The Dragonfly Sea

by Yvonne Adhiambo Owuor

  Real tears.

  They turned a corner. Ayaana exhaled and composed herself. “Halua?” she squawked, grateful for his uncanny understanding.

  “Halwa,” Koray intoned.

  Her eyes became dreamy. “Halwa?”

  “Yes, Miss Ayaana, halwa.” Koray nodded at her slowly. He pulled away to jog backward, bumping into passersby.

  Ayaana followed. “The people…” she gasped.

  “…can avoid being run over. Hurry! Halwa!”

  “Halwa!” Ayaana now sang.

  “Halwa,” Koray shouted back as the crowd parted to accommodate the madness of two foreigners zigzagging through their country, looking for sweets.

  * * *

  The shadows from the outside lights seeped through the open windows of the dingy restaurant. Eleven p.m. found a young man and woman still skulking over a steaming pot, the remains of their earlier indulgence scattered around them—bones, skin, shells. They were drinking coffee from the same mug, wrapped in the micro-universe they had invoked, oblivious to the sounds of traffic, and citizens’ footsteps on the pavement. From time to time, they would pause to listen to the music, which was nothing that they had heard before, and yet was somehow familiar. There were only two others left in the small restaurant, whose owner sat in a booth in the corner, watching the world and his guests.

  * * *

  —

  The pair dived headlong into a maelstrom. The look-into-my-eyes game that would become a proposition. Koray lit a cigarette and offered it to Ayaana, who wrinkled her nose and turned away sharply. She started to cough. “Smoking is not your strength,” Koray deadpanned as Ayaana choked.

  Koray leaned over to pound her back. He murmured, “My ex chain-smoked. I hate the stench of nicotine.”

  “You are smoking,” she pointed out.

  “Testing you,” replied Koray. He ground the lit cigarette out.

  Eyes streaming, Ayaana stared. Before she could formulate a question, Koray had lifted her wrist up to his nose. “Damascus rose.” He said. “From Turkey.”

  Touch. But smell was more intimate, like being breathed in. To disguise her sudden disorientation, she retorted, “Damascus is in Turkey, right?”

  “This species of rose is.” His teeth gleamed, and he bent forward to kiss Ayaana’s forehead and nose. Before she could react, he had returned to his seat, laughing.

  * * *

  —

  Ayaana’s new pink scarf had fallen to the ground. Her uncovered hair confronted the world, a defiant, hardened bouffant, as she admitted to Koray her salon misadventure. He guffawed. She sighed. He told her that beauty was a permanent condition. They giggled over his word play. Ayaana’s heart started to flutter; she had not known that a person could laugh like this with a stranger.

  “What does being houyi mean?” Koray asked her, holding on to her wrists.

  “Blood connections.” She shrugged. “Maybe,” she added.

  He paused. “But you are from Af—from Kenya.”

  “We share a sea. A past.”

  “We share the sea, too, Cousin Houyi!”

  Ayaana laughed.

  Yet she also paused. Wondering. The chasms in her mother’s words. Who is my biological father?

  Koray watched her shiver. “Ghosts?” he asked. Her head snapped up. Koray continued, “Tell me everything.”

  “No,” she said.

  “I insist.”

  She stared at him, unmoved.

  Koray shifted in his seat, and dug into the sugar bowl with his fingers. “I want to know you, Ayaana.” His eyes darkened, his look an accusation. “I strip mysteries…naked”—he grinned—“and lap their souls.”

  Ayaana closed her eyes. He was the most unstudentlike of students. “Why are you in China?” she asked.

  Koray raised his brows at Ayaana. “To learn it. China and I have no illusions about each other, houyi.” He stretched across to hold her hands. “Don’t tell anyone else, but the truth is, the family wanted me to be here in Xiamen. It is strategic for us.”

  Ayaana looked quizzical.

  Koray explained. “China International Fair for Investment and Trade?”

  Ayaana shook her head.

  “In September. Talk of the cities.” Koray reached over to pick at her food. “The world’s trading future is designed there.” He looked at her. “You ought to attend. Come as my guest.”

