Dancing for the General

by Sue Star

  The car weaved through enough turns that Anna no longer recognized which way they headed. With each turn, the streets narrowed and the crowds of pedestrians thinned.

  “I am driving around to the back,” Ahmet explained, “where there is a private entrance to my shop. That’s where I usually park.”

  They drove into an alley and parked next to a cart filled with rolled-up rugs. No one was in sight, only the ox, patiently standing hitched to the cart. Ahmet turned off the ignition and slapped the steering wheel. He mumbled a few words in Turkish under his breath, then turned to Anna.

  “New merchandise arrives,” he said, “and no one is here to protect it. Any thief could help himself.” A vein throbbed at his temple. He sprang out of the car and raised his voice, yelling something in Turkish.

  Anna climbed out of the passenger side as a young, skinny man ran from the building and into the alley. He stopped in front of Ahmet, who unleashed a torrent of Turkish. Oaths, she imagined. The youth listened to him with his head lowered. The scene reminded her of last night, when Fran scolded the photographer. Anna blinked, pushing the memory from her mind.

  Then Ahmet must’ve realized the spectacle he’d made, and he turned to Anna and wagged his head. “I’m sorry. The man is impudent, but I must forgive him. He is working alone today in my store, since the brother of Emin, your unfortunate photographer, did not arrive to work. I must speak with him in private. Would you mind waiting inside the shop? I’ll only be a minute, and then I’ll join you. If any customers arrive, or any thieves to steal my merchandise, just call out.” He smiled, but the vein still throbbed in his temple.

  Anna agreed, eager to escape the stressed air of the alley. She hurried down a half flight of steps and through the door Ahmet’s skinny employee had exited. She found herself in a cramped storage room, behind the beaded curtain to the main area of the shop. Clicking through the beads, she strolled out into the showroom, stacked to each side with carpets. Carpets, hanging from hooks, defined the perimeters of the shop and gave her a snug feel, wrapping her in a heavy smell of wool. She didn’t feel very snug, though. She ran her fingers along plush fibers and waited.

  She’d smelled a hint of wool only moments before the attack on her yesterday. Her attacker must’ve worn wool. Or else carried the scent of wool. Maybe he worked in a rug shop, such as this one.

  What on earth was Anna doing here?

  She waited, but Ahmet did not join her. She wandered to the front end of the shop, which opened onto a street of small shops. In spite of the chaos of movement around her, from feral cats to veil-swathed women, she felt alone. In her western dress, she hardly blended in. She scanned the cobbled street. It looked the same to her as what she’d seen the day before. Was it? She wondered which way were the shops she’d visited with Priscilla. Ozturk Bey’s evil eyes, jewelry, and copper must be nearby. Just down the hill was the covered bazaar where they’d bought the slippers with the curled up toes.

  The beads tinkled behind her, and she whirled around. The skinny employee returned, and without looking at her, he busied himself, counting rugs in a stack.

  Any minute, Ahmet would follow. His familiar presence would dissolve the lump forming in her chest. He was probably unloading the rugs from the ox cart all by himself. He’d only be gone a minute, he’d told her.

  He did not appear.

  She stumbled along the aisles between piles of rugs. At the back of the store, the attendant kept counting rugs.

  “Where’s Ahmet?” she asked him.

  He cocked his head at her, at first not understanding. Then he pointed to the door into the storage room and resumed his task.

  She slipped past him and pushed through the beads. The door to the alley stood open. Outside, the ox waited, and the cart stood there with its load of rolled-up rugs. But the Mercedes was gone. Along with Ahmet.

  * * * * *

  Meryem lay crushed on the floor of the asker’s room, where he held her as his prisoner. No longer saved, she anticipated joining her brother. She willed herself to die.

  She did not die.

  She did not feel the pain anymore. She’d used it all up long ago, and now there was none left to feel.

  She did not know when was now.

