The Miracle of
Yousef
GONÇALO COELHO
Translated by Kevin Mathewson
English translation copyright © 2015 by Kevin Mathewson
Originally published as O milagre de Yousef, copyright © 2015 Gonçalo Coelho
All rights reserved.
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Book cover upper photo: Larry Bruce / Shutterstock.com
Book cover lower photo: Vladimir Surkov / Shutterstock.com
Book cover design: Gonçalo Coelho
This book may not be reproduced, in whole or in part, in any form (beyond that copying permitted by Sections 107 and 108 of the U.S. Copyright Law and except by reviewers for the public press), without written permission from the publishers.
"Never think that war, no matter how necessary, nor how justified, is not a crime."
Ernest Hemingway
REBIRTH
(PROLOGUE)
March 2002
An island somewhere in the Mediterranean
When the mysterious shipwreck survivor awoke, he breathed in air that was mild and damp. The first thing his eyes took in was the magnificent blue immensity of the sky, enhanced by the sound of the waves on the shore, a perfect alchemy to allay the aches of mind and body. In the heart of this idyllic universe a woman’s voice emerged, as harmonious as the song of sparrows on a sunny spring morning.
“Merhaba! Welcome back to the land of the living!”
The survivor gave no reply or any sign of having heard these words spoken in a melody and language he did not recognize. In his mind it must not have sounded so different from the murmur of the sea embracing the sandy beach with small foaming waves. He took in only the wonder of it all, like someone hearing a symphony without distinguishing any particular instrument. His soul was in the purest and lightest state that it is given to men to experience. As pure and light as though he had been allowed to experience with the mind of an adult what it is to be born into this world. At that moment, in his world, there was neither past nor future. There was no notion of time, or fear, or guilt or ambition. He was completely unaware that at that precise moment he was being avidly hunted down. All of that had dissolved in his memory like sugar in water that has been vigorously stirred. If, at that moment, he had been capable of grasping through reason the notion of birth itself, surely he would have thought that this was exactly what he was: a new-born child.
As his eyes adjusted to the light, discerning the various shapes around him, the survivor gazed at each object with growing curiosity, as though he were seeing everything for the first time. Another way to classify his condition would be to say that he was in the clinical state of a perfect idiot. Indeed, this was precisely his demeanor. His apparent idiocy, however, gave rise both to an enormous curiosity regarding everything around him, as well as, in the same measure, an immense delight in simply being and feeling, with the unbounded tranquility of people who are very happy. He felt this pleasure in gazing at the sky and feeling himself mingling with the clouds in the midst of the blue vastness, and flying among them, as though his soul were bound to something far greater than himself. At the same time, the girl at his side – the first human being upon whom he set his eyes after this rebirth – was also imprinted forever in his soul as a divine creature. The recollection of this powerful state of the spirit was never to leave him, and would change his existence forever. Right then and there he was born into a new life.
RETURN
1
Istanbul
September 28, 2008
8:30 a.m.
Nefise opens the window onto the majestic city of Istanbul, gradually adjusting her newly awakened green eyes to the immensity of the great Turkish metropolis, teeming with mysteries and hidden stories. A city of many names, once known as Constantinople and a great bastion of Christianity in the East, and called Byzantium before that by the Greeks from Megara who founded the city in 667 B.C., Istanbul is spread out elegantly along the European and Asian shores of the Bosporus, the only city in the world located on two continents. It is situated, therefore, between two worlds, between two civilizations, between two religions, and between two different concepts of the world. For this very reason it has its own unique identity as the Turkish republic, proud descendant of the Ottoman Empire, mistress of the alchemy of its own identity and characteristics.
Nefise lives on the Asian side and works on the European side of this mythical city, like countless other inhabitants of Istanbul. Like 99% of all Turks, she is a Muslim, and it is in the Asian world of Istanbul that she feels at home. Even those Turks who doubt their faith end up calling themselves Muslims on their national identity cards since not doing so means placing early barriers to one’s own future in a secular Turkey that is overwhelmingly Muslim, where the intense pressures towards westernization and modernity initiated by the republican regime of Mustafa Kemal Atatürk after the fall of the Ottoman Empire and the creation of the new Republic of Turkey at the beginning of the 1920’s do not prevent the modern nation from co-existing with the traditional one, each of them strong, each with growing aspirations towards increasing harmony between the world’s East and West. Over the course of her life, Nefise has lived long enough to understand that the Allah of some is the same as the God of others, and that the most important teachings of the Bible and the Koran essentially point towards the same path of love, brotherhood and tolerance for others. Because of this she has the same feeling of brotherhood for Christians and Muslims, alongside of her moderate faith in Islam. She is far from praying five times a day as the Islamic tradition commands, but it doesn’t enter her head to feel guilty about this, or to see herself as any less of a daughter of Allah. The only thing she makes a point of attending is the Cuma Namazi, Namaz being Friday, and as its name indicates, occurring on Friday (which in the Islamic week is equivalent to Sunday in the Christian week), always at a quarter past one in the afternoon, in any mosque. It is her only concern for the calendar of Islam. Otherwise she considers herself entirely free with respect to religion, and even this weekly visit to the mosque is optional in the event of force majeure.