  She gave a noncommittal shrug.

  Koray leaned back, watching her. “I am here primarily to set up networks, build relationships. Acquire language competence. Observe the habits of the natives. Much easier with a student visa.”

  A peculiar lassitude had floated in, to settle like a fog around them. Koray’s fingers drummed the table. “Are you happy?”

  She said, “I am happy to be here.”

  “Not the same question,” he noted.

  She flushed. In spite of herself, she said, “I miss home…even if…” The words coming out of her mouth these days bothered her. “On most maps of the world, my island does not exist.”

  Koray’s eyes crinkled. “Behold! A phantom from the crevices of space and time. When I saw you, I knew it!”

  Ayaana laughed out loud.

  Silence.

  Then Koray said, “Home is imagined, Miss Ayaana.” Ayaana lifted her head. Koray continued: “We are another generation, a different people. We need a new imagination of and for life. Our home is anywhere and everywhere. Wherever we want it to be. The future is not a country, not for me, and not for you.”

  His words entranced Ayaana. Koray tilted his head to consider her. Something cold but also mischievous lurked in his gaze. The hairs on the back of Ayaana’s neck rose. She looked away, making the mistake of imagining the chilling sensation spreading all over her for attraction.

  Loaded silences. Echoes of seabird cries. A waiter brought a bowl of what might have been chili chicken wings.

  Koray noticed. “Sad again, sevgilim?”

  She touched the water glass. A half-smile. “Not really.”

  “Try me.”

  Eyes meet. She pointed at the wings. “So small.” She remembered the ortolan buntings.

  Koray’s brow puckered. “Life is drenched in absurdities; it is even woven with the suffering of birds.” Ayaana drew invisible lines on the tabletop. Koray used his fingers to seize a chicken wing and pop it into his mouth. “Mmm,” he said.

  Ayaana looked toward the wide-open doorway. She watched a woman with back-length hair swab the floor. Zhou Bichang’s low-voiced mellow tunes wafted between them. They listened to their thoughts and to Koray’s chewing. Ayaana turned to the rose lokum. She moved it with small pincerlike tongs next to the pistachio halwa. Her heart and mind were churning. Koray’s dominant familiarity was not something she knew how to deal with. She had also stuffed herself with far too many sweets. She said, “We should go back.”

  “Already?”

  Her elbows were on the table. “Class tomorrow?”

  “Hardworking xiao jie Ayaana.”

  “Yes, xiansheng Koray.”

  He looked serious. “Friends?”

  Her gaze swept up, and then down. She flushed as if he were asking for more. His look was hooded. “Ayaana?” he breathed.

  She tilted her head. As if on impulse, Koray seized her hand. “Don’t say yes or no yet…but, please…for the August-September break, before the trade fair, come home to Turkey with me. You will love Istanbul. Your time, your space, our family’s guest. Mother will enjoy your company. Your presence will assure her that I am not wallowing in debauched loneliness in a foreign land.” He lifted his hand. “No, don’t answer yet. Let it steep inside your delectable head. Now”—he jumped up—“we return to the cold world. I’ll walk you to your door before retreating to my bed, where I will dream of…you…and you
r”—his eyes glowed—“invisible island.”

  Ayaana punched his arm.

  Koray chuckled. “I punch the girls I like.” He took Ayaana’s arm. “And I like you, Miss Ayaana.”

  * * *

  —

  They took the most circuitous way home, playing catch with bright fragments they found, chasing random flying objects, running after each other, hopscotching past people, until they reached a place where Ayaana could twirl under the night sky and Koray watched her. How they laughed. They held hands afterward. They talked. They walked in silence, surprised by their ease with each other. Outside her door, Koray kissed Ayaana on her cheek. He kissed her twice.

