I shake my head. No, no, no, that can’t be it. No one can hold me accountable for all this shit.
“Face the truth!” Aslı says. “Put two and two together and make it four, for once. I’m more or less an exile because I don’t dare go back to Turkey for the moment. Luckily, I have enough money to live abroad, and my sons are safe in their boarding school in England. But my husband’s in prison. Kerem helped you too, which endangers him as well. And I’m told your janitor’s in hospital. Doesn’t that tell you something?”
With a calm I don’t really feel, I say, “I’m really sorry for you. And for Murat. And for Tomas. But I’m not responsible for what has happened to them. They are—I mean, those people who are after me, as you said.”
“Do you have any idea who they are?” she asks with a dangerous glint in her eyes.
“I think I do. But I won’ tell you.”
She sits back, stunned, and stares at me. “Because…?” she asks slowly.
“Because I don’t really know you. I don’t know if I can trust you. And even if I trusted you, I think you’re better off not knowing.”
To my surprise, she nods, and her expression changes. “At last. You seem to come to your senses. Kerem said you would, but after all I’ve heard about you, I didn’t believe him.”
“Good. It’s reassuring that Kerem doesn’t take me for a complete idiot.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that. But he’s besotted with you. And he’s my son, so I listen to what he tells me.”
It feels as if we have reached a stalemate. She sounds as if she believes what she is saying; I, on the other hand, am less sure.
Besotted. Rubbish.
I finish my cup of coffee, then refill it. “You want some more.”
“No, thank you. I guess I should go now.” She gets up.
“I’m not sure I understand why you’ve come,” I say, getting up as well.
Aslı touches her necklace. “I’m afraid”, she replies. “I’m awfully afraid for my son. Sometimes I wish he had carried out his mission. I wouldn’t be standing here with you… everything would be different. Easier.”
I just stare at her.
“I know him,” Aslı says silently. “He will follow you around. He will try to keep you out of harm’s way, he will play the role of saviour. That will get him in danger too.” She pierces me with her gaze. “If anything happens to him, I promise you, I’ll make sure that you regret it.”
I feel a strange sensation in my body. It’s like a warm shiver I don’t recognise, as if my skin were blushing.
And then, don’t ask me why, I feel compelled to make a promise I’m certain I won’t be able to keep. Maybe the reason is that for a split second, Aslı’s mask of cool self-assurance cracks, and I glimpse her true face. The face of a harried and worried mother.
“I’ll take care of him,” I say. “If it’s the last thing I do—I’ll take care of him.”
Aslı pauses. She readjusts her social mask and touches my arm. “Please make sure you do.”
Part Nine | Ordinary Decisions
—8—
My worries keep me awake for a long time. I’m tossing and turning in my bed, staring at the dark ceiling, thoughts and emotions swirling around inside like the fake snowflakes in one of those snow globes you can buy in tourist resorts. I see the faces of Mother and Father, of my two sisters, of Emma, and it almost feels like a farewell.
Of course, hundreds of questions keep bubbling up, too. And still no answers in sight. All I obtain are possibilities, probabilities, interpretations.
In the early hours of dawn, I finally fall into a fitful sleep.
When I wake up, it’s eight in the morning. A new, sunny day peeks in through the bedroom window.
Sleep-dazed, I don a black T-shirt and black tracksuit trousers before trudging into the kitchen. I pour beans into the coffee grinder and switch it on. The loud milling and gnashing and crunching of the machine makes me feel more alert.
I notice, for instance, that my mobile is nowhere to be seen. Come to think of it, I’m not sure I’ve used it recently. While I spoon the coffee powder into the French press, I try to remember where it is.
In one of the pockets of my trench coat, probably.
I fill the water heater and switch it on. Then, I walk back to my bedroom and open the wardrobe where my jackets, coats and suits hang, limp, corpse-like reminders of my normal life, the life before.
I take out the coat I’ve been wearing during my trip to Belgium. Ah. Indeed, my mobile is still in the breast pocket. When I try to switch it on, it doesn’t react. The battery must be completely empty.
I carry the phone back to the kitchen.
I’ve just unplugged the water heater and plugged the mobile charger into the socket when the doorbell rings.
I walk to the door, unlock and open it. I should have checked who it is, but I’m still barely functioning.
José, Tomas’s son, is standing before me. He looks as dog-tired as I feel. “Good morning, Monsieur,” he mumbles and holds out a small parcel wrapped in manila paper. I can read my name and address on it. “A courier dropped this off two days ago. Mama found it in Pa’s office this morning.”
“Thank you,” I say and take the parcel. “No school today?”
“It’s Saturday, Monsieur.”
“Oh, is it?” I falter. Then I enquire softly, “How’s your father?”
The boy shrugs. “He came round last evening, Mama says, but he’s confused. Has no memory at all of the accident. At least, the doctors are optimistic.”
I sigh with relief. “I’m really glad to hear that. Is there anything I can do?”
He looks at me, surprised. “No. There’s nothing any of us can do.”
“I mean, did they give your father a single room? Does he have television? A phone? That sort of thing.”
