In the bedroom, lying on a floor mat, Nazira crossed her arms and listened for Adam’s creaking footsteps in the room next door. Her head spun in a drunken rush, a disorienting amalgam of love and homesickness. From the bed above her, in a state of untrammeled excitement, her father promised, “If this works out, we’ll head home next week. We can use your money from the leather sales for the flight. We’ll begin preparations for the factory. You see, Nazira? You see? I always told you everything would be okay.”
He shut off the lights, and only after the room was dark did he whisper, “And where were you, kizim, out so late tonight?” He sounded tired, but there was a teasing note to his voice, a playfulness unlike anything she had heard from him in years.
“I was with Adam.”
“Yes, Adam. Adam Dale. I like that one. But he has no money. He’s poor.”
“Since when has that mattered to you?”
“Yes, you’re right.” He lay in silence for a second. “So, has there been progress?”
“Tinch. Be quiet.”
“Perhaps you should ask him to steal you.”
“Stop it.”
“It is romantic, you know.”
She could feel the blood rushing to her cheeks, and in a whisper she huffed, “Ata!”
Her father chuckled softly, and after a few minutes she heard the first of his donkey snores. She listened for Adam again, but the sounds from the next room had ceased. How could she leave him so quickly? She must ask him again to come with her. Smiling into the darkness, she pictured him in Kyzyl Adyr-Kirovka. What would he think of the mountains, the rutted roads, the cheese factory, the statue of Lenin, her house on Karl Marx Street? How would he treat Manas? Soon, she remembered, soon she would hold Manas in her arms, soon Lola would see her husband again, and her father would watch over Baktigul. It was what she wanted, she told herself. It was what she’d come all this way for. She should be happy.
16
ANARBEK AND NAZIRA were to meet Faruk’s uncle, Hakan, outside the hotel at two o’clock. Anarbek pulled at his fingers all Monday morning in excitement, on the dolmu§ to the bus station, on the two-hour bus ride south of the city to Yeditepe, and then in the taxi to the hotel. He had reserved for them an affordable third-floor room at the Kervansaray Otel, on the main street along the pier. After the luxury of the Marmara Hotel, the bare room—two boxy twin beds, stained sheets, faded pictures of sailboats, woolen blankets, and a plywood nightstand with an empty water pitcher—was a disappointment to Nazira. For her father’s sake she feigned wonder at the view through the only window, out to the long gray harbor and the dingy shipbuilding yard. This was his moment. She was not here for pleasure, she reminded herself. Whereas two weeks ago she had been skeptical, infuriated at her father’s delays, now she hoped with a recharged heart that his meeting would be a success.
They went in search of Faruk’s uncle, who, as arranged, was waiting for them outside the hotel doors, sitting against the trunk of his black Fiat Marena. Hakan was a squat white-haired man perhaps a bit older than Anarbek. His legs were crossed, his foot tapped the pavement impatiently, and his fingers worked a set of brown worry beads. He greeted both Anarbek and Nazira with a swift handshake and ushered them into the car. In the back seat Nazira ran her palm along the smooth brown leather upholstery. Hakan peeled out onto the road, then turned his head and asked if they liked the vehicle, raising his eyebrows and showing his teeth when he smiled. He drove them along the main street of the town, passing slow-moving green army trucks. Soon the metal gates and concrete walls of factory compounds and refineries appeared. Turkish flags flapped at the entrances, and enormous windowless buildings interrupted the view of the sea. At a compound like all the others Hakan suddenly slammed on the brakes; the vehicle squealed and came to a halt in front of a gated driveway. He hopped out, had a word with a uniformed guard, then gestured for them to exit as well. He handed his car keys to the guard and directed them forward, along a sidewalk past the security booth.
Anarbek was astonished by the size of the complex—it was easily five times that of the cheese factory. Small manicured lawns with rows of yellow flowers filled the spaces between two paved roadways. To the right in a parking lot, half full, stood fifteen trucks in an orderly row, their cabs waxed and shining. The main industrial shed was an arching barnlike structure, lying perpendicular to the shoreline, with a wide, flat concrete chimney on which H. P. had been painted in giant orange block letters, to be read, it seemed, from land, air, or sea. On the loading dock, protected from the sun and rain by an overhang, lay stacked heaps of sheepskin and calfskin. Hakan led them to his office, on the first floor of a smaller building next to what looked like a garage. He sat them down on red-cushioned chairs, and a woman dressed completely in white, like a nurse, rushed in and served them tea.
