When I’ve looked over the whole field with no success, I do it again, more carefully. Still nothing. I’m disappointed, but not surprised. The field has been weeded and ploughed by Leila’s father, and over the last weeks I’ve kept up the weeding myself, zapping anything that might take water from the trees.
I search the perimeter, right up to the cracks in the wall, hunting for any tiny plant that might have been overlooked, but there’s nothing. My plan, already, seems to have failed. Then, as I lean on the wall, looking out over the dry ground, a flash of green catches my eye. Where the overspill from the irrigation pool drains out, a tiny delta of greenery is clinging to the hillside.
I leap over the wall, my heart pounding. I throw myself on to the ground and begin to search meticulously through the leaves, stalks and stubbly little walnuts of grass. When, in a rocky crack, my eye lights on a stem no thicker than a worm, topped by two minuscule leaves, I can barely believe what I am seeing.
For a few moments I stare at it in silence, mentally flicking from this seedling in front of me to the picture I memorised, then my screams can hold themselves in no longer. I leap into the air, toss my head backwards, and yell for sheer joy, dancing around the plant, flailing my arms and legs, whooping and shouting and screaming until my throat gives up on me. I have found one! I can dig it up, transplant it, water it, care for it, grow it! My work clearing the field has not been for nothing. And when Leila’s father eventually comes, I’ll guide him through the perfectly tended olive grove and the lower two terraces of watered lemon trees, then, just when he’s beginning to get over his surprise, I’ll be able to take him up to the top field and show him my sapling – our sapling.
With trembling hands I run for the spade, but falter as I pick it up. All that crawling around looking for the seedling has warped my sense of scale. The spade in my hands feels implausibly vast. This is not the right tool for digging something tiny and fragile out of a rocky crevice, and there’s no room for error.
I have to wait. The seedling has survived this long, it isn’t going to die overnight. I have to come back with a trowel. I can take the one Mum uses for the front garden. I’ll be able to return it before she notices. Or maybe even that might be too large and clumsy. I decide I’ll also bring a spoon and a knife. This job isn’t farming, it’s surgery.
I prepare the hole first: no bigger than my fist, dug into the loose soil where I removed a bush, central on the top terrace, with some shade from above. I pre-water it, and leave a full bottle by the side of the hole alongside a small heap of dark, composty earth taken from our front garden and brought out in a plastic bag hidden in my pocket.
The seedling has a slightly bent stalk, from growing sideways out of the slope then upwards towards the light. It is rooted right up against one edge of a crack in the rock, so the whole thing can’t be dug out in a complete ball of soil.
I take the knife – one of Liev’s steak knives – and cut along the surface of the rock, prising away the soil. I then saw a circle not much bigger than a tennis ball and lever in the trowel as deep as it will go. Pinching my fingers around the tiny stem to hold it in its soil, I press downwards and, with a twist, free it from the rock. It comes loose at the first attempt, and I slowly stand, holding my precious cargo with both hands.
I don’t want to risk clambering over the wall, so I walk the long way round to the entrance and carefully climb the steps, one by one, taking care not to slip or stumble.
Kneeling at the fresh, neat hole, I edge the olive seedling into its new home, pushing a few crumbs of soil underneath to raise it to the correct height. Bit by bit, I gently press soil around it with my fingertips.
With a bottle full to the brim, I can’t get the nozzle low enough to the ground without risking a gush that might harm the plant, so I pour single handfuls into my left hand and tip them at the base of the stem, watching each one puddle and disappear before adding more.
When I’ve finished I just stare at it, in the way a new parent might gaze at their sleeping baby. Nothing I’ve achieved in life has ever made me as happy as this two-leaved stalk. It’s not quite vertical, but that doesn’t matter. It will straighten up in time, and even if it remains crooked, I don’t care. To me, as long as it stays alive, it will always be perfect.
‘I’m going to look after you,’ I say. ‘I promise.’
