by Maha Akhtar
“You asked to see me, Sir?” Sergeant Celik stood at attention.
“Have you gotten anything out of the boy?”
“No, Sir … he’s still recovering from the shot to his leg.”
Erdogan growled in irritation. “It’s only a bullet for God’s sake! No balls … none of these people have any balls. Tighten the net, Celik. I want you to double the teams in the bazaar.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“Actually, you know what Sergeant,” Erdogan stroked his chin, “we’re not doing this the right way. We need to go for the jugular.” Erdogan got up from his desk. “Let’s bring the woman … the café owner, in for questioning. She will tell us where Rabih is.”
“The woman, Sir?”
“Yes, Celik! The woman.”
The sergeant nodded.
“And let’s get Masri’s mother.”
“His mother?”
“Are you a parrot, Celik?”
“No, Sir.”
“Have you found out where they live?”
“We think we are close to it, Sir.”
“Someone has to want Turkish gold. Find someone who will tell you.”
“We know it is near the café, Sir.”
“Of course it’s near the damned café, Celik … that’s obvious.”
The sergeant looked embarrassed. “What do we do when we find his mother, Sir?”
“Kidnap her, Celik.” Erdogan looked at him, astonished. “Bring her here. I will make her tell me where her son is.”
Erdogan’s icy blue eyes narrowed and he smiled at his own brilliance. The sound of voices outside his door made him shake his head with irritation when he realized Celik had not properly closed his door. He growled, got up and slammed the door shut.
“Sergeant Celik!”
“What is it?”
“Sir, the widow of Khaled Shadid is in the El-Khalili bazaar.”
“Are you quite sure?”
“I’m almost positive, Sir! I remember her from Izmir.”
“Who did she go see?”
“I’m not sure. I lost her near the mosque.”
“You lost her?” Celik said, looking nervously toward the colonel’s office. “Find her … I would bet that she’s in touch with Masri. And when you find her, make sure you keep a close eye on her. I want to know everything Noura Shadid does from the moment her eyes open in the morning,” he ordered.
“Yes, Sir.”
“Go. Well done. I will tell Colonel Erdogan at once. And send a couple of our men into the café. Let’s see who’s in there. Tell them to keep an eye on the café owner.”
Rania came to the cellar carefully carrying a tray laden with breakfast. Rabih was sitting up, his back to the wall. He had made a remarkable recovery in such a short time. She grinned when she saw his eyes light up at the sight of the pastries.
“What can I tempt you with this morning?” she asked, surveying the tray in front of her.
When he didn’t reply, she looked up and saw him staring at her. The expression in his eyes was so intense that she had to look away. Without saying more, she handed him a plate, her fingers brushing his lightly. Rania sat down in the little wooden chair next to his bed. She reached for her cup of coffee and held it with both hands to stop herself from trembling.
She looked at him from under her eyelashes. He was still looking at her. She tried to move her chair backwards in an effort to stop being pulled closer to him. But it was useless. It was almost as if there was a magnetic field around him that was drawing her in.
Unable to look at his face, she looked at his chest, watching it rise and fall as he breathed. She focused on the dark chest hair peeking out from under the bandages, but that only made her want to run her fingers over it. She wanted to touch his neck, rest her head on his shoulder, and feel his arms around her. She wanted to touch his lips with her fingers … Rania jumped up from the chair. She had to leave the room. The suddenness of her action broke the tension.
“Uh … ,” she stuttered. “I’m sorry … I have to open up.”
Rabih nodded.
As she turned to walk out, he caught her wrist. She stopped, looking straight ahead of her, not daring to meet his eyes. Slowly, he caressed her wrist, running his thumb over her throbbing pulse. She turned her head to look down at his hand and hesitantly turned to face him, her gaze downcast. Slowly, her eyes traveled from his hand on her wrist up his arm, his neck, until she finally allowed herself to look at him. Without letting go of her wrist, he tried to sit up, grimacing from the effort. Immediately, she fell to her knees to try to help him, adjusting the pillow he had put behind his back against the wall. He still did not let go of her wrist and she didn’t want him to.
