“Let’s reread her accompanying note. ‘I’m sure you will like the chapters…’ That must be the clue.”
I go back to the table of contents at the beginning of the book. “There’s nothing.”
Kerem takes the book out of my hands and proceeds to the first chapter. He pulls it closer to his eyes and squints at the title. “Here,” he says and points at a letter. “Look at this.”
I lean over the page. The title, underlined with thick, blue ink, reads “Thinking About Liberty in Dark Times.” Indeed, there’s a tiny pencilled dot beneath the “b” of “About.” It’s so small that it looks like a grain in the paper.
“There seem to be two others,” I say and point them out. One dot is above the ‘o’ of the same word, the other right next to the ‘i’ in ‘Times.’”
“Could you fetch us a sheet of paper, a pencil, and an eraser?” Kerem asks.
“I’ll be right back.” I get the three items. Then we hunt down the pencil dots, carefully erasing them as we progress to make sure there’s no trace of them if someone breaks into my apartment again. Many titles are quite long, and the underlinings make it hard to find the letters.
But in the end, we stare at a message.
“bois boul cascade trois laisse tel maison envoie merci sms pour date”
Kerem scratches his head. “I’m sorry, I don’t speak French.”
I stare at the words. “I’m not sure, but I think this could mean that she’s willing to meet me in the Bois de Boulogne. It’s a woody park in the West of Paris. There’s a cascade, a waterfall, if I’m not mistaken, so that’s where she wants us to convene. At three p.m. As to the day, I simply have to send her a text message saying thank you for the book. Oh, and she asks me to leave my mobile here.”
“That figures.” Kerem yawns, then his stomach growls. “Will you go today?”
“Yes. No need to delay. I’ll send her the message in half an hour. But first, I’ll make us breakfast.” I close the book and push the sheet with the message aside. “You’re hungry, and so am I. I only have butter and jam, though.”
“Your neighbour’s fridge is full of things.” Kerem gets up and stretches. “I’ll get us some real food.”
—4—
During breakfast, which turns out to be rather amiable, I remember I should be cross with Kerem. There are many things he either didn’t bother to tell me or about which he lied. But truth be told, I’m too contented with our newfound… harmony? Is that the right word? I don’t know, but it feels good to chat idly about sweet nothings for once. We will have time, I hope, to tackle the more cumbersome questions later.
While Kerem washes the dishes, I take a shower. Then I send Jane a one-word text message—“Merci.”—before taking the battery out of my mobile. I put both back in the mirror cabinet.
When I come out of the bathroom, Kerem is strolling around my living room, inspecting it, hands crossed behind his back. “Your apartment is… lovely,” he says when he spots me standing in the door.
I shrug. “I put much effort in decorating it, but it ended up looking too… flawless. Too cold.”
“I didn’t want to say it, but it does feel impersonal.” He gazes at me levelly. “What are your plans now?”
“Well, I’ve got a date this afternoon.”
“I know. I’ve been thinking about it. You need a disguise.” At first, I believe he is joking, but he looks very serious.
“What do you suggest? I’m afraid I don’t have wigs or a clown’s nose.”
“I’ve fetched your neighbour’s hair trimmer. Shorter hair will change your looks. And I’ve borrowed sunglasses and some clothes, too. He fancies bright colours. So, if your… pursuers are looking out for someone wearing black…”
I like my hair the way it is. But damn it, Kerem is right once again.
“All right then,” I say, trying to sound casual. “What about you?”
He stares at me, puzzled. “What do you mean, what about me?”
I focus on my stockinged feet, feeling sheepish. “Would you… would you mind coming with me this afternoon?”
Stunned silence.
I lift my head. Kerem is still staring at me, his expression unfathomable. Strangely enough, for once his sadness has vanished; his dark eyes are almost sparkling.
Then he nods. Clears his throat. Says, “Sure. I didn’t think you’d… Sure.”
