Suddenly Lilla sits down among the clouds swiftly stirring out of her chiffon.
“And then you must open your eyes to the light you feel on your face, that light you feel over your eyelids. You must to look at them in such a way… Amira you must look at them in such a way that”
That’s how she was looking at us then. “You must look at them as if they ruined your life.”
I was overwhelmed by her gaze; as if she has died and I hadn’t reached out my hand.
“Great dancers truly suffer, Amira. The motion is in their eyes. Especially when they are shut. Sin must be present on that stage. And the heart of the audience should sink with the desire to be a part of it. To get them to fall at your feet, Amira, you must make them feel guilty as they never have felt guilt before. They should feel guilty because they watched you and were in awe of you and later they couldn’t drag you out of that world… You must never forgive them, Amira. Do you understand what I’m saying, my dear?” And with that Madam Lilla was back in her old body, sitting down solemnly at the table as if she had not danced at all.
Amira looked like a young girl seeing a bride for the first time. Rising to her feet like a sleepwalker, she took Madam Lilla’s hand, kissed it and gently placed it on the table. Madam Lilla brought two fingers to her lips and nodded reverently as she blew Amira a kiss. Then humbly tilting her head, she let out a foppish sigh. She seemed exhausted, truly worn out, as she raised her glass.
“Well then, let’s drink to Amira’s dance school?”
The mild manner Maryam was now putting on seemed phony and my attempts at any intervention were feeble as Madam Lilla and Amira were swept away by a powerful enthusiasm. They clinked glasses and all the coloured bulbs in Tunisia seemed to light up in Amira’s eyes and she said, “Then let’s call it Madam Lilla’s Dance School, if you agree of course!” We expected Madam Lilla to acknowledge the gesture:
“My dear Amira, I have but one request. Which of course goes for you ladies, too.”
Silence. Again Madam Lilla was eying the stage. Puckering her lips, she took a sip of wine, placed her hands on the table, tapped out a dramatic rhythm with her ring and then gracefully presented her request as if it was nothing more than a tasty little dessert.
“I want us all to go on a trip.”
Her red fingernail began playing with a crumb on the table, pushing it back and forth. Without knowing where this trip would take us and what was supposed to happen if we agreed, without knowing anything at all, Amira looked at us with imploring eyes, again she was like a child. Madam Lilla pressed gently down on the crumb without crushing it and said, “To Syria.”
“What? To Syria?” I cried.
Maryam leaned back in her chair to show that the play had ended. It was all too clear she was lying low before a powerful counterattack. As if she had just proposed something entirely feasible, Madam Lilla had raised the stakes with deadly confidence. Quickly and delicately licking the end of her finger, she dabbed the crumb on the table.
“Of course as I no longer fly we will have to travel over land.”
Shaking her head, Maryam looked into the distance, she looked about to explode. Smiling, Madam Lilla turned to Amira.
“Amira, if you agree to come with me on this little adventure you will have the most beautiful dance school in all of Tunisia, no, in all of the Arab world! Are you with me?”
Helpless, Amira looked at me, and then Maryam, and then back at me, trying to extract an answer from us. I started to smile.
“Amira … Madam Lilla … I mean, you are very kind, truly. Oh my God! I mean this sounds so outrageous it actually seems impossible.”
“But my dear aren’t you a writer? To my mind this is going to be an invaluable adventure. Surely you would agree with me on that.”
I felt the need to say, ‘alright so we’ve laughed about all this and had some fun but it’s over now,’ but then I thought I shouldn’t be the one to knock down Madam Lilla’s carefully constructed castle made of sand in a single kick. So I searched for a relatively civil way to change the subject, drawing on the right words, knowing I’d be more convincing if I could stop myself from laughing.
“I mean of course it would b… my God! But this has nothing to do with me. In the end you and Amira will go…”
“Oh no,” said Madam Lilla. “It won’t do if you two don’t come along. Maryam Hanım should come too. If you ask me, a journey like this will be the perfect cure to the grief that drove her to chop off all her hair. Yes, yes, it’ll be good for all of you. Ladies, I am promising you a road trip the like of which you have never seen before!”
