after becoming famous enough, had finally let us alone. "This must be another woman with the same name," I concluded wishfully. If wishes were horses, beggars would ride. Of course it wasn't another Maya. How many Maya's could one know? It wasn't a name like Mary or Sarah.

After our first encounter, I had never seen her again, although her name had been mentioned quite often throughout my childhood. After a couple of years, I was old enough to reason that she was my father's lover, just another one of those countless women who caught his fancy. My parents had a bizarre relationship, a relationship the intricacies of which I could never thoroughly grasp. I was sure that my father had been unfaithful to my mother time and again, just for the sake of it, as if it were some sort of sport, like climbing a mountain or something, as if he wanted to conquer all the peaks, as if he were a child who ate a piece of chocolate that he should not have, forgot its taste the moment he swallowed it and after a short while craved another one. He was very good at hiding his extramarital activities from us all. No one in our family had a clue about what was going on but I knew. I don't know if my mother did. Even if she did, she pretended she did not. I ignored it as well. We had the perfect life. We had the perfect family. And my father was my hero, no matter what happened.

That telephone conversation with Maya, however, put the tin lid on everything. He was including one of his lovers in our family. After all these years, why had she entered the picture again? Or perhaps there had always been a Maya in our life. How many lives did my father have?

I came out of the rear section without waiting for the end of their conversation and stood there, staring at him right in the eye.

"I'll call you back," he said, turning the phone off.

"Who was it?"

"What are you doing here?"

"Would you please answer my question? Who is it that you consider our equal? Who is this Maya?"

He rose to his feet and walked over to me. He held my shoulders, attempting to hug me.

"Is she one of your lovers?" I snapped, shaking his hands off.

"Tara! What are you talking about?"

"Who is she, Dad?" I shouted at the top of my lungs. "Tell me! Who is she?" I was pounding his chest with my fists. "Or is she the other woman you have been sharing your life with for years?"

"Tara! Stop this nonsense!"

"Does mum deserve this? What about us? You cheated all of us." I was sobbing. "And for years. I can't believe it." Suddenly I slapped him in the face with all my might.

He was shocked. His eyes travelled between me and his hand, which he had been holding to his cheek. Then his eyes drifted away from me altogether. When our eyes met again, the expression on his face was frighteningly cold and distant.

"Maya is my daughter, Tara."

I remember catching my breath, my heart skipping a beat, a terrible pain clutching my breast. I must have misheard him. "Your daughter? What do you mean your daughter?"

"I'm Maya's father."

He was lying, in a pathetic effort to cover up one lie with another. She was his lover. His lover! One of those hundreds of women who came and went. She would go away too.

"You're lying."

"No, Tara, I'm not lying."

I didn't believe him. I couldn't believe him. I did not want to believe him. I wished she were his lover. This was ... This was something else altogether. He had cheated me. He had been cheating on me throughout my life. He had teamed up with a total stranger and betrayed me, his favourite daughter, the apple of his eye. Me being the closest to his heart must have been a lie as well. Who knows what other secrets he had been keeping from me? Perhaps he didn't even love me. Perhaps he never did.

He was saying something. I didn't want to hear any of it. "I was twenty years old when I met Maya's mother, Tara. I was too young, too full of vim and vigour and far too naive."

I pressed my hands to my ears. He held my wrists and forced my hands away from my head.

"Listen to me, Tara. You must listen."

"Let me go."

He would not let go of my wrists.

"I didn't know she was pregnant. I couldn't have known. And I didn't know that I had a daughter by the name of Maya until I was forty-three years old."

I had no strength left to tolerate all that he was saying. I freed myself from his grip and ran out of the room. Rushing up the stairs, I found myself on the stage. As I dashed towards the steps leading to the Yard, I heard my father's voice.

"Tara!"

I stopped at the very edge of the stage. Where are you, _deus ex machina?_ It's just the right time. Come and save me from this pain. A few seconds later, the floor beside my feet would split into two and a god, slowly rising with the help of a machinery hidden underneath the boards, would manifest itself and solve all my problems. This was only a play, a play where I was forced to take on a role that I had not chosen, that I had not asked for.

"I don't know if you will understand me or not but I will, in any case, try to explain." His voice had softened. I could not see his face, but his eyes might have softened too. "You will understand me only when you'll have children, Tara." I heard him take a few steps towards me and then stop again. Standing in the middle of the stage, he continued, as if reciting a passage from a play he knew perfectly well. "A father's heart grows with each child. He opens up a space for each one, a special place separate from those reserved for his wife or for anyone else. It all depends on the child how much this place will expand or contract. With you, Tara, my heart expanded in a way I could never have even imagined. I beg you not to let it shrink now." He was right behind me, gently holding my shoulders.

"You don't understand, Dad. What drives me mad is not that I have another sister. I have a lot of them. I'm used to sharing you with them. But this... This is different. You didn't share her with any of us. We didn't share you with her. You were completely hers."

"You're being ridiculous."

"Yes, you were. You shared with her a secret you shared with none of us. You made a fool of us all. You lied to us." I turned around and looked him in the eye. "Why? Why didn't you tell us?"

"Initially I myself didn't know Maya existed, Tara. She found me years later. You were too little at the time. You were six years old. I didn't know how you would take it. Me and your mother, we decided not to let you know the truth, at least for a while. Then we couldn't figure out how to tell it without hurting you. Yes, we did hide the truth from you, but it was to protect you."

"Wait, wait, wait. You mean mum knew?"

"Of course she did."

My parents had teamed up and excluded me from their secret world. They, hand in hand with a total stranger, pushed me and my sisters and my brother out of the family, as if we had no significance at all. "I really cannot believe you, Dad. You shared something with my mother, something you even hid from me."

"What do you think? Do you think that I would be hiding something like this from your mother?" The edges of his lips curved up in a mocking smile. Then he became dead serious again. "I never ever hid anything from your mother, Tara. I never had anything to hide from her." He took my hands between his. "I don't know what makes you think that way, but I never had any lovers. I understand that you might not be quite aware of the fact that your mother's place in my heart is much bigger than any place any of you occupies there. Her love is so deep that it embraces all my other loves: my love for my children, my love for my career, my passion to save the world. Her heart is so prodigious that it takes them all in. If there is going to be anyone you should take as your role model, it should definitely be your mother. Her capacity to love should be your guide. You're not a little girl anymore, Tara. You have to grow up. You have to have a life of your own."

"Stop it! Please stop it. I don't want to listen to you anymore," I remember shouting angrily.

"Then I recall running down the steps into the Yard and out of the theatre."

Nadir wipes away the tears wetting my cheeks. His eyebrows are knitted, creating a few deep lines between them. Then he raises them, taking a deep breath. A few lines appear on his forehead. "Why? Why did you have to behave like that?" his eyes say as he looks at me. Is there a tint of pity in the question marks in his eyes? Who is he to pity me? I shouldn't have told him anything.

I carry on, somehow unable to control my tongue. "I'm so confused, Nadir. That's why I came here. That's why I ran away to this island, to where it all started. It is as though I came to relive a lie that has been going on for twenty-three years." I feel my eyes burning. No, Tara. No more tears. "Besides, I don't believe that my father learned about Maya only years later. Perhaps he is lying about that as well. Perhaps he knew. Perhaps he left her when she was a little baby, or even before she was born, and then years later his conscience made him repent and look for her. I don't know. I don't know what to believe anymore. I've lost my faith in him."

