“That's true.” She strides through the kitchen and peeks into the living room. “Why isn't Kazan with you?”
“You know Kazan—off on another business trip.”
“Just after your honeymoon? He didn't even see you home? You must've bored him terribly. But then the Frisian Islands are dull. What did you do all day? Make mud pies?”
Woof. Already with the insults. She must've had someone watching the house. She must know I was on the streets alone without an escort.
My backpack sits on a bench by the foot of the stairs. I pray she doesn't see it. She will ask about it. No woman—as least no woman she knows—would pack her lingerie trousseau in a backpack. “We had a delightful time.” I try to keep the annoyance out of my voice. “May I help you with something, Dilara?”
“I merely wanted to know how your honeymoon went.” Her smile is not a pretty one. “It's such a special time in a young bride's life.”
“Did you bring a pregnancy test?”
She actually blushes a bit. “I don't know what kind of wife is left to find her own way back from her honeymoon. It must be your fault. Did you fight? You must have disappointed him.”
“Has Kazan expressed dissatisfaction to you?”
“Actions speak louder than words.” Dilara looks over her shoulder. “Melis, don't you think it inappropriate for a young wife to spend time alone while her husband travels?”
Looking horrified to be brought into the conversation, Melis looks left and right as if she wants to escape.
“What's wrong with you, Melis? Stop fidgeting. Use the bathroom if you need to.” Dilara turns her glare back to me. “I have discussed it with Ahmed, and he agrees with me. While Kazan travels, you should stay in the Basturk household, so we can keep you safe.”
To keep an eye on me, you mean. “Shouldn't Kazan have a say in the matter?”
“He can take it up with his father. If he doesn't approve, he can make other arrangements. But you simply cannot live alone. It's indecent. Until he returns, you will live with us, and help around the house.”
“Isn't Wilma still working for you?”
She looks at me hard, then starts circling the kitchen, as if looking for something. “We had to let her go.”
“Why?”
“She was seen talking to a Resistant at Niko Nasar's. Niko has been arrested, you know, his bakery closed. It is a hardship for all of us. Who would think someone who could make such exquisite éclairs would be a subversive?”
Does she suspect me? I look to Melis for clues, but she looks like mice are eating her toes.
“Perhaps you're right,” I say. “Let me pack a few things, and I'll come over this afternoon. I haven't had a chance to unpack from my honeymoon. I feel terribly disorganized.”
“You will come now. Melis, please ask Aazim to come in.”
The screen door slams. In a moment the floor shakes. I assume the enormous body filling the doorway is Dilara's driver. He looks like a stuffed lobster, bulging out of his sports jacket, an extra lump under his shoulder for a weapon.
“Surely, Dilara, we should let Salima settle in and pack the things she needs,” Melis finally says. “Things more appropriate for living at home. I'll come by later with Aazim and pick her up—you have more important things to attend to.”
“No. She comes now.” She turns to me. “Bring that thing if you want.” Her nose wrinkles with disgust, pointing at my pack with the crooked finger of the Wicked Witch of the West. “Did you really go on your honeymoon with a backpack? I swear converts have no sense of style.”
Melis shrugs an apology.
At least I have my pack.
#
I expected to be shoved in to a boarded up room like Joury, but my room is quite pleasant, with views over the canal. The windows, I note, do not open. At least I am alone.
I hide my backpack under the bed, wondering if I'll ever be able to leave. My guess is they either know or suspect I work in the Resistance. Rather than have me arrested, which would embarrass the family, they'll keep me under wraps.
Someone knocks on my door. “Salima, it's me.”
“Come in.”
Melis walks in and looks around as if she's never seen the room before. I recall that after her divorce, she was required to move back home. She must feel as much as a prisoner as I.
I reach out, and she rushes into my arms. We hug silently for several moments.
“I'm so sorry, Salima. I couldn't stop her. She's had a neighbor watching your apartment with instructions to call when you returned. She is furious about Wilma, and since you recommended her . . . well, she's furious at you, too.”
“What happened?”
