You Are Always Safe With Me

by Merrill Joan Gerber

  “It’s a trick, Mother,” Lilly whispered into Harriet’s ear. “We’re a captive audience, the guide is going to get kickbacks from the shopkeeper.”

  “Well, I thought we’re here to spend money,” her mother said. “They have wonderful earrings in the window; why shouldn’t I help out these poor people?”

  *

  Though the Indian woman had new gold bracelets and Lilly’s mother new gold earrings when they left the shop, their modest gold purchases couldn’t compare with what they saw at their last stop of the day: the Topkapi Palace with its display of wealth so overwhelming that it seemed almost impossible to take seriously. They passed before an 86 carat diamond, a jeweled elephant music box, a gold tea service encrusted with diamonds, an emerald pendant big as a house, an enormous bejeweled throne and the world-famous emerald and diamond “Topkapi dagger.” The three enormous emeralds on the dagger’s sheath sparkled in the light illuminating it from above.

  Yes, yes, Lilly thought. But these are from worlds past, these are gargantuan excesses, these are the obscenities of wealth. How many had been killed with that dagger (or the many other weapons exalted in the annals of Turkish history) in the name of something vain and heartless? She was weary and she wanted to go back to the hotel and rest before their next leg of the journey.

  Still, when they entered the Sultan’s Harem she felt a surge of amazement. There were said to be three-hundred rooms of which only forty were still open to the public. Many were small cubicles for the less important concubines, but the Sultan’s favorites and legal wives (the Sultan was entitled to four) had magnificent and ornate private rooms. The guide informed them—as they passed through the brilliantly tiled and decorated rooms—that when the Sultan wanted to be with one of his women he sent his chief black eunuch to notify the girl who was then bathed, perfumed and dressed to service him. He sent a gift, and then presented himself at her chamber. Only the most favored ever entered his own quarters. And if a child was born from the union, the woman was elevated to a high status in the harem. It was recorded that one Sultan had had two hundred and eighty of his concubines drowned when he heard rumors of a harem plot.

  The guide turned a page in his notebook: “This is what a 17th century Sultan wrote to his beloved: ‘I am your bound slave, beat me or kill me if you wish. I surrender myself utterly to you. Please come tonight I beg of you. I swear you will be the cause of my illness, perhaps even of my death. I beg you, wiping the soles of your feet with my face and eyes. I swear to God Almighty, I can no longer control myself.’”

  He finished reading and looked right into Lilly’s eyes. “You like?” he asked her. “To be in a harem?”

  “I don’t think so,” Lilly said. “I don’t like to wait in line.”

  BIRTHDAY PARTY

  The schedule on the Ozymandias alternated between peaceful mornings in the coves while the guests chose to read and sun on the deck with periods of swimming in the turquoise pillowy waters, and days of organized outings when they all boarded a tour bus at the pier’s end and were taken to ruins and tombs and amphitheaters and churches high in the hills over the seashore villages.

  Harrison, not having known that some of his mother’s elderly friends would be passengers on this cruise, had arranged outings that required strenuous climbs on rocky pathways, hours of driving over pitted dirt roads, and included activities in hours of such intense heat that they’d all be close to collapse by the time they got into the bus at the end of the day.

  On one of these days—a trip to see Lycian tombs—during which they had struggled over slippery rocks, tripped on vines growing across the road, been nearly assaulted by a cloud of bees swarming past, and were limp with exhaustion on the return trip, Lilly noticed that Jack Cotton came up to whisper something to the bus driver. When the driver nodded, Jack stood at the front of the bus and said “Announcement! May I have your attention?” He told everyone that they would be stopping briefly in the village at a shop that sold spirits so he could buy a case of champagne for a party that night to honor his wife’s 50th birthday. His wife, Jane, blushed charmingly, and murmured that he should not embarrass her. “Not only that,” he said looking quite cocky to Lilly, looking like a man who had too much money, “I’ve arranged for Morat to cook us a special dinner tonight, no expense spared.”

