The Christos Mosaic

by Vincent Czyz

  It got so bad that when he was away from her for more than a few days just seeing her again felt like an event, the kind that attracted people with cameras and binoculars, faces gazing up or off, expecting something to define itself, to show through a universe they’d grown bored with, to be struck by the wonder men and women in ancient times thought might have something to do with magic.

  This was exactly the problem. They were living the oldest myth—not the oldest in the book because it predated books. What was more human than wanting back what they’d once had?

  6: 6

  NOTES

  Too many things in the apartment still reminded her of Drew. He’d been lucky. He didn’t have to go on living in the home they’d shared even before they’d gotten married. Well, maybe not that lucky. One day when he was packing up, he sat down, cried into his hands, and mumbled an apology on the way out. He’d left the box he’d been filling in the middle of the floor, flaps open.

  She had taken down all their photos except one in the living room, a wedding picture she liked because her parents and two brothers were also in it. She had draped a bolt of silk over Drew and his smile so that she wouldn’t have to answer his stare, celluloid or not.

  When they lived together, Drew used to leave little notes all over the place—under a vase, between the pages of a book, mixed in with the post-its on her desk. At first she found the habit terribly sweet, but after he moved out, she came across a few more, and they never failed to upset her. Two days ago she’d taken one from the pocket of a coat she never wore anymore. Miss you so much. He must have left it when he was boxing up his things.

  The morning after he had finally finished moving out, the empty spaces on her bookshelves and in the bedroom, even in the bathroom, made her feel as though she had been trying out a coffin and someone had closed the lid—suffocating and terrifying at the same time.

  She padded into the living room in her stockings, pushing an earring into its back by feel. The walls were lined with bookshelves, but there were no longer gaps. Her heart had scarred over. She hadn’t replaced Drew yet, but she could imagine a future without him. Did she really want to put everything in reverse now?

  She sat down in front of the coffee table and picked up a letter from atop an uneven stack. He had sent emails too, but he took more time with the letters and decorated the envelopes with Xeroxed photos (usually of them) and images cut or torn from magazines. He’d written the one in her hand when he was on vacation in America.

  Yazz, everything makes me miss you more … drinking, going out, seeing other couples, even visiting familiar places—because I want to share them with you. I’m starting to think now that W.I.F.E. is an acronym for Woman of my l I.F.E. Okay, not really an acronym, but you get the idea.

  In a bar right now doing a little beer sampling, but it doesn’t help much. Writing this out (on a couple of napkins) helps a little.

  Did I ever tell you I love being yours? I wish I had your hand in the dull red light of this bar (as if the star the planet circles were in its last, dying years). I’m going to fall, I’m going to make mistakes, I’m going to do fool things, but don’t let go. We’re married now. Quoth the raven: forevermore. I want to fall asleep next you, wake up next to you, eat with you, read next to you, raise children with you, dream with you.

  What I wouldn’t give to have you here for one night before I come home. One night of soul-diving for pearls shining on the murky bottom. We won’t come up for air until morning!

  Love always, Drew.

  Ironically, he was the one who had let go. And yet she was going out tonight to meet him, this man who was a strange collection of conflicting impulses. He loved her desperately but had left her. He was smart but lazy. He was talented, but he had no ambition. He could be unbearably charming but still lose his temper like a stubborn child.

  Maybe it was better to call it off, just send him a text and tell him she wasn’t coming.

  Returning the letter to the stack, she picked up her phone and stared at the little screen.

  She missed the way he made her feel when nothing had mattered to them but each other. She missed being married. She missed having her husband home. Sometimes, when she rolled over and saw Mehmet, she was shocked he wasn’t Drew. A pair of Mehmet’s shoes faced the wall in the foyer. Some of his clothes were in a drawer in her bedroom, and he’d insisted on framing a photo one of his friends had taken of them. It was on her nightstand, but she hardly noticed it anymore. It had become a fixture, like the lamp.

