City of Jasmine

by Olga Grjasnowa

  Five days later, they travel to the south of Turkey where the filming is taking place. The crew has recreated a pre-Islamic town between Kurdish villages. There’s a market with stalls selling leather slippers, household goods, fabrics and jewellery. Alongside them, cages hold live chickens. In front of the ruins of an old caravanserai, a former inn for passing caravans, workers have erected a huge blue wall for shooting landscape scenes. The landscape itself will be added in the studio using an image-processing system. There are also several apathetic horses and two camels, desperately trying to evade a crowd of children gone wild. The kids – extras who turn up in front of the camera at the oddest moments – romp around in long robes.

  The series is set in the first year of the Islamic calendar. Amal is already in costume – she’s playing a dancer – her hair not covered, her breasts squeezed into a tiny bra that jingles with gold coins, as do her hips. It’s not real gold.

  Amal enjoys being an actor again at last. Doing what she’s learned and what she loves makes her feel she’s being seen as herself again and not just as service personnel.

  Most of the actors sit around in costume, smoking, drinking sweet tea out of paper cups and exchanging rumours like hard currency. Although many of them are Assad supporters, they treat each other with caution and respect, as if politics had nothing to do with them. The production company has booked up half of the second-best hotel in Mardin for them.

  Shots sound now and then in the distance. To keep the cicadas quiet, the production assistants fire a gun and try to film in the brief periods of silence that follow.

  Amal smokes with a muscle-shirted costume guy. They talk about nothing much, the cold, the food. Colleagues come and go, and at some point Amal is left behind with a former fellow student.

  ‘How long have you been out?’ the woman asks.

  ‘About a year.’

  ‘It’s better that way.’

  ‘Is it?’

  ‘Of course.’ She puts out her cigarette and says, ‘I want to get out too, but not for my sake, for my brother’s.’

  ‘Is he in the army?’ Amal asks.

  The costume woman nods.

  ‘What does he do?’

  She puts her arm around Amal’s shoulder and whispers in her ear, ignoring her question, ‘Does Youssef know anyone who could get him to Lebanon? I know he’s got connections.’

  ‘I’ll ask him tonight,’ Amal says.

  Amal films all her scenes within a week and decides to spend the rest of the time in Mardin, waiting for Youssef to finish his job. But the filming gets more and more behind schedule.

  A huge jet, normally only used for intercontinental flights, takes Amal and Youssef to Izmir. They rent a room in a rundown hostel in the Basmane neighbourhood. The corridors are cramped and dark. The floor, its linoleum recently cleaned, smells strongly of chlorine. Everything here is old, the carpets are worn, the furniture ragged, the plates chipped. Three boys are playing football in the back yard, a toddler riding a tricycle around them.

  They don’t go to see a single sight. They don’t visit any bazaars and they don’t stroll along the seafront. They stick only to their neighbourhood, where clothing shops in the side streets by the station sell life vests, many of which look fake, and are. They stock them in different models and in children’s sizes and in pink or with pictures of Disney heroes. The cafés and snack bars are full of Syrians and Afghans at all times of day and night, smoking manically as they wait for people-smugglers and miracles. The entire neighbourhood speaks Arabic now and the main commodity traded at the market is Syrian gold jewellery.

  By day, Fevzi Paşa Street, leading from the station to the sea, is crowded with people whose faces can no longer be washed clean of hopelessness; bustling up and down with one eye always on the shop windows. But as night falls, the street dogs wake after dozing elsewhere in the sun all day and roam in packs in search of food. Street traders spread their wares on Fevzi Paşa: worn trainers, old jeans, single buttons, stolen smartphones and electrical scrap; the street market of a Third World country.

  Amal orders a tea and opens one of the two books she brought with her from Damascus – The Night in Lisbon by Erich Maria Remarque and Anna Seghers’s Transit – only to be joined almost immediately by a gaunt man. He’s wearing black jeans, a black sweater and an equally dark sleeveless jacket. He has no backpack or bag with him.

  ‘Where do you want to go?’ he asks.