Drinking his first scalding sip, Anarbek felt that much of his life had been directed to this moment, to this very interview in the sprawling seaside leather factory. Forces he could not have controlled—the coincidences of time and place, the pressures of the economy, the duties of love and community—had brought him here.
“Kyrgyzstan?” Hakan kept repeating as he seated himself behind his wide, paper-stacked desk. He fingered his chain of prayer beads, which clicked softly as he spoke. “Kyrgyzstan? Our long-lost Central Asian brothers. I was certainly interested in meeting you. Faruk mentioned you have been discussing business. Currently we don’t trade with any of the new Central Asian states. But we’re certainly interested. Certainly. Your sheepskin, tell me about it.”
His hands folded in his lap like a well-behaved schoolboy, Anarbek explained the estimated number of sheep raised each year in the Talas Valley, the extensive summer alpine pastures; yet how, for lack of money, hungry families had to slaughter herds for food instead of putting the wool to better use. With the ready supply of sheep and the low overhead, he could guarantee good prices. When he tripped over certain words in Turkish, Nazira corrected him softly, drawing a wink and an understanding nod from Hakan.
“We take pride, here in our factory, in quality, care, and efficiency. Quality, care, and efficiency. Do you understand me? These are the ideals we expect from all our suppliers. Are quality, care, and efficiency ideals you can uphold?”
Anarbek glanced at Nazira for support, she nodded, and he answered in the affirmative.
Hakan said, “I have some friends in the East, fruit dealers who send out a fleet of trucks to Tashkent each summer. Delivering tomatoes, strawberries. How far is that from you?”
“Not far. A day’s drive.”
“So it is certainly possible. Come, why don’t you have a look around. We can decide if we’d like to pursue this further.”
Hakan led them on a tour of the compound, starting in the immense refrigerated warehouse, currently the only one operating in the city—a luxury he could afford because of the sheer size of his company. “I’ve begun renting a bit of space to some of my competitors here in Yeditepe. A gesture of goodwill, you know. Must support the local industry. Remember, we’re competing against the worldwide market.” Two buildings served as the tannery. He hustled them through the frenzied activity of 350 workers. Anarbek turned in circles as they walked, taking it all in. Over the screeching and growling of engines, Hakan explained they would have to cure the skins in Kyrgyzstan to prevent rot during shipping. Hakan could send a number of workers to supervise the construction of raceways. He showed them how, when the skins arrived at the factory, they were first soaked in water to soften and remove the salt solution. He directed them to the fleshing stations—screaming machines equipped with rubber rollers and spiraling knives that removed the flesh and tissue. Nazira walked ahead of Anarbek, and he could see her holding a finger under her nose, trying to block out the fetid stench. It was overpowering, but he didn’t mind it; he breathed in deeply, and the odor shot through his nostrils like vinegar, the smell of sulfur and ammonia and flesh and blood. They followed workers transferring the skins on mechanize
d carts to the beam house, where hair was removed by soaking, this time in vats of chemicals. Hakan showed them the milling machines, in which hides were kept in motion for several days. He led them to the bating vat, where the skins were cleaned of lime and softened. From here skins were separated for either the vegetable or chrome tanning processes. In chrome tanning, Hakan explained—for shoes, handbags, wallets, and garments—the hides had to be pickled first in salt and acid.
He hustled them into the second building, in which the final stages of the tanning process were completed. “A well-tanned leather,” Hakan said, “can be boiled in water for three minutes without shrinking. Our products exceed even that!” Anarbek looked at Nazira in wonder. Hakan led them down the floor used for chrome tanning, past revolving drums of chemicals where the skins were spun for eight hours, soaking in the chrome, then fixed with additional chemicals. They visited the vegetable tanning floor. In this much slower process, the hides were rotated in solutions of tannic acid for up to four days. “Our leather’s like expensive wine,” Hakan boasted. “It gets better with age.”