He shrugs again. “I don’t know. I haven’t been allowed to visit him yet.”
“Well, ask your mother. Tell her if she needs anything, I’ll be happy to help out, okay?”
“M-hm.”
I know there are some euro notes on the chest of drawer behind me. “Wait a second,” I say, turn around and pick up twenty euros, which I offer the boy. “Here, take this.”
He scowls. “What for?”
“Just a tip. Thanks for bringing the parcel.”
After a moment’s hesitation, he snatches the note and pockets it. “Please don’t tell Mama,” he says and smiles briefly.
“Don’t worry. We guys need to stick together.”
José turns around and runs back to the lift.
—7—
When the lift doors have closed behind him—bling, tchuk—I don’t close the door at once. I wait, parcel in hand, staring straight at the peephole of the door across from mine.
Sure enough, seconds later it is opened a crack. Kerem’s shaved head appears.
“I was certain you were watching,” I say flatly.
“Who was that boy?” he wants to know, rubbing his eyes. Apparently, he hasn’t slept well, either.
“The janitor’s son. He brought me this.” I shake the parcel.
He stares at it, then slowly lifts his gaze to my face. “What is it?”
“How should I know—it’s wrapped up!”
“Please be careful, Marc. I’m not sure you should open it.”
“I know,” I lie irritably. The thought that the parcel might be dangerous hasn’t even crossed my mind. What makes me so cross is that Kerem is right, of course.
We glare at each other.
“Are you presentable?” I ask after a few seconds.
“Huh?”
I sigh. “Never mind. If you’re naked, get dressed. And haul your ass over. I’ve made coffee, and if you’re hungry there’s still bread in my freezer that I
could microwave.”
He sounds surprised. “You sure?”
I simply nod even though I’m not.
He pulls the door open all the way.
I see that he is still wearing the clothes I gave him yesterday. Black really suits him.
He closes and locks the door.
I step aside. “You know the way.”
He walks past me, waits for me to close and lock my own door, then follows me into the kitchen without saying a word.
I throw the parcel on the kitchen table, unnerved. I guess I’ll have to make do with uncomfortable silences during breakfast. I wouldn’t mind filling it with music, though. There are three albums of the Kilimanjaro Darkjazz Ensemble on my mobile; their soft and plodding gloom might be appropriate.
When I switch on the mobile, Kerem’s eyes widen. He suppresses a gasp. In a single, smooth movement, he crosses the kitchen, holds a finger to his lips to prevent me from protesting, unplugs the mobile, and switches it off again. Then he hurries back into the corridor and off to the bathroom.
What the…? I traipse behind him, completely clueless.
He switches on the ceiling light, opens the mirror cabinet above the washbasin, puts the mobile in it, closes it, then turns on the water. I’m impatient to learn what he thinks he is doing, but he simply grabs my arm and pulls me into the corridor, closing the bathroom door without making a noise.
“What’s going on?” I hiss.
“You said there was coffee, right?” he hisses back.
We return to the kitchen, where I pick up the French press and carry it over to the kitchen table.
Kerem pushes me into a chair before opening several cabinets until he finds a second mug.
When he sits down across from me, I glare at him.
He fills our mugs. “Your mobile,” he says testily. “Hasn’t it occurred to you that it might be bugged?”
“Bugged? What does that even mean?”
Kerem leans back. “Well, bugged. The word’s rather self-explanatory, isn’t it?”
“How the fuck can it be bugged?” I snarl. “I never let it out of my hands.”
“Are you sure?” He studies my face. “A hundred percent sure?”
“Well,” I consider his question more seriously. “I can’t think of anyone… Wait. Right. The last time someone touched it was probably… Gloria? But that was four, no, five days ago.”
He stares at me with a look that says, “There you are.” Then he leans forward and lays a hand on mine. “I’m not the enemy, Marc. Whatever you believe, I’m really not. Now, tell me about that woman. Gloria, is it?”
His hand on mine feels reassuring—well, he pulls it away a bit too fast, perhaps—and his voice sounds so calm that I obey. The story is quickly told—breakfast in front of the Palais de Chaillot, news about a Danish assistant, Gloria’s new collection, music, and a playlist being copied onto my mobile…
Kerem sips his coffee while I’m talking. His face is a blank mask, except his eyes, which are still as doleful as ever. At last, he says, “Haven’t you noticed that you were being followed these last days?”
I nod slowly.
“A good thing I got rid of that phone,” he mumbles. He rolls his head from left to right, making his neck crack, while explaining, “I guess that’s how they were able to follow your movements. That woman, Gloria, must have installed a Trojan Horse on your mobile. A GPS tracker, probably. Maybe even a program that allows them to listen to, and record, whatever you’re doing or saying. You foolishly triggered it by listening to that playlist.”
“But the phone was switched off most of the time…”
“That doesn’t matter. Many programs still work. The only way to make sure they cannot spy on you is either to wait for the battery to be completely empty or to mess up the recordings with white noise.”
That makes sense somehow. The phone must have been dead ever since I left my aunt. That’s why no one bothered me in Châlons.
