When the sun goes down, the mountains become silhouettes of slumbering dragons, and the stars come out. Kazan and the villagers stumble home, lazy and exhausted and sated.
An idyllic childhood in many ways.
The only time they learn of what is happening in the outside world is when a relative visits from Ankara, bringing newspapers and stories.
This is how they learn that two planes crashed into the World Trade Towers in New York City on 9/11, and that an Islamist group called al Qaeda claimed responsibility.
The teacher, who owns one of two televisions in town, shows Kazan and his neighbors video images of the planes, the towers, the people leaping into the air, the clouds of toxic dust. Several old women whisper, “Ashhadu al-la ilaha illa Llah.” I witness that there is no god but God. Kazan asks what they mean, and his great uncle tells him that the old women think it signals the End of Days.
“You mean like the end of the world?”
“Yes, when the sun will rise in the west, and Jesus will return to Damascus to defeat the anti-Christ. After a short period, where everyone lives in peace under Islam, all that is on earth will perish.”
“What happens then?”
“After a while, everyone rises from their graves to appear before Allah to be judged. Virtuous people are led across a bridge, where Muhammad meets them at a pond on the other side in heaven. For sinners, the bridge becomes like a sword, and they fall into hell.”
Over the next few months, the older women in the village begin to draw scarves over their hair and mouths. Men begin going to the mosque more often. A muezzin calls out the adhan on the loudspeaker attached to a light pole in the middle of the village. A mullah with a chest-length beard and a high croaking voice comes to his school once a week and lectures the children about the virtues of zakat and the duty of hadj. He makes them memorize verses from the Quran in Arabic, and instructs them in salat, the five daily prayers. Young men talk of jihad, pounding their fists into the air. They talk of fighting for something greater than themselves. Fighting for Allah. They get together during the heat of the day and do hundreds of push-ups and wind sprints, then march around the village looking self important. One boy gets his hands on an AK-47 and practices shooting against a stone ridge. Everyone is grateful when he runs out of bullets.
Kazan pays little attention. Yet at night, Mongols ride through his dreams, up and over the cauliflower sulci and gyri of his cerebral cortex, frightening him, thrilling him. The warriors howl, and he feels the points of their spears, the gash of their swords, hears the screams of their horses as they stumble to their deaths.
He wakes in the middle of the night, sweating and breathless.
#
On one of his visits, his father says to him, “You are almost twelve now, Kazan, nearly a man. I am sending you to school in Switzerland. There will come a time when Turkey will need young people to take the country into the modern world. We will need you to lead.”
“You mean after we defeat the anti-Christ?”
His father laughs. “Not exactly.”
“Why can't I go to America, like Faruk?”
Ahmed heaves a sigh of impatience. “Because I have decided you will go to school in Switzerland.”
Kazan reads constantly, but all he knows about Switzerland is that it has high snowy mountains and lots of banks, and tries to stay out of wars. His teacher gives him standardized tests, one in Turkish, one in English, one in French. He does well enough to get accepted. “It is a very expensive school,” warns his father. “You must work very hard. It is the first step on the glorious road to success.”
Kazan isn't particularly interested in a glorious road to success, but obeys his father in all things. Certainly there is more to life than sitting in a kahve with a bunch of old men, drinking sweet black tea and rolling prayer beads in your hands.
His life changes more rapidly than he could ever imagine. One day he is trying to hit gophers with his slingshot, and the next he is riding in back of the silver metallic Mercedes with his mother and Aunt Dilara, who take him to Ankara to buy clothes and school supplies.
Ankara is crazy. So loud! Everything he knows about the city comes from stories told by Faruk and other men who have been there. Ahmed bumps over potholed streets among screeching cars that honk and dart around buses, closely missing pedestrians, who dash all about, trying not to get run over. Everywhere traffic lights, glass-fronted shops, glowing signs, billboards, tangles of electrical lines.
