The Lovers

by Vendela Vida

  “What’s not open?”

  “The museum. You don’t stay?”

  “Museum?” Yvonne said, turning to look at the building again. There was no sign, save for a gold plaque near the front door. “What kind of museum?” she asked.

  “The television program Asmali Konak was filmed here. In the house. Very famous. And now they make museum.”

  “A TV show was filmed here?”

  “Everyone loves it. Is about the family with lots of money. People love seeing the rich so unhappy.”

  Maybe Ahmet’s mother was an actress of some sort.

  “Now there are other programs. Much more scandalous. Married women leaving their husbands. Every Thursday, women across Turkey watch to see the new possibilities for Turkish women.”

  Yvonne thought of Özlem.

  “Can I take you somewhere else?” Mustafa said. “Another museum.”

  Yvonne was still piecing it together. The house was a museum to a now-defunct television show. And someone in Ahmet’s family worked at the museum.

  “No, not a museum,” Yvonne said. “Is there somewhere else we can go? Can we see the fairy chimneys…or something?” Her voice sounded more pleading than she had expected. The truth was she didn’t care where she went as long as it wasn’t back to her room.

  “In the afternoon is too hot to walk around fairy chimneys,” Mustafa said. “You will see. It gets very, very heated.”

  She looked at his fingers on the steering wheel and noticed his hands were shaking. “Are you okay?” she said.

  He looked at her and she gestured with her chin toward his hands.

  “It’s a problem I have,” he said. “I once was a waiter and got fired the second day.”

  Yvonne nodded. Peter’s hands had started shaking when he was in his forties. He tried to hide them, sitting on them like a child.

  “I know a place that is interest to you,” Mustafa said. “They are caves.”

  On the way to the caves, sand blew against the windshield. Mustafa turned on the wipers and leaned forward to the window so he could see. “We wait until the storm ends,” he finally said, and stopped the car at a restaurant where the owners knew him. The restaurant had three floors, the bottom two filled only with empty tables. But the third floor was crowded with lunchtime diners, men in business suits and tourists in groups large and small. Yvonne and Mustafa sat at a table underneath a needlepoint of Ataturk’s face.

  “That is the picture you see the most because he smiles,” Mustafa said. His own mouth frowned. “But more of the time he didn’t smile, for a reason—he knew he had big job in front of him.”

  Mustafa continued on about Ataturk, how he walked and talked, how he was loved. Yvonne nodded often, happy not to speak. History was a comfort—it wasn’t about her.

  The food came and she ate and pretended to listen. Her thoughts were untethered, rising up in the heat. She was running through the sentences she would say to Ahmet’s family, and none of them were adequate. She thought of the woman who had approached her door all those years ago, saying, “I want you to know that your daughter just landed my daughter in intensive care.” Yvonne had not known how to respond, and not a month went by without her wishing she had said something, anything besides what she did say, which was, “Are you sure it was Aurelia?”

  She thought of the woman who had killed Peter, how she too had been speechless. How she had said, “I have to go,” before she disappeared.

  When Yvonne started paying attention to Mustafa again, he was explaining why Ataturk never had children. “He did not want a dynasty. He did not want anyone trying to hurt him through his children. People might hurt his children, and he could not have this.”

  Mustafa paused, as though to see if Yvonne had been listening.

  “Yes,” she said absently. “People would do something to the children.”

  Yvonne paid the bill and they returned to the car. The wind had stopped and the heat of the day had peaked.

  Mustafa drove a few more miles and parked in front of a row of tented shops, many of them selling carpets and embroidered blouses. He and Yvonne followed signs pointing toward the cave. The signs had been translated into many languages—Yvonne recognized the Italian word grotta.

  “I have to tell you something,” Mustafa said as they stood outside the entrance. “I cannot go inside with you. I am unable to be in there.”

  “Claustrophobia?” Yvonne said, and tried to explain what this was by placing her hands close to her head.

  He nodded. She was relieved to be left on her own. “I will wait here for you,” Mustafa said.