The words just come out. I know it’s stupid to talk to plants, but I don’t care. This is my place. No one can see me or hear me. I can do what I want. If I feel like talking to my tree, I’ll talk to my tree.
With my seedling in the ground, safely transplanted, I find myself daydreaming about the olive grove more often than ever. During the school day I have to fight to keep my attention on the books in front of me. My mind constantly drifts off, back to the field, back to my tree and to the tasks I hope to complete before the first Friday of July, when Leila’s father might visit.
That date is burned into my mind. I can’t stop thinking about it, hoping he comes, imagining all the different reactions he might have to the work I’ve done on his fields. In all but one version, he’s delighted. The fantasy reaction that scares me is one where he becomes angry, accuses me of trying to take over his land, and I can’t explain myself.
It will be four weeks since his last pass, seven weeks since the attack. Even more frightening than a negative reaction is the possibility that he doesn’t come at all. If there’s no visit this time, he must be in dire trouble.
When the day comes I more or less sprint out of school and head straight for the grove. I’ve now weeded the top field so thoroughly that the only living thing in the ground is my seedling, sitting in a meticulously nurtured bed of moist, dark soil, its two leaves rinsed and glistening.
After clearing and weeding the terrace, the last remaining job was the collapsed wall. For a while I thought maybe I’d be able to rebuild it, but when I saw how intricately constructed the walls were, and discovered how hard it was to get the stones to fit together, I realised this was beyond me. Instead, I picked a corner of the field and carried the rocks over there one by one to make a neat stack. This took a whole afternoon, and left me so stiff and sore that for a few days I moved like an old man.
But as I hurry out on this terrifying and thrilling Friday, I notice that my suppleness has returned. I can stride fast, my legs pumping smoothly against the ground. The walk to the grove, which once seemed like an arduous trek, now feels easy, even in the heat of high summer.
I want to give the pile of stones a quick tidy and check that the soil under the rock fall is clear and smooth, but other than that, I’m ready for Leila’s father’s visit. Liev’s gloves have fallen apart, but it doesn’t matter. My hands are tough now, tanned and strong: worker’s hands, man’s hands. The rest of me feels different, too. My clothes are tighter than they were, around my thighs, shoulders and chest. I have changed the grove and the grove is changing me.
The longer I spend there, the more protective and proud I feel of my fields. I’ve taken to pacing over each of the terraces, usually in bare feet, for the simple pleasure of feeling the soil against my skin. I walk slowly and soundlessly, examining every tree, listening to the sounds of the wind and the wildlife – the occasional squeaks and rustles of lizards and mice, the ratcheting of the crickets, perhaps the scurry and flap of a surprised bird, and always, in the background, the trickle of spring water replenishing the pond.
An hour can easily pass watching a line of ants bustle to and fro, seeing how they react to the miniature catastrophe of a stick scraped across their route. Time behaves differently at the grove. I can start to strip a leaf back to its veins, tearing out each tiny segment of flesh one by one, and by the time I finish, the perimeter wall might be casting an extra foot of shade across the ground. What this means in hours and minutes, I don’t seem to care. I spend a large chunk of one whole afternoon gathering handspan-sized sticks and building a tiny pyramid, a little wigwam, held up only by perfect balance. At the grove, t
here’s nothing to do and everything to do. I’m never bored.
As the amount of upkeep and restoration work decreases, I continue to spend as much time there as ever. I just want to be at the olive grove. When I have the choice, why would I go anywhere else?
I never vary my method of watering the trees. Each tree gets a precise amount, half a bucket. I give them their water in two pours, each one distributed in a careful ‘O’ all the way around. As I wait for the first helping to soak into the soil, I put one hand on the trunk and say, ‘I bring you water. I bring you water.’ I don’t know why I do it this way. It’s a system that simply evolved, but now feels like some kind of sacred ritual from which I can’t deviate. I never feel calmer or more content than during the watering of the trees.