I take a step closer, very cautiously. “I’ve been thinking, too. I don’t want to risk taking the métro or calling a taxi. I’ll ask the janitor’s wife if we can borrow two of their bikes.”
He suddenly grins. “Great minds think alike—I was wondering how to persuade you to go by bike. I’ve brought cycling shorts, too.”
“Ugh.” I pretend to shudder. “This is just one of your weird stratagems to check out my dick and balls, I reckon.”
Kerem surprises me by grinning even wider. “Nonsense. I’ve already seen them close up. No need for weird stratagems to do it again, I’m sure.”
I thought I would make him blush with my silly allusion, but now it’s me who feels embarrassed. I cough before saying, “Er, if you’re going to cut my hair, we’d better return to the kitchen.”
“Let’s do it.”
—3—
The trimmer makes a softly buzzing sound. I’m sitting on a chair, in my boxer briefs. Kerem is standing behind me. I follow his reflection’s movement in the window as he lifts the little machine.
“Ready?” he asks.
“No,” I reply truthfully. “But go ahead.”
The buzzing gets a bit louder. The trimmer touches my nape, Kerem moves it upwards. I feel a strand brush my back before falling to the floor.
I never thought much about my hair, going regularly to the hairdresser’s, each time asking for the same cut. I haven’t changed my look for several years. I wanted to grow it long for as long as I can think, all right, but Alessandra wouldn’t hear of it. “Our clients don’t want to buy someone who looks like a savage,” she always said, so I obeyed. Now that I’m being sheared—I requested a buzz cut to make sure I look different afterwards—I’m almost moved to tears, however. With each lock, each tuft floating down, it’s as if part of my history is taken away from me.
“If I pull too sharply and it hurts, tell me,” Kerem says.
“It’s okay. You’re doing well.” I close my eyes, counting to ten before opening them again. “Kerem…,” I say.
“Yes?”
“Why didn’t you tell me about… you?”
I wanted to say, “about your mother”, but I realise that I ignore so many things, one of which being whether he knows Aslı is his mother. If he doesn’t, it’s not my place to tell him.
He stops in mid-movement, the trimmer hovering above my head. He shakes it, hairs fall to the floor. “What do you want to know?”
“Why didn’t you tell me who yesterday’s visitor was going to be?” There, that is a discreet way of asking for the truth.
He resumes his work on my buzz cut. “I wasn’t sure you’d open the door if you knew who she was.”
“But… Aslı?”
“She asked to see you. And she’s my mother—I’m sure she told you. So, how can I say no to my mother?”
“I could teach you. When you have a mother like mine, you learn quickly how to say no, I assure you.”
“One day, you’ll have to tell me your family story,” Kerem states matter-of-factly. I feel a strange warmth bloom inside.
“Why did you leave Turkey? Why did you come here?” I continue my questioning.
I cannot see him because he makes me tilt my head forwards and I’m staring at my knees, but I can almost sense him shrugging. “My friend brought me back to Turkey after we let you disembark in Cyprus. But during the return trip, I received a text message. Murat warned me that he had been ar
rested in Ankara and that people would be looking for me. So, after reaching the beach from where you left, my other friend, Hassim, helped me go to Thessaloniki unnoticed. From there, I took a flight to Paris.”
“But how…”
“I have a fake passport, too. Panayotis Karkidis, nice to meet you.”
I chuckle. “Panayotis… that sounds nice.”
He concentrates on my skull again.
“But why come here?” I insist.
“I had nowhere else to go,” he replies. Then, very silently, he adds, “And I remembered what you said on the boat. That you’d ask me to come with you if you didn’t know I’d refuse. I thought I’d…” He breaks off.
“I’m glad you’re here,” I say just as silently. “And… thank you.”
“What for?” Kerem has walked around the chair and is now standing before me, ready to finish the front side of my head.
I look into his eyes. “I don’t know much, I’m aware of that. But I’ve understood a few things. You were not only Murat’s bodyguard. You had other bosses. Amongst them someone like Jane.”
His eyes widen.