“Yes, yes. Wine,” Anarbek repeated.
They came to the far end of the factory. Here the skins were wrung out to dry and then split into sheets of set thicknesses, a process handled by a group of men Hakan introduced as his most skilled workers. Anarbek shook a few of their sweaty hands. The chrome-tanned hides were again placed in rotating drums to be dyed, after which they were lubricated with natural fats and chemicals to obtain the final, proper softness. Hakan pointed out the hydraulic presses, printing machines, automatic sprayers, and vacuum dryers used for finishing. Finally, he led them outside and down a ramp to the loading dock. Here the skins were stacked and covered in plastic, ready for distribution.
“This”—Hakan waved his arm, twirling his prayer beads on a single outstretched finger—“this is where your sheep will wind up.”
Anarbek had seen nothing like it for twenty years: an entire factory, rumbling with life, its workers hurtling themselves at their tasks with sweat and skill and even, it seemed, satisfaction. To be part of such an enterprise—to supply a share of the skins that wove their way through these machines and emerged to clothe the bodies and warm the feet of the world—it was better than he could have imagined. As they returned to the office, he took Nazira’s arm. His heart was pounding. The factory up and running, his employees back to work in Kyzyl Adyr-Kirovka, the trips he would take between Istanbul and Kyrgyzstan. Once the enterprise got off the ground, who was to stop him from assuming, step by step, some of the process of tanning leather—who was to stop him, down the road, from managing his own factory of this kind? All it took was a single step forward. In the office, seated on the cushioned chairs, Nazira was extremely quiet, but he knew her well enough to detect the signs: her slightly upturned lips, the subdued excitement in her eyes. She would not give him the satisfaction of her approval yet, but she did approve, he saw it—she too had gazed at every buzzing machine, every blinking light and button in the factory, at the workers’ quickly moving fingers. For once she was not discouraging him.
Hakan offered to treat them to a meal of köfte at what he claimed was the region’s most famous meatball restaurant. Nazira ate well—unusual for her. Anarbek watched her breaking bread, scattering red pepper over her meat, and sharing the single plate of white-bean salad that Hakan ordered for the table. Hakan even insisted that she drink Coca-Cola, and Anarbek was pleased that she let herself be treated. The terms of the business relationship seemed as settled as they could get for now. Next month Hakan would be sending two workers out to Kyrgyzstan to assess the equipment at the cheese factory, and would supply the required machinery as an advance against payments for the first shipments of sheepskin the following spring.
Then conversation turned away from leather and toward more personal business. Hakan wanted details of their life in the mountains. He said he dreamed one day of fleeing the stressful existence of factory management to a quiet place, where he could ride a horse, do some fishing, read a few books. He was fascinated by accounts of Anarbek’s hunting trips and by his explanation of oolak, the horseback game of goat stealing whose intricate rules Nazira had to help him explain. They lingered over dinner, the sun began to set, and before it grew too dark, Anarbek said they should be getting back to the Kervansaray Otel and making plans to return to Kyrgyzstan.
Hakan said, “A few old friends of mine will be meeting out at the sports club tonight, to watch the game. Why don’t you join us?”
Anarbek turned to Nazira. “Only if it’s okay with my daughter.”
In Kyrgyz she gave him permission to stay out with the men as late as he pleased. But after what had been an exhausting day, she, for one, was going back to the hotel and getting some sleep.
Hakan paid the bill and drove them back along the darkening, unfamiliar streets of Yeditepe to the Kervansaray. Nazira hugged her father good night, her arms tight around his neck, and in the growing exhilaration of the evening he kissed her lightly on the forehead. She shook Hakan’s hand, left the car, and disappeared through the tinted doors of the hotel lobby.
Hakan took Anarbek to his sports club, which occupied the bottom two floors of a six-story apartment block. Then they went on to a card house down the street, where they met some of Hakan’s friends. Watching the second half of a local football match—the game ended in a frustrating draw—they smoked strong Anatolian cigarettes and drank icy glasses of raki late into the night. Hakan possessed one of the loudest, most infectious laughs the Kyrgyz had ever heard. To one Turk, Anarbek was again introduced as Hakan’s “long-lost Central Asian brother”—an expression that delighted him. Camaraderie, strong handshakes, ease of conversation—the sheepskin venture would certainly prove a success. The village factory was as good as saved.