Nadir takes a long sip from his wine. Keeping his eyes on the moonlight scintillating on the black surface of the sea, he speaks. "When I went to the hospital to pay him a visit, he didn't only talk about the sale of the theatre." He turns his gaze to me. "I called him as soon as I heard that he had been hospitalised. His phone was turned off, so I called your mother. I guess it was you who answered. The screen was not on. Your voice sounded very much like your mother's but I knew that it wasn't her. I couldn't speak, not knowing what to say and just hung up. A very silly thing to do, I admit."

The morning after my father was taken to hospital, his phone rang continuously. Nadir was right; I was answering the calls. It rang hundreds of times.

"I came to the metropolis right away. When I arrived at the hospital in the evening, your parents were alone."

My father had categorically refused to let Twenty Hundred be left all alone 'for some such trivial excuse as his hospitalisation' (to repeat his own words) and sent me away. I could care less about the theatre when he was lying in a hospital bed, and was rather heart-broken that he did not need me by his side.

"I had never seen him so discouraged before. 'We can no longer put up with the pressure,' he said. 'Their threats are hedging closer. They went so far as to threaten us with death. I'm not worried about myself, but I can't risk the safety of my family, Nadir,' he said. Then he asked me a lot of questions about the sale of the theatre and wanted to know if I had an old colleague I could recommend, adding that you, his children, knew nothing about the sale. He was afraid that you would urge him to change his mind and that he would readily do so. He said, 'It's about time to stop playing Don Quixote. We have no option but to admit defeat. I'm throwing in the towel. Our mission terminates here.' Then ... Then Maya came in. They introduced her, just out of politeness since, like the rest of the world, I already knew her. There was nothing unusual about her visit. She was just another one of those hundreds of actors and actresses who came to see him. Eventually, when everybody was gone, we were left alone, me and your father. I remember him staring blankly out of the window. 'I didn't know ... I couldn't have known,' he began. It was dark in the room except for the weak light spreading from his bedside lamp. Perhaps it was that semi-darkness that gave him the strength, perhaps he thought he would die, or perhaps he saw into the future. Who knows? It was of no importance why. He kept repeating the same thing over and over again. 'I didn't know. I didn't know she was pregnant. I was twenty years old when I fell in love with Maya's mother and she was only seventeen.' He then told me everything."

My intense curiosity impels me to listen to Nadir, in morbid and uneasy fascination that overshadows the torment his narration inflicts upon me.

"It was as though he were in a confession booth, talking not to me but to his own conscience. With a bitter smile and a doleful voice, he talked about his devastation at Maya's mother telling him that she had fallen in love with someone else and wanted to break up with him. He recounted how frustrated, angry and heart-broken he had felt a few months later upon learning that she had been married. 'I was too naive to realise that nothing was as it seemed," were his exact words. He had learned the truth only years later, during the auditions for _Twelfth Night_ , the first play they staged at Theatre Twenty Hundred. At the time, he had been having difficulty finding the right actress to play Viola. Then one day a young actress with only two years of experience auditioned for the role ..."

Enough! I don't want to listen to any of this. "Whatever the case," I cut him short, "I don't think I would ever be able to forgive him."

"He said that they couldn't tell you, the children, Amber being too young to understand, and you and Sena ..." Nadir pauses, apparently having difficulty in finding the right words. I seek his eyes. He pulls them away and continues almost in a whisper. "He said that he had to protect you, to protect your innocence. 'We listened to our hearts,' he said. 'They might not have taken it in all too well at that age. They might not have understood it. But perhaps now is the time to..."

"Of course we would have understood it."

"Tara, you can't understand it now."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean that as far as your relationship with your father is concerned, you're not much different than the six-year-old Tara. You've imprisoned yourself in a world of your own creation, a world that you've made yourself believe is perfect."

"It's not Maya that I can't tolerate; it's my father having lied to us for so long. Can't you see that?" Flushed with anger, I jump to my feet. I'm not going to take any more of his insults. He firmly grabs my wrist.

"You can't solve your problems by running away from them. You must listen to me."

Pulling my hand, he makes me sit down again.

"You ought to stop threatening your father with emotional blackmail. You have to grow up, Tara. The childhood you're bent on extending has to come to an end sooner or later."

"How much more am I supposed to grow up? I'm twenty-nine years old." I try to liberate my hand but he does not let go of it.

"I don't think so. You still behave like a little girl."

"You too made a fool of me, you know, treating me as if I were a little girl. You didn't tell me anything, although you knew everything."

"I didn't know you had learned who Maya was. It didn't even occur to me until a few minutes ago. I thought your anger was due to your father having sold the theatre. I believed that I didn't have the right to reveal something like that to you, something that was exclusively between you and your dad."

"Well, it wasn't really so, was it? You knew it. My mother knew it. Even my mother! You can label it any way you like but being something exclusively between me and my dad."

"What I mean is that it was up to your father to decide when and how to explain it to you. No one else had the right to tell you that. Least of all, I did."

"You're no different than my dad. Won't I ever meet an honest soul?"

"You've created such a defence mechanism that the Tara you desperately suppress distorts your perception of everything around you. First and foremost you need to look into the reason behind your indignation. Stop hiding your fears behind a veil of anger."

"What fears? What on earth can I possibly be afraid of?"

"Of losing your father's love, Tara."

That does it! The blood rushes to my head and the veins throb painfully in my temples. I struggle to keep the anger frothing inside me from oozing out of my mouth. "I don't want to talk about this anymore," I say decisively.

"You don't need to be afraid of anything. The people who love you might hide certain things from you, but only because they think it is for your own good. They might lie, presuming that the truth would give you pain. You've always been your father's favourite child. And you still are. You'll never lose your place in his heart. Your father knows you better than you know yourself. You succeeded in fooling yourself but not your father. No matter how hard you strived to prove to your father, who hates any kind of weakness, that you're strong, no matter how hard you want to show him that you're brave, he sees that you're suppressing the little Tara in you, to be a totally different person than who you really are. It hurts him to watch his little baby suffer under the pains of growing up. He can't get himself to let you fly away from under his protective wings, although he knows that it is past the time to help you grow up. That is all he intends to do. Can you understand how painful it is for him to watch you get hurt?"

"Is he helping me by selling Twenty Hundred?"

"Perhaps."

A sensation of being trapped in a spider web threatens to debilitate me. I spring to my feet, holding back the tears that are dying to gush out of my eyes, stagger across the rickety wooden bridge menacingly wobbling beneath my feet, dash through the beach, fighting with the sand slowing me down, and throw myself inside the house, then into Nadir's bedroom.

I shouldn't have watched the sunset. I shouldn't have let him beguile me with his cooking. More importantly, I shouldn't have listened to his idiotic challenges. Come to think of it, I shouldn't have come here in the first place. I shouldn't have. Oh, how I wish I hadn't.
26

Now the moon peeped through the clouds, now it shied away behind. As Tara came onto the pier on Nadir's back, she saw her mother, burdened with her gigantic belly, scuttle towards them. "Tara!" she shouted. "Tara?"

A freezing wind got up. Tara could not help trembling. As her mother hugged her, she burst into tears.

"We've been looking for you for hours, my love. Where have you been? Where did you find her, Nadir?"

"I found her in the hut, up in the woods."

"What happened, Tara? What were you doing there? Why did you go into the woods all on your own? Have you lost your way?"

"No, Mum, I didn't. I was playing hide and seek."

"We were exploring, Tara," whispered Kali. "The hide and seek was over, didn't you notice? We were playing a game of exploration."

"I'm so sorry," her mother kept saying, as tears streamed down her cheeks. "I'm so sorry. Everything will be all right, sweetheart. I'll make sure it is."

Tara picked up all her courage and blurted out, "Dad loves Maya, Mum." Her words were lost among her sobs. "He'll leave you. He'll leave all of us."