“You don’t have to say anything. But I think you were meant to kill me, the day you brought me to the treehouses. And you didn’t. You spared my life. You saved me from the thugs in Hiçbiryerde. You helped me get out of Turkey. And you put yourself in danger in the process. So, again… thank you.”
Kerem switches off the trimmer, lays it on the table, and crouches before me. He takes my chin in his hand. “I… I couldn’t bring myself to obey my orders. That was the first time I simply couldn’t. Not with you.”
“I know,” I say. Then I lean forward and gently brush my lips over his. “As a rule, I don’t kiss men,” I whisper. “But I really, really want to kiss you.”
He just stares at me.
So, I kiss him again.
—2—
I look horrible. Not the new haircut; it takes some getting used to, but it is more or less okay. I do look odd, my face much gaunter, my eyes huge vessels, my cheeks more defined. I resemble my father, I notice.
But our disguise! Kerem and I are squeezed into my neighbour’s cycling shorts and cycling shirts, which somehow show more of our bodies than if we were stark naked.
Feeling naked is a sensation I can live with, of course. That we both have that ridiculous look of Sunday wannabe-racers who dress as if they fancied themselves on the Tour de France can be endured, too. But the colours are really too much. A neon-orange shirt combined with sky-blue shorts in my case; a shirt with garishly conspicuous colour patterns and grey shorts streaked with red for Kerem. Ugh. We’re both wearing streamlined helmets, too, and wraparound glasses.
We do look like dorks. But well, if it helps my cause…
Kerem finally doesn’t want me to ask the janitor’s wife if we can borrow two of their bikes. He has checked out the big room on the ground floor, next to the post boxes, where the building dustbins are kept. People also store their pushchairs, trolleys, bikes, and other junk there. He suggests that we simply take two bikes; it’s not stealing, he argues, as long as we bring them back.
I couldn’t care less, so I simply nod.
It should take us roughly an hour to pedal down to the Bois de Boulogne, but Kerem makes us leave at 1:00 p.m. We exit via the underground car park, which opens into a narrow back lane where there’s no possibility for my stalkers to hide.
First, we head for the Parc de La Villette as if this were a pleasure ride. Moreover, if someone noticed us leaving, they couldn’t follow us by car as no motorised vehicle is allowed on the premises. From there we circle back to the Avenue Jean Jaurès, which takes us to the Rue Lafayette, and from there it’s a straight line all the way down to the Opéra Garnier in the centre of Paris. The weather is splendid, and I’m happy to get some exercise. I’ve been shamefully neglecting my muscles lately.
The city is bustling and hustling around us. Horns honk, people mill around, cars and lorries and motor scooters and bikes drive every which way, traffic lights being mostly ignored as if they were mere suggestions. The streets smell of exhaust, bakeries exhale the fragrances of bread and croissants, there’s also the odd whiff of heady perfumes or exotic spices when we pass beauty or grocer’s shops.
At last, we reach the beaux quartiers and cross the posh XVIth arrondissement where the rich and sated live. We choose narrow little lanes as often as we can. Despite the rising stress inside I enjoy gazing at the pleasant facades rushing by. Paris is a beautiful city indeed when you take the time to savour it.
We enter the Bois de Boulogne at the Porte de Passy, pass between the two artificial lakes, then turn into the Avenue de Saint-Cloud. The street is large and asphalted but closed to motor traffic, huge trees rising up on both sides. People are strolling around, some walking their dogs, others jogging, their eyes empty, headphones over their ears to block out the distant hum of the city and the birds chirping overhead.
There are also families having their weekend outing. It’s Saturday, after all, and the sun is shining brightly. We stop near a water fountain. I’m parched, so I press the button, cup my hands, and gulp down the cool liquid. A father walks by with his two little kids. I hear the girl say in a serious voice, “It’s so dull here. Why do we always stay in town on weekends, Dad? You know what I think, Dad? I think we ought to have a nice weekend house somewhere in the countryside. Everyone has one.”