And she threw open her arms and Amira looked so excited she seemed on the brink of bursting into a round of applause. Convinced of the power of her charms, Madam Lilla was ready to receive the praise… But before little red riding hood Amira fell prey to the wolf in grandma’s clothes, Maryam angrily said, “You’re very kind, Madam, and so gracious too …”
And you know the rest. When she danced she took our hearts in the palm of her hand but they cracked after everything she said in the face of Maryam’s assault and then she threw them to the ground like they were cracked goblets. Maryam had said, “We’ll let you know our decision,” and we awkwardly hurried out onto the street. For the rest of the night Maryam wore that dreadful, teasing expression of a child soldier clutching a Kalashnikov as she tried to make light of the situation and make us feel the same way. But there was hesitation in her voice.
“What kind of woman is that? Out of nowhere she wants to take us to Syria! I suppose she thinks Amira is as crazy as she is.”
Amira was as still as a stone. Flashing Maryam a venomous look, she said, “So now you’re going to play the oppressor, Maryam Hanım? You’re going to test your powers out on an old woman? Is that it?! We’re the kids here and you’re the only grown up, eh? Hah! Well then let me tell you this, Maryam Efendi, you still haven’t seen crazy! Just because you saw me dancing and laughing like that … you think that I … because I have thin skin…”
And Amira lost it and broke down crying. I tried taking her by the arm but she pulled away: she was tougher than all of us, including Madam Lilla. Maryam didn’t know where to look. She looked like a mother who got needier with age but who once played the role of tyrant.
“Look at me, Maryam! I’m talking to you! I don’t know what’s running through that bald head of yours but don’t you dare think you’re any smarter than me. There’s something eating away at you and we know it and you won’t tell us. At least I am struggling with my problem. Oh yes, I’m right in the middle of it!”
Flinging open her arms, Amira was but a woman in a dark street in Tunisia, but in that moment she must have been visible from space, standing there like the wall of China.
“Are you going to try your powers on old women or on a woman like me? I’m right here! And you? Where are you? What’s your story?”
Amira wasn’t acting. This was real.
“Come off it, we understand this one here,” she said, pointing at me. “Out of a job and all that, a messed-up situation. She takes whatever you give her. Clearly she’s guilty for something she can’t pay off. But you, Maryam Efendi… What are you afraid of? Life? Well then let me tell you something, Maryam Efendi! Life’s all around us!”
Amira picked up her bag and walked off. The bullet had gone straight to Maryam’s heart. I couldn’t salvage the situation. Had she just abandoned Maryam? Like a baby animal who had found shelter in a larger hollow. It seemed Maryam was still hungry.
Maryam and I were like torn paper lanterns and the lights had gone out. When I got to my room, I said, “I’ll be leaving tomorrow then. There’s a plane in the afternoon.” She didn’t say a word. “See you tomorrow,” I said, and still no reply. She only nodded. Then she made a gesture to say, OK. Madam Lilla’s castle made of sand might have fallen but there was no longer any trace of ours. Our story ended there. At least for me, it was the end of this adventure.
; 8
Afternoon. We’re barrelling down the highway that runs through town at over a hundred and forty kilometres an hour. A yellow wig aslant on her head, Amira is crying. Maryam is whistling through her teeth. I’m wedged in the middle of the back seat, silent as a lamb. Madam Lilla is riding shotgun, cool and comfortable, like she’s posing in a documentary about herself. Eyüp Bey is at the wheel. One eye looking at us in the rearview mirror. We are moving … moving…
*
The night before last Amira was holding a can of beer and shouting at a taxi driver: “So you’re not going to take us then?”