Nonetheless, I glower at him. “You know quite a lot about these things.”
Kerem sighs. “I told you already: that’s my job. And once again, I repeat: I’m not…”
“My enemy,” I finish. “That remains to be seen.”
He tries to read my expression, fails, and takes another sip. “Don’t you want to open your parcel?”
I push it over to him. “It might be dangerous, isn’t that what you’re thinking?”
“There have been letter bombs.”
“Then do your bloody job.” I regret the harsh words as soon as I’ve said them. It’s too late now; Kerem shoots me a hurt look before his expression closes down. He picks up the parcel, touches it lightly, searching for tell-tale signs of I don’t know what.
“I guess it’s safe,” he finally declares in an icy voice and pushes it back to me. “You can open it.”
I try to de-escalate the tension between us by asking, “Are you hungry? Do you want me to…”
“Open. The. Fucking. Parcel.”
All right. He is not my enemy, it seems, and I’m willing to believe him. But I’m not sure he is my friend, either.
—6—
Crumpled manila paper lies on the kitchen table. And Julia Kristeva’s Hatred and Forgiveness lies before me. A battered copy in English, which is strange. I seem to recall Jane reading it in French all those days ago. Barely a month, but it seems like a lifetime.
There’s a terse note saying, “Here’s the book as requested. I’m sure you will like the chapters. Enjoy. Jane.”
Kerem looks at me quizzically. “Kristeva? Isn’t she a French philosopher?”
“You know her?” I’m unable to hide my astonishment.
“I know of her. I do have some education, in fact.”
I’m suddenly weary of our constant bickering. “Whatever… Listen, I’ve got the impression we’re back to square one, you and I. Like the day you were asked to drive me around in Turkey and could barely bring yourself to talk to me. I understand that you don’t want to be here, but I’m really, really fed off by this… aggressive atmosphere between us. Let’s behave like two civilised people, all right?”
Kerem clenches his jaw and wipes his face. “How can you even think…” He suddenly leans over the table, snatches my T-shirt, and pulls me towards him. I almost spill my coffee all over Jane’s book. “You’re such an ass, Marc!” he hisses. Then, he grabs my head and…
… presses his lips on mine.
I don’t want to give in, but my mouth opens involuntarily. I feel Kerem’s tongue darting in and swirling around mine. He tastes of coffee and sweetness.
Just as abruptly as he has started, he lets go of me.
I sink back onto my chair, my legs too wobbly to support my weight, my head swimming, my body tingling with an unknown ache and longing.
“Better now?” he asks so softly that I wonder if he has really said the words.
“What… what was that about?” I croak.
“That was about establishing an understanding between us. I’m not here for any dubious reasons. I haven’t come to Paris out of duty or on a mission ordered by a third party. I’m here because I want to help you. Because I really want to make sure that you’re safe and protected. Because I… I care about you.”
I clear my throat. “And to make that clear, you had to kiss me? Seriously?”
Kerem shrugs. “It eases the tension. And it’s what we both wanted. Tell me I’m wrong, and I’ll apologise.”
I stare at him, my mind awash with thoughts. I don’t tell him he is wrong, however. “Oh Kerem… if only you knew…,” I sigh.
He picks up the book. “Come sit by my side. Let’s have a look at Kristeva and try to figure out what it means. I guess you should tell me about Jane, too.”
—5—
“Jane Bromberg.” Kerem seems l
ost in thought, turning the book around in his hands, listening to an inner voice. “American historian, professor, feminist. Teaches here at university. Doesn’t your younger sister live in her house?”
I’m so close to him that I feel his body warmth and smell the scent of shower gel. “You know that, too,” I state. “Why am I not surprised?”
He doesn’t listen. “She’s more than just a professor, however. I hope you’re aware of that.”
I nod. “She told me. She’s working for her government. An undercover spy or something.”
“Not just a spy. She’s quite high up in the hierarchy. She plans and runs operations if my information can be trusted.”
“Oh. If you say so.” I refill our mugs. For once, I add sugar to my coffee. I’m sure I’ll need the extra energy push. “You know, nothing astounds me anymore.”
“All right. And you say that she asked you to get in touch with her if push comes to shove.”
“No. In fact, she offered her help but outright forbade me to contact her.”
“Why did you do it then?”
“Because I’m making my own decisions now.”
Kerem taps the book cover. “Good. And you say she was reading the French version of this book last time you saw her. So, sending you the English version must mean something.”
“Probably.” I open the book and leaf through it. Countless passages are underlined, including all the chapter titles; there are even notes scribbled in the margins, and many pages are marked with yellow Post-Its. “But look at this. It’s a mess.”
“I agree. The highlighted paragraphs can’t be a cipher—there are just too many of them. But…” He thinks for a while. “Maybe she knew the parcel would be opened and the book searched for hidden messages. In that case, all those underlined sentences and notes are meant to throw people off the scent.”
“Unfortunately, they throw me off the scent, too.” I know my voice sounds childishly querulous, but really, can’t things be easy for once?
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