  Yasemin lowered her phone and stood up. She went to the kitchen and took her purse off a chair. She’d placed a pink pill, a tiny oblong, next to a glass of water. To remind her. She drank the water and shouldered her purse but left the pill where it was.

  6: 7

  SAMARKAND

  DREW HAD NEVER SEEN A BAR like Samarkand. In Turkey or anywhere else. Four floors of Ottoman Gothic: brick alcoves with Moorish arches; unglazed interior windows that turned the smoke-blurred faces they framed into animated portraits; intricate latticework, polished wood paneling, and trim carved to satisfy the Oriental fetish for the elaborate. The loft-like sections of the upper floors were joined by plank walkways with wrought-iron railings. Hanging lamps of tarnished brass extruded light through star- or crescent-shaped perforations, casting geometric patterns on the ceiling. Riveted sconces smoldered against the walls.

  Drew descended the steps, dropping below street level. He could never tell whether the plastered-over stone had been stained by shadows or the dampness sweating through them. Overhead, the stairs and gangplanks traced out an M.C. Escher sketch.

  He took a table near an other-century fireplace of aquamarine porcelain, its fire-blackened interior cold. Samarkand had been Yasemin and his favorite place for a wine, a beer, a smoke.

  She was late, but that was normal.

  He sat with a half-liter mug, his hands colder than the beer. He was wearing jeans, docksiders, and a blousy, white shirt. With his long hair and earring, the shirt made him look vaguely 18th century.

  The music in Samarkand was anything from seventies rock to unclassifiable bands like Dead Can Dance. Right now it was an ‘80s song by Sisters of Mercy.

  Yasemin came down the steps in a black skirt, black stockings, and a shirt that, like the one she’d worn the last time he saw her, fit her a little too snugly. His heart felt like it was beating inside a fist.

  He raised a hand to let her know where he was. Her boots made soft echoes on the ceramic tiles.

  He was afraid to risk anything more than a routine kiss on both cheeks, but she pulled him close and hugged him.

  “Why do you always smell so good?”

  “Frequent showers.”

  “It doesn’t matter what you do. You always smell good. I miss that about you.”

  A good omen?

  She slipped out of her jacket and draped it over the back of her chair. “You’re not going to break anything today, right”

  This was typical Yasemin: follow up a compliment with a criticism.

  “If anything’s going to break, it’ll be in here.” He thumbed at his chest.

  “Oh stop.” She smiled that soul-expanding smile of hers; she was in a good mood.

  The waiter had followed her—what guy wouldn’t have?—and she ordered a Merlot.

  “So … what’s the plan? Make laughing stocks of ourselves and get married again?”

  The rush of blood to Drew’s head made it hard to answer. “If we get back together, I’ll be the one laughing. And the rest of Istanbul … I don’t care what they do.”

  “That’s the man I married.” She said leaned across the table and kissed him.

  His heart locked up for a second. At least a whole second.

  “Of course it’s not going to be that easy. You have some changes to make before I let you back into my life.”

  He nodded. “I know. I … listen. We both have our insecurities and weak spots. But we can’t … we have to make some all
owances. I mean, remember the infamous bed incident?”

  She grabbed his hands with both of hers and squeezed so hard he got a little worried. “You were right in your e-mail! That’s why I was so upset! I just needed reassurance.” She pulled him across the table and kissed him again.

  He felt like he was underwater. The music was submerged and distant, his head full of rising bubbles.

  As she sat back down, she wiped away a tear with one hand. The other held tightly onto his. “Why did it take you so long to figure this out? Why did you put me through a divorce?”

  He was above water again, everything sharp and in focus.

  “Hey, hold on. It wasn’t all me. I’m not the only one who needs to break a couple of destructive habits.”

  She dragged on her cigarette.

  He knew she didn’t have the flawless looks of a model, but in that brief flare of orange, he couldn’t imagine a more beautiful woman.

  “Look,” he said, “I’ve apologized for the things I did wrong—for all the times I lost my temper, for the times I was lazy or inconsiderate, and I’m apologizing now for not being more understanding, for not trying to see things from your point of view. For my failures as a husband. But don’t you think you owe me a couple?”