  Yvonne turned toward an archway in a small mountain. “What am I seeing?”

  Mustafa stepped toward her. “You will see underground city where Christians lived when they hid from the Arabs. Some lived entire life down there, never come up for anything.”

  Yvonne followed the tourists in front of her—a short man and his tall girlfriend. They seemed to be speaking German. She ducked as she walked down the steps of a tunneled passageway and found herself in a chamber of empty rooms. The ceilings were lower on each new level, and she continued to stoop. When she had descended four levels, the air was noticeably thinner. Yvonne had to inhale deeply. Some of the tourists near her turned back. “I don’t need to see any more,” she heard an American woman tell her husband. “I’ve gotten the idea.”

  Yvonne continued down through the tunnels, the ceilings becoming increasingly lower. She tucked her elbows in as the passageways narrowed. She passed through one room that had been a kitchen—she overheard a British guide saying so to his group—and she could see the soot on the ceiling above her head. She ducked through another chamber that must have been a church. She could still make out the crosses that had been etched onto the main wall. And it was here that she realized she was alone.

  She needed to stop before moving on. She sat on the ground and pulled her knees to her chest. It was significantly colder now. She heard voices moving around her but couldn’t judge their distance. The darkness was almost complete. What was she doing? She was seven or eight levels below the surface, lost in a soft-stone maze, alone. She was in Cappadocia, a place not included on any itinerary she’d made. She had traveled to Turkey to regain something of what she had had with Peter decades earlier—and failing that, she had befriended a boy. A Turkish boy who spoke nothing of her language. And now he was gone, and she was again searching for some remnant of someone she had lost. Had she ever been so lost herself? She must have seemed—to Özlem, to Ali, to Mustafa—profoundly so. A sad, aging woman with no anchor. Fumbling in underground caves.

  Yvonne took in a deep breath, but it gave her no strength. She tried to inhale again, and felt nothing. She began to panic. Her voice called out and was echoed back at her. She didn’t belong here. She needed to get back to the surface. Running as fast as she could, she ascended one of the narrow upward passages, and, while doing so, she hit her head. She touched her brow and felt her own blood. She kept her hand to her head and followed any upward ramp she could find. How far down had she been?

  The light grew. She stumbled on, seeing more people as she made her way up the slippery stairs. Finally she emerged out of the mouth of the cave, gasping and coughing. She heaved so violently a stranger offered her his water bottle, and a woman put her arm on her stooped back. “You are okay?” the woman said.

  “Yes,” Yvonne said.

  “Who are you with?” she asked.

  “Um,” Yvonne said. She was with no one. She looked up and saw Mustafa standing near the entrance to the cave.

  “Him,” she said, so relieved to see this man she did not know.

  He reached his shaky hands to her and she walked toward them and held them until her hands and his were both still.

  Mustafa found ice for her head and she held it close to her cut until the cubes began to melt. At five o’clock, Mustafa took her to the museum. She had not come to any conclusions about what she would say to Ahmet’s
relatives. It was only after she knocked on the museum door that she realized she didn’t even have an opening sentence.

  A young woman appeared at the threshold. “Merhaba,” she said, before saying something else. It sounded like a question.

  “Merhaba. I’m looking for Madame Yildirm.”

  “Yes,” the young woman said. “I am Madame Yildirm.”

  “Oh,” Yvonne said. The woman was too young to be the boy’s mother. “I think there’s a mistake. I’m looking for the family of Ahmet Yildirm.”

  “Yes. I am his sister.”

  Yvonne was silent, staring at the woman’s thin face. Her mouth was like Ahmet’s.

  “Can I help you?” the sister said.

  “Sorry, my name is Yvonne.”

  “My name is Aylin. How can I help you?”

  Yvonne took a breath. “I knew Ahmet. In Knidos.”

  Aylin’s face seemed to narrow. Even the tips of her ears suddenly appeared pointed. “Come in,” she said. “We can sit in here.”