  * * *

  The days were like the shadows of swooping eagles falling on the students on campus; there was the threat of grand tempests of assorted names, but what did appear were the winds that made the sea froth white. And for Ayaana, that was the backdrop against which Koray became fascinating, for he made sure he was often in her vicinity: a charming friend, an elegant fellow student who made it apparent to others that he preferred to be where she was. When she was in Koray’s imposing presence, Ayaana wondered what “man” meant, and she noticed odd things—the gestures of indelicate hands, the downturn of his lower lip when he paused to think—and her arms tingled from the imprint of seemingly unconscious caresses. It was his habit to take her arm and invite her to walk with him. It was her habit now to agree.

  Aingiaye baharini huogelea.

  One who goes into the sea must swim.

  [ 68 ]

  From the air, the Bosporus Strait resembled a strip of turquoise ribbon pouring itself into the dark blue splodges on either side that were the Black Sea and the Sea of Marmara. “İstanbul Boğazı. Inside, an undersea river…would be the sixth largest river in the world. It feeds the seas,” Koray informed Ayaana, whose eyes were fixed on the colors of the water. “Europe, there”—Koray pointed to one brown contour—“and here is Asia.” He gestured toward another brown lump. “The separation of spaces and places by name alone.”

  There were some visions for which words did not exist. Ayaana leaned in to the window, her eyes scanning the ground. They had studied the Bosporus. It was a crucible of testing for navigators who had to contend with, in parts, forty-five- and eighty-degree course alterations while battling unpredictable currents, blindsiding bends, and heavy maritime traffic at the same time. Narrow waterways were notoriously challenging, and this strait was right up at the top with the worst. Heart-quickening. Ayaana knew she would adore the Bosporus. Their China Southern plane touched down. “Welcome to Turkey, Miss Ayaana.” Koray was clutching Ayaana’s hand. She leaned in to him. He nuzzled her hair. “You shall like it here,” he decreed.

  She imagined she would. When they stepped out into the warm evening, Koray inhaled, his head turned skyward. Citrus and mystery. Koray said, “My country.”

  * * *

  —

  Residues of histories pervaded the atmosphere and Ayaana’s pores. This was indeed an old country. Ayaana watched worlds of people crisscross. This place had been enshrined in the poetry of her oceans in honor of those who had come to these lands, and then returned to repeat tales of the mysterious Bosporus, home of secret water-beasts. Buzz in the air, colors and voices. And, as a whisper barely heard, floating in to strike her heart and ears, resonances of the Adhan just uttered. Her heart stirred, thrilled in spite of uncertainties, Ayaana plunged into the seduction of this drama, what it might mean to belong to a place such as this, where she imagined she might find a deep echo of home.

  Ayaana whirled into Koray. And then she laughed when Koray lifted her high and swung her around. She had already forgotten the first of her errors: when Koray had sought to make their travel arrangements, and asked for it, she had handed over her passport. Even as they checked in, he had wielded it and then pocketed it with his documents. Taking charge. She had not imagined she ought to ask him to return it to her then.

  * * *

  —

  Outside the arrivals door, a dark blue Mercedes stopped for them—an illegal pause that no official authority came to contradict. Koray opened the car door while a man in a gray suit collected their luggage.

  * * *

  —

  There is, it is true, a powerful underwater cosmos under the Bosporus, presided over by a dense, high-volume, thirty-five-meter-deep submarine river replete with tributaries, rapids, and waterfalls. It feeds secret denizens. It bears down with sediments of history and gold and oil, which it keeps invisible to the uninitiated gaze. As below, so above: gilt-edged shadow tentacles slithered over Ayaana, causing a sudden chill to travel up and down her spine, and, when she looked, she saw a darkness trespassing on Koray’s gaze.

  * * *

  —

  They drove up to the mostly white Terzioğlu villa in Istanbul, one of three the family owned in the country. In partial but acceptable decay, this was their most valuable property. It was a coveted venue in space-hungry Istanbul, with its three pristine acres of thick garden. Koray told Ayaana, “I grew up mostly here. They sent me to England to study when I was twelve.” A pall had stolen over him.