I always finish with a handful or two for my seedling, then, without saying anything, I touch each trunk on the top terrace. There’s no point watering them, but those dead trees are still part of the grove, so I feel they should be included in the ceremony. I love those trees no less than the ones below. The way they are dead, but still there, reminds me of my father. In the grove, I feel his presence more strongly than anywhere. I’m a long walk from the town, a long walk from any other human beings, but I never feel alone. Sometimes I press myself close against the tallest of the dead trees, feeling the rough bark against my cheek.
I hurry into the grove, thinking Leila’s father might be there already, but he isn’t. I make a few final preparations and pace through the terraces, trying to calm down, to prepare myself for his arrival, but slowly, as the afternoon sun thickens the air, I feel my excitement souring, and my restless energy draining away.
By mid afternoon I’ve more or less given up hope, and I’m half asleep, leaning heavily against an olive tree, when I begin to think I might be hearing the sound of footsteps. I jump to my feet and run up to the top level. From there, I can just see down to the razor wire at the turn-off to the grove. Intermittent sections of road alongside the empty, walled field are visible, and sure enough, flickering in and out of vision is the head of a man in a black-and-white headscarf. I can’t make out the face, and the figure looks somehow older than I remember Leila’s father – slower and more stooped – but my heart immediately begins to pound with hope and excitement. It has to be him.
I leap to my feet and run down to greet him, but after only a few steps I realise that I want to see his true, honest reaction to the appearance of his fields. There will be plenty of time later for everything else. The most important thing is just to watch his face as he walks in and sees my work.
I turn back to the top terrace and lie down on my belly, choosing a spot where I’ll be invisible from below. My heart is beating with such insistent thuds that I can feel it moving inside me, like a tiny, trapped animal, as I listen to the slow, shuffling approach of the man. I can tell by the scrape of his feet in the dust that he’s wearing sandals.
When he walks through the entrance to the grove, I see for the first time that he isn’t alone. He is leaning on the arm of a smaller figure who wasn’t visible above the height of the wall: Leila. But more surprising than the presence of Leila is the sight of her father, when he pulls down his headscarf in the shade of the grove. It is him, and it isn’t him. He looks like a different man. One cheek is covered by a purple and yellow bruise which spreads all the way to his jaw, and his nose is hidden behind a white plaster bridge. Both lips look swollen by a diagonal scar which cuts across his mouth, and a stripe the width of a hand has been shaved along one side of his head. Stubbly tufts of hair have begun to grow back inside the stripe, which is ridged with surgical stitches.
Tears prickle at my eyes and begin to seep down my cheeks. I wipe them away roughly with the base of my thumb, trying not to sniff, hoping to remain unobserved a little longer.
As if by some strange telepathy, at the same moment Leila’s father makes an identical movement with his hand, brushing a tear from his cheek. He looks stunned, his body seeming to vibrate with shock, or perhaps disbelief. He staggers forwards and Leila rushes to help him, but he waves her away. She steps back to the entrance of the grove and hovers awkwardly, looking more anxious than pleased.
Without making a sound, I watch as he examines his trees one by one, poking a finger into the moist soil at their base, putting a hand tenderly on each trunk as you might pat a loyal dog. He inspects every tree closely, from the soil up to the leaves, inching across his land, climbing slowly from terrace to terrace. He’s close to me now, so close I can hear his breathing, but still he doesn’t notice me looking down from above. Leila watches him intently, but doesn’t move from her position by the entrance.
When he’s inspected every tree, he slumps to the ground like a marathon runner crossing the finish line, utterly spent. I almost rush down and show myself but something tells me to wait a little longer, something in the way he’s holding his body, as if he’s fighting an invisible force.
A moment later he isn’t fighting any more, and his chest begins to surge and heave with sobs, the kind that burst through when you’ve been holding back with all your strength, until the moment when the pressure is too much, and your defences crack, and it all just floods out. I recognise the feeling, but I’ve never seen it take over anyone else, and never even knew it could happen to an adult.
Leila walks up the steps and sits next to him, but she doesn’t speak and doesn’t touch him.