Twilight. It was my last night and Amira and Maryam had come together like a bride and her future sister-in-law on a holiday visit with no choice but to kiss and make up. I was stressed about the thought of going back to Turkey. They were scooping up journalists, bundling them into prison. I was in no mood for all the drama between my two new friends. Despite an awkward silence the ceasefire worked in my favour. Most likely I would never see them again. Both had been missing all day. Though at one point I peeked through Maryam’s window and watched her pray, like the last time she went on for a while. I hadn’t seen Amira since morning. When she got back to the hotel she was a bundle of nerves, shouting and cursing at everything around her: the flies, the jasmine, the weather, the bellboy Kamal. I didn’t bother asking her what was wrong. I couldn’t care less. All day I’d been gathering ammunition for my trip home. I was constantly online, trying to figure out what was going on.
When we finally all met in the lower courtyard we had somehow shaken off the bad vibe and for whatever reason Maryam kept saying, ‘I really need a drink tonight.’ In a flash of inspiration we decided to try the market because drinks were too expensive in the hotel. Alcohol was always sold in a secret section. In the whole city there were only two places that sold booze. When the three of us walked into that market we understood how time can come to a halt. Every human and commercial transaction was suspended. Everyone held their breath as they stared. We filled up bags of local Celtia beer. As both conservative and drinking customers, Maryam and Amira displayed their own brands of passive aggressive behavior. Finally we were out on the street with four beers wrapped in four layers of plastic bags, waiting for a taxi. A car pulled up. As Amira moved to get in she kneed the bag of beers, knocking one to the ground. The driver was stunned and like a dutiful American post officer who had detected a potential SARS threat, he cried out: “Alcohol! Alcohol! No, No! You can’t get in!”
Amira already has one leg in the car and she keeps it there. She looks at the man. The swordsmen in her head have already drawn their blades. I can hear the rattling. She shouts: “So you won’t let us in a public taxi?”
Almost out of his mind, the man shouts:
“Alcohol! Alcohol!”
Amira continues in a voice so low I get really worried.
“So you are not letting us in? Is that right?” And then she cracks open a beer and dumps the brew over the back seat.
The man hits the gas and Amira rolls back onto the street. We are too shocked to say anything when Amira starts laughing. Sitting there on the road she has clearly survived the tumble and now she’s laughing so hard she can hardly speak:
“Oh did you see… How I…”
Shaking the empty beer can in the air, she says, “Now he’ll give his car a good spiritual cleansing!”
Maryam burst out laughing.
“If nothing else he now has his own ride straight to hell!” Out there in the middle of the street we laughed like we were the only people left in the world. It was like no other feeling. In the end we found a sufficiently sinful driver to take us back to the hotel and when Kamal brought us our third beer a message from Madam Lilla lay on the tray beside them…
“The woman doesn’t give up,” said Maryam, “is she crazy or what?”
The woman in question had sent fried potatoes carved into roses and large peanuts roasted with red pepper. Nothing else. I made small talk to steer us away from the topic.
“So I’m going back to Turkey. If they don’t throw me in prison you should come for a visit. I’ll take you to some place like Bodrum.”
Nothing. Not a word in response. This silent dialogue between Maryam and Amira was more strained than Turkish politics.
“Eh?” says Maryam, pushing Amira for an answer to Madam Lilla’s crazy offer. Pushing peanuts back and forth on the tray, Amira shrugs. “So what?” says Maryam. “Are you going or what?” Leaving the peanuts, Amira moves on to the potato. She’s drawing out her game with the food. In the end I just can’t bear it any more.
“Just say something, woman! Are you going or not?”
Smiling, she covers her face and shakes her head. Finally she decides to speak.
“I want to trust her…”
Maryam: “What? Trust Madam Lilla?”
Amira: “What I mean to say is, how could I go without you two? Out there in the desert with an old woman, what’s that all about?”
Maryam: “Oh and it all makes sense if we go with you?”
Amira: “No, I just mean that if we all go things will be different.”
Maryam: “This one here is leaving tomorrow afternoon, and me, too… With all due respect I realize you might have already thought all this through but… Haven’t you once thought about why this woman wants to go on a trip with all of us? Who are we to her? Think about it. We don’t even know her. Which means…”
Amira and I look at Maryam as if we are watching the invention of logistics.
Maryam: “Which means she knows all too well that the people who know her wouldn’t go on a trip with her.”
