TE20 Migrant Mosaics

The Fig Tree

barefoot in the middle of winter; he was the only one who had to tell her, every morning, that it was Aleksandar, her husband; the only one who had to understand that she didn’t like to share a bed with a stranger; the only one who helped her find the toilet in the middle of the night; the only one to be the stranger in the night who caused her to back away in fear; the only one who had to convince her that he’d seen her naked body before, and that there was no one else to call except him. The only one. Evening after evening he would return beneath the fig tree and retell his story. He sat down under the tree, leaned against it like a tired, hounded animal that eventually gives in and surrenders to its prey. He let all of their resentments ensnare him, let them feast on him like bloodthirsty animals, gnawing at his old bones. From beneath the tree he would sometimes see the splendour of the landscape. He looked out towards the sea and wondered how much of the gulf was still his. As he looked beyond the house, northward, he sensed a presence in the distance halting his gaze and explaining that he could look no further; that he was only permitted to look as far as the larch trees at the top of the hill. He had to secretly smuggle glances, and his yearning, across newly drawn borders; borders which he himself would never cross. He sat beneath the fig tree and saw her trembling, veiny hands cautiously feeling at the door handle as if they’d never opened it before; he saw her eyes, wide open, scanning the wall in search of a towel; he saw her tilt her head back and stare up at the spotted pattern on the ceiling, as if it hadn’t already been there for years, drawn by the damp; he saw her studying him, surprised, scouring his face for a clue that might reveal him to her.

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