“Rania,” he said softly, “please look at me.” He placed his thumb under her chin and tilted her face up. “Please.”
Slowly, she lifted her eyes and looked into his. His lips came towards her. When he covered her lips with his, moving them sensuously, gently entering her mouth with his tongue, she closed her eyes. He placed his free hand around her neck, drawing her closer, his thumb caressing her cheek, his fingers running through her thick hair. Their tongues fenced, their kiss deepened … She lifted her free hand and gently placed it on his shoulder, sliding it behind his back, running it up and down over the bandages. She brought it up and placed it behind his head, pressing it toward hers.
Suddenly, Rabih pushed her back. She looked at him, her eyes questioning him, their hands and arms still intertwined.
“Rania,” he said hoarsely. “I … uh …” He smiled shyly and, without meaning to, he looked down at the crotch of his pants. It was clearly bulging.
Rania quickly looked away, smiling bashfully. “I have to open the café,” she said, still grinning.
“Yes,” Rabih said, unable to look at her out of embarrassment.
“I’ll leave you with the pastries.”
In the kitchen she giggled, hugging herself with excitement. She twirled around, doing a little dance and, without meaning to, she let out a little whoop of delight. “Dear God!” she turned her face to the ceiling. “Thank you!” she kissed the cross she wore around her neck.
A loud knock interrupted Rania from her reverie. Quickly, she pulled her hair back, twirling it around in a bun, smoothed her dress and apron, and walked to the door. She pulled back the little curtain and saw Madame Yvonne holding a large swathe of fabric and tulle in her arms. Rania turned the key and opened the door to let the older woman in.
“Madame Yvonne!” Rania exclaimed. “You are early.” She turned the little sign on the door to say “Open.”
“Actually, no,” Madame Yvonne shook her finger. “You are late.”
“I am not,” Rania said, taken aback.
“Oh yes you are,” Madame Yvonne insisted, standing defiantly with her hands on her hips.
“Madame Yvonne … ,” Rania started.
“Look at the clock.” Madame Yvonne pointed at the wall. “Your clock,” she emphasized.
Rania turned to look. Madame Yvonne was right. It was 11:15.
“I am sorry, Madame Yvonne. The morning got away from me.”
The little bell on the door jingled and Fatmeh walked in.
“I cannot believe you left me standing outside like that,” Madame Yvonne complained. “What on earth were you doing? I kept knocking and knocking …”
Fatmeh raised her eyebrows at Rania. Rania rolled her eyes.
“But of course there was no answer,” Madame Yvonne continued her rant. “I even walked around to see if you were in the kitchen, but I couldn’t see a damn thing. Where were you?”
Fatmeh’s eyes opened wide as she sat down and immediately opened her notebook.
“I was upstairs,” Rania replied. “What would you like to drink?” she added, quickly trying to get Madame Yvonne off the topic of her tardiness.
But Madame Yvonne ignored her. “Upstairs? What happened?” she probed. “Sleep late?”
“No … ,” Ran
ia said and went back around the bar to pour some fresh juice for Fatmeh.
“Pomegranate, please, Rania,” Fatmeh interjected timidly.
“Then what happened?” Madame Yvonne insisted. “Why were you still upstairs at eleven?”
Fatmeh giggled. Rania glared at her.
“What are you laughing about?” Madame Yvonne turned on Fatmeh. “You wouldn’t be laughing if you’d been standing outside, your arms laden with heavy bags!”
Fatmeh’s eyes widened again, this time with fright.
The doorbell jingled again and Saydeh walked in with Noura in tow.
“Sabah al-khair!” Saydeh wished them all good morning.
Rania welcomed them warmly. “Ahlan, Tante Saydeh,” “Marhaba, Noura.”
“What’s going on here?” Saydeh waddled over to the table. “What are you so angry about today, Yvonne?”
“Rania didn’t open on time.” Yvonne pouted.
“So?” Saydeh shrugged.
“She claims she was upstairs.”
“And?” Saydeh asked.
