Amsterdam 2020 (Amsterdam Series Book 2)

by Ruth Francisco

  “Ha!” He lets go of my hands, and takes a long gulp of wine. “Well . . . I was afraid we might have a child. Especially a male child. A Muslim family puts their claws into a male child. If I died on a mission and we had a son, he would be owned by my family. You might be able to leave, but they would never let you take him. You would have no sway over his education, and there is no way you could keep him out of a madrassah. I couldn't bear the thought of my son brainwashed, added to the army of Islamists. I knew you were confused and hurt, and I am sorry for putting you through that. I knew my family was pressuring you to get pregnant. I did find you attractive. Couldn't you tell? It took everything I had not to pounce on you.”

  “It was more than that,” I say flatly.

  “Well . . . yes.” He drops my hand and vigorously scratches his head before continuing. “I didn't want to care for you. To worry about you. I take such risks for the Resistance, but if I cared for you—really cared for you the way I thought I might if I let myself—then I couldn't risk my life the way I had to. I wouldn't be able to leave you for weeks without talking to you. I wouldn't be able to concentrate without worrying about you, wanting you, wondering about you. I wouldn't be able to lie to you.”

  “Why in hell did you agree to marry at all?” Frustration makes my voice petulant. I drain my glass.

  “I couldn't put off the family any longer. No, that isn't true. I had a choice. But my father was very keen on the match, and I figured being the son-in-law to the Police Commissioner was a good cover—if I got arrested, I might have some wiggle room. Your independence appealed to me. I didn't think you'd fall apart if I didn't boss you around. Your humor can be biting, but it shows you are different.” He takes my hands and kisses them formally, first one, then the other. “Someone had to step up and keep you out of the work camps.”

  “You married me out of charity? How flattering.”

  “It is the Third Pillar of Islam.”

  “I guess I should be grateful you're so religious.”

  He chuckles, and walks to the kitchen, returning with the bottle of wine. He fills our glasses again and sits opposite me.

  “I have a biting sense of humor?”

  “A little bit.” He looks down, hiding a smile.

  Only now do I realize how good the wine is. It doesn't surprised me Kazan knows about wines—a new piece of the puzzle. “You married me as a cover, a good little Muslim girl, getting long in the tooth at nineteen, who wouldn't complain if you weren't home every night for dinner.”

  “That's about right. You did the same—marrying a Turkish prince, son of an Islamist, too busy to worry what his wife is up to.” Kazan busts out in laughter.

  “You never suspected me?”

  “You did wear a lot of pink.”

  I laugh. “I guess we're both whores.”

  The word surprises him. Then he grins and takes my hand, pulling himself onto the couch and me into his lap. He kisses me deeply. The connection is instant. We break apart to breathe.

  I'm embarrassed—too much, too soon. So much rage—and hunger—in that kiss. It frightens me. I get up on the pretext of getting a napkin. “Are you really a Turkish prince?”

  He laughs. “No. We were dirt poor. Literally. The floor of our house was dirt. We didn't get rich until much later. But large Turkish families, particularly rich ones, treat their sons like princes.”

  “And their daughter-in-laws like Patient Griselda.”

  His amber eyes beam with mischief in the lamplight. He pulls me back into his lap. “Did you ever think maybe I married you because I wanted you?” he whispers, his voice husky and ragged. “I thought to myself, if I had a choice, I'd want to marry someone like you. I didn't want to lose you. I thought somehow it might work out. After the war.”

  I watch his lips as he speaks, and this time I kiss him, softly, then pull away. Something stirs in me somewhere dark and unexplored, deep in my belly. “Why didn't you tell me?” I rest my head under his chin. It fits perfectly. “All that wasted time.”

  “How could I possibly have known my wife worked in the underground?”

  “If you talked to me once in awhile, you'd probably have figured it out.”

  “You hated me so much. I didn't know how to deal with that.”

  “Hate you? Are you kidding?” I mumble haltingly. “Me? Prancing in front of the window in my negligee?”

  A quizzical eyebrow—the corner of this mouth twitches. “I thought maybe you didn't know I could see through it. Or you were taunting me. It only shows you have less integrity than I.” Now he's the one who is teasing. He grins broadly.