All dressed and ready, her soul restored, vain in her femininity, Nefise gets into her car and plunges into the familiar streets of Istanbul with its exotic scents and flavors. There is an immense mob of people in the streets and, as backdrop, the typical Arabic skyline from which there emerge the beautiful thousand year-old mosques with their characteristically tall and imposing minarets issuing the call to prayer five times a day. She crosses the suspension bridge over the still waters of the historic Bosporus, and does not even notice that a black car has been following her since she left home. As she reaches the other side of the city there are more people, like ants, some running this way and that, others standing waiting for a bus, still others already at their daily toil, with the taxis accelerating and zigzagging through the streets and avenues, fearless, as though they had wings. How could we notice a car following us in the middle of so much frantic traffic? The stores are opening, one by one, beneath a morning sun that is still shy and mild, and the smells of spices, people and car exhaust blend and make the air grow dense, while most people say little with their heads still weighed down by sleep. Nefise appreciates all this from the steering wheel of her car, still in Istanbul, but moving from Asia to Europe, until she gets out in bustling Taksim Square in the heart of the metropolis.
As she leaves the confined space of the car and starts to walk across the square, she savors the fresh air that is already announcing the end of the su
mmer days of intense heat. She would love to linger in tranquil enjoyment of the morning but is obliged to press on to the Taksim Square Hotel for a meeting with an Italian literary agent who has scheduled a personal, though informal, appointment with her this morning at nine thirty. There are only a few minutes to go, and it is best to be punctual. And so Nefise wastes no time and goes into the modern glass-covered building facing the square. In the atrium, lined with impersonal marble in white and pink shades from the floor to the walls, she is greeted by a young receptionist, upright and comely in her uniform, who quickly gives her the information she seeks: the breakfast room is on the top floor. Nefise turns, boards the elevator and presses the button for the 8th floor. As the elevator rises, she reflects on the pending conversation with the Italian literary agent, with whom she has only exchanged short e-mails. A suppressed nervousness takes hold of her, for she wishes to make a good impression. She looks at herself in the mirror, and suddenly the elevator stops, cutting off all thoughts.
Upon entering the breakfast room, Nefise is drawn immediately to the panorama of the Bosporus, appearing through a series of glass windows that occupy nearly the entire wall on her left, looking from the back of the hotel. There are few people at the tables at this hour. From the other side of the room, seated at a corner table, is an Arab man, dark and strong, somewhere between thirty and forty years old, with abundant grey hairs challenging the black hairs for space, and a very short but carefully trimmed beard. He is elegantly dressed in a white shirt and a dark blue suit, both immaculate. The man lowers the Sabah newspaper that hides his face just a few centimeters, aligning it just below his line of sight, so that he can fully examine the figure of Nefise as she takes her seat. He is unable to suppress a sigh. She is magnificent, even lovelier than he has imagined in his dreams and painful sojourns along the paths of his memory. Strong images from the past assail his spirit but he drives them back. He folds the newspaper and lays it on the tablecloth. On the page facing upward, a short article tells the story of a German citizen mistaken by the American authorities for a terrorist conspirator when, in October of 2001, he decided to attend a madrasah in Afghanistan, who was transferred to the deplorable Guantanamo prison, where for years he endured interrogations, solitary confinement and countless humiliations – the name of this prisoner is Murat Kurnaz, and his release is now being announced. The news had caught the Arab’s attention as he breakfasted at the Taksim Square Hotel but now it is entirely forgotten. It is Nefise who engages all of his awareness. The Arab, Yousef by name (the equivalent of José, Joseph or Giuseppe in other countries), takes a final swallow of coffee and glances swiftly into the bottom of the cup, like someone tossing a coin or reciting she loves-me, she loves-me-not, seeking a word from God on his future. The result is not encouraging and, dismayed by what the remnants of the Turkish coffee in the bottom of his cup disclose, he looks away and puts down the cup. At once he closes his eyelids attempting to calm down and get a hold of himself. He reflects that he is not a Turk, and thus the Turkish ritual of trying to foresee the future in the bottom of a coffee cup can be of no avail to him. Gathering his courage, he gets up and approaches Nefise. The decision has been taken.