Amira: “What’s the big deal? In the end I’ll open a dance school. It’ll change my life completely.”
Maryam: “So you’re convinced she’ll give you the money. Brava!”
Leaping in, I say, “I swear on that point I actually believe her.” Shaking her head, Maryam shoots me daggers for interrupting her psychiatric therapy session at such a critical moment and encouraging Amira. I only say “yani,” that pliant Arabic word of many meanings, which in this case begs empathy.
Maryam: “Look Amira, my dear friend, last night I was in a bad mood and I was a little harsh but in the end… God damn it I can’t believe we’re even talking about this!”
Amira: “I swear I’ve done some crazy things before so one more isn’t going to make much of a difference. And…”
Again she stopped. Adjusted her breasts, “Is there anyone expecting you back home? No one’s expecting me. The guy who was supposed to be waiting for me just upped and disappeared.”
“Aw come on, will you just tell us about him already?” I said. “We never really talked about Muhammed.”
Amira laughed brightly, her eyes glimmering. “If we take the trip I’ll tell you.”
Maryam snaps back with an ironic, “oh now that’s just brilliant,” and it’s suddenly clear that we are honing in on the tension of last night. “For the love of God let’s not open up this discussion again. You can talk about it after I’ve left. Just send me an email or a tweet or whatever and let me know the outcome,” I said and the topic was closed.
Silence. I have no memory of what we talked about after that. I just wanted to get drunk and the same went for Maryam, and Amira was oddly all over the place. We said goodbye that night and we went to bed.
I didn’t see either of them in the morning. I felt like if I went to the airport ahead of time and had to wait three hours before departure the pilot and crew would feel embarrassed for me and we would all take off early. To me no place is more comfortable than an airport. It is the spot where travellers can write up a Z report for their holiday. I sat down and started to dash off ideas about Amira and Maryam and I loosely imagined the male characters I could cook up if I really was going to write a novel. For a good two-and-a-half hours, I let my mind wander as I thought about all those notes I had scribbled down in different airports and how wonderful it would be for
my grandchildren – if I ever had them – to find them. When I finally heard my flight being announced, I saw those words on the bottom right of a cartoon strip – “the adventure ends here” – and then my phone rang.
“I’m just about to board my plane. What? Oh shit… How many? Who? Him too? I can’t believe it! (Silence.) Eh? So what should I do now? You mean I shouldn’t come? Huh? What are you saying? Oh man, but you never know why the hell they throw people in jail… Oh my God! My plane’s about to take off. I’m boarding. I’m coming, yes, I’m coming, I’m getting on that plane.”
When you are about to fly home and one of your friends calls to say that they are rounding up journalists and arresting them and says, “just stay where you are for a while, things are getting out of hand,” the boarding process suddenly picks up speed. There I am standing alone in the middle of the airport. All kinds of terrible things could happen to me if I go home, and nothing could happen at all. Should I go back? Board that plane? I check my heart, my instincts are quiet – they don’t know either. I call my lawyer. He says, “What are you worried about? There’s nothing for you to be afraid of!”
He speaks to me in a strange theatrical tone of voice. Clearly his phone is tapped and he wants his advice to go on the record. If this goes down in a police report he knows the prosecutor on my case will ask me why I was afraid to come home. But then he adds with a slightly less dramatic flourish, “Yani of course if you’re nervous why would you come yani?”
Two yani’s in the sentence… That wasn’t a good sign.
“So you’re saying I shouldn’t come, yani?” He’s silent, obviously angry with me. He’s thinking, ‘girl, don’t drag this out, you got the message.’ An airport official looks me in the eye as I hand him my passport then pull it back. I call someone else who says, “I can’t tell you to come and I can’t tell you to stay. You know how we never know who they are going to round up and why?” And when I heard that…
If you ever decide not to board a plane after you have checked in you have no choice but to become really friendly with airport security guards. Otherwise they won’t actually return your luggage until your plane has arrived at its intended destination.
Women Who Blow on Knots Page 9