Melis sits on the bed. I sink beside her. “It was more than talking to a subversive at Niko's. Dilara wouldn't have turned her in for that. She adored Wilma. Wilma cooked all of her favorite foods, and flattered her—anticipated her every desire—treated her like a princess.”
“The princess she thinks she is.”
A flicker of a smile from Melis. “Everyone was envious of her housekeeper. It made her feel important. Then she caught Wilma putting a bug into her phone.”
“Oh, no! Did she have her arrested?”
“No. Dilara wouldn't do that. Her husband is a mutawa. He would blame her for letting someone like that into the household. She just fired her. But she's been in a rage ever since. Out for blood. ”
“My blood.” Melis nods. Once more I look around the room for a nonexistent escape. “How much does Ahmed know?”
“She wouldn't dare tell him. He thinks all women are idiots, and probably wouldn't believe her.”
“I bet she wants me to take Wilma's place, catering to her,” I say glumly. “She has no idea what a bad cook I am.”
Melis takes my hand. “Is there anything I can do for you?”
“Could you get me something to eat? I am absolutely starving.”
Suddenly Melis's face drops, and she puts a hand to my cheek. “You're pregnant, aren't you?”
“Yes.”
Melis jumps from the bed and begins pacing. “My God. We have to get you out of here. If Dilara finds out you're pregnant, she won't let you out of her sight. She'll force feed you oysters and liver and salty peanuts.”
“The sex of the boy is determined at conception.”
“I know that, but, you know . . . .” Melis rolls her eyes.
“Yes,” I say, smiling.
“I'll figure a way. Don't you worry. Dilara goes home in the evenings. Rabia isn't going to keep you prisoner no matter what you've done.”
“Why does she let Dilara run her household? She has her own home?”
“We're Turkish. You can never deny family. Dilara has no children to take care of. Rabia feels sorry for her, and doesn't mind her help, even if she is bossy.”
“Bossy is being kind.”
Melis smiles. “You like Kazan now, don't you?”
My face breaks out in a sweat. She loves her brother—I see that. She needs to believe not all marriages are horrible. I hug her again. “I do.”
Another knock on the door, and Rabia comes in carrying a Turkish outfit folded in a neat square. Behind her, a servant with a tray of dates, cheese, and tea. “I thought you might be hungry. Dilara said she didn't give you time to pack your things, so I thought you might need something comfortable to wear.”
“That's very thoughtful. Thank you, Rabia.”
“I'm so happy you are staying with us for a bit. I worry about you and Kazan on your own. You are in my prayers every day.”
She is completely sincere, and I realize, behind her sweetness is a canny intelligence—she knows far more than she lets on. I wonder how she can keep so many secrets without crumbling. I thank her, and she quietly slips out of the room.
“Don't worry, Salima. You can count on me,” says Melis. I see for the first time how like Melis is to her mother, far more than the other four sisters. I trust her. “The household is very busy in the morn
ings,” she continues. “Dilara usually arrives around ten. We will slip out before she comes.”
#
Apparently Dilara has given orders to the staff that I am not to leave the house.
Fortunately, she has offended or incensed every single one of them. What she takes for incompetence is quiet rebellion.
The kitchen at 9 AM is a riot of food preparation. Many traditional Turkish foods take all day to prepare—meat beaten and marinated, vegetables pickled, pastes ground, spices roasted, pastries rolled and layered. When Melis takes me through the kitchen, the cooks pretend not to see me. We go to the back door, veil our faces, and slip out.
After several blocks, I stop and turn to Melis. “You don't need to come any further. I'm good from here. Thank you, Melis.”
She grabs my hand. “We are going to lose the war, aren't we?”
“Yes,” I say.
“I wish I could go with you. There is nothing for me here. Islam has never done anything for me. Please. I have my papers with me.”
She must've been thinking about this all night. If she leaves with me, Ahmed will have the entire country looking for us. It breaks my heart to tell her no. I have never refused to help anyone escape. “I can't take you, Melis.”
She nods as if she expected me to say no. “You'll see Kazan again?”
