Gardens of Water

by Alan Drew

  “I was told two hundred,” Sinan said.

  Aslan sucked on his cigarette, pulled it from his lips, and exhaled before answering. “One hundred fifty.”

  Sinan thought of accusing the man of cheating him, but thought better of it out of respect for Kemal.

  “One-fifty,” he said, nodding.

  Now at the bottom of the stairs, Sinan spun around and a man positioned the first television on his back. One television was no problem, just a little pinch in his kidneys, two was heavy, but three sent a sharp pain down his left side that exploded in his foot. The man tried to convince Sinan to take only two, but Sinan insisted. The three boxes were fastened together with bungee cords, and he struggled up the stairs, out into the alleyway, and down the hill toward the ferry landings. He dodged shoppers—women lugging bags full of lingerie, men being fitted for Levi’s jeans, tourists carrying neatly wrapped boxes of dried-out spices. He sidestepped carts of shaving razors and others full of pirated American DVDs. Once he got hung up on clotheslines from which cheap sweatpants dangled for sale. He leaned for a moment like a tower slowly toppling, before two men working a kebab stand jumped behind him and righted the teetering boxes. It was the steepest part of the hill, cracked brick stairs and splashing gutters, and one of the men helped him down to the flats, offering his hand as he descended the stairs. Even so, he kept twisting his ankles in the sunken mortar between bricks.

  “You’re better off than the people who buy these televisions,” his helper joked.

  “Why’s that?” Sinan said.

  “You get strong, while they sit on their asses getting fat.”

  “Would you mind getting fat?” Sinan said.

  “Truthfully,” he laughed, “not at all, abi.”

  He wasn’t able to stop for midmorning prayer, but when the call went out in the afternoon, he was near the Rüstem Paa Camii. The mosque rose above the street, and a small passageway led from street level into a raised courtyard of marble stone and tiled walls. His televisions bumped the arched entrance to the passageway, so with the help of the knife seller next door, who was standing outside his shop smoking a cigarette, he left the televisions sitting on the street.

  He washed his swollen foot in the ablutions fountain, the cool water soothing the cracked and burning skin. It was the most peace he had felt in days—the walls of the mosque glowing with delicate tiles, the sunlit stained-glass windows a rainbow of color, and the sound of men whispering suras from the Qur’an. He wanted to stay; the city just beyond the walls seemed so far away, the destruction of Gölcük even farther, but a temporary reprieve was all the world—and God, it seemed—allowed. When he was done, the knife seller helped him again with the televisions. The weight felt unbearable, but he knew it wasn’t if he kept his mind strong, and he bore that load and six more just like it before the day was over.

  He earned 3,300,000 lira for the day. It seemed a fortune.

  “Come back tomorrow,” Aslan said. “Seven-thirty.”

  Chapter 18

  IN THE EVENING RUSH, IT TOOK HIM NEARLY THREE HOURS by ferry to get back to Gölcük. By the time he arrived at the tent his foot was swollen inside his shoe, but he stopped limping when he saw the American there.

  “I wanted to speak to your son,” Marcus said.

  There were purple bags underneath the American’s eyes, as though he hadn’t slept in weeks. Sinan didn’t know what to say to the man. It would have been easier if he’d never had to see him again.

  The American boy stood behind his father. Those earphones were wrapped around his neck, the wires running down his chest and into the pocket of his pants, as though the boy was plugged into a hidden battery. He stared at the ground, a length of blond hair falling over his eyes.

  “Yes, yes,” Sinan said. “Of course. A moment, please.”

  Sinan ducked inside to make sure his family was decent. Nilüfer immediately grabbed him by the sleeve and whispered in his ear.

  “I offered him tea, but he refused,” she said. “He’s been standing out there for twenty minutes.”

  “Good,” he said.