While his father “takes care of some business,” Rabia and Dilara take Kazan shopping, dragging him down crowded sidewalks covered with litter and dog poop, pushing past magazine stands and shops that lunge into the streets, spilling their fruit or shoes or luggage into your lap.
Everywhere there's food. Red-and-white striped carts sell sesame simit—bread rings coated with sesame seed. Other street vendors sell kabobs of broiled beef and lamb, döner—meat sliced from great vertical cyclones, börek—flaky spinach or meat pastries, lahmacun—Turkish pizza, kokoreç—grilled sheep intestines, baklava, halka tatli—swirls of sweet, crunchy pastry, and lokma—glistening marble-sized donuts. Everywhere salep dondurma magicians juggle cones of ice cream. Everywhere bottles of gelincik serbet—sweet fruity carbonated soft drink.
“Doesn't anyone sit down to eat?” Kazan asks, but his mother and aunt are too preoccupied haggling over the price of his new winter coat to answer. He thinks if he lived in Ankara, all he would do is eat. He'd weigh a thousand pounds.
Everywhere policemen in sweat-stained uniforms blow whistles, swimming their arms, shouting orders into the air. No one pays attention.
His mother and aunt seem far more excited about all this than he. Perhaps because they will spend the night in a fancy hotel for the first time in their lives. Perhaps because Ahmed gave them money to do some shopping of their own. They are like schoolgirls, giggling, pointing at display windows of purses and jewelry and clothes, gawking at the women without scarves in short skirts and heels, walking alone with such purpose. The first thing they buy are sunglasses, like the women in heels.
After they have bought Kazan everything on the list sent to him by the Dean of Students, Rabia and Dilara take him to a fancy restaurant for black tea and sesame cakes, then drive him to the airport where he meets his father.
Together he and Ahmed get on a plane to Switzerland.
Eleven, April 2020
Engaged
Today I meet my future mother-in-law for a preliminary inspection. If she approves, I may get to meet my husband to be.
April 1st. The irony of the date does not escape me.
At first the women want to meet at the mosque in the women's rooms. But then Rabia Basturk, my future mother-in-law, invites us to her house. Jana insists we take a cab because it is across town in the Eastern Docklands, near the zoo. It's raining, and she doesn't want our first impression to be of drowned rats. To match my expression of doom.
The Basturks are rich. They have a home in Amsterdam, a vast country estate in Aerdenhout, between Haarlem and the North Sea, a house in London, a condo in Zurich, a house in Ankara. I expect the worst.
It turns out to be a modern houseboat, very chic, very expensive. A floating square box of glass and marble.
“Isn't this charming,” says Jana, working herself up into a sociable mood.
Rabia Basturk answers the door herself. Late forties, petite with olive skin and gray hair, her dress and make-up immaculate. She wears a traditional Turkish costume in rainbow silk, with lots of jewelry. She introduces herself, asks us in, and offers to take our burkas.
We step into a large foyer, shimmering in pale pink marble. An immense chandelier hangs in the middle of the room, centered over a large round gold-gilded table. She leads us to a salon, devoid of furniture. The women's sitting room. Futons in rainbow colors and large paisley pillows edge the room. Persian rugs cover the marble floors. Glass walls look out over a wide canal.
It all seems excessively garis
h for such a small space. A Bedouin tent trapped in modern Dutch architecture. Or an anthropological exhibit in a natural history museum.
She introduces us to the jury of succubi. Her mother-in-law, her sister, and two sisters-in-law. And an old woman. I don't catch if she is a grandmother or how she's related. She speaks no Dutch and glares at me, muttering. Her name is Nil.
My looks and modest attire catch them off guard. I am sure they expected a typical Dutch woman, tall, blond, big-boned, with an easy smile, dressed fashionably to impress. I have my mother's southern Italian looks, without her curves, my father's thin marionette body. A tent of brown curls for hair. With skeptical brown eyes.
Perhaps I fit the description of a witch from one of their legends. In any case, they are struck dumb.