“Yes.” I kiss her cheek. “What will you say to Dilara?”
“I'll tell her we went to the market and I lost track of you. She can't hurt me.” She presses her veiled cheek against mine. “Tell Kazan I love him.”
“I will.” I spot two soldiers in their red turbans several canals away. I don't think they've spotted us, but it's time to go.
“What will happen to us?”
“I don't know. Stay out of the mosques.”
Emotional Farewells
I wait as Pim forges my travel documents. After Rikhart's arrest, Gerda brought him back from Copenhagen to help Lars. Lars feels the tension between us and busies himself in the corner of the workshop.
“Are you sure you want to leave just before all the fun starts?” Pim asks.
“I'll be with you in spirit.”
“You don't have to go, you know. We can keep you underground until the invasion. It won't be long now.”
“I'm meeting Reynard in Copenhagen.” I suddenly feel ashamed I used Kazan's underground name, knowing how much Pim despises my husband, but respects the Resistant. It is cowardly.
“After the war, no one will expect you to honor a forced marriage. You'll be free.”
I shake my head. “Please, Pim. It's too late for that.” I look him in the eyes, praying he won't make me spell it out for him.
He understands. Things have changed. He looks like he is swallowing dry sand, his face pinched, distressed. He takes three deep breaths. He could almost live with my arranged marriage. But the thought that I now love my husband hurts him unbearably.
“What does he have that I don't have?” his voice rasps.
The forlorn cry of every rejected lover. So raw, so exposed. I can't stand being the person doing the rejecting. Anything I say will hurt him. My argument about needing a friend more than a lover rings false. Kazan is both. Why couldn't Pim have been both? I can't even say it would never have worked between us, because that's not true either.
Do I tell him the truth? That I find it hard to breathe without Kazan by my side? But that's not quite right, although close. I feel invisible when I am with him, without a body—pure spirit, pure emotion, pure thought. I lose that crushing sense of self. I feel safe, because I don't exist. I am nothing, and, at the same time, something much much more.
Pim is a good man. He is strong and good-looking, smart and funny, honest and solid. I know him and he knows me. Yet Kazan, whom I barely know at all, possesses me entirely.
“I am pregnant, Pim.”
“Oh.” He nods as I've often seen him nod, when he is informed of a snag in an operation.
“It's not an obstacle to overcome,” I say, trying to be gentle.
He blushes and looks down, admitting that I guessed his thinking. “Three new IDs, birth certificates, and travel passes to Denmark.” He slides over the documents, and leans back in his chair. “Before you go, I have to tell you something. Reynard was arrested in Istanbul.”
I gasp. “When?”
“Yesterday. I'm sorry, Lina.”
“Why didn't you tell me before?”
Pim looks into a dark corner of the attic. I glance over. Nothing is there. He looks back at me. “I guess I first wanted to see if you would still choose him.”
His pained face makes me shiver. “He is my husband, Pim. I have to go. Change my travel papers . . . please.”
“There is nothing you can do in Turkey, Lina. The local Resistance there is working to get him out. You'll only endanger yourself and us. You can do much more in Copenhagen.”
“I'm not waiting around to hear my husband has been beheaded in Turkey,” I say angrily. “I have to go and try to get him out. I can at least make sure he has clean clothes in prison.”
“They are executing Resistants without trial. They won't hold him long. They know the invasion is soon. You might get down there only to find he's dead. Or find yourself in the middle of an invasion. You know he wouldn't want you to go. There's nothing you can do, Lina. Stay here.”
“Here by your side?” I say furiously. It is a cruel thing to say, and I'm immediately sorry. I collapse in a chair.
“That's not what I meant.” Pim looks at me boldly, without blinking. “Whatever happens—” he runs his hands through his hair, tugging at the roots “—your baby will always have a father.”
I can't help it, but the tears start pouring down my face. He means, that if Kazan dies, if he is already dead, he'll take care of us. Fury and fear and humiliation race over my body. My head feels huge. I can hardly breathe. He means to reassure me, to comfort me, but I want to rip off his head. I dig my nails into my palms, trying to control myself—I know he means well.
