TE20 Migrant Mosaics

The Fig Tree

Get out! Shoo!

Jana!

Shoo! Shoo!

He put the glass down, took hold of her hand and pulled her towards him. He squeezed her cheeks and prised open her lips, placing the tablet on her tongue. Next he reached for the glass and poured some water into her mouth.

Swallow! Swallow, I said!

She swallowed.

There we are! Good job.

As he left the room, he shut the door behind him. As he left the house, he locked the door. He did so just in case, as he didn’t know how long he would be. Because he didn’t have any idea where he was going. The books had been sitting on the table next to her, untouched, for a long time. For a long time he’d been returning them to the library unread, and bringing her new ones, but all she would do was open them and then close them again. She’d occasionally hold one in her hand, but it was as if she didn’t know what to do with it; as if the letters no longer came together as words. She’d sometimes place her hand on the covers and stroke them. When he came home that day, her fingers travelled over the embossed lettering on the cover of a book by Ivan Turgenev Sketches from a 73