  Yvonne followed her into a small room, a living room. The couch was a plush burgundy suede, and the room was filled with mirrors framed with elaborate, baroque metalwork. The photos on the walls featured what Yvonne assumed was the family from the TV show. The men wore fine suits and silk ties. The women wore black dresses, diamonds, and heavy liquid eyeliner. Yvonne now understood why the woman outside had painted her eyes—so Yvonne could look like she was on the television show. Aylin sat on the couch and Yvonne seated herself on a chair, its armrests painted gold.

  “My parents are there now, near Knidos, getting his body,” Aylin said. “They are bringing it back here for the funeral.”

  His body.

  “How did you know him?” Aylin asked.

  “Well, mostly I bought shells from him.”

  Aylin stood, and then sat back down. “So you’re the one,” Aylin said. “My grandmother told me about you.”

  “She didn’t care for me.”

  “She doesn’t care for anyone,” Aylin said.

  “I came to apologize,” Yvonne said.

  “For what?” Aylin’s earrings, tiny diamonds, blinked.

  “I feel it was my fault.”

  “Because you paid him to get shells?”

  “Yes.”

  Aylin stared at her a moment and then laughed a short laugh. “You Americans.” She flattened her skirt beneath her legs.

  “What do you mean?”

  “You think that everything has to do with you. That everything—good or bad—has its origins with you.”

  “But I paid him money for shells. I commissioned him.”

  “So you gave him money. He needs no money. He doesn’t care about money. To him, it is a game. Let me tell you something about Ahmet. He always swims too far into the ocean, and jumps from high cliffs. He does what he wants to do. This is why he was sent to be with my grandmother. He has always been this type that causes my parents trouble. You, you are just someone who wants to think you have an effect on someone’s life. On a young Turkish boy’s life.”

  The conversation was not following the path of any of the scenarios for which Yvonne had prepared herself. She was acutely aware of the touch of the couch beneath her. Her mind was stunned, her body still.

  “Why did you come here?” Aylin said.

  “Because—because I know what it’s like,” Yvonne said. “I lost my husband two years ago. And I liked your son—I mean, your brother. I know what you must be going through.”

  “You don’t know what I’m going through. How can you know? Everyone’s grief is different.”

  Yvonne closed her eyes against the coming tears. “I’m sorry.” She stood to leave.

  “Sorry,” Aylin said. “I didn’t mean to be so—”

  “There’s no reason for you to apologize,” Yvonne said. “Really. I expected anger. In fact, I think I came here to receive your wrath. It would almost make me feel better.”

  “I can’t do that for you,” Aylin said. “But I will tell my family that you were here. They will be glad to know.”

  Yvonne was out of words. She smiled, the tears overtaking her. She stepped out the door and ran to Mustafa’s taxi and was gone.

  Back at the hotel, Yvonne was greeted by Koray.

  “I have a question,” she said. “How far is it to Datça?”

  “To get anywhere by plane, you fly to Istanbul first. There are many flights each day. A little more than an hour by plane to Istanbul, and then to Datça, I don’t know. An hour and thirty minutes maybe. Are you going there?”

  “Not now,” Yvonne said. “I’ll go tomorrow.”

  Koray looked out at the sky and Yvonne followed his gaze. Three clouds formed a row of dots—an ellipsis.

  Before she returned to her room for the night, she logged onto the hotel’s computer and wrote to Aurelia.

  Aurelia,

  That’s wonderful that you found Özlem. I will meet you and your brother on the boat, as we agreed. I’m not in Datça now, but I will be there in time. I promise.

  Love, Mom

  She was tempted to write more, but how could she explain her friendship with Ahmet, and his death, in an e-mail? She would see Aurelia on the boat and tell her everything then.

  Her cave room was cold. In the mirror she saw the paint on her eyes was smeared. She was washing her face when the phone rang.

  “Oh good. It’s you.” It was a female voice. “All roads lead to Mustafa.”

  “Excuse me?” Yvonne said.