Pim is taken aback by this effusive fluvial spectacle, not because he's never seen me cry, but because my heaving sobs and siren noises can only be those of a woman deeply in love.
He sits down hard, staring blankly. He then shakes himself, like a goldfinch shaking off a summer bath. Jutting out his lower jaw, he says, “I'll get you to Turkey, Lina. We'll get Kazan out.”
#
The shark shadow follows me from Pim's. I glance back quickly and cross the street. My nerves are working overtime, my heart pounding. Perspiration makes my clothes stick to my chest under my burka. I see shadows where they should be no shadows. Flocks of pigeons take to the air for no reason. I see no one, but I am not alone.
I duck into a mosque, and enter the women's prayer hall without performing wudu. I quickly kneel beside another woman, hoping to blend into the crowd.
A few minutes later, a figure darkens the door, a woman in a burka. I can tell by the quickness of her movements, she is the one who has been following me. Her head turns, scanning the women. We all look the same.
Don't look, I tell myself. After several long moments, I don't hear her moving. I turn my head and sneak a peek. Shit! She is staring right at me. I'm about to bolt, when I see her slowly shake her head. She pulls a pendant out from underneath her burka. A silver sailboat. She points to a corner of the prayer room, near the shelf of Qurans and a stack of pillows.
She kneels and prostrates. I follow and kneel beside her; she lowers her veil.
“Joury!” I whisper hotly. “It's you.” Her face lean, eyes enormous, hair cut close to her skull. “My God! Why are you here?”
We embrace, an awkward hug on our knees. She presses her cheek to mine, then frames my face with her hands, looking at me squarely. “Just as beautiful.”
Blushing, hiding a laugh, I touch her shoulders and her arms. It's really her. “Why didn't you let me know?”
“I couldn't. I work for the Danish Resistance,” she whispers. “Ever si
nce you got me out to Copenhagen. Many of us have come over to help with the transition.”
“You've been following me?”
“I have been following your followers. A good thing, too.”
I gasp, understanding. “You shot that soldier outside of Freyja's?”
“Yes. You have no idea the amount of danger you are in. I've been ordered to get you out.”
“Gerda?”
“We can't talk here. I have to go. Meet me on the Fredrika Maria in two hours.”
#
I find Joury on the barge, plotting out evacuation routes with Gerda, Hansen, and Janz. Gerda gives me an annoyed look, like what in hell am I doing here, then shrugs and looks away.
I've had two hours to think about it. I hand Joury the key and documents to the apartment in Copenhagen, travel papers and IDs, and ten thousand dollars. “I want you to give these to Jana. Make sure she and Uncle Sander get to Copenhagen.”
“I've made all the arrangements for you to go. You're the one the Landweer is looking for.”
I shake my head. “I need to go to Turkey. Kazan . . . Reynard has been arrested.”
She gives me a smirk. “I heard you'd married him.”
“Nobody is supposed to know.”
“Don't worry. I only know because I was in the room when he was sent to Turkey. Besides, everyone loves an underground romance. Even dikes.”
I am caught off guard. Of course, the haircut, the men's clothes under her burka. It's not merely a disguise.
“Are you sure you want to go to all this bother for some dude.” Joury gives me a sly look, mock lasciviousness.
I wonder if it's what her father did to her that makes her loathe men. Or Islam. Or if she's always been that way—even when she was a wild teenage flirt.
Joury takes my hand. I expect it to be as calloused as mine, but it is soft. I see rough red skin on her left elbow, and feel her fingers again—a callous on her trigger finger. I don't have to ask if she was involved in the assassinations at The Hague.
“You can travel under the guise of making hajj,” she says. The pilgrimage to Mecca during Dhu al-Hijjah, which falls this year in July. “There's a special train leaving tomorrow from Amsterdam just for pilgrims. There will be hundreds on the train. You can blend in easily.”
Amsterdam 2020 (Amsterdam Series Book 2) Page 39