  “And then,” called out Fiona’s son, Harrison, not one to be outdone, “Why don’t we continue our party tomorrow night in Kas? They have a famous belly dance café there. Izak has told me about the musicians—a superb drummer and fantastic oud player. So plan that for tomorrow night’s party. The treat’s on me!” Harrison sat down, satisfied to have wrested back some control over the events.

  Lilly turned to observe him and Gerta in the seats behind those in which she and her mother sat. Gerta looked like a little Dutch doll, golden hair in long pigtails to her waist (her tiny waist), and pink circles on her cheeks as if they’d been drawn there with a marker pen. Her eyes were so blue they were like glass marbles in their sockets. Gerta’s breasts seemed something manufactured or designed rather than grown in a natural way; her hips were nearly flat, her legs long as a flamingo’s. Harrison never took his hands off her; he was always holding on—hanging his arm around her waist or shoulders. When they walked in the ruins, she appeared weighed down by the weight of his arm, as if she were supporting both of them. While the guide was discussing Roman ruins, Harrison was usually whispering in Gerta’s shell-like ear, something that made her bat her eyelids up and down, or made the pink circles on her cheek turn bright red.

  Lilly wondered about life’s throw of the dice, the proverbial crap shoot. If you came to life as a woman and a beauty, life would come to you in a way that was entirely different than if you were merely born a female with nice forearms.

  Some came into the world, destined, like Jack Cotton, to be a cyberspace millionaire, and some, like Harrison, were born favored sons of rich mothers, and some, like those in the crew—Izak, Morat, and Barish,—were born to be sailors on the blue Mediterranean with no money, little education but an amazing knowledge of the sea and its creatures as well as of the boats that floated on its surface.

  All of life was a mystery, finally. How Lilly had come to be born, to be the person she was, and to have the life she now had—wasn’t it all an accident, a combination of genes and DNA and the mishap of whose sperm and egg had come together all those years ago and made her? She could have been anyone, but she had turned out to be just who she was, a woman who taught literature and knew the great stories of the world, the fables, the myths, the Shakespearean dramas. How was it her personal story was no story at all: an unchallenged life. Good girl, good student, good daughter, good teacher.

  How did Gerta become Gerta, a painted puppet, a set of dazzling teeth on a Barbie doll figure? What was under all that fashion and makeup and jewelry? And what about Marianne? She was a psychoanalyst, a handsome woman of perhaps 45, athletic, strong, forceful, almost manly in her attitude, but shapely, too, with substantial hips and breasts, and a hefty voice. Some days, when she had cornered Morat, trying to help him learn some English, they could hear her saying from the foredeck, “I AM, YOU ARE, WE ARE…” and Morat’s voice repeating, tentatively, “I am, I are, we are…” and Marianne would begin again, “NO, LISTEN TO ME…” Soon she gave it up; Morat was not interested, neither in learning English, nor in Marianne.

  Each morning, when dawn broke over the sea and the crew was first stirring on deck, Lilly would wake and see Marianne poised on the edge of the boat’s railing, white rubber swim cap fastened under her chin. She’d dive off into the water and swim strongly away from the boat, taking her morning exercise, her fearless investigation under way, whether to a stone castle, or a ruined temple, or whatever was beyond the cove where they were moored for the night.

  By the time Morat had made coffee, and cheese crepes, and set out the feast that was breakfast, Marianne was back, climbing up the silver ladder on the boat’s port side, pulling off he
r rubber cap, shaking her short curly brown hair free, exclaiming about what she had seen on the cliffs, or under water, or holding in her hand a gleaming rock, or piece of broken mosaic tile.

  The guests on the Ozymandias all were mysteries to one another, though in this strange living arrangement, they ate together like family, traveled together to see cliff tombs, Turkish villages, ancient aqueducts, artifacts of long-ago