  The edge of her jaw hardened. “For what?”

  Drew shook his head. “If I have to ask, this isn’t going to work.”

  “For sleeping on the couch when I was mad at you?”

  “For starters. I mean, distance can’t be your solution to our problems. Putting your back to me in bed—when you actually slept in our bed— was like putting a sheet-metal fence between us. I never got any sleep those nights. It was like lying on a plank I was afraid to fall off. And let’s not forget walking out of the room in the middle of a conversation, then not talking to me for days.”

  She tapped ash from the end of her cigarette into a black tray.

  “Ordering me to do things, instead of asking me, as though I were your kid, not your husband. Making decisions on your own—do you remember the time you came home and announced we were going to apply for adoption papers? Didn’t it occur to you that adopting a child is something you should talk over with your husband?”

  “All right, Drew, all right. I don’t really want to deal with this tonight, okay? I’m childless, divorced, and I’m very vulnerable right now.”

  Tears glazed her eyes; the candle gave them orange tints.

  He took one of her hands in both of his. “All I need right now is for you to say you’ll try. Just tell me I’m not completely crazy and there are things we both need to work on. Can you do that?”

  She nodded and put her other hand in his. “I’m not making any promises—”

  “Just tell me you’ll try. We’ll talk. You’ll listen to me, I’ll listen to you.”

  The corners of her eyes crimped, and then her whole face crinkled as she began to cry in earnest. “I never wanted to be divorced.”

  “Neither did I.” He squeezed her hands. “I wanted to be married once in this life, just once. To you. We can start over, Yazz. You still love me, right?”

  Her face smoothed out and she nodded. “That’s why I hate you so much.”

  He laughed. “That’s love all right.”

  The door to the bar opened and Drew glanced up. Maybe it was all the looking over his shoulder he’d done in the past week—why else would he let anything—anything—distract him now? But he was glad he did.

  “Uh … Yazz. I think your boyfriend just walked in.”

  6: 8

  HOME AGAIN

  ABOUT YASEMIN’S HEIGHT, curly hair, and a face that probably appealed to girls, he reminded Drew of any number of kids he’d taught over the years, but his eyes had the unmistakable glare of someone who had gone through his options and discarded all of them except one: violence.

  Drew let go of Yasemin’s hands as though he were a student caught cheating on a test. Straightening up, he pulled back across the table. His temper was Yasemin’s biggest complaint, and now was the time to prove he was serious about controlling it.

  “Mehmet!” Yasemin stood up. “What are you doing here?”

  “Why are you holding his hand?”

  Drew didn’t like how close he brought his face to hers. His hands latched onto the edge of the table.

  Yasemin poked Mehmet in the chest with a finger hard enough to make him take a step back.

  Drew almost laughed; he knew that poke well.

  “What I do is none of your business. Do I follow you when you go out with your friends?”

  Instead of answering, Mehmet stepped around her, grabbed her glass, and threw the wine on Drew.

  Drew caught most of it on his chest.

  “Erkeksen gel!” Mehmet shouted. If you’re a man, come on!

  No Turk would have tolerated the taunt—let alone the wine; better to die with honor than live with shame. Clamping his mouth shut and breathing through flared nostrils, Drew stood up slowly. The veins in his forearms swelled with trapped blood. Mehmet was all of 150 pounds and almost half a foot shorter. Drew could bounce him off the water-stained walls if he wanted to—and he wanted to. Desperately.

  “I’m going to the bathroom.” Drew looked at Yasemin. “I don’t want to see him when I get back.”

  To go to the men’s room he had to go right past Mehmet. Drew watched him out of the corner of an eye as though the boy were too insignificant to worry about. Mehmet felt the insult and reached for Drew’s shoulder. It was all Drew could do not to take the unprotected wrist, step in and drop Mehmet on the stone tiles. Instead, Drew knocked his arm away without turning his head.