Her mother let out a short laugh. "You do have a very active imagination, Tara. Yes, he does love her. But it's not what you think. Your dad will never leave us. Maya cannot take my place."

"Who is Maya, Mum?"

Her mother, instead of answering her question, turned to the Fisherman, who was also on the pier now, and held his hands. "Thank you ever so much." Then she grabbed Nadir's hands. "We can't thank you enough, Nadir." Holding him tight in her arms, she kissed his hair. "We owe you a life, son."

The Fisherman and Nadir left the pier without a word.

"Who is Maya, Mum?" Tara asked once again.

Her mother embraced her, leaving her question unanswered. She was crying silently. She must be hurting too.

"Don't be sad, Mum. As you said, she can't take your place. She can't take my place either."

Her mother squeezed her tightly in her arms. "Hush, my love, hush now. Let's go. Everyone is so worried about you."

Kali followed them. "Look, Tara. There is Nanna and there is our dad. Nanna has her arms around our dad. 'Thank God,' she says."

"I see them, Kali. I'm not blind. Please shut up now." Tara saw her father walk towards the steps leading to the beach, with Nanna and the other guests behind him. She did not want to go up. "I want to stay here," she whined. Her father was now running down the steps. Motionless, she watched, with a quivering heart, her father reach the beach, walk onto the pier and run towards them. It was only when he held her tightly in his arms that her heart stopped trembling. She burst into a tide of sobs as he kissed her.

"What happened, Tara? What happened, Rev? Where did they find her? Is she all right?"

"She hid, Orhon. She hid in the woods. I think she is aware of certain things."

"She hid? How do you mean she hid?" He pulled Tara away from his chest to look at her in the face. "What does that mean, Tara, hiding in the woods?" There was anger in his voice.

"I _was_ exploring, Dad."

"Are you out of your mind? Do you know how devastated they were, your mother and Nanna? How could you do such a thing?"

"You always say that we need to explore, not to be afraid of exploring."

"You weren't exploring, Tara. You ran away from home, for goodness sake!"

"I was exploring, Dad." Then she murmured to herself, "At least Kali says so."

Her mother burst out crying again. Her father put Tara down, squatted in front of her and began scolding her in a tone of voice she had never heard before, a voice alarmingly serious and severe. He was wagging his finger right in front of her nose. "Do you want to kill your mother? Do you? How could you do such a thing, Tara? Now, you listen to me and listen well. You'd better come to your senses and start behaving like a good girl. Understood?"

The guests were lined up on the pier, watching Tara. She was so ashamed. It hurt her pride to be scolded like this in front of all those people. "Please, Dad," she beseeched, "please don't be angry with me. Please ..."

Her father continued to berate her. "Never, ever leave this house ..."

Nanna was standing behind him. "Choose your words wisely, Orhon," she whispered. "Don't let your anguish turn into anger."

Her father held Tara's shoulders and shook her. "Never! Never leave this house without my permission. Do you understand me? Never!"

She would not tolerate her father belittling her like this. Especially in front of Maya. She shrugged her shoulders free of her father's grip and ran towards the beach. As she dashed through the line of guests, Amber extended her hand from where she was being spoiled in Suzan's arms. "Leave me alone," Tara shouted before turning to Sirius running after her. "You too! Leave me alone!" She saw her mother and Nanna follow her, calling out, "Tara!" She was struggling her way through the sand when she heard her father say, "Let her go." She quickened her pace. As she climbed the steps, Peanut and Hazelnut made to accompany her to the top. "Leave me alone!" she howled at them as well. "I've had enough of all of you." In frustration she ran across the lawn, passed by the pine trees onto the lower garden, stopping when she reached the stone wall over the cliff. She was breathless. Leaning her elbows onto the wall, she tried to catch her breath. Her father hated her. He was going to leave her. In panic, she shooed away these nasty thoughts, murmuring to herself, "Others might get hurt but not me. Nothing bad will ever happen to me. My father will always protect me. I'm his favourite child. He won't love anybody more than he loves me. He will always be by my side, so I don't need to be scared of anything bad happening to me. He won't love anybody more than he loves me. He won't love anybody more than he loves me..."

Kali was watching Tara run towards the beach after freeing herself from Orhon's grip.

"Tara!" called out Revan.

"Tara!" called out Nanna.

"Let her go," said Orhon. "Let her think."

"What are we going to do?"

"I don't know, Rev. First, we need to learn what she knows."

"I don't think she knows anything. She just keeps asking who Maya is."

"I don't think it would be a good idea to tell her now. She won't be able to take it."

"She should know sooner or later."

"We have to wait for the right moment."

"We should at least help her get closer to Maya."

"We can't force her to do anything, Rev. She doesn't want to. It would be worse if we forced her. Time will take care of everything. It'll be all right; if not this time, maybe next time."

"She definitely feels that something unusual is going on. She has never done anything like this before."

"I think we should give it some time. It might be better if we told her when Sena is here."

"I would never forgive any of my children had they done such a thing," grumbled Kim. "This is nothing but emotional blackmail. Utterly disrespectful."

Suzan pulled Kim by the arm. "Don't interfere," she said. "It's not the right moment."

"Don't interfere! Don't interfere!" echoed Amber.

Orhon took Amber from Suzan and they all climbed up the steps to the house. Erol was holding Maya's hand, obviously not with the intention of helping her climb, since she seemed not to have any trouble doing so.

Kali thought she should be helping Tara out and ran ahead of everyone. When she reached the garden, she could not see Tara. Had she gone to her room? Then she heard her crying voice. Looking around, she spotted her by the cliff, leaning onto the stone wall with her hands under her chin, looking down. She ran to her, not knowing what to say or where to begin. "Aren't you scared of looking down, Tara?" she asked.

"No. Are you?"

"I'm not scared of heights." She jumped onto the wall with the agility of a cat.

"Be careful, Kali! You might fall down." Tara's words were swallowed by her sobs.

"Nothing will happen to me." Kali moved a little bit further so that the tips of her toes reached over the edge. A shiver ran through her. She looked down. The sea was frothing where the waves hit against the rocks. Her head span. She moved back. "Don't cry, Tara. Our father is very happy in fact, since none of his forebodings materialised. At the same time, he is angry with you for having behaved so irresponsibly, upsetting our mother and Nanna."

"I didn't want to upset them. I only wanted my dad to ..."

Kali's eyes were caught by the sight of Maya and Erol sitting side by side under the pergola. They were hand in hand. Erol had bent over and was kissing Maya on her lips. "Look, Tara! Look over there under the pergola."

Tara turned her head. "Look at what?"

She could not see, not a single thing.

"Well, given that you still look without seeing, I need to tell you yet another story, which I hope will help you open your eyes. Now listen very carefully to what I'm going to tell you."

"Are you going to tell me the end of Inanna's story?"

"I already did that. Weren't you listening to me?"

"When? I don't remember. Are you going to tell me a new story then?"

"Well, it's actually a very old story but I don't think you know it."

"Is it older than Inanna's story?"

"I don't know. It might be."