“She left me waiting outside for fifteen minutes.”
Saydeh looked around at the other women.
“Well, I was carrying a heavy load,” Yvonne whined.
Saydeh sighed, shaking her head.
“Rania, why were you late this morning?” Saydeh asked. “I’m asking you only because if you don’t tell her, we’ll be here all day listening to her wail about it.”
They all looked at Rania, except for Fatmeh, who buried her face in her notebook.
“The time got away from me this morning,” Rania replied.
“You know, come to think of it,” Saydeh knit her eyebrows together, “you are a little distracted lately. Shoo? Khair?”
“Everything is fine,” Rania replied.
“I agree.” Yvonne nodded her head vigorously. “She doesn’t even open in the afternoons anymore. I have to make my own coffee and buy mammoul at the bakery.”
“Why don’t you make your own mammoul?” Rania asked.
“Because she’s too damn lazy.” Saydeh turned to Yvonne.
“What do you mean, lazy?” Yvonne shot back.
“Then why don’t you make your own mammoul?” Saydeh retorted.
“Ladies, ladies!” Rania quickly went and stood in the middle of the two older women. “There will be no shouting in here, please. Keep your voices down.”
“What?” Yvonne shouted. “It’s not as if you have a baby sleeping upstairs that we all have to keep our voices down.”
“No … I don’t have a child,” Rania agreed.
Fatmeh spluttered and everyone turned to look at her. “Sorry,” she said, “it went down the wrong pipe.”
“Now, what will everyone have?” Rania asked, going behind the bar to start the coffee machine.
“Lime juice?” Rania offered. “Madame Yvonne?”
“Oh very well,” she conceded.
“What can I get you, Tante Saydeh?” Rania asked. “Noura? Coffee?”
“Yes, please,” Noura replied.
“You look very nice today, Noura.” Rania came out from behind the bar with a tray.
“Thank you!” Noura said, helping herself to a mammoul cookie.
“That’s a very pretty dress,” Rania remarked.
“I was just about to say that,” Fatmeh chimed in. “I wish I could wear dresses like that.”
“Thanks … I made it,” Noura replied.
“Really?” Rania said, coming to sit next to her to take a closer look.
“Yes … I learned how to sew when we were in Izmir,” she told them. “I had plenty of time on my hands before Siran came.”
“Well you certainly have a talent for it,” Rania remarked.
“I also alter things … ,” Noura added.
“Maybe Yvonne here could use your eyes and hands,” Saydeh suggested.
Yvonne looked up at her over her glasses and gave her a filthy look.
“What? Don’t look at me like that!” Saydeh shot back. “You look like you’re making a complete mess of it.”
“What do you know?”
“You can’t even thread a needle!”
Yvonne scoffed.
“And you’d better hurry up or you’ll be crying and complaining that you have nothing new to wear to the wedding.”
“When is the wedding?” Rania asked.
“It’s coming up,” Yvonne replied.
“Tante Saydeh is right, Madame Yvonne,” Rania said kindly. “Why not let Noura look at it?”
Yvonne looked down at her handiwork and over at Noura. “Have you made dresses for weddings before?” she asked.
“No, not for weddings specifically,” Noura replied.
“Then what makes you qualified to make this dress?”
“Nothing really, Madame Yvonne … ,” she admitted.
“Ya haraam, Yvonne!” Saydeh cried. “Let her take a look! What does it matter?”
Reluctantly, Yvonne put her scissors down and sat back.
Noura looked hesitant.
“Go on!” Saydeh urged her on with a gesture of her hand.
Everyone watched as Noura went over to inspect the dress, looking from the pattern Madame Yvonne was following to the various pieces of fabric.
Suddenly, the little bell on the door jingled and Takla walked in, dressed in a black dress with a black cotton shawl over her head.
“Takla!” Saydeh cried.
“Tante Takla!” Rania ran to her. “Please come in!” she put her arm around the slight woman’s shoulders and guided her to the table. Takla looked like she’d aged ten years overnight. She had deep, dark bags under her eyes. Her cheekbones looked sunken. Even her hair looked greyer.