  But eventually, a crash, then another one, somewhere in the distance, but not too far away, drifted to her consciousness. Only because the asker lifted himself from his torture of her body. Breath crept back to her ruined body.

  “What?” the asker said with a growl, standing up. “What are the Americans up to now?”

  It took all of Meryem’s strength to open her eyes. From her position on the floor, her gaze fastened onto one of the windows of the asker’s room. Through its glass smeared with grime, she saw the yellow stucco house next door like a slap in the face. She rolled into a fetal ball, as much as her bindings would allow, and pressed herself against the wall.

  Someone moved through an upstairs window of the Americans’ house. She’d seen that clean-shaven face before. Somewhere. That face with the coward’s look of desperation lived somewhere in a distant memory. She searched her mind, her memories, and then it came to her. He was Stork. The partner of their liberator-savior-rescuer. He had abandoned them long ago. And now he’d finally come back.

  The asker watched through a crack he’d opened in the door. The line of his body went rigid, and he cursed. Then he shut the door with a click and turned back to Meryem.

  “What did you tell the secret police, whore?”

  “Nothing!” Meryem made a whimpering noise.

  “Don’t lie to me. What’s he looking for?”

  “I don’t know what you mean.” Pain stabbed with each gasp, and she welcomed the sensation, for pain meant the absence of numbness.

  “He’s looking for something the Americans have, and you sent him there.”

  “Maybe he’s there because of what you did to the American woman last night, that one who screamed. That’s why you’re worried.”

  “You talk too much.” He snatched up the kerchief gag and lunged for her. Again.

  With fire flowing back into her, she bit his fingers as he struggled to wrap the scarf around her.

  * * * * *

  Anna clattered down the steps into the back door of the rug shop. She whisked through the beaded curtain, tinkling its glass pieces as she moved. “Where did he go?” she asked Ahmet’s employee.

  The skinny Turk glanced up from his task of counting rugs and frowned. He shrugged and gave her a look of sympathy.

  “I mean, did he say when he was coming back?” Of course he was coming back. It was pointless to speak in a language that was not understood. She summoned what her scattered memory of college French had taught her, and she tried her questions again.

  It didn’t work. The man responded in Turkish, a harsh, foreign sound that only made her feel even more isolated. Panic gnawed at her insides. She was not familiar with being helpless. It was a sensation that did not warm her.

  “Is there a telephone I might use?” she asked, pantomiming a phone call to make Ahmet’s employee understand her. She’d phone Paul. But what was his number?

  “Yok,” said the employee. No. No phone.

  She glanced around the woolen cocoon of the rug shop. Back at the beaded curtain. Then at the employee. He seemed to have forgotten her as he counted his rugs.

  Patience drained away. Why in hell had Ahmet abandoned her this way?

  She stalked out of his rug shop and into the cobbled street, where her brief flare of anger evaporated into the exotic sights and smells. Women under head scarves. Carcasses of meat hanging in doorways. Children and cats darting through the crowds.

  She had no purse. No money. How would she get home?

  If she was lucky, she would stumble across Ozturk Bey’s shops. Maybe she’d get even luckier and Yaziz would rescue her again.

  Just then she caught sight of a trio of boys, about eight to ten years old, snaking past shops and weaving around people filling
the streets. They wanted to carry shoppers’ bags, Priscilla had told her. They fetched coffee for customers. One of them, with a shaved head, held out his hand to a likely target.

  Then the shaved boy saw Anna watching him. He must’ve recognized her instantly, for he bolted away from his two companions.

  “Hey!” Anna shouted. Without a second thought, she took chase. “Come back!” she cried out, but the boy melted into the crowd and darted uphill.

  She followed, her Keds pounding along the uneven cobbles. “Hayir!” she thought to yell, although it hardly made sense to yell “no.”

  A few heads of those nearby turned and gave her quizzical stares.

  “I just want to talk to you!” No one understood her.