The women are here to offer their most precious gift, the heir to their little dynasty. They expect my face to show submissiveness and pliancy. Respect and deference. Instead they get me.
I open my eyes, memorizing every detail in the room, trying to crowd out my brain with impressions. I relax my eyes and face to appear present only, without emotion or thought. I instruct my lips to smile.
I can already tell these women are primed to spot deception.
In the center of the room sits a three-foot round silver tray with a small electric brazier. Following the women’s lead, I sit cross-legged on the floor around the tray, nodding politely as my mother gasps and compliments and answers questions—Did you find the place easily? Is tea all right? Coffee perhaps? She seems to be enjoying herself.
Most of the women wear traditional Turkish costumes in brightly-colored silk, with row upon row of golden bangles, chains, rings, and dangling earrings. Long thick braids hang down their backs, with enormous kohl-rimmed eyes. It doesn't appear they have made many concessions to living in Holland. I smirk to myself, picturing them in clogs rather than gold-leather sandals.
The women smile at my mother and seem eager to please, until they turn their attention to me.
Rabia asks me to stand and to turn slowly. One of the sisters-in-law lifts my arm and begins pinching it. I'm too surprised to do anything but let her. She then asks me to open my mouth. She lifts my lips with the nail of her baby finger, and inspects my teeth and gums. She nods.
I resist a desire to bray.
A maid brings in a tray with a can of black tea, a large pitcher of water, a double deck Turkish teapot, a bowl of sugar cubes, and tulip-shaped glass cups. Rabia fills the bottom teapot with water, spoons loose tea into the top pot, and sets the kettle on the brazier. While it boils, the women lay supine on the pillow-strewn mattresses and talk in Turkish or ask my mother questions.
The servant comes in again, carrying a tray with baklava, dried apricots, small bowls of green olives and pickles, feta, and melon.
I glance around the circle of women, attempting to remember names and faces. I look for an ally, someone who will tell me things the others want kept from me. The one who longs for a little freedom.
Rabia speaks in a soft and well-modulated voice, her silk sleeves flowing after her graceful gestures, her wrists jangling with gold. A gentle woman, too mild to know her own mind.
Next to Rabia sits Dilara, a tall, broad-shouldered woman, with strong prominent features, who wears even more gold than Rabia. Unlike her sister, she appears to expect to control every situation. Her voice is deep, almost masculine, her laugh loud and percussive. She reeks of cunning.
On the other side of Rabia sits her mother-in-law, Leyla, who is petite and shy, and knows no Dutch. Very lively eyes. She must have an interesting story. Rabia's two sisters-in-law Jane and Kubra look very severe. Like nuns. They sneak glances at me, but do not speak.
Basma, whom I am told is the wife of Kazan's brother, Faruk, enters the room with Kazan's five sisters, who bow as they are introduced, then spread out on the futons. She wears a simple Western-styled knit dress, with an Italian scarf draped around her shoulders. Her Dutch and English are both excellent. She hosts an insipid talk show on EyeUniverse, where she invites women on to discuss childrearing and fashion. She and her guests wear head scarves without veils, and I always wondered how they are allowed to show their faces to millions of viewers. Perhaps the mutaween imagine only women watch these shows. Or their producers, realizing that talking black blobs do not make for good TV, bought a religious exemption. I wonder how the director and all-male camera crew manage to control themselves as they focus their lenses on the women's faces.
Basma is allowed to work because she doesn't have children. And because she comes from a rich family. Her television persona is warm with a perpetually sweet expression, but I sense annoyance and dissatisfaction from her—probably from fighting every day with an all male production team and the Islamic Board of Censors. I suspect she walks a very thin line. Too high profile for an ally, with too much to risk.
Kazan's five sisters—Fatma, Pinar, Melis, Seda and Yasmin—sit side by side on a pillow by the window, and look far more interested in the tea than me, for which I am grateful. The eldest, Fatma, is a school teacher, tall and fair with a dusting of freckles across the bridge of her nose. She appears kind, compassionate and very bright. But also fiercely loyal to the family. I cross her off my list of possible allies.