  Amal stares uncomprehendingly at him at first and then answers, ‘Europe.’

  ‘Of course,’ he laughs. ‘Who doesn’t?’ He takes a pack of cigarettes from his pocket and holds it out to Amal. When she shakes her head he lights one for himself. He still hasn’t introduced himself, and he smokes slowly. His legs are crossed.

  ‘France would be nice,’ says Amal, scrutinizing the man.

  ‘What do you want there? Go to the Netherlands or Sweden. Or Germany, if need be.’

  Amal sighs, closes her book and puts it on the table. Then she asks tonelessly, ‘How much?’

  ‘I’ll give you a good price,’ he says, pulling Amal’s serviette closer and scribbling a number on it. ‘This is for Michael.’

  When Amal raises her eyebrows he adds, ‘Michael, like Michael Jackson. Give him a call.’

  Amal doesn’t reach an agreement with Michael, but after several other attempts she finds a smuggler who says he’ll take them to a boat in a few days’ time. He accompanies them to a jeweller’s shop in the centre of Izmir, its windows full of diamonds and gold. The jeweller is a slight man with thick glasses and a suit cut from good, dark blue cloth. With a polite gesture, he opens a door at the back of his shop and asks them all in. Amal, Youssef and their recruiter descend a narrow staircase. The basement room is submerged in a cloud of smoke, the walls plain, the furniture functional. There are money-counting machines on several tables, piles of dollars and euros all over the room. Amal and Youssef aren’t the only customers; in front of them in the queue is a bull-necked man and before him a young Iranian couple, neither of them much older than twenty. When Amal and Youssef reach the front of the queue, they hand the agreed sum to a haggard man and get a piece of paper in return, noting the sum of money and the name of their smuggler. The note is ripped in two. As soon as Amal and Youssef arrive safely in Italy, they’ll call the jeweller and he’ll give the smuggler his fee, minus a small commission. If they get sent back to Turkey they can collect their money from the jeweller.

  That evening they go out for a meal together; it might be the last time. Amal is impressed by the restaurant Youssef has chosen. It’s very quiet with no music to influence the mood, the mosaic wall beside their table shimmers in the candlelight, the glasses and crockery are thin and the plates large.

  Youssef takes out a small square box and places it in the middle of the table. The blue velvet bears the golden emblem of a well-known Syrian jeweller.

  Youssef says nothing and Amal starts to feel uncomfortable.

  ‘Aren’t you going to say anything?’ she asks him.

  ‘Aren’t you going to open it?’ Youssef replies.

  Amal eases the box open. It contains a thin ring of white gold.

  ‘It’s my grandmother’s ring, the packaging is just camouflage,’ Youssef says. ‘But what’s much more important: will you be my wife?’

  Amal nods. Youssef puts the ring on her finger. It fits perfectly. Still, Amal always imagined the scene would be more poetic.

  Looking at the ring on her finger, Amal thinks that they might die together, the very next week. An abyss opens up before her and thoughts of all kind come streaming out of it.

  ‘We could always stay here, you know,’ she says.

  ‘But what kind of life would that be?’

  ‘I don’t know!’ Amal shrugs and looks back at her engagement ring. ‘Maybe three kids and a dog?’

  ‘The children might not go to school, we wouldn’t find work and we’d be dependent on Erdogan’s mercy. We’re here illegally, Amal.
And apart from that, this country will soon go to the dogs as well. It’s already starting.’

  Amal drinks a mouthful of wine and asks, ‘Does that mean you’d like to have children?’

  After the meal, a sense of romantic duty prompts them to take their first walk along the ice-cold promenade, where men with menus under their arms stand outside empty cafés and try to entice guests in. After that they go to bed, nervous, and cling to each other in sleep. They ought to be happy, but they’re afraid.

  White pick-ups appear at dawn, most of them Toyota Hiluxes; just like the Syrian secret service, Daesh also has a preferred make of car. Black flags fly on their roofs, bearing a message in white: ‘There is no god but God, and Mohammed is His prophet.’ The leaders of the al-Nusra Front have made a deal with Daesh – they can take the city but without spilling blood. The al-Nusra Front retreats overnight.