  Nilüfer set out a few pillows they had scavenged from the house, and Sinan invited the Americans in. Once inside, Sinan told rem to bring tea. smail joined Sinan on one of the pillows, sitting on his lap and rubbing his palms over Sinan’s knees. Nilüfer and rem worked silently at the propane stove while he and Marcus spoke idly of weighty things—the university professor who was forecasting bigger quakes, the bridge that collapsed near Adapazar, the shortage of water, the possibility of spreading disease, the recent rash of people jumping off the Bosporus Bridge—until the tea arrived in plastic cups and without saucers.

  “I apologize, Marcus Bey,” he said, gesturing toward the cups. “The glass is broken.”

  “Please,” Marcus said. “Don’t apologize.”

  “Could I get some sugar?” the American’s son said.

  The American gave his son a disappointed look, a small admonishment for being rude, Sinan thought.

  “Yes, no problem,” Sinan said.

  Nilüfer took the boy’s cup, but rem returned it, after she dropped two cubes of sugar inside. Her fingers brushed against the boy’s as he took the cup from her hands. Sinan decided it was an accident.

  “I’m sorry. This is my son—Dylan.”

  Sinan shook Dylan’s hand. The boy’s grip was solid, but he didn’t look Sinan in the eye.

  “Nice to meet you,” Sinan said.

  “Yeah,” the boy said, and brushed a wave of hair out of his eyes, only to have it fall back in place. “Nice to meet you, Sinan Bey.” His Turkish was perfect, but his tone was rude.

  The American looked at his son for a moment, the muscles of his jaw working, his brow narrowed.

  “Forgive him,” he said to Sinan while he still looked at his son. “It’s a hard time for Dylan.” Marcus patted his son’s knee as though he were afraid to touch him but obligated to do so.

  “The tea is wonderful, Nilüfer Hanm,” Dylan said, his politeness interrupted by the sideways glance he shot his father. The boy took one more sip and set the tea aside.

  “Sinan Bey,” Marcus said, ignoring his son. “I wanted to ask smail what happened after the quake.”

  “No. I’m sorry, but it’s painful for the boy.”

  “I understand,” Marcus said. “But it’s painful for us also.”

  “Please, Marcus Bey. I have much to thank you for, and I’m sorry for your loss, but you need to understand—”

  “Sinan Bey,” Marcus said. His voice remained polite but forceful. His head shook a little. “I don’t mean to disrespect your wishes, especially in front of your family, and I don’t mean to hurt your son—believe me about that—but you must understand what it means to us.”

  Dylan turned his head away and looked at the blanketed wall flapping in the wind.

  Marcus massaged his eyes with his thumb and index fingers. “You see—as a man I’m sure you’ll understand this—there are things I didn’t say, things I hadn’t said for a long time.”

  Sinan did understand. The night of the quake, Nilüfer had been so tired she went straight to bed and he hadn’t said that he loved her or that she had done a good job with the party or even given her a glancing smile before she slept. If Nilüfer had died in the quake, he would have known that they loved each other, but some confirmation, some last note of love spoken between them would have settled his heart in her absence.

  “I need to know what she said, what was on her mind those last few hours. If she was in pain.”

  “She wasn’t hurting, sir,” smail said.

  “You don’t have to talk about it, smail.” “It’s okay, Baba.”

  Sinan didn’t want the man to know about the water, that smail was alive only because of his wife’s sacrifice, but how could he stop the boy if he was willing?

  smail told the story, about falling and waking in Sarah Hanm’s arms, about the darkness beneath the rubble and the sounds of heavy wheels ab
ove. He told the American about the water she placed on his lips, about the dog and the kiss and finally about the silence.

  The American watched with intense eyes, crescents beneath his brows as blue as the tip of a propane flame.

  “I don’t think she drank any of the water,” smail said.

  Sinan felt sick to his stomach.

  “I think she gave it all to me.”

  They were indebted now. Silence wouldn’t have made it less so, but at least the American wouldn’t have known and Sinan could have suffered his shame alone.