Pinar, the second sister, emanates a dark and exotic sensuality. It is easy to imagine her dancing bare-bellied in a Turkish harem. She and her aunt Dilara vie for the center of everyone’s attention, a competition of authority and money versus youth and beauty. The older woman's eyes flash jealously whenever Pinar gets within six feet of her. No love lost between these two. Too aggressive and self-absorbed for an ally.
The middle sister, Melis, tries to avoid notice and succeeds. Shy and quiet, too timid to get herself something to eat. Or too obstinate. Either stupid or very smart. Underestimated by the other women.
The two youngest sisters, Soad and Mufida, never stop whispering back and forth—little conspirators—ignoring the haughty glances from the other women. They can't wait to get out of here. I think of Joury and Lamya arranging rendezvous with strange men in elevators, and suspect these two get into their share of trouble.
No obvious allies, but I'm sure of the women to avoid. Dilara, Pinar, and Rabia's stern sisters-in-law. The witchy old woman, Nil, looks scary but is probably harmless.
Sitting cross-legged in front of the brazier, Rabia pours boiling water over the tea leaves, then sets the tea pot back on the brazier for another half hour. Dilara flinches, as if that's not how she would do it.
Basma translates questions from the older women, somewhat irritably. I suppose it feels too much like her job as TV host. She makes no attempt to speak to me other than to act as translator. Later I learn she had hoped Kazan would marry her younger sister, and resents the family choosing someone else.
Rabia begins the serious questioning. She asks my mother why she only had one child. Apparently they are trying to assess if I am a good breeder.
“At the time, the Dutch were concerned about overpopulation. It was not unusual for a Dutch couple to choose to have only one child.”
“Didn't your husband want a son?”
“We were content with a daughter.”
The women shake their heads disapprovingly. The Islamic Council strongly urges women to produce sons, awarding families with more than two sons, free education and financial bonuses.
Dilara asks how long it took for Jana to get pregnant after she married.
“Once we decided to become pregnant, I conceived within a month.” My mother continues, saying that she has two brothers, and that her sister has three sons. Her brothers have two sons apiece. The answer pleases Rabia.
Melis, the middle sister, looks at me with a raised eyebrow, her jaw clenched. For a second I sense a flash of annoyance, not at me, but at the omnipresent misogyny. Then it is gone.
Nobody addresses any questions to me, only to my mother about me—my health, family medical history, aptitude in school, allergies, and me
nstrual cycles.
Rabia begins decanting the tea. She slowly pours the strong black liquid into the glasses, pours in boiling water from the other tea pot. She puts a tablespoon of sugar in each glass, passes the tray around the room.
The tea is much stronger and sweeter than any I have ever tasted before. I imagine it's what antifreeze tastes like. I lower my eyes and say it is very good.
#
Apparently I have passed the test. When the conversation lulls, Rabia sends a daughter to fetch Kazan.
Kazan means winner in Turkish. He bounces into the room, taking in everyone all at once. He is slim, dressed in a fine gray suit and white shirt. His dark close-cut beard, makes his smile all the whiter. There is a springy energy about him, a dancer in the wings, waiting his entrance. His eyes regard me shrewdly.
It is obvious all the women adore him. A flash of rage prickles my skin at how these women dote on their sons and brothers. Reinforcing their own servitude.
I suddenly understand why the women have offered me such a cool reception. I am a rival for Kazan's affections. They needn't worry about that. From what I see, he is the kind of man who cares only for himself.
They say it takes only one-tenth of a second for us to judge someone and make a first impression. They say that it's linked to primordial survival instincts. That trustworthiness and attractiveness are the two traits most quickly detected and evaluated. His face is too wide to be really handsome, but he is not detestable. Trustworthy? Not in a million years.
Amsterdam 2020 (Amsterdam Series Book 2) Page 17