2
Nefise contemplates the Bosporus through the windows of the dining area looking out the back of the hotel. Like many others in this world, she has learned how to rebuild and reinvent herself out of the ruins of a dream that had suddenly turned into a nightmare. When she recovered from her suffering, she dove into life with all her heart and soul. She packed her bags, left her family and came to Istanbul to find a job. At the time she could not foresee the turns her life would take in six years. She could not have known. She loved to read and write. She always had. However, she could not have imagined that her future occupation would be so closely involved with books. Everyone told her books simply took her away from reality, that they led her into an unreal dream world that didn’t exist, and had no practical use in life. And yet they had all been entirely mistaken on both counts. Not only would Nefise’s life now be unimaginable without all of its unreal side of dreams and enchantment, but it had also proven to be extremely practical and financially useful. She had discovered that it was by doing what one most enjoyed that one achieved the greatest success. And why not? It is only natural that we should be especially successful in what we most enjoy doing, and that we should be especially good at it. In this auspicious journey sustained by luck, talent and a great deal of persistence, she had relied upon her strong experience of life and a stable relationship with a man who was good, attractive and romantic, in whom she had found a safe harbor far from the tempests of her past. It was a relationship that had taken root and grown among the ashes of an impossible love, rising up out of a fatally and irretrievably lost dream. This man had known how to help her heal the wounds from her past, and one of his masterful talents for achieving this lay in knowing how to hear the echoes of the deep cry arising from Nefise’s dreams. Yet all of this was now about to be swept away by a whirlwind, right here at the Taksim Square Hotel, by some sort of giant Adamastor capable of whipping the still waters of the Bosporus into a storm like those raging off the Cape of Good Hope.
“Nefise?”
That deep and hesitant voice instantly brings forth a shock of memory that she had thought long quelled down deep in her soul. It is as though there were a tiger securely locked up and forgotten in a cage that suddenly awakes and unleashes a deafening roar that leaves her trembling. With difficulty, she turns to the man who has approached her, opening wide her magnificently bright green eyes, like two reflections of a very limpid and transparent sea surrounding a heavenly isle. Could it be that she is seeing things? No. The man before her, however, appears to discern the confusion in her soul and seeks to provide her with a full explanation, for six years have gone by. Six years struggling with a whirlpool of soul-wrenching feelings that leave deep scars.
“Yes, it’s me, Nefise.
The words come from an anxious face, with the hesitant expression of someone hovering in limbo between utter happiness and utmost dread. Yousef sits down in the empty chair opposite Nefise without being invited, and without daring to risk not being invited, like one playing a game in which running even the smallest risk is starkly forbidden. Nefise recognizes him swiftly but, either because she is feeling so many emotions inside her all at once, or because she is using all her strength in an attempt to stay as cold and impassive as possible, the truth is that she is unable to say a word. More than once she has imagined and even longed for this moment. Several months after the painful separation, she had even been able to imagine a reconciliation. If he would only present his case in a way that was truly persuasive and genuine, she was ready to open her heart to him again. But in time her feelings hardened, or perhaps – who knows? – time merely graced her with the illusion that this indeed was happening. Who knows, indeed, whether any true love ever really dies with the inescapable passing of the years, or whether it merely goes into hiding somewhere inside us? The essence of this question devastates Nefise while at the same time she becomes enraged at the perception of all that it means just then for her to be placing herself into this moment, at this particular Cartesian point in the space and time of her life.
When she issued the death certificate for that love and that dream, she came to imagine that if Yousef ever dared to show his face again, how ferociously she would light into him. She would let him have it, telling him straight to his face all that she had suffered, so she could then expel him from her life once and for all. She felt it was impossible that there could be any convincing way to get him to explain himself after he had gotten her to give herself to him heart and soul only to disappear from her life as he had, without a trace or a word of explanation, leaving nothing but a feeling of walking on coals, or worse yet, a walk halfway out on a tight rope above a huge void, only to fall into the abyss without any help at all. Now, however, things are happening completely unexpectedly, deadening her reflexes. S
he can castigate herself for this later. She is, however, extremely lovely, and he recognizes in her face all the enchantment of earlier times, which brings the former spell of her beauty and love sweeping down upon his entire being.
“How magnificent you are. Time has only made you more beautiful.”
3
“How typically male!” Nefise shouts, able at last to unleash the torrent of wrath sweeping through her soul in the sudden anger that his words of praise provoke in her. “It really does take some gall after all that’s happened for you to turn up like this now acting like such a gentleman!”
Her long brown hair flashes in the morning sun that streams in through the hotel windows. Around her neck she wears a necklace on a slender chain with a single emerald to go with her eyes. The loveliness and radiance of her eyes illuminate her face.
“I’m sorry, that’s not what I meant ... I mean ... what I said is true, you really are magnificent, but that’s not what I came to tell you. I came to apologize and to explain everything,” Yousef babbles in an effort to correct himself. At the same time he feels his heart being crushed, that he is a prisoner inside his body, as if it were boiling inside a pressure cooker, in a torrent of intensely throbbing nerves and feelings, none of which, however, is anger, in contrast to Nefise.
“Well, I don’t want to know what you've come to tell me. I'm not interested in hearing a single word out of you. It takes a lot of gall for you to show up like this now, lying to me all over again! Get out of my life! Now I’m the one who’s giving the orders. Get out! Get out unless you want to hear some of the insults I’ve been dreaming of sharing with you if you ever emerged from the ashes of the past. It would be better if you really were dead as I thought, sleeping the sleep of the unjust and the shameless...”
The Miracle of Yousef: Historical and political thriller Page 1