  Ayaana studied the house as she might an eerie, grand setting for a high-volume dream. Koray’s hands pressed against the small of her back. She sniffed his cologne, then stepped back to lean against him, and wiped her face as if she had stumbled into a cobweb. Koray looked down at her and half smiled. Ayaana shivered.

  * * *

  —

  The large doors flung apart to reveal a made-up woman with a jar-bought glowing face. Her perfume, an intensity of flowers, and some dark spice, impregnated the air. Her delicate hands made elongated gestures, as if in prelude to a dance. She moved in quick steps. A silklike robe draped her body and veiled a dress covered with white pearls. Her thick hair, held in a bun, was bleached blond. Her posture was that of a dancer; her coordinated hand-to-eye gestures those of a Kathak adept. Koray was sedate as he stepped forward to greet his mother and kiss her on either cheek as she exclaimed, “Let me look at you.” Before she turned to Ayaana.

  Koray said, “Mother, Ayaana.”

  Nehir scrutinized Ayaana, her head tilted. “She’s doable, Korayğim,” she concluded. To Ayaana, “Such a creature.” Ayaana automatically performed a half-curtsy. Nehir took her hand. “Kiss me here.” She presented her face.

  Ayaana, who was taller than she, stooped to bestow the kiss.

  Nehir continued, “We will get to know one another,” then swung back to her son. “Koray!” she chastised. “This is not a small island bird in need of feeding. Your descriptions are lacking, dear!” She leaned close. Ayaana could smell the cardamom on her breath as she said, “My son takes up causes.” Nehir laughed at a secret joke. The harsh laugh chilled Ayaana. Nehir added, “Follow me. I will show you to your room—far, far away from Koray’s.” She laughed again. Turning back to Koray, she said as if in jest, “This child is so deliciously unfinished—unadorned face, no lipstick—deliciously unfinished. What fun we shall have together.”

  * * *

  —

  Ayaana looked back, glaring at Koray. He winked at her. They walked past two cracked stone wolves that guarded either side of the entryway, and up some steps, and through a large door that smelled of rust. They walked down a dimly lit corridor from which rooms branched off. Ayaana peeked through the open doors. There were books and maps everywhere. On a large bookshelf along the passageway were books from many ages, and all authored by one Terzioğlu or another. A thickness to the air; in Ayaana’s imagining, they crossed into another realm. More paintings and tapestries with folktales woven in, hung on different walls, amplified by window-sized gilt-edged mirrors. Persian carpets on the floor, and Byzantine ceramics in discreet alcoves. Some rooms were hidden behind bolted, reinforced steel doors. Soft-footed servants ordered the Terzioğlu worlds with invisible efficiency, si
lence, and covert side glances at Ayaana. Where am I? Ayaana wondered.

  [ 69 ]

  Unbreakable routines marked the Terzioğlu hours. Sit-down breakfast, lunch, and dinner, and the dinner drinks served in a drawing room where a glossy black grand piano lay in wait, its top board exposed, as if it were a river crocodile faking death in the hope of an easy meal. Sometimes they talked; most of the time they listened to the musical offerings of either a devotional singer or an assortment of classical music selected for their elegiac melodies. The ritualized expressions of Terzioğlu hospitality, every gesture governed by a subtle rule Ayaana had to intuit. She was repeatedly welcomed, but in every gesture and word she felt herself being assessed, studied, observed. This made her twice as nervous and three times as sensitive to nuances in the air. Her China-gained confidence shriveled before a constant gaze that seemed to have the force to reshape even her dreams.

  “So…your father is in boats?” Koray’s mother asked Ayaana, her Indian-dancer eyes lifting up, then down, and sweeping sideways.

  “Navigator,” Ayaana stuttered, elevating Muhidin’s career choice. “Retired,” she added.

  “Did he do well for himself?”

  “Mother!” Koray protested.

  “It is an important question,” retorted Nehir. “Well, did he?”

  “He did his best.” Ayaana stared at her soup.

  She kicked Koray under the table. Did he tell his mother everything? He smiled.

  “What does your mother do?”

  “Beauty.”

  “Cosmetologist?”