I watch, and wait until he’s finished. When enough time has passed for me to pretend I haven’t witnessed his tears, I stand and walk down to where he’s sitting.
As I approach in my bare feet, they both stare at me with pure bafflement on their features. I can think of nothing to say, and neither, it seems, can they. I hold out my water bottle. Tentatively, reluctantly almost, he takes the bottle and drinks.
He stands, struggling to his feet without taking his eyes off me, and opens his mouth. No sound comes out, and he closes it again.
‘Come,’ I say. ‘Follow me.’
Leila stares, her jaw slack, her eyes wide.
‘Come,’ I say to her.
She takes her father’s arm, and I lead them towards the top terrace. He looks more confused than ever as he struggles behind me up the loose stone steps. When he sees the cleared field, he freezes. I walk ahead and squat on my haunches, showing them my tiny seedling, sitting in its moist circle of rich soil. He stumbles towards me, bends stiffly, and reaches out to touch the underside of a leaf with his little finger.
After gazing for a while at this baby tree, we stand and stare at one another. I am smiling now, but his bruised face seems poised between puzzlement and suspicion.
‘Why?’ he says, after a long silence.
I shrug and almost begin to laugh, as I realise that even though I’ve imagined this moment hundreds of times, rehearsing endless variations, it has never occurred to me to think of an answer to this question.
I shake my head vacantly, trying to fight the grin that is spreading across my face.
‘Tell me why,’ he insists, a hint of anger entering his voice.
‘For you,’ I say.
‘For me?’
‘You saved me. And I saw what they did to you.’
‘You saw?’
‘I wanted to turn back, but . . . I ran away. I’m sorry. It was my fault. I –’ A second ago I was almost dancing with pride and excitement, now a quite different feeling seems to leap up and grab me by the throat. Without any warning, tears spring from my eyes and my throat tightens, cutting off any further attempt to speak, but it’s a strange sensation, because I don’t feel upset. The joy of being here with Leila and her father, showing them my work, is still singing in my veins, except some more powerful force has now swept through, and I realise that it is relief. Only now, seeing Leila’s father safe and alive, can I face the depth of my terror at what might have happened to him. If he hadn’t survived, his death would have been my fault. Only standing in front of him, looking him in the eye, knowing he is al
l right, do I realise that I have been carrying around a cold sense of dread for weeks, locked away inside me, a lethal poison in a fragile bottle.
He looks at me, watching me cry, and I sense that he understands what I’m thinking. I don’t notice Leila go or come back, but she appears beside me, holding out the water bottle, which is full to the brim and glistening with droplets from the spring. I drink, and the flow of tears subsides.
Leila’s father reaches out and touches me on the cheek, with a strange and particular gesture, laying the back of his four fingers against my face and brushing my cheekbone twice with his thumb.
‘Good,’ he says. Just that.
To drink is good? To cry is good? What you have done in my olive grove is good? You are good? I have no idea which of these he means, but this is his only comment on my work.
We spend the next hour in the grove together. He teaches me how to prune the olive trees, pointing out the importance of cutting back the young stems that sprout near the base of each trunk. ‘For good shape,’ he keeps saying, and I nod as if I understand. He shows me a particular pattern to plough into the soil around each tree for maximum water absorption, and demonstrates, as if it is of particular importance, a procedure using a rusty metal hook, which keeps the spring unblocked and ensures a steady flow of water. When this is done, we sit, all three in a row, leaning against a shaded wall. He produces two apples from his pocket and hands me one. I try to refuse – I can get home quickly and eat as much as I want – but every refusal just makes him more adamant, so I take it and eat half. It’s the best apple I have ever tasted, crisp and sweet, but I hand an uneaten half back, and he reluctantly accepts it, handing the gnawed hemisphere on to Leila.
He tells me he thought there would be lots of work to do, and he’s too ill to do it all himself, which is why he brought Leila. He says it would be impossible to get a pass for any of his sons, but Leila is a good worker.
The Wall Page 14