They walked off their drinks along the shore of the Marmara, back toward the sports club. In a daze Anarbek eyed the road of endless lights leading back to the city. It was a clear, warm night. “Too hot to sleep inside, no, Anarbek?” Hakan said. “On evenings like this, there is nothing better than to be out in the air. We should be hunting, or camping!” He gestured across the sea and suddenly stopped. Anarbek saw it too: a huge number of dead fish, turning on the edge of the mild surf, against the cement sea wall. Hakan shrugged it off. “Our waters. The pollution is terrible.” He clicked his tongue. “Come!”
They continued on, enjoying the predawn breeze. Anarbek realized he had lost all track of time and thought momentarily of Nazira, alone in their hotel room. He didn’t know why she affected him as she did. She was his daughter, not his wife; he wasn’t beholden to her, and she had no right to be critical of him. He had suffered and sacrificed for her. The past ten years had not been easy—with the death of Baiooz, the collapse of the factory, the threat of privatization—and he had done his best with what he had. If he had blundered, if he was not always the best husband or father, he could be forgiven. On their return to Kyzyl Adyr-Kirovka Nazira would see him anew—the entire village would, and they would understand the lengths he had gone to secure their welfare.
Hakan and Anarbek returned to the sports club for a late-night meal of baked fish and fried squid. It was the first squid Anarbek had ever eaten, and its rubbery consistency reminded him of boiled tripe. After dinner, the rakt glasses were filled once more, and while Hakan took on all comers at backgammon, Anarbek wandered the club. In the upstairs room he found the strange billiards table and ran his hand along the soft green felt. He examined the trophies and photographs on the shelves. One wall was covered with newspaper clippings detailing the club’s success over the years in football and wrestling tournaments. Another was lined with team photographs, the oldest already yellowed with age. Anarbek found a football team photo from the year of his birth, 1941. He stared into the eyes of the thin, muscular young men. The front row was squatting, wearing cleats and shorts, and the back row stood with their arms crossed over their chests. They looked formidable.
The sports club was nearly empty. Downstairs, Anarbek settled back on a couch next to Hakan, who was playing against the factory’s accountant in the final backgammon game of the night. Anarbek picked up Hakan’s pocket phone and clicked the power button on with a beep, releasing a green phosphorescence. He shut the phone off with a second beep. On again, off again. The two men looked at him, amused. Backgammon had never been Anarbek’s favorite game—he did not trust the roll of the dice, which was why he’d always preferred chess. Still, he followed the moves, sipping what he promised himself would be the last drink of the night, and inhaling the faint licorice scent of rakt on his breath between each puff of his cigarette.
It was already after three in the morning when Hakan clenched his fists in victory and turned to Anarbek, laughing. “Who’s the king here? Eh? Eh?” He patted Anarbek on the shoulders.
“I must get back,” Anarbek said. “My daughter, you know.”
“Yes, your beautiful young daughter is waiting for you.”
They had drunk nothing but alcohol since dinner. Anarbek asked if he could have some water before he left, and Hakan told him there was water upstairs in the refrigerator in the billiards room. He could help himself.
Stumbling up the steps, then past the pool table, Anarbek realized his clothes smelled strongly of tobacco and his hands were grimy from the cigarettes. Nazira would be annoyed with him. He pulled a liter of drinking water from the refrigerator. The blue label read Hayat. He had just started to unscrew the cap and had not even shut the refrigerator door when the entire building around him began to sway. The floor rocked in a motion that had become familiar to him on the ferries, and he laughed at how drunk he had become. Suddenly the refrigerator rolled to his left, slid against the corner of the wall, and tilted back toward him. He dropped the plastic bottle onto his foot. His eyes shot upward at a groaning noise, and only momentarily did he register the cracking of the ceiling. Allah, Allah! he thought, and his mind flashed down the street to Nazira, across the continent to Baktigul, to Lola, to his son, Oolan. Before he had time to yell, the ceiling rushed at him, the floor dropped beneath, he was floating, and all was black.
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