  The two other boys spread out, separating into side streets, but Anna didn’t let them distract her. Continuing uphill, she ran through narrow, winding streets, up the sharp slope of the cone-shaped hill of Ulus. At the top of the hill, under a gate, she paused to gasp for air.

  Nearby, a broken column lay on its side, looking as if it could’ve come from a Roman ruin. It tweaked enough interest on Anna’s part that her scan of the area lingered there a moment. Long enough to glimpse the crown of a nearly bald head, barely protruding above the column.

  With her soft soles, she soundlessly crept around behind the boy who crouched behind the fallen column. At the last instant, he saw her and sprang to his feet. But she pounced on him faster than he could sprint away, and she pulled him out of his hiding place by his collar. Her fingers twisted around the fabric of his coarse shirt in a grip she’d perfected on a couple of occasions with unruly students.

  The boy’s arms flailed about, but her arms were longer, and she held on, at distance. He screamed at her, and she imagined what the oaths meant.

  “You’re the one who stole my purse, aren’t you? Did someone hire you to do that?” But it was pointless. He didn’t understand her. Finally, she remembered one of her Turkish words. “Nerede?” Where?

  Her strength weakened as his thrashing grew more wild, and she knew she couldn’t hold him much longer. Their raised voices drew attention, and curious onlookers closed in on them. The closer they approached, the more they babbled and scolded, and the more panicked the boy’s face became. Finally, he stopped fighting her, and he reached into a pocket and pulled out Rainer’s silvery medal. He dropped it at her feet and used her flash of surprise to twist free from her grip.

  The white sapphire winked up at her as the boy disappeared into the crowd.

  Chapter Forty

  A commotion outside the toilet broke through the lice of Meryem’s memories. Arguing voices. No, only one of them carried a querulous tone. The other...

  The asker flung open the door of her toilet, and blinding light stabbed the dark interior. “Get up. The general wants you.”

  Sniffing an opportunity, Meryem anchored herself against one wall and pushed herself up.

  He reached for her, and she pulled away. “Come here,” he said, then swore at her as he grabbed her bound wrists and worked at the knots.

  Suddenly, a deep voice rumbled from behind the asker’s shoulder. “What’s this?”

  “Pasha! A thousand pardons. The girl does not cooperate.”

  “What have you done?” The general’s hearty voice grew to a roar. “I only wished to speak to her. Such treatment as you have given her is not necessary, and I will not tolerate it in my house.”

  “But pasha, since she has been waiting for you out here, in my quarters—”

  “Silence! You will untie her at once, and leave us. I will deal with you later.”

  “Yes, pasha.”

  The asker’s fingers trembled as he undid the knots. Freed, Meryem rubbed her raw wrists. Her liberator had come for her, as she’d always known he would.

  Stalking past the asker, she spit in his face. She float-stepped across the room to the general, although her joints protested with brand-new aches. The general stood over her and surveyed her silently while the asker, shooting glances of hatred at Meryem, flounced past them. As soon as he left for the garden, slamming the door behind him, the general spoke.

  “This is an outrage,” he said, his gaze sweeping across the torture room. “You have been held here against your will, and I won’t have it. Regardless of who you are.”

  “He did not pay me what he’d promised for my dance.” When Meryem realized she did not know when she’d danced for the general—only the night before or many nights ago?—a sinking feeling of panic flitted through her.

  “He is a crazy old man whose mind has turned, but I did not think he would harm anyone. We will send for a doctor.”

  “No! I mean, that’s not necessary. I’ll take my money and go.” She had to find the gun. Before the gunman did anything foolish to Mustafa.

  The general’s bushy eyebrows knotted as he frowned. “About last night—”

  “I heard nothing.”

  “Of course you didn’t. There was nothing to hear. A few of my closest friends were invited to dinner. Sometimes the raki makes men imagine things. Especially in the heat of their excitement. But they are only stories, you understand?”

  She nodded, and her glance darted to the door. She thought she saw movement at the window. The asker was prowling, trying to listen. He was good at that—spying.