  “Everyone knows Mustafa. He told me where to find you.” She paused. “It’s Aylin, Ahmet’s sister.”

  “Yes,” Yvonne said. She sat down on the bed.

  “I want to apologize for the way I talked to you today. It was kind of you to come.”

  “Thank you,” Yvonne said, and suddenly lost her breath. She wanted to fall into the arms of Aylin. “Please, do you think…can we talk some more? I don’t know what I want to say, but I want to tell you about him, about your brother, if you like. I liked him very much. He was a beautiful young man. I could tell you stories of his time in Knidos…” Yvonne felt ridiculous. “I only say this because after my husband passed away, I wanted to know everything about him, any detail anyone knew.”

  There was a long pause.

  “I would like that,” Aylin said. “You could come to the museum or I could come to the hotel tomorrow.”

  Yvonne tried to picture them talking on the patio of the hotel, next to guests making inquiries about camel rides, or in the museum where Aylin worked, under the disapproving gazes of a wealthy and troubled family. Yvonne felt trapped by rooms, by caves, by Westerners wanting to live like Turkish people and Turkish people wanting to live like Westerners. “Can we go for a walk tomorrow?”

  “We can walk in the valley beneath the castle,” Aylin suggested. “I go there often. It’s not far from your hotel.”

  “Okay,” Yvonne said. “What time?”

  “Eight in the morning?” Aylin suggested.

  “I’ll see you then,” Yvonne said.

  “Yes.”

  “Thank you for calling,” Yvonne said, but Aylin had already hung up.

  Yvonne awoke early the next morning, hungry from not having eaten the night before. She dressed in turquoise, her missionary dress. She left the coolness of the cave room and walked into the accumulating heat of the day. The sun, an ancient coin, was rising over the horizon.

  An elderly couple sat at a table near Yvonne’s. They both had white hair cut the same short length. The woman was plump and the man was thin, his legs long and pale.

  “I’m thinking when we get home,” the woman said, “we should plant some orange flowers by the front hedge.” She had a faint Southern accent.

  “Why orange?” said her husband. He was eating eggs. She was eating yogurt.

  “I saw it in a magazine,” said the woman. “I saw some orange flowers and they looked really…uninvasive.”

  “I know you’re worried about in
vasiveness.”

  “I just think orange would be nice. Or maybe red.”

  “I think it’s really going to make a difference,” said the man. “A big difference.”

  “You don’t have to be so negative,” said the woman.

  “That fountain worked out great,” said the husband.

  “I said it before and I’ll say it again. I like it. I think it’s nice.”

  “It sounds like someone’s perpetually pissing in our garden.”

  The woman appeared as though she might speak, but then thought better of it. Instead, they both turned sullen, like punished children.

  Yvonne knew their anger, recognized it instantly. She and Peter had spoken to each other like this toward the end of his life. It had been easier to justify their resentment of one another when Aurelia was causing them strife, but when she turned twenty-one and turned sober for good, and they still didn’t get along, they had no one to blame but each other. And so they fought. They fought about how much money to leave as a tip at an Ethiopian restaurant. They fought about whether or not a student should have been expelled for cheating on his SATs. They fought about the placement of the rug in their living room, about Yvonne’s tendency to leave half-full glasses all over the house. They had grown so accustomed to resenting each other that they didn’t know how to stop. And they could no longer blame Aurelia.

  The white-haired couple had finished with breakfast. Their chairs screeched against the patio, and Yvonne avoided looking at them as they returned to their room. She stared at the cave houses before her, in the near and far distance. They were all crumbling, and Yvonne couldn’t decide if the view resembled a civilization at its start or its finish.

  Mustafa drove Yvonne to the valley. The landscape was lunar, everything white and gray, the rock formations seeming more illogical and make-believe now with their shadows so long.

  “Should I wait here?” Mustafa asked.

  Yvonne declined. She knew the way home.

  She stared at the many entranceways that had been carved into the mountains. She could make out Turkish flags hanging above many of the doors. People still lived there.