Forbidden Fig Tree

A Fig Tree in Southern France

August 2nd, 2024

I’ve never eaten a fresh fig, but my roommate has— so she recognizes them immediately: wide, lobed leaves so dense that they look sewn, clothing naked figs underneath. I am almost tempted by the hidden figs, which lay far up above brambles and thorns, but I resist. It is a stranger’s backyard. We are not properly dressed for fig- harvesting.

So, I wait. The next morning, I pull on skin-tight runner’s leggings, douse myself in sunscreen and bug spray, and turbo the electric bike down the hill. Fruit tumbles to the ledge by the road, where Coco and I stand, inspecting the fallen. I pry open foliage, revealing smooshed figs. Fruit flies surround my hand in serpentine coils, as if to warn me from their slimy prey.

I brace myself against the ledge, cross one leg in front of the other. This hill is not a hill. It is a cliff. Pebbles slide underneath my sneakers— I can’t. I am not afraid of plunging rollercoasters, but I am afraid of my own body (it’s surprising that no one, except for my family, has noticed that I always insist on the aisle-side of stairs.)

I lower myself to the road, prepared to return empty-handed. But Coco is already climbing, wedging her foot on a mossy rock, and I can only tell her to be careful with her knee, spotting her from below.

“Ready?” Coco calls out, head peeking from the bushes. A fist-sized projectile zooms at me, and I leap. Forbidden fruit splats and stains down my elbows, shoulders, lips. Sweet. Salty sunscreen and pasty bug spray linger on my tongue.

Sweat runs down my helmet. “Ready?” Coco calls out, but I am not there to catch it. I mourn the mangled fig. I peel it in half, revealing fleshy strands growing like sea anemone with seedy nuclei.

As Coco forages on, I count the number of figs: 49, 50, 53. I imagine what the fig will taste like: nothing like the bitter fig-jam that was on our soggy cucumbers last night. Nor the wrinkly re-hydrated figs that tasted like they were marinated in Chiangking black vinegar. I think of how we’ll eat them: fresh-fig cake with creamy Maison-Necty honey frosting? Fig olive tapenade? Or simply plain?

It feels almost sacrilegious to eat one without her, but I can’t resist anymore.

Seedy juice spills into my mouth. Sweet as a July strawberry fermenting in the sun. Then something moves. Wriggles. Squirming, tickling my tongue. I shriek and spit. Unlucky, I think.

Coco and I carry the remainder of the figs to the classroom, where we bathe the fruits of our labor. I pry one open. Wart-colored worms undulate, writhing amidst a sea of fleshy fingers. The longer I look, the more worms I see. Coco splits another fig: worms. Another one: worms. Slowly, our harvest dwindles. Another one: worms. Worms, worms, worms, worms, worms, worms.