  “How's that?” I demand in mock pique.

  “I was resisting temptation. You were provoking it, even though you knew it wasn't right.”

  “Wasn't right? We are married!”

  “It was right under the law, but not right. You know what I mean.”

  “You like talking like this, don't you? Philosophical baloney.”

  “Baloney is haram.”

  “Indeed.”

  The wine is working its magic. Fast on a mostly empty stomach.

  He lifts my chin and kisses me deeply. But my mind whirs; I push him away a bit. I can't help but think about Pim—how poorly I handled that. Without integrity.

  “Why did you suggest I get pregnant by another man?”

  He sits back, lips pressed together grimly. “You seemed desperate to get pregnant. I thought a child would occupy you, bring you closer to the family. I thought—” he breaks off, his face suddenly anguished “—if you were pregnant by another man, I wouldn't start to care for you.”

  “Manipulating your own emotions as well as mine.”

  “You, too, my dear.”

  “Not my finest moment.”

  “So you admit it was wrong to flirt with me?” He's laughing at me again. I can't maintain my peevishness.

  “It wasn't wrong if I was attracted to you.”

  “Were you?”

  I loop my arms around his neck, lean back, and look at him. “Screw integrity.” I dive in for a kiss. “I should have recognized your ass in the hospital. I've seen it walk away from me enough times.”

  “Ouch. Perhaps we could find a better use for that sharp tongue of yours.”

  He lifts me, and carries me up stairs.

  #

  I've been in his room before—to snoop—but have never really noticed the bed before, an ultra modern black platform with a thick foam mattress, white sheets, white duvet, white pillows. It looks as if it's never been slept in. On the opposite wall is an enormous landscape of Tuscany, olive groves and cypress trees, a medieval hill town in the distance. He sets me on the bed. He goes to his bureau and slowly takes off his clothes, almost as if I weren't there, then turns to me in all his magnificence.

  He is beautifully made, with long graceful limbs, lean torso muscles, round smooth shoulders and chest, and a plump, if patched, rump. My breath is shallow and I can't take my eyes off of him. My questions can wait.

  He gently pushes me back, and climbs beside me, half on his side, half on top of me, the mattress sinking noticeably under his weight.

  “My wife,” he whispers, nibbling my neck and arms as he unbuttons my blouse, gazing up at me through long lashes. He kisses my mouth, his lips firm and demanding, molding mine. Slowly he peels off all of my clothes, kissing me as he goes, and pushes them onto the floor.

  He reaches up and tugs the duvet off the bed, then lifts me gently onto the cool sheets. Sliding up beside me, he props himself up on an elbow, sweeping his palm over my hips and stomach, gently cupping my breast.

  “You have the most beautiful skin, Salima.”

  Our mouths meet. His kiss is demanding, his tongue and lips coaxing mine. I moan, and my tongue tentatively meets his. He puts his arms around me and hauls me against his body, squeezing me tightly. One hand pulls my hair, the other travels down my spine to gently squeeze my behind. He holds me against his hips, and I feel his erection, which
he pushes against me.

  “God, I want you.”

  I grab his muscular biceps, moving my hands up to his face and into his hair. “Please,” I beg, and I drop my head back, my mouth open as I groan.

  He stops—“Tell me if I'm too rough”—then eases himself in.

  “Ah!” I cry, as I feel a sharp stab deep inside of me. “No, it's okay,” I say, and as I grow accustomed to him, my hips keeping up, meeting his thrusts. He grasps my head between his hands and kisses me hard. I moan as I feel something building deep inside me. I start to stiffen, my body quivers and bows; a sheen of sweat gathers over me. My thoughts are scattering . . . .

  “Come for me, Salima,” he whispers breathlessly, and I dissolve at his words, exploding around him as I splinter into a million pieces.

  #

  Lying together afterward, I nestle close, my head on his chest. We fit well together. I feel lazy and loose limbed and relaxed—a new feeling—and connected—an even newer feeling. Then a stab of guilt. “Will I make it harder for you to do your work?”

  “No doubt. You know the risk.”

  “Unlike a good little Muslim girl.”