  By the next sunset, sharia law is introduced and penalties and taxes are imposed. Meetings between men and women not directly related or married to each other are forbidden. Smoking is banned. Music too. Everyone has to observe the prayer times, preferably at the mosque. Anyone who doesn’t pray regularly and is caught by the religious police is sent to the front to dig trenches. Many of the worshippers’ bodies emit a sour smell, just like the prayer mats. People find themselves in a different universe.

  Women disappear from public life. They have to cover their faces and are no longer allowed out without male escorts. From now on they move through life quietly – they are not allowed to speak or laugh loudly. Their bodies are swathed in several layers of dark fabric so that no one can even guess at their shape. The only sound they make is the rustle of their clothing.

  Most schools, which were already only teaching sporadically in basements, are closed down. All worldly subjects, including mathematics, physics and biology, are removed from the curriculum and even medical degrees are reduced to three years. Instead, young children are put into Islamist camps. If they do learn sums, then they chant: ‘One plus one makes two, God willing.’ The plus sign is forbidden for allegedly symbolizing the Christian cross. Restaurants between Raqqa and Deir ez-Zor have to remove all dishes except lamb and rice from their menus. Even juice bars are shown no mercy. A malign peace settles over the streets.

  The fighters wear black masks, removing them only to eat or when with their families. Some of them are disillusioned soldiers who have defected to Daesh, others local mercenaries interested only in the pay, and then there are the sadists and fanatics infatuated with an illusion of themselves, the most dangerous of all. They all take Captagon, which makes them even more arrogant and takes away their fear.

  The city dwellers gather secretly with their neighbours in whichever house still has a working generator. They charge their phones and exchange the latest news – who’s been arrested at which checkpoint, whose daughters have been married off, who’s been killed. Their phones replace the outside world.

  Since they left Damascus, their life has been nothing but provisional and their belongings have been reduced at every stop along the way. They haven’t been able to collect any evidence of a life together. Perhaps they will in Europe, if they make it there, Amal thinks.

  Now they’re facing the task of squeezing their remaining belongings into a single rucksack. A tatty orange blanket belonging to the hostel is thrown over the double bed, with Youssef’s directing diploma on top of it. Amal doesn’t have a diploma; she didn’t have time to finish her degree. Her make-up is spread out next to the blanket: tubes and pots of creams, mascara, lipsticks, powder, primer, foundation, nail varnish, soft brushes – she’ll have to leave it all behind at the hostel. Against her better judgement, she brought her backless black Chanel dress with her from Damascus, a gift from her father, and a pair of soft black velvet court shoes that go with it so wonderfully. Now she has to say a final farewell to them. Perhaps they’ll have enough time to sell them.

  They conceal documents and money on their persons, wrapped in cling film and taped to their skin. Amal sews her few remaining pieces of jewellery into her bra, especially the rings and earrings – she doesn’t want to end up depicted in a European magazine as a floating corpse with her grandmother’s ruby studs in her earlobes. Over that a practical T-shirt, a sweater and a thick jacket. At the very top of the bag, they tuck in a few lemons; they’re supposed to be good for seasickness.

  The smuggler arranges to meet them two days later at the Izmir bus station. He makes them walk around town for three hours, from one crowded square to the next, until they’re finally loaded into a black minivan. The van takes them to a flat in the south. The driver is an incredibly fat teenager with bumfluff on his cheeks. He’s wearing a Star Wars sweatshirt and he drives like he’s trying to get them all killed. Cutting across three lanes on the motorway, he holds a cigarette in his right hand and his phone in the left.

  After half an hour they reach their hiding place, in an unappealing high-rise estate on the side of a mountain. The estate actually consists of only three buildings in a row, but they’re so gigantic they could house entire villages. Youssef holds tight to Amal’s hand and they walk after their glaring driver, past dirty pools of water and a heap of rubbish. A pack of dogs roams the back courtyard in search of leftovers.