  The blood seemed to drain from Marcus’s face, the muscles grew slack as though his skin hung on ridges of bone. He seemed to be frozen, but then he gently grabbed smail’s hand. Sinan wanted to stop him, but the American was so careful, so calm and caring with his touch, that he couldn’t think of any good reason to protest. He turned smail’s hand palm up to reveal the bruises on his forearm—four finger-sized blue marks stretching across the tendons of his arms. He considered them a moment; then, with his other hand, he ran his fingers over the marks as if they were welts he could touch.

  Dylan picked at a piece of loose rubber on his shoe, his long hair covering his face.

  “I don’t understand the dog,” smail said.

  Marcus laughed and looked up at the ceiling of the tent. “She was remembering the dog she had as a child in New Hampshire. Claudia,” he laughed as if it were the illiest thing in the world. “The dog’s name was Claudia.” He shook his head.

  Dylan ripped the piece of rubber off his shoe and dropped it on the floor.

  “She stayed here this year because I promised her we’d move back to Plymouth when I finished my twentieth at the school. Just two years more,” he said, nodding his head. “She missed the snow. And the maple trees.”

  Sinan thought he saw a drop of water fall from the tip of Dylan’s nose, but the boy made no other movement to betray that he was crying.

  “I’m sorry about your mother,” smail said, and Sinan could hear the guilt in his voice.

  Dylan didn’t look up.

  Marcus took smail’s hand in his. “I’m very glad you’re alive, smail,” he said. “I miss my wife, but she did the right thing to save you.”

  As soon as he said it the American boy looked up at smail, his blue eyes burning despite the water, and Sinan could see all the anger pooling there. These were not tears of sadness, but tears of frustration, tears of a boy wanting to strike someone but unable to do so. Sinan pulled smail closer. Dylan looked away, over Sinan’s shoulder, and the boy suddenly seemed embarrassed. He jumped up, accidentally knocking over his teacup. He ripped back the flap of canvas used as a door, and disappeared into the darkness.

  Marcus turned his head in his son’s direction, but he didn’t even seem to consider calling out to him.

  Then Sinan said it—the words that acknowledged his debt to the American—in an awkward moment of silence that he wanted to reclaim for normalcy: “We are like brothers, you and I.”

  Marcus smiled. “That’s kind of you to say.”

  Chapter 19

  “ANNE,” REM SAID. “I HAVE TO GO TO THE W.C.”

  It almost killed her to stand in that stupid tent and serve tea and not be able to talk to him.

  “rem,” her mother said. “Wait until our guests leave.”

  Allah, Allah! She would explode if she had to stay here!

  “Anne, it’s an emergency.” She bent over to indicate the seriousness of the situation.

  “More tea, rem,” her father said.

  Nilüfer looked at her as if to say, What can I do?

  “Anne,” she said. “You saw all the tea I drank this afternoon!” She squeezed her knees together.

  “All right, all right,” Nilüfer said. “Go quietly. I’ll serve them.”

  rem ducked under the fabric at the back of the tent, thankful to have a rear escape. At the apartment, the only way out had been through the front door, past her father and his inquiries.

  She saw Dylan walking down the hill toward town. She looked back at the tent to make sure no one was watching. The wind was down today, so the fabric was still. She couldn’t see in, so she figured they couldn’t see out. She ran down the hill and caught up with him near the old, crumbled walls of the town.

  “Dylan.”

  He stopped and wiped his eyes with his shirtsleeve before turning around.

  “That asshole,” he said. His eyes narrowed to arrow points.

  She touched his forearm.

  “Shh,” she said. “It’s okay.” But she knew it wasn’t. Why was she out here comforting him while his father was inside comforting her brother?

  “We should have been in New Hampshire, but he wanted to stay.” He threw an angry hand in the direction of the tent. “How can he be glad she’s dead?”

  She knew that he wished it was her brother that had died. As for her, if one of them had to die, she preferred it was his mother. That was natural, but still, it felt dangerous.

  “Shh,” she said. He paced back and forth, occasionally looking back at the tent. “Shh, shh.” She took his right hand and pulled him toward her. She felt the round muscles in his palms, the warm blood pulsing through his fingers. “Your mother did a brave thing.”

  He was looking at her now, rage in his eyes.