  “Hmmm.” He caresses my hair, looping the curls behind my ear.

  “Are you glad you married me?” I ask.

  “That's yet to be decided. It's bound to get interesting.”

  I've known married couples in the Resistance. They have always seemed to me to have an invincible quality about them. I can't imagine ever being that strong.

  For a moment I just want to get out and leave the war to someone else. Why not escape to Iceland? Or America.

  “Not yet,” he says, as if reading my mind, flattening the creases between my brows. “Where would you like to go on your honeymoon?”

  “Gerda was serious, wasn't she?”

  “Yep. She wants us gone for two weeks. Not that I take orders from her, but she makes a good deal of sense.”

  “What about your family?”

  He explodes in laughter. “Last time I saw Dilara, she nearly assaulted me. She said I was neglecting my wife, and I had to take you on a honeymoon. She even offered to pay for it. I am surprised you have such an advocate in our family.”

  I enlighten him, telling him why she wants so much for me to get pregnant, that our son would protect the Mustafa side of the family from Kazan's liberal cousins.

  “I had no idea,” says Kazan, astonished. “It takes a terrorist to tell me what's going on in my own family.” He smiles warmly at me. “So where do you want to go?”

  I languidly stretch beneath the crisp sheets, kicking my bare feet out from under the down duvet. The image of sailboats comes to my mind. I can almost hear the swish of waves against my bow. I want the sea. “We can't leave the country. They'll be watching all the check points, probably with your picture taped to the computer screen. How about one of the Frisian Islands.”

  “Texel?”

  “Texel isn't really one of the Frisian Islands. Besides, it's too touristy.”

  “There are no tourists anymore.”

  “True.” Still, I have no fond memories of the place. I want something wilder. “No. Schiermonnikoog.”

  “Two weeks?”

  “Two weeks. Just us.”

  That should be interesting.

  Nineteen, April 2021

  Schiermonnikoog

  We don't take Kazan's car. We don't want to call attention to ourselves. Anyone who has a car is rich, subjected to searches and questions, target of thieves and smugglers. We certainly can't board the train in Amsterdam, which will be even more closely watched than usual.

  With backpacks, we catch a bus to Amersfoort, where the train to Groningen is ready to leave. It's absolutely jam-packed. After shutting down the university for a few months after demonstrations, the Islamic Council has reopened it, and students are streaming back. It is the only way to stay out of the army. Half of the 20,000 students that go to university in Groningen seem to be crowded on this train. We sit on our packs in the aisle.

  It feels vaguely innocent, a throwback to an earlier time. Boys horse around, girls, heads together in burkas, giggle and gossip. The Islamic Council has decided to allow women to attend university again. With so many young men fighting jihad, there aren't enough people to fill civilian jobs.

  At Zwolle, Dutch police check IDs, climbing over suitcases, duffel bags, and people sitting on the floor. No one makes it easy for them to make it down the aisle. The police seem bothered by all the yelling students and wave half of them away. A blessing for us. We don't exactly blend in, but we don't standout either. For a moment, my mind blanks, and I can't even remember my new name. An officer barely looks at our fake papers, before handing them back.

  After two hours, we arrive at Groningen. We take a bus to the port town of Lauwersoog. A 45-minute ferry ride to Schiermonnikoog leaves once a day. We just make it.

  #

  Schiermonnikoog is the furthest east of the Frisian Islands. They aren't islands really, just raised banks of sand and mud, amid the mudflats of the Waddenzee. Pine trees and salt grasses have been planted to stabilize the dunes.

  That doesn't take away from its barren beauty. Eleven miles of sandy beaches.

  When I called Marta from Groningen, she recommended a small hotel on the beach, a few miles from town. “Half of the hotel is reserved for IRH soldiers. They'll be grateful to have civilians.”

  “Are you sure that's a good idea?” Kazan asks, after I get off the phone. “Walking into the lion's den?”

  “Trust me. It's perfect camouflage—two honeymooners. Who would ever suspect us?”

  We rent bikes at the station, and ride to a wind-scorched hotel, which has seen better days. Soldiers lie on the beach close to the hotel's veranda, still wearing their red turbans. They look like breeding pairs of some red-headed bird, nesting among the oat grasses. They're supposed to be on watch for a Danish invasion, but they treat their post as a vacation.