  “Mehmet! If Drew doesn’t kill you, I will. Now please go.”

  The ladies’ room and the men’s room, right next to the entrance, were directly opposite each other in an alcove. In between them were a sink and a mirror. Just before a wall cut off his view, Drew glanced over his shoulder. Mehmet was pleading with Yasemin and, from the looks of it, had broken down into tears. He was probably in love, and this was the most pain he’d ever had to confront. Poor kid.

  Drew glanced in the mirror. He looked like he’d been in a duel—and lost. A fucking white shirt. Why couldn’t she have ordered a white wine? After rinsing his face, he used paper towels to soak up what he could. Just as he finished up, he heard hurried footsteps first on the tiles and then on the wooden stairs. That, he assumed, had been Mehmet.

  And there was Yasemin, sitting at the table, alone.

  “I’m really sorry.” Standing up, she brushed at the burgundy stain. “I love this shirt.”

  The touch of her hand made Drew tingle under his skin. “Did you tell him you were meeting me tonight?”

  “I’m honest with him.”

  “Did you also happen to mention where we would be meeting?”

  “No. But he knows I come here a lot …”

  “Do you come here with him?”

  She shrugged. “Once or twice.” Her thick eyebrows bunched together. “Don’t start, okay? We’re divorced. Where I go, who I go with—”

  “Just asking.” Drew sat back down. His mouth was bone-dry, his hands trembling slightly. Lifting his mug, he downed most of what was in it.

  “That was impressive by the way.”

  He held up his mug. “Finishing off my beer?”

  “He threw a glass of wine on you, and you didn’t beat the shit out of him.”

  “Yeah, well, it’s not like I didn’t want to.”

  “But you didn’t. Is this the new Drew?”

  “I’m trying.” He lifted his chin. “You want another wine?”

  “Let’s go home.”

  “Home?”

  “Yeah, you know, where you used to live? With me?”

  Standing up, Drew dug in a pocket and pulled out two crumpled bills and dropped them on the table. From the back of the chair he took the leather jacket he’d borrowed from Zafer.

  He reached for her hand and was relieved when she laced he
r fingers with his. As he took the stairs, he wondered if Mehmet was waiting outside.

  He pulled on the door and springs whined.

  No Mehmet.

  Stupendous. For once, his luck was holding out.

  “Their” apartment was barely a ten-minute walk from the bar. It was on a quiet street with a mix of palm and deciduous trees sprouting from small but lush gardens in front of apartment blocks. From the fourth floor there was a view of the building across the street. Just above it, the sky dissolved into the darker blue of the Sea of Marmara. During the day anyway.

  Yasemin unlocked the outside door. “The place is really a wreck. Just give me a few minutes to tidy up.”

  “Sure.”

  The lock clicked in place as the door closed behind her.

  He knew she wasn’t going to straighten up. Yasemin was never a meticulous housekeeper, and he had seen her at her worst. Right now, she was hiding photographs of Mehmet. Maybe throwing some of his clothes in the hamper. Mentally he shrugged: no point in denying her this little fiction.

  A moment later, the door buzzed and he pushed it open.

  He took the steps two at a time.

  “Sorry about that.” She was standing in the doorway.

  He bent down and kissed her. He’d meant it as a way of saying he didn’t care whom she’d been with as long as she was willing to take him back. She surprised him by slipping her arms around his neck and pushing her tongue into his mouth.

  Cold light shivered through him. He splayed his long fingers on her back and pulled her closer. His legs felt hollow and weightless, while the rest of him seemed to be filling with liquid warmth.

  Her cell phone rang.

  She broke off the kiss and looked at her purse on the coffee table. “Let me get that.” Digging in a front pocket she held the phone up as though reading the temperature on a thermometer.

  Drew was slipping out of his shoes. “Mehmet?” The kid really had to be suffering, but Drew had been suffering for two years.

  Yasemin nodded and turned off her phone. “While I’m at it …” She disconnected the house phone as well.