  “She honors your name,” rem said.

  He laughed sarcastically and she let go of his hand, hurt by his disdain.

  “I don’t care about that,” he said. “I just want her back.”

  His eyes were as wide as a child’s and she felt something snap inside her chest. She took both of his hands and pulled him toward her, wrapping her arms around his waist. He dropped his head on her shoulder and cried. The heat of his breath pushed the fabric of her scarf against her neck. She felt his rib cage expand and contract. The tips of her fingers brushed the muscles on either side of his spine and she wanted to stay here, wanted to feel each muscle and tendon heave against his bones; she wanted to feel the whole composition of his frame, but then he stopped and lifted his head.

  “There they are,” he said.

  She let go of him immediately and brushed her hands across the fabric of her blouse, trying to smooth away the wrinkles pressed in the shape of his body.

  “WHAT WERE YOU DOING with that boy?” her father said as Dylan and his father walked away, down the hill.

  “He was upset,” she said.

  “I thought you went to the W.C.”

  She self-consciously tucked a strand of hair beneath her head scarf.

  “I did,” she said, “and when I came back I saw him there.”

  “Everyone can see you touching him,” Sinan said.

  She looked around, briefly embarrassed, until she realized that there were a half-dozen people here, huddled under handmade tents, wondering how they were going to get their next meal. How could they care?

  “His father doesn’t love him,” she said.

  “A father always loves his son.”

  “He leaves crying over his mother and his father just stays inside sipping tea; just leaves him alone.” She hesitated before saying it. “A father should care more.”

  “Go inside,” he said quietly. He sounded hurt.

  She waited a few moments, even a moment or two longer than she should have, before entering the tent. Inside, she joined her mother in the makeshift kitchen and washed the teapots and cups in buckets of gray water. Her father didn’t come in for a few minutes and she started washing the cups she had just washed, rubbing the edges with the mildewy rag over and over again. What would he say to her mother? Had he gone to get Dylan to do something horrible? When he did come inside, she watched him sit down on the pillows and finish his tea.

  “rem,” he said. “Please get this cup, too.”

  He almost never said please, and she came to him silently and took the cup, expecting something else, some retribution.

  “Thank you,” he said, and stared out the door of the tent.
/>   Chapter 20

  AFTER THE CHILDREN HAD FALLEN ASLEEP, SINAN AND NILÜFER argued in whispers.

  “I don’t like these people,” he told her. “They’re going to want something.”

  He bent over his foot and untied the laces. As he did, the swollen skin expanded and pushed open the tongue of leather.

  “The only thing he seems to want is to help,” Nilüfer said, washing the tea glasses for the third time.

  “He could bring doctors here if he wants to help,” Sinan said. It felt like shards of glass were embedded in the foot, so he cupped the sole of the shoe in the palm of his hand and pulled it off the stump by centimeters. “Why do we need to move down there?”

  “What do we have here?” Nilüfer said. “All day we breathe this brown air, all day we listen to car horns. We hide from the sun under a sheet of fabric, while you go off…” She stopped herself.

  “While I go off and what?”

  “Nothing,” she said. “I—”

  “You think I go spend the day in the kraathane drinking tea and playing games?” he said, his voice rising now.

  “No,” Nilüfer said. “No, canm, that’s not what I meant.”

  “All day I’m carrying televisions on my back like a donkey!” He pulled the sock off his foot. The foot was marbled, like rotten mutton. “Look.”

  She put her hands to her mouth. “I’m sorry,” she said. “Please quiet your voice.”

  “Don’t tell me to be quiet,” he said, but he was already whispering again. “I’ll make things better,” he said, rubbing his eyes with his thumb and forefinger.

  “I know you will,” Nilüfer said. Her voice was tinged with doubt, but she filled a bucket with fresh water from one of the jugs.

  “No,” he said. “We need the water to drink.”

  She ignored him and he was glad for it because the water cooled the pain.

  “Haven’t I been a good man?”

  “Yes, canm.”

  “Haven’t I taken care of you?”