  “You will need new clothes,” said the general, pulling her attention back to him. His steel gaze drifted from the cut on her cheek to the tears of her costume. “And a bath. I will have my maid prepare a room for you in the house.”

  “No! I mean, that’s very kind, but...I must go.”

  “Of course. Your family must wonder what’s happened to you.” His hand thrust into a trouser pocket and withdrew a wad of bills.

  She watched carefully as he counted out five of them. He paused with his thumb in place between the fifth and the sixth bills and looked at her once again. “And what will you tell them to explain your absence?” he asked.

  She shrugged. “I could tell them that I danced for very important men, who—”

  He counted out five more bills.

  “Who no longer hold any positions of power, and so no one pays any attention to what they say.”

  “Excellent.” He handed her the ten bills.

  “But in their fever of excitement, as men can become, they ruined my costume, which is my only means of income...”

  Swiftly, he thumbed out five more and handed them over.

  “On the other hand, I could say I fell asleep in the fields on my way home, but that would not explain my injuries, which will surely cost a hundred more lira for a doctor to heal.”

  He pushed more bills into her hands and gave her a frown, besides. “Is that all?”

  “There are my friends next door, who might be interested to know—”

  He grabbed her arm and squeezed hard. “How do you know the Americans?”

  “I have clients.” She stomped on his foot and glowered at his hand. “You are hurting me.”

  He released her at once and, without counting, pulled a handful of bills from his diminished wad and passed them over. “You will say nothing to them or to anyone, do you understand?”

  She shrugged. “If you wish.”

  “It is not as I wish, it is as I command. And my man will escort you home, to see to it.”

  No! Quickly, she sidestepped away from the general and slipped out of range of his lunge, which followed a heartbeat too late.

  She sprinted for the door, praying that she wouldn’t slam into the asker as she rounded the corner. She didn’t. He wasn’t there, but his scythe leaned up against the wall of the cottage that had served as her prison. She grabbed up the iron tool, whose awkward length was half as tall as she was, and she pressed herself flat against the rough prickles of stucco.

  And waited. For the opportunity to lash out with her weapon. She would not hesitate to use the scythe, while the asker had only threatened her with it.

  Bah! Men and their h
ollow promises.

  The general didn’t follow her around the corner of the asker’s cottage. Instead, he marched to the back door of his pink palace, yelling all the while for the asker to come with him. She threw down the distasteful weapon. Thought about the other one.

  The gun.

  It really was not possible that someone had followed her across the fields from Anit Kabir. She would’ve noticed. Therefore, someone had accidentally stumbled across the gun, after she’d hidden it away inside the hollow stump.

  Another vendor, hawking his wares up and down the street? Possibly. Others must use the vacant lot with the water hole to rest, as she and Umit did. Her mind skimmed over the milk man, and the bread man, and the vegetable man, and...

  Then she remembered the turtle.

  The red-haired American child—Priscilla—hunter of turtles.

  Meryem darted along a garden path, to the retaining wall at the corner of the general’s property. She climbed up onto the rim of the wall and stepped across the wire fence, onto the creaking roof of the American children’s shack. She jumped down to the ground, landing in a dust cloud of aches and pains. So many bruises already knotted her body that she could not determine if this jump damaged anything new.

  Wincing, she slid aside the board that served as a door and crawled inside the smelly, sandy hideout. Something more in the air, this time. Fear. Holding her breath, she sank onto the sand, soft as silk after her bed of cement in the toilet. She sifted her fingers through the sand. Dust rose in the air from her scrabbling search, tickled her nose, and forced a cough from her.

  Then her fingers bumped against smooth metal. She pulled the gun out of the sand.

  * * * * *

  White light of a poker-hot, midday sun blinded Anna. People surrounded her, buzzing with questions she didn’t understand and couldn’t answer. Her head spun. She wasn’t sure where her flight, chasing the boy, had taken her, except to the top of the cone-shaped hill.

  Ulus, where Paul Wingate had warned her not to go.