  The owner of the hotel, Evi Eman, a round blond woman, blue-eyed and freckled, cries out, “Oh! Honeymooners! I saved the best room for you.” It doesn't seem to matter that neither Kazan nor I look typically Dutch, his Omar Sharif looks and my mop of dark curls, escaping rebelliously out from under my niqab. She claps her hands excitedly, and shows us a second floor room facing the beach, with its own balcony and shower. A large bed has a white hand-crocheted cover, with a large languid fan slowly whopping overhead. It seems sinfully comfortable for a hideout.

  The ocean calls to us. We put on our suits. Mine is the state-sanctioned bathing garment for Muslim women. It is basically the same as a shalwar kameez, only closer fitting, with the tunic ending just over the hips. In blue instead of black. I curse the entire time I'm putting it on. “You know, when I was young, we had nudist beaches all over Holland. My parents used to take me.”

  Kazan grins lecherously. “I'd like to have seen that.”

  “Perv. I was only eleven.”

  “Muhammad took his wife Aisha when she was eight.”

  “And look at all the problems that caused.”

  “Come here.” He pulls me close, looking me up and down. “Sexy.”

  “Oh, shut up. I look like a fly wrapped up in a spider's web. At least I don't have to cover my face.”

  Evi hands us a picnic basket as we head out. “Walk east,” she recommends. “The Kroots are too lazy to walk more than a few meters.” Her eyes twinkle mischievously. She must hate catering to the imperious little bastards.

  #

  The beach is a half mile wide, and at low tide, the mudflats reach to the horizon. The pale blue sky is so clear, so stark, it almost hurts.

  The tide is on the way out. Hundreds of geese and waders—Red-Necked Stints, and Yellowlegs—cover the beach. Sandpipers trip at the frothy edges of lapping waves. Egrets wade haltingly, squinting into the water. Overhead an osprey plunges into the waves in a fabulous splash, rising again—as if in slow motion—with a large pendulous fish.

 
; The ocean crashes and rumbles. Waves suck the wet sand from under my toes. The deep pounding of the waves reverberates through my body.

  All I see for miles is the ocean, the wind, the dunes, the singing sands.

  Far down the beach, two dogs splash through the water chasing geese. No other person in sight. I feel as if I am on the edge of the earth.

  The headscarf comes off. My curly hair springs out around my shoulders like a jack-in-the-box. Then the tunic and the trousers. I tear off down the beach, splashing through the waves, just like the dogs, frightening off the birds.

  Spinning in circles, I see Kazan grinning, traipsing after me with the basket and my clothes, and towels.

  I feel carefree for the first time in my adult life. No danger, no prying judgmental eyes. My naked body weightless in the cool air, my chilled feet, rocket boosters, my spirit expanding like a warm gas, floating above the shore.

  The receding water reveals crunchy periwinkle shells, rippled mud, and odd alien circles sunken in the mud. My feet sink, making vulgar slurpy noises when I pull them out. I pick up handfuls of mud, and sling them at Kazan, who cheerfully dodges away even though he's too far.

  I have never been so happy.

  The duties of the Resistance, the meetings, the danger, the sneaking around—how far all that seems now! We are a carefree couple with nothing to do but get a suntan.

  I expect Kazan to tell me to put on my clothes, but he doesn't, and seems to enjoy my insouciance. We walk and walk. Casually commenting on what we see—little crabs, odd seaweed, a sail in the distance—or in silence.

  I spot some dunes, covered with oat grass. It looks like a good place to lay our towels. “I'm hungry.”

  Evi—bless her—has packed us a glorious lunch. Gouda cheese, rye bread, slices of roast beef, chocolate. At the bottom of the basket, two bottles of beer. What a dear woman. I wonder how she hides them from the soldiers. We gorge ourselves, then settle in for a nap.

  A gentle breeze kisses me awake. Something feathery tickles my breasts. Opening my eyes, I see Kazan painting my body with a piece of oat grass. It feels incredibly sexy. I pull him to me and liberate him from his shorts.