Kali began in a purring voice. "Once on the far side of yesterday when my fringe was a bristle and my quill a thistle; a time long, long ago that saw my granny cry a lot, my daddy put her in a cot and my mummy give her a chamber pot; a time when the unfashionable fashionable grey of now they wore not, but ported the electric blue, the blood red and the quantum yellow of the year dot; one of those high and far-off times when the world tumbled down into an endless dark pot, there was a very big city with no name where lived a young man with a very brave heart. Come away time, go away rhyme, the Young Man, watching the world suffer more and more in grime, slime and crime, decided to do something to save mankind from this unfortunate clime. Hand in hand with the likes of his mind, a manifesto to save the world he signed. After a short length of time on a day when the sun shined, a young girl came along, wishing to help them save humankind. A real beauty to put to shame any fairy, with petals for lips sweet and rosy, almonds for eyes hazel and hazy, filled with mystery, a gazelle's gait most graceful and breezy, but most importantly, with a heart braver than the bravest Amazon lassie and a spirit freer than the most free-spirited sparrow, swallow or chickadee, she at first sight did conquer the Young Man, heart, soul and body. The Young Man, handsome, fit and dishy to put to shame any fabled deity, had the answer to every girl's dream, pure, demure or bawdy, but most importantly for the Young Girl, had the heart of a lion, dauntless, valiant and gutsy, the fist of any Hercules, mythic, cosmic or earthly, and the soul of a hero, relentlessly ambitious, valorous and knightly. So the Young Girl and the Young Man fell head over heels in love. Only three water drops and half a cup later, the Young Girl, three days and three nights before her seventeenth birthday, learned that she was to become a mother. She told no one that she carried the child of her lover, neither to the Young Man himself nor any other. Why is that? You might wonder. The pride of the Young Girl is the simple answer. She hid it from him, because, God only knows why, she did not want to push him into a marriage just because of the baby. She hid it from her family because, God only knows why, she was ashamed immensely. To make matters more complicated, she refused to kill her child, resolutely, committedly and categorically. No surprise to the bearer or to the listener of this story, there came a day when the parents of the Young Girl found out about the good or the bad news as the case may be, raising havoc at the terrible revelation about the identity of the guilty party, a mere boy of twenty, still in the cradle of an academy with no merits other than being an adventurous kid not envied by many, and on top of everything else, not from their closed and traditional community. Unfortunately for the lovers, those were the times when such things did matter significantly; the parents of the Young Girl decided to marry their daughter, who had brought ignominy, off to a man much elderly and send her to exile in the wasteland at the other end of the country. The Young Girl had no other choice than to accept the dictates of her family and, much to her regret, lied to the only man of her fancy, leading him to believe that she had fallen in love with another laddie. Devastated, frustrated and angry, the Young Man nevertheless tried to cope with it all much ably until after one month, two or three, he heard that his beloved was to marry and went mad with fury. Running away from his broken heart and pride in despondency, he moved over the seven seas to start anew with a new stride in a new city. Come away time, go away rhyme, the Young Girl gave birth to a baby girl as lovely as summertime. The Young Man, unaware that he now had a little daughter, made himself another life in that other clime, and in time became an actor the whole world loved, cherished and sublimed. The Little Daughter, never in the knowledge of who her real father was, grew up in the midst of a life unrhymed, mistimed and much mimed. Eventually becoming a young girl as brave and beautiful as her mother and as strong, daring and talented as her true father, the steps of life she climbed. Yet again, come away time, go away rhyme, on a very bitter day in time, the Little Girl's mother, lying on her deathbed, told her everything about their past, with no reason or rhyme. The Little Girl, losing no time to find her true father in the depths of a lifetime, completed without further ado a tale half told to you." Kali paused. "Actually, this story does not end here, but that's all from me."

"I didn't like it at all. Besides, it's not the best time to tell stories."

"It's just the right time, Tara."

"I understand everything," Tara hissed between her teeth, "but I can't understand why he had to scold me in front of everyone, especially in front of Maya. I'm not a baby anymore."

"Then don't behave like one." Kali turned her back and pointed at Orhon, Revan and Nanna, who were watching them. "It's futile to ask for help from others. You need to learn how to help yourself."

"I'm not asking help from anyone."

"And you have to be strong. It's not enough to keep saying, I'm not scared. You have to be truly fearless."

"The only thing I want is my father to ..."

"As a matter of fact, we're very similar, Tara. Our clothes might be different, our colours might be dissimilar, but I look like you, as if I were your shadow."

"Are you kidding me? We have nothing in common."

Kali had finally managed to stop Tara's sobs. "My name, just like yours, is from another world."

"Does it mean the Goddess of Wisdom?"

"No, but without me it's impossible to be a real goddess of wisdom."

"I'm not up for a riddle. Please spare me."

"Kali means the executioner of the unreal."

"What does that mean?"

"You'll understand me better once you're free of your illusions." Kali thought it was time for her to go. "In fact, that's another story. And who knows, perhaps one day someone will tell you that story as well. Perhaps. One day. Who knows?"

She took a last look at Tara. A very difficult time was in wait for her sister. Goodbye Tara.

"Kali? Kali!" she heard Tara call out after her. "Kali, where are you?" she shouted.
27

I shouldn't have come here. Why on earth did I? To serve exactly what purpose? Obviously to rub salt onto what has been happening during the last three weeks, to inflict more pain on my soul. I couldn't have known though. I couldn't have even guessed that I would come across anyone here, in this godforsaken place, let alone someone who would push my limits, as if to exacerbate my pain. I couldn't have imagined that here of all places my world would be thrown into further turmoil. I shouldn't have come. I must leave immediately. I must go back to real life. "Going back to the metropolis does not mean going back to real life," says the Fisherman. What makes me remember all these things? "Quite the reverse, it means running away from reality. People take the hectic life they live in to be real, but they're mistaken. Worse still, they're not even aware of being mistaken." Forget about the Fisherman. Forget about Nadir. And forget about this island.

I grab my swimsuit from where I left it on the armchair, along with my crop top and trousers, and stuff them in my bag. My shoes? Where did I leave them? My sweater? It's right there on the floor where I flung it. I pick it up. This is not your sweater, Tara. Amazing how readily you are latching on to him. Leave Nadir's sweater to Nadir.

In exasperation, I throw my bag onto the floor. Where can I possibly go at this time of the night? It's not like I can swim or climb the rocks, right? I'm a prisoner here, since I'm not going to beg Nadir like a helpless silly little girl to take me home. My head is spinning like a wheel because of all the wine I've had. I'm dying for a cigarette. I look for my bag. It lies on the floor in one corner of the room where I have thrown it. I dig for my tobacco pouch. There it is. Not a single leaf left in it. When did I smoke it all? I empty the contents of my bag onto the bed and rake through all the useless stuff, in search for a few of those much-needed nicotine-rich leaves that might have fallen off. Hey-ho! Nothing! My stomach turns. I sit up. Take a deep breath, Tara, a very deep breath, and enjoy your misery, because that's all you'll be getting for being such a fool. I stuff everything back into my bag. Thoroughly demoralised, I collapse onto the bed. My eyes follow the rotating arms of the ceiling fan. I sit back up. Shall I take another shower? Getting wet will hardly suffice to calm my nerves.

My thoughts are spinning faster than my head. Just as I was about to pull myself together, believing that everything would eventually be all right, another slap in the face. Enough is enough! Where, pray, do I need to go to run away from it all? I'm sick and tired of everyone taking me for a fool. I'm tired of being let down. Even Nadir lied to me. My victory was nothing but an illusion. Was I so blind as to perceive Nadir's tactical withdrawal as a triumph on my part? Well, it's not so tragic that Nadir has lied to me, given that even the person I trust the most did that already.