I don’t hear the father’s reply as it’s Kerem’s turn to switch on the water and drink, but I can’t help rolling my eyes. This is exactly the social background I’ve always tried to escape. The sort of environment where six- or seven-year-old kids unhesitatingly express their wish to have a weekend house first, then a horse, then a Porsche, and finally the well-paid membership of the advisory board of an important company.
Ten minutes later, we reach the edge of the forest. The skyline of Boulogne-Billancourt rises before us, the posh suburb with villas and Art Nouveau buildings where even cats wear Prada and Pinoy nannies take care of carefully spoiled children named Auguste, Théophile, Calixte, Hortense, Isabeau, or Sixtine. We turn right, follow a meandering path, rustling trees to our right, a lush, softly rolling meadow to our left.
When the Lac du Réservoir appears between the trees, Kerem stops. “You stay here,” he says after glancing at his wristwatch. “I’ll go and check out the place.”
“The waterfall is behind the hill at the back of the lake,” I say.
“Okay.”
“How late is it?”
“Two fifteen.”
“And what will we do until three?”
He shrugs. “I’m sure Jane will arrive early, too, to make sure everything is safe. But she said three, so we will sit down under one of these trees and wait.”
I know already that this will be a long and difficult wait for me.
I’m so anxious I almost feel nauseated.
—1—
When Kerem comes back fifteen minutes later, he tells me all is clear. I’m sitting in the shadow of a chestnut tree, staring at the lake and the oblivious couples and families having picnics, playing ball games, feeding the ducks, living their carefree, easy lives.
He sits down beside me and takes my hands in his.
At three sharp, I get up and walk around the lake. The surface is greenish, rippling in the soft early summer breeze, the trees and the immense sky reflected in its waters.
Jane is sitting on a bench on top of the hill, half-hidden by bushes and shaded by the softly moving branches of a pine tree. She is wearing a kaftan-like, short-sleeved beige shirt that almost reaches her knees, and khaki-coloured, ample capri pants. Her feet are stuck in flip-flops. When I sit down beside her, she closes the book she is reading—to my amazement, it’s not a feminist treatise, but Erica Jong’s rather steamy Fanny—and says without looking at me, “I hope you left yo
ur mobile at home.” Her voice is almost drowned by the gushing waterfall in our backs.
“Yes,” I reply.
She sighs. “Good.” At last she turns around and stares at me. Her mouth stretches into a half smile. “You look… different. I was watching the people around here, and I didn’t recognise you.”
“That’s the point of this disguise.”
She grows serious. “So. What do you want, mate?”
I ponder her question. “I need your help,” I say at last.
“Fancy, I figured that out all by myself when you sent your text message even though I told you not to contact me. What’s up?”
I glare at her. “As if you didn’t know, Jane.”
She seems startled. “What do you…?”
“Stop it,” I interrupt her. “I know who you are. I know what you’re doing.” Repeating the ominous messages I received during the last weeks gives me no satisfaction.
“Do you, now?” She nods to herself, then gives me a mildly disappointed look as if she were talking to a slow child. “Well, I guess I told you the other day, so that’s no major achievement.”
“I said, stop it,” I snap. “You insinuated you were just an unimportant paper-pusher. That’s not true.”
“I beg your pardon?”
I have her full attention now, so I repeat, “I know who you are. I know what you’re doing. And I know what you’re after.”
She doesn’t reply.
“You’re not merely following instructions, Jane. You’re the one who gives them, at least here in France. It’s you who ordered me to be followed and threatened.”
“That’s bullshit, and you know it,” she says half-heartedly. “Why would I do it?”
“Because you were told to by your superiors. After Father’s death, someone higher up in the ranks must have had a Thatcher moment, deciding all of a sudden, ‘I want my money back.’ And you were asked to implement that decision.”
“It’s more complicated than that, mate.”
“Not to me. What I don’t understand is why you were telling me all those things about Father, though. Why you warned me. Was that another ruse to dupe me?”
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