“I’m so happy you came,” Saydeh said, sitting down next to her. “It’ll do you good to be here with us. You can’t lock yourself up in your house forever.”
Takla said nothing but sniffed, taking a big handkerchief from a pocket in her dress. Rania immediately went to get her a glass of water. Fatmeh came and sat on the other side of Takla and held her hand. Takla put her head on the younger woman’s shoulder and began to cry. “Thank you,” she reached her other hand out to Rania, “I don’t know what I would do without all of you … even you, Yvonne,” she added.
“Have some water, Tante,” Rania urged. “And let me make you something to eat. I’m sure you haven’t had anything substantial in a while.”
Takla smiled gratefully.
“Some nice hummus, a little eggplant, some falafel?”
Takla nodded eagerly.
“I wouldn’t mind some too,” said Yvonne.
“Me too!” Saydeh put her hand up.
The door jingled again and a couple of strangers walked in. Rania’s heart skipped a beat. Were they the same men who’d come looking for Rabih? They were both well dressed in suits and tarbushes and sat down at a table in a corner, from where they could see the brick wall that opened into the cellar. The curtain separating the café from the kitchen was not wide enough.
“Can I help you?” Rania walked over.
“Two coffees, please.”
“Anything else?” She peered at them but they were not the same men who’d come in the day Rabih arrived.
“No.”
Rania went into the kitchen to calm her nerves. She peeked through the curtains. There were four men outside, two standing across the lane opposite the café’s entrance, and two at the end of the lane. Her heart started beating faster. Up until then, Rania had only occasionally seen a couple of them. But now there were six of them and they were coming into the café. I have to warn Salah and Rabih. She couldn’t go into the cellar without them seeing her. And she couldn’t leave the café to find Salah. They would surely follow her. What should I do? What if they try to kidnap me, as Salah warned? No … they won’t do anything with all the ladies here. They are just trying to scare me, she told herself. She took several deep breaths to regain her composure before walking back out
with a tray of food.
Noura bent her head and spread the fabric out on the table. This is a disaster. She turned it around, thinking that perhaps she was looking at it the wrong way. Where is the neckline? The armholes? Also, this pattern is not going to suit her at all. It’s completely wrong for her figure. She needs something more flowing and free, not cut on a bias. But how was she going to tell Madame Yvonne? And worse, how was she going to tell Madame Yvonne that she had made a complete mess of the dress and the only way to make it right was to buy some more fabric and start again?
“Madame Yvonne,” Noura started, “may I make a suggestion?”
“Why?” Yvonne snapped.
“Because …”
“I knew it! You can’t fix it!” Yvonne slammed her glass down on the table.
“Madame Yvonne, it’s not that,” Noura said. “It’s just that this pattern is cut on a bias and you’ve already cut the cloth, so in order for it to look like this,” Noura held up the pattern, “I will have to sew all these pieces together … which I can do,” she continued, “but you will be able to see all the seams, so the skirt won’t look as smooth as this pattern.”
“You stupid girl!” Yvonne shouted. “Those pieces are for the bodice.”
“But Madame Yvonne,” Noura said patiently, “these pieces are not enough for the bodice.”
“You can cover them with the tulle.”
Noura sighed and took a deep breath.
“Madame Yvonne, if you do that, then it will definitely not match this pattern.”
“So there’s nothing you can do?”
“Madame Yvonne, if you want this pattern,” Noura explained, pointing at the sheet of paper, “then we will have to buy more fabric …”
“I can’t buy more fabric! Do you know how much that cost? It is pure silk!”
“Madame Yvonne,” Noura stood her ground, “I can make you a dress from this, but it will not be the pattern you picked. It will still look beautiful and I think it will be more flattering to your figure.”
“Of course, it’ll probably look better on her than that design she picked,” Saydeh piped in.
“What do you know about dresses and how they look?” Yvonne shot back. “All you ever wear are those horrible house dresses.”
“At least I don’t try to look twenty years younger.”