The wooden planks of the patio creak. Nadir's footsteps. Calm, slow, but heavy enough to make the planks moan. In panic, I turn off the bedside lamp. The sound of the footsteps stops. I'm all ears. I hear the vague echo of his strides pressing against the sand. Or I think I do. Where is he going? I should tell him to drop me home. I stand up and walk to the window. There is no sign of him. Where has he gone? A pang of fear sweeps through me. Then I notice the ripples on the water where the moonlight leaves its silvery reflection, the ripples Nadir is making. He is swimming. It's like a movie in slow motion. His movements give a fake sense of serenity. Enchanted, I watch him. Perhaps I do exaggerate everything after all. Perhaps, as Nadir says, my father is really helping me grow up. You bet he is. Nadir does not know what he is talking about. I am a fully grown woman, aren't I? How much more should I grow up? There are things I can tolerate and there are things I cannot. My life, which I thought was perfect, might not have been so perfect. I can see that now. I might have been trying to keep my father under control. I do not, however, deserve to be taken for a fool, to be deceived like that, to be cheated. And for years!

You do deserve it, Tara, says a voice from a long-gone past, because it was you who chose to remain a naive child. You did all you could to be strong, to make yourself believe that you were tough and indomitable, but you were not.

No, I wasn't lying to myself. I'm not a weakling like my mother. I've never been one.

Nadir comes out of the water. I swiftly move away from the window. Has he seen me? I want to hide, to disappear. I can't believe that I opened up to Nadir as I did, telling him everything. Was it the dark that encouraged me, or was it Nadir? I don't know. I wish he had not woken me up. Everything seems more complicated now – a real mess, to be precise.

I sit on the bed, leaning my back on the headboard, pulling my knees to my chest and hugging my legs. Was he naked, I wonder? Stark naked? What is it to you, Tara? You'd better think of what you're going to do now. Anyone in her senses would have left a long time ago. Why are you still here? I check the time. Twelve. Midnight. The dead of night. The witching hour. I have to leave. I have to get away from here. "Don't be silly, Tara," says an inner voice. "You're not Cinderella, are you?"

A magic wand makes me turn my head towards the glass door giving on to the patio. It is wide open now. Nadir is standing there with his arms spread like an eagle and his hands pressed on both sides of the door frame, hesitating shyly as if he were about to enter the bedroom of a stranger. The moonlight draws a silver lining around his silhouette, defining his head, his shoulders, his arms and his legs, leaving his face in the dark. He turns his head. The silver lining accentuates his chiselled profile. I can see that he is not smiling. A towel is wrapped around his waist. The possibility of him being naked stirs something dormant in me. My heartbeat quickens. I tear my eyes away from him.

"Maestral started blowing, the midnight Maestral," he says softly.

He is talking about a particular wind, a wind that gets up at midnight after a very hot day and continues to blow for hours. In the mirror opposite, I watch him step inside and settle down in the only armchair in the room, which is bathed in moonlight streaming through the glass wall. He leans back comfortably, turning his gaze onto the floor, resting one arm on his leg and letting his hand dangle in between his legs. His towel slightly parts. He raises his head to reveal an intimidatingly serious expression. Why do I find that intimidating? I'm not in the mood to analyse anything. His eyes catch the reflection of mine in the mirror. I can't get myself to turn and look at him; I can't even look at his reflection. Snatching my eyes away, I sit up straight. Get out of his bed, Tara! I can't move. The silence is impossibly disturbing. When I steal a glance at the mirror again, I meet his penetrating eyes waiting for my return.

"Tara, a beautiful but perpetually self-combusting star. At the core lies an absolute, unquenchable hunger that propels all life. From the tears of the Lord of the World, the tears of compassion shed in the face of human suffering, two Tara's were born – a fierce, dynamic, lively and dark Tara from the right eye and a peaceful, white one from the left."

Why am I mistrustful of Nadir's motives? He might actually be trying to help me.

"You're unhappy now, Tara, but the reason behind your misery is not what you think it is. You're despondent not because your father betrayed you by selling the theatre or by hiding the truth about Maya from you for years. The reason you're feeling miserable is not something your father or anybody else did or did not do. You're unhappy because, for years, you've been exerting yourself to be someone you're not, to live a life which did not belong to you. You've been living a lie. You've been lying to yourself for years. Your life which you took to be perfect was not perfect at all. You've been fooling yourself all this time, thinking that this was the only way to be happy. You were crushed under the burden of not actually being who you appear to be, of not being able to reveal who you really are. And to make matters worse, you never admitted this to yourself. You never found the courage to face your self-deception. Can you understand what I'm saying?"

I don't answer him. He is not expecting an answer anyway.

"All you need to do is to be yourself. Let the real Tara surface. Stop playing the role of someone you're not. Put an end to that tug-of-war between the emotional artist in you and the businesswoman who is battling to be ruthless. You will eventually burst if you carry on insisting on not expressing your true self. You might even be very close to that point."

Silence. Wrong timing for that.

"Have you ever given painting a serious try? What about sculpting? Or acting? You yourself decided that you had no talent, didn't you? Why are you so scared of the emotional woman in you? Why don't you want to admit that you enjoy the beauty in a moonrise, that you deeply feel how it touches your heart?"

I do feel it, Nadir.

"Why do you hate the loneliness nature offers? Are you scared of being left all alone with your own self? Is it more like a dilemma, a love and hate relationship? Is that why you constantly fight with mother nature? Let go, Tara. Let it take out the beauty in you. Don't be so scared of your femininity. When you manage to do that, you will find yourself in the perfect life that you thought could only be found in a dream."

I have no more strength to shoulder what he is telling me. I feel so exhausted. "I'm very tired, you know," I murmur, "so very tired. My father presumes that I can put up with everything, but there is a limit to it. I'm not that strong. From now on, nothing will ever be the same again."

"Nothing has changed, Tara. Nothing will change. Except for you. You've always been your father's favourite child. Whenever we spoke, he always talked about you, about how proudly he watched his rebel of a daughter strive towards becoming a success in the theatre, about how his love for you deepened from day to day and how his respect for you grew. He said that the two of you made an inseparable duo, that his other children, despite working at Twenty Hundred, did not have the dedication you had and that it would be you to take over the helm from him." He pauses. His eyes' reflection in the mirror is like a magnet, pulling me in. "If there is any bad faith in all of this, it is not you but your father who has been deceived, Tara," he continues, leaving no room for me to object. "You were untrue to him. But he loves you so very much that he allowed you to play your game for years, so as not to hurt you by shattering the perfect world you had created for yourself. Eventually he had to spoil your game. He had to do it to help you. You must understand this. He had to do it to help you become a happier person, to help you reveal the real Tara that you've been trying so hard to stifle. He gave you your freedom by selling the theatre, Tara. He gave you something you might never be able to obtain by yourself, or at best obtain too late. You owe him a big thank you. Believe me."

He stands up. In the mirror, I see him walk to the bed, without taking his eyes off me.

"You took a step towards the opening at the end of your own dark cave, Tara. It's time to break free. Don't be scared."

He stops next to me. Holding my chin, he turns my head towards his. I can't look him in the eye.

"I lost my father," he says, almost in a whisper. "I will never let you lose yours."

He bends over towards me, his fingers letting go of my chin. Holding my neck, he brushes my hair back with his other hand. A few drops of sea water from his wet hair drop on my chest. A shiver runs through me. I still can't look at his eyes. He first kisses my forehead, then my cheek, then my other cheek. Finally his lips touch mine, very gently at first, as if for a foretaste. The salt from his lips leaves a tingling sensation on the tip of my tongue. Then he starts kissing me with unbridled passion. I kiss him back with a desire I haven't felt for years, or perhaps never before in my life.

As his lips move away, I open my eyes. Don't go, Nadir. He's not going anywhere. Extending his hand, he invites me to stand up. I rise to my feet and, not knowing what to do, remain motionless in front of him. I must say something. My lips part. He presses his finger against them. Our eyes are glued to each other. I stand there as if spellbound while he slips the straps of my dress over my shoulders. It falls to the floor, spreading like a blood-red lake around my feet. Rooted to the spot, I look at Nadir's eyes without blinking, afraid that the slightest movement will break the spell and accentuate my nakedness. His gaze suddenly leaves my eyes as he turns his back. He is going. Don't go away, leaving me here all naked. He stops after a few steps and lights the candles on the nightstand, then those lined up in front of the glass wall. Their light, too strong in the moonlit room, almost hurts my eyes. The silver linings drawn by the moonlight are replaced by the golden linings painted by the candle light. A warmth spreads around the room, evoking a fleeting sense of perfidious serenity. He comes back, holds my shoulders and turns my body around. The feeling of uneasiness triggered by my nakedness strikes back as I face my denuded reflection in the mirror, and escalates to an unbearable magnitude at the mirrored sight of Nadir's hands stroking my shoulders and of his gaze fondling my nakedness. His warm breath caresses my neck, my shoulders, my back, my waist. I feel every inch of my body cherished and loved. I turn around. He grabs my hand and pulls me towards himself. I put my arms around him. As his towel falls, I notice that he has been swimming naked.

As the emotions intensify and the senses sharpen, words give way to silence. I hear the midnight Maestral strengthening. The branches of a tree somewhere whip a glass wall. The sound of the waves licking the sand rise to a crescendo as each one hits the shore with a greater force. We keep time to the rhythm of the natural world. The wind blows at gale force, its captivating power ushering in an enchanting climb to the very peak. At the summit, it stops as if to catch its breath. We talk of everything and of nothing, of here and of there, of the water and of the air. After a brief pause, the wind gets up again. This time it is a delicious breeze, gently kissing the trees, brushing through their leaves. The susurration of the foliage sends quivers through my body. The branches softly tap against the glass walls, their rhythm echoing the final cadences of a prelude. The waves on the shore calmly lick the sand, persistent in their embraces.

Eventually the midnight Maestral drops altogether. I wonder how many hours it has lasted. It might have been only minutes, I cannot tell. Nadir gets up and holds out a hand. I join him, pulling the sheet in an attempt to wrap it around my body. He doesn't let me. We move on to the living room, naked. The glass doors are wide open, giving us a free passage to the outside world. My steps are timid. Next to the patio, on the sand, stands Nadir's _Taht-ı Revan_ , a very large sofa, even larger than the one my father had had made. It surely is not called a _Taht-ı Revan_. _Taht-ı Tara_ perhaps? No pun intended, right? He helps me lie down on it and draws the white transparent muslin to unveil the view before lying down beside me. We watch the sky in silence. I feel so much more naked than I already am, being without my clothes under the sky, in the middle of this nothingness. An awkward sensation, a peculiar sense of vulnerability immobilises me. Nadir, as if he has noticed my uneasiness, covers us with the sheet neatly folded in a corner of the sofa, a sheet softer than silk, sea green, perhaps turquoise. Not a star in the sky. I remember the nights we used to watch the sky with Nanna when I was a child.

"Where did the stars go, Nanna?"

"They didn't go anywhere. They're there, Tara, but we can't see them tonight because the moonlight dazzles our eyes."

Nadir sits up and pours water from a pitcher standing on a small side table, which is actually part of a tree trunk. A slice of lemon drops into each glass. With the tip of his finger, he helps two mint leaves, stubbornly sticking to the edge of the pitcher, make their way into the glasses. We drink our lemon-scented, mint-flavoured water, talking about everything and about nothing, of this and that. I hear Nadir say, "You're the first woman to enter this house after my mother." Do I raise my chest in self-importance? He takes my hand to his lips, while his lulled eyes range over my face, lingering on my hair, on my nose, on my chin. As he kisses my neck, I inhale his smell, my fingers wandering among the curls of his hair.

We talk a lot, we talk a little until such time when words give way to wordlessness again. We walk the shore, the sea, the sky and the hills, exploring the Tara and the Nadir we have never known. Come away time, go away rhyme, three lengths of time later or three lengths of time earlier, the sky begins to lighten, its colour changing from one second to the next. A thin line of clouds appears on the horizon, too prosaic for the whole episode. Right above them though, the sky is painted in a pinkish hue, making up for the blandness below. The sea is painted a dark violet now. Gradually, several golden streaks line up across the horizon. The pinks gain a yellowish tint, only to change their minds and display an orangey, then a reddish character. As the fickly horizon finally transforms itself into a fireplace, the sea blazes up in flames. From among the clouds, the sun impishly peeks at us before embarking upon an impatient and speedy rise, as if it has been restlessly waiting right below the horizon for hours for this moment of ascension. The colours become warmer. The earth, the sky and the sea come together in a joyful kaleidoscope, a golden canvas embellished with a wealth of violets, oranges and pinks. The moon, knowing from experience that its strength will wither as the sun rises higher, refuses to fade away with good grace. The blue of the sky slowly gains a lighter hue, while that of the sea deepens into a rich indigo. The insipid clouds on the horizon leave the scene. A new day is breaking. Hundreds of birds appear from nowhere and fly above us in undulating waves, dappling the sky in little black spots. After a few minutes, they disappear as fast as they have appeared and the sky redeems its silent, endless, peaceful blue self.

I think of Maya, my first big illusion in life, of how I took what did not exist as existing and what existed as not existing, of all the other illusions I had and of the fight I gave to make myself believe that the unreal was real. Now I can see everything so clearly that I laugh at my old self. I remember Little Red Riding Hood, Sleeping Beauty, Snow White and many other fairy tales that ended in, "And they lived happily ever after." The ineluctable happy ending of the fairy tales. I know that my tale is only beginning now.
28

"Kali!" shouted Tara. "Where are you?"

She was gone. Kali was gone. Had she fallen down the cliff into the water? Tara was about to lose her mind. She looked down but could not see anything. The sea was frothing with the waves hitting against the rocks. In panic, she backed away from the stone wall. The wind was really strong now, taking away everything that could not hold out against its power. She ran to her father, weeping loudly.

"She's gone. She disappeared. She left me. Please, Dad. Please promise me that you'll never leave us. Promise that you'll never leave me. I love you so very much." She threw her arms around him.

"Nobody's going anywhere, Tara. What makes you say such things?"

"But she left. She left me."

"Who is she? Who left you?"

"Kali. Kali disappeared. She's gone."

"Who is Kali?"

"She's my friend. She came with you, don't you remember?"

Her mother had come over and was now caressing Tara's hair. "Sweetheart, you're far too grown up to have imaginary friends. Even Amber is more mature than you." Her smile was so annoying.

"I don't want to grow up. Never!" She pulled her head away from her mother's caress and hugged her father again. "I want to stay with you, Dad. Forever. I love you so much. Please, please promise me that you'll always stay with me."

"I promise, Tara. I promise."

Tara felt a little bit better. A strong sob shook her body.

"I want you to make me a promise too, Tara. You must promise me never to do such a thing again. You hear me? You must never ever run away from home."

"Would you leave me alone with my granddaughter for a while?" said Nanna before holding Tara's hand and taking her away to sit down on the lawn under the fig tree.

"We were really worried about you, Tara. Why, my dear child, why did you do such a thing? Why did you run away? Were you upset about something? You can tell me everything, you know."

"I wasn't upset about anything."

"Yes, you were. And you still are. But you need not be scared. Nobody can take your place and you know that."

"Kali disappeared, Nanna."

"Who is Kali?"

"A friend of mine."

Nanna understood her. She did not smile annoyingly like her mother did. Tara decided to tell her everything.

"A very clever friend who had the power to read people's minds," she continued. "She will come back, won't she, Nanna?" She looked into Nanna's eyes with hope. Would she say what she wanted to hear? "She would come back even if she died, wouldn't she? My dad did."

Nanna looked at Tara, somewhat taken aback. "What are you talking about?"

"Last night when dad died under the pergola, he came back, right?"

"He was role playing, dear, just like you do at times." She pulled Tara's head towards her chest. "Come here," she said tenderly, giving her a comforting kiss. "What about a story? Would you like me to tell you one?"

"Yes, I would, very much," she replied, although not as enthusiastically as was her custom.

Nanna began telling Inanna's story. Tara already knew it but said nothing, reasoning that Nanna's version would be much more interesting. When the story was over, she decided yet again that Nanna was really a master storyteller. "Kali wasn't very good at telling that story."

Nanna embraced her tightly. "Did Kali tell stories?"

"Yes, she had some good stories. In fact, she would tell them to everyone here, but nobody could speak her language. Only I did."

"What language did she speak?"

"She said we both spoke the universal language."

"Did you love Kali?"

"She sometimes got on my nerves. At the beginning, I truly hated her, but I can't say I ever wanted her to die. She was so brave, so free-spirited and such a fighter. And she was very beautiful."

"Don't worry, my love. You will have other friends."

"You once told me that cats had nine lives, Nanna. Is it true? Do they really have nine lives?"

"What made you remember that now?"

"Since Kali is a cat, she will come back, won't she, Nanna? At least for a visit?"

"A cat?" Nanna let out an expansive laugh. Her laugh, however, was not irritating at all.

"Yes, Nanna. She was a very beautiful cat with jet-black hair and green eyes."

Nanna kissed Tara's hair again. She was still laughing. "Stop crying now and let's go back."

"I don't want my father to shout at me," mumbled Tara.

"He won't shout at you. He was really scared. You scared us all. Now listen to me, my love, and listen well. From time to time, someone in our family might leave and stay away from the rest of us for a while, might even go to another country in a faraway land. Nobody interferes with another's life, or prevents him or her from doing what he or she wants to do. But," she paused briefly, "but we always know where the others are. None of us ever goes anywhere without letting the others know of his or her destination. Why do you think that is? Simple: because we might need each other. Do you understand your Nanna?"

"Yes, Nanna." Tara did not quite understand her but gave it her best shot.

Hand in hand, they walked back towards her father, who was pacing up and down the lawn in front of the veranda. Tara's eyes were fixed on Maya, sitting under the pergola. "I so wish she'd died instead of Kali," she hissed with resentment.

Nanna had heard her. "Death is not an angel who would put an end to your suffering, neither it is an executioner who would mean the end of your happiness. It shouldn't be. You shouldn't allow it to be. Don't you ever forget that, dear. And always remember that something liberating you from your pain might mean suffering for your loved ones."

Tara pondered over what Nanna was saying but could not quite grasp what she meant.

"As I always tell you, you must learn how to look at the world from a different angle. Your mother is a master at that."

"But she can't stand on her head."

"She doesn't need to; she lives upside down, so to speak. This is her lifestyle. She always tries to look at the world from other people's point of view. She tries to understand how they see the world. This doesn't change, even when the others' views are exactly the opposite of her own. You should take her as your role model, Tara."

"No, I want to take my dad as my role model."

Her father had arrived. He turned to Nanna to whisper, "Have you told her, Mother?"

"No."

"Told me what?" Tara asked, pulling Nanna's hand with curiosity. "What, Nanna? Does he mean Inanna's story?" She turned back to her father. "She did but I already knew that story."

Her father did not even hear her. He was still talking to Nanna. "It's best if she didn't know. At least for the time being. She's not ready. We can't shatter her innocent world."

They went to the pergola to join the others. Her mother was explaining the situation to the guests.

"Who is Kali, Revan?" asked Kim.

"Her latest friend. A make-believe one. She comes up with a new imaginary friend whenever Sena is away."

Tara whispered to herself. "She really was my friend. She still is." She turned to Kim. "She will come back. Nanna says that cats have nine lives. She will come back and tell me another story. She said she had many more stories to tell me."

Everybody laughed at Tara's wild imagination. "An imaginary feline friend. You do have an exceptional daughter, Orhon."

"Nothing is as it seems," murmured Tara. Everyone turned to her in amazement and laughed again. They knew everything so well, but none of them could stand on their heads the way she did. None of them dared to overturn their world. She had so much to tell them. "I want to tell you a story," she finally said.

Her father hugged her tightly, smiling. "She always has a story to tell."

"And the story I'll be telling is not meant for little children."
29

I can't believe that I've been here only for forty-eight hours. Has it only been two days? It might have been months. I seem to have lost track of time.

I watch Nadir sail away on his boat. He waves at me as he approaches the rocks extending like a peninsular arm, embracing the bay from one side, acting as a natural breakwater. I smile and wave back. He sails behind the rocks at the very end, two rocks, one slightly larger than the other, resembling two drops of paint from a gigantic brush on a blue background where the sky and the sea covertly fade into one another. And then he disappears. I turn around and walk along the pier onto the beach. As I tread along the sand, I notice that I'm still smiling. Unwilling to leave the sound of the waves, I slowly climb up the steps, saunter through the garden, up the veranda and into the hallway, ascend the stairs and enter my bedroom. Placing my suitcase on the bed, I take my clothes out of the wardrobe.

What is love? 'Tis not hereafter;

Present mirth hath present laughter;

What's to come is still unsure.

In delay there lies no plenty,

Then come kiss me, sweet and twenty;

Youth's a stuff will not endure.

Am I singing? Feste's song.

I hear my mother's voice from a faraway time, "I do hope we don't end up like the Old Playhouse." Trust me, Mum. Trust me, Dad. That won't happen. I will not let it happen.

Filled with a sweet surge of elation, I stuff my clothes into the suitcase. A cocktail dress! Why on earth did I bring that? What did I have in mind? Nothing, obviously. I remember packing hastily, throwing in whatever came along on an impulse to run away from everything, leaving home as if I wanted to escape to the other end of the world and coming here almost instinctively, without knowing why I chose this island or this house. But now I know. I might not have been aware of it, but the little Tara in me wanted to complete the journey she had embarked upon twenty-three years ago. My fears beckoned me, the fears that had fallen into the depths of my subconscious where they had become invisible in the darkness, much like Kali falling off the cliff and vanishing beneath those huge dark rocks. I came here to leave the dark cave in which I had unconsciously imprisoned myself. I came here to grow up, to leave behind my prolonged childhood. Will I be able to do that? How many more times will this play be staged? Will this performance be successful?

I take my suitcase and go down. After shutting all the French windows and the gratings of wrought-iron flowers, I go out into the garden and sit on one of the stone benches to wait for Nadir, who has sailed to the village to bring Auriga and his carriage. Maestral is blowing gently but I don't think it matters anymore what is blowing.

I remember the end of an old story, a story that uses supernatural phenomena to interpret natural occurrences or to explain situations that are not so easy to explain.

Inanna, followed by the two demons of Ereshkigal, ascended from the Underworld. Clinging to her body, these demons began looking for someone to take to the Underworld in her place. They first came upon her maid. Inanna refused to send her to the Underworld, since she had been of great help to her. On the way, they met people in mourning. Inanna did not let the demons take any of them. Finally they came upon her husband, Dumuzi. Instead of helping his wife, who was missing in the Underworld, Dumuzi was sitting upon a shining lofty throne in nice clothing, enjoying his kingship. He seemed to have forgotten all about the love they had once shared. He did not even notice Inanna's arrival. Initially broken-hearted, then furious, Inanna shouted that he should make the same descent she had made into the Underworld. Finally, the demons took him away.

Less than three-demon-lengths of time later, Inanna realised how terribly she missed Dumuzi and regretted what she had done. Her grief was inconsolable. Desolation filled the land. Fertility ended. The sun faded. Nothing grew. Animals died. The misery continued until it was decided that Dumuzi spend six months in the Underworld and six months on Earth.

The dreamer awakes, the shadow makes to die, that is why since that very day long gone by, during the six months when Inanna burns for Dumuzi with a yearning no one can deny, the Earth dries, life perishes and everything withers on the vine; while during the six months when she is reunited with him, everything is filled with love, life and sunshine. When I tell you a tale, the tale is a lie. But listen to me, fair youth, the tale might be a lie, but what it tells is a truth no one can decry.

And I remember the story ending here. Kali's words ring in my ears. "I'm not your frightening master, Tara. I'm your friend, a friend at your service, although it's up to you to make it so."

I'm telling this for those who don't believe in fairy tales: Kali did exist. I really had a Kali in my life. In fact there is a Kali in everybody's life. It's only a matter of time to see Kali. What I'm going to say now might be a little upsetting, but I have to tell you that Kali is the Goddess of Death. The death I'm talking about here is not the death that first comes to our mind – the death that means leaving this world – but a more painful, much more difficult death, the death of our self-centred ego, the cause of our illusory perception of reality. The death Kali puts in front of us is the herald of our liberation from illusions, of our freedom. Let me stop here for, as I have already said, I don't want to talk about death.

Now I am thinking why I have written all these things. Is it because I wanted to share my declaration of independence, hoping that one day someone might read it and understand me better? Well, I don't need anybody to read it anymore because I finally deciphered myself. How odd. You suffer for years. You suffer from a pain that you are not quite aware of, an insidious pain that simmers inside you. You seek to convince yourself that you are not in pain, that there is nothing wrong and that your world is perfect, never realising how much you hurt deep down. Well, actually, you do not want to realise. And one day someone comes along and in forty-eight hours untangles all your knots and frees you from your chains. "And one day the Prince came along and woke her up from her long sleep."

How light I feel now, how free. I see that my success was hidden in my failure, that the heart of the matter was to be able to look at the world upside down, just like I used to do when I was a little girl, because nothing is as it seems.

I look at my fig tree. "I love you so much, my lovely."

I think of what my father told me at the hospital three weeks ago, as the soft touch of his fingers ran over my hair. "A father has sections in his heart, Tara, a different section for each of his loves. Opening up a new section for a new love does not mean that he will need to diminish the space of the others. In his prodigious heart, he allocates a brand new section for that new love. All the loves in his heart live in harmony, without invading any other territory. There are no conflicting characters in my heart, Tara, no ruthless villains making life miserable for the protagonists. Each loved one is a protagonist; each one has a goal. And their goals are not mutually exclusive, meaning that the success of one does not require the failure of the others. It's like a game where everybody wins, a world of perfect harmony where any given conflict ends in settlement and all sides come out with their heads up." I now realise that on that day he meant to tell me everything. "You should rest, Dad," I remember cutting him short.

I also remember that wretched evening when he told us about the sale of the theatre, his painful outburst fresh in my ears. "The theatre is dead. Dead. They finally killed it." Now I can see that he wasn't actually talking about the death of the dramatic arts. Theatre Twenty Hundred was only a symbol. It wasn't the closure of his theatre company that was at the bottom of his devastation; he was crying out in desperation for the death of something else, of something much deeper. He was leaving the arena, giving up his _raison d'être_. He was surrendering. This was worse than death for him. His heart wept after a world he could not save. "It is the sweet fruit of all my labours since my youth," he said. "I can't bring myself to give up, but we have no choice. The world prefers to return to the darkness of fifty years ago. Culture will once again surrender to materialism. They will make sure it does." The utopia of a lifetime: the assimilation of technological developments with the global cultural heritage he so fervently battled to keep alive, the unification of nature and life, of the past, the present and the future, variety, richness, timelessness, borders melting away. He could no longer carry the burden of having to give it all up. He was abandoning ship now.

I recall a brief lecture I was given one day many years ago, a private lecture delivered by Suzan, a friend of my father, a young lady who had been Kim's girlfriend for a very long time before becoming his wife and bearing him three children. Her explanations, which I found rather absurd and rudimentary at the time (being only a fourteen-year-old girl who presumed to know everything better than anyone else) parade in front of my mind's eye like an animated story. "Children," I hear her say, "start life inside their mother. Once born, it is her milk that feeds them. Initially, all children are firmly attached to their mother. Think of a river. Let us place the mother and her children to one side of that river. The father who is on the other side is, as yet, a distant figure for the children, someone who brings food and runs the show. So at this stage, the children are mostly influenced by their mother. Both girls and boys take their mother as their role model in their early childhood years. Then there comes a point when the boy needs to cross the river over to his father's side. The girl, on the other hand, might stay where she is, next to her mother. She can, of course, play around on the bridge, take a few steps towards the other bank, even cross over to her father's side and become a real tomboy for a while. But sooner or later she is expected to return and end up on the same bank as her mother. It will be her attachment to her mother that makes her do that."

Suzan's voice fades away as other voices take centre stage.

"I want to stay with you, Dad. Forever. I love you so much. Please, please promise me that you'll always stay with me."

"I promise, Tara. I promise. And I want you to make me a promise too. You must promise me never to do such a thing again. You hear me? You must never ever run away from home."

My father could not have guessed that I would misinterpret what he had told me on that miserable day twenty-three years ago and, taking his words literally, never leave his side again. I crossed the river to my father's side and did not return to the bank where my mother was. Perhaps my attachment to her was not strong enough to pull me back, or perhaps my father never encouraged me to go back. Perhaps he wanted me to stay with him. Perhaps that was what I thought, what I made myself believe. Whatever. What is important now is that years later my father held my hand just like a little girl and took me to the other side of the bridge where he let go of me. And more importantly, he showed me that, to be independent of my mother and to gain my freedom, I did not have to leave my mother's side of the river. He made me understand that all I had to do was to move away from her, walking along the same riverbank to discover my own identity.

Now I am ready to take over the ship my father abandoned and sail away over the turbulent waters of the river, heading for the sea. And I'm sure I will, one day, be sailing the seven seas.

Who knows, perhaps one day we will all be sailing the seven seas. Perhaps... One day... Who knows?

\- END -
ABOUT NESLIHAN STAMBOLI

Neslihan Stamboli is Turkish and Hungarian by birth, Italian by heart and English by formation. Her love of letters was not love at first sight. It took her a degree in finance, a brief career in banking, another degree in French Literature from the University of London and an attempt to study psychology, together with years of translation (and with three marriages and a daughter into the bargain) before she wrote her first book. White, portraying a contemporary psychological approach to Samkhya philosophy, was published in 2007. Rüya, an epic novel, followed suit in three volumes: Broken Rhapsody, A Retake on War and Csardas. She was a Faulkner-Wisdom finalist in 2017 for her last book, A Twist in the Tail.
OTHER BOOKS BY NESLIHAN STAMBOLI

Please visit your favorite e-book retailer to discover other books by Neslihan Stamboli:

**Fiction:**  
Rüya 1: Broken Rhapsody  
Rüya 2: A Retake on War  
Rüya 3: Csardas

**Non-fiction:**  
White
CONNECT WITH NESLIHAN STAMBOLI

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