TE20 Migrant Mosaics

The Fig Tree

She placed her palm on the thick trunk and let her fingers glide over the indentsand ridges, as if tocheck that theworldaroundher was still real. She felt grateful to this sprawling tree for preserving its appearance and its scent, and for resisting the madness which in a matter of years had changed everything, from the landscape to the people. Especially the people. As Aleksandar sat down beside her, the questions vanished from her face. Times had taught Vesna that life demanded acceptance. But her words told a different story. Aleksandar didn’t respond. He knew his daughter and could have uttered those words on her behalf, before she even arrived. But nevertheless, they wounded him like a long, sharp thorn, which invisibly pierced through his chest and out through his back. He looked up at his fig tree and counted the emerging buds between the branches, shielding himself there, from the pain. He knew his daughter and he knew that her resentments didn’t die, that they were likely to outlive him, perhaps even outlive her and live on in Jadran, just as Ester Aljehin’s resentments had lived, and still lived, in him. He knew his daughter, which is why he remained silent, conscious of the futility of words. Down below, oblivious to the pair of them, the Gulf of Piran glistened in the setting sun. It too, was divided by an invisible and uncertain line, a line which had split mountains, valleys, rivers and seas; a line which had cut through lovers and friends, sliced through families and was even frequently capable of splitting an 63 I’ll never forgive you.