  They enter a stairwell with no light and then an apartment that’s equally dark and ice cold. It has only one room and there’s no tap in the toilet. The grey linoleum is coming away from the floor in places, revealing a dark substance that really shouldn’t be inside the floor of a residential building.

  Two brothers are already waiting in the room, Ziad and Mazen. They want to go to Sweden, to join their oldest brother. Ziad has a stocky body with thickset legs, whereas Mazen is tall and long-limbed. A little later, they’re joined by a fifty-year-old woman and her teenage son. She’s an English teacher from Aleppo; her son is autistic. Then comes a young woman travelling alone with her baby. The father was murdered before the birth, by a government barrel bomb. Amal studies the baby closely, the bare back of its head, the fuzzy hair, its chubby arms and legs. It’s always ready to flash a smile at the world.

  Another few hours later, five young men turn up, hoping to escape the military and the militias. They spend the whole time playing on their phones. All of them now wait together in the thirty-square-metre flat, the door locked from the outside.

  Nothing happens on the first evening. The teacher performs her prayers, her son watching mutely. One of the boys explains the rules of Candy Crush Saga to Amal. The lights go on in the building opposite but no one dares to switch them on in their flat. One mattress lies next to another, their bodies necessarily touching. The men’s snores keep Amal awake. The baby wakes several times too and cries to be breastfed.

  Nothing happens on the following day either. People come with water and a little bread, feta and olives, but none of them will say when the group will be leaving – and so the waiting people tell each other stories. They don’t exchange memories of their past lives in peacetime; instead they tell anecdotes about other attempts at crossings and vague hopes for the future. The waiting is good practice for death.

  The English teacher was on a boat headed for Italy six months ago, and there was a massacre on board. A group of people from Sudan were locked below deck without water, food or sufficient oxygen. On deck were Syrians and Afghans. The travellers on the lower deck revolted, at first against the crew, but when they didn’t find them in their hiding places they killed the other passengers. The English teacher from Aleppo and her son were among the few survivors. They were spared, perhaps because of the boy’s condition. Or perhaps because they played dead and hid beneath corpses.

  The boys have also attempted a crossing before, in a rubber dinghy. At some point they were stopped by a larger ship from Greece, crewed by men in military uniforms and black masks. They pointed weapons at the refugees and took all their money and valuables, then destroyed their boat’s engine; they drifted for hours before the Turkish coastguar
d tugged them back to Turkey. Now they want to try to get directly to Italy. As they tell their stories the sun goes down, submerging the furniture and faces in gentle light.

  During the third night, a tall man suddenly turns up in the room and bellows commands in Turkish: ‘Let’s go! Get ready! COME ON! ARE YOU DEAF OR SOMETHING?’

  Once again they squeeze into the minivan, and once again it’s the overweight teenager at the wheel. He yells into his phone, his voice hoarse. His words veer wildly to and fro, utterly convincing Amal of his insanity. Then he suddenly stops by the side of the road, cuts the engine, calls someone else and then drives back to the estate.

  ‘What’s the matter?’ asks the English teacher.

  The driver takes his foot off the accelerator and explains to his passengers with a shrug, ‘Difficulties with the police.’

  The mother fiddles with her headscarf. The mood in the van instantly alters – unbounded disappointment mixes with secret relief at delaying the journey at least a little. Utter silence.

  That night, it takes Amal a long time to find a comfortable sleeping position, and she tosses and turns from one side to the other. She wishes she could get up and leave the apartment forever, but the door has been locked again. Not until sunrise does she fall asleep with her arms folded, wrapped in her coat. Youssef lies awake alongside her.

  The next day they make it to the beach. The smugglers tell them to wait in an abandoned restaurant. Battered wooden chairs on top of the tables, plaster peeling off the walls and the yellowed summer menu still hanging above the defrosted freezer: milkshakes, sorbet, dairy ice cream, iced coffee, chocolate floats.

  More and more people arrive, entire families, most of them with small children. They all crouch on the damp floorboards. The children’s teeth chatter, their lips turn blue.

  Three hours later, they are divided into groups of a hundred people. The smugglers are armed and yell abrupt orders. Families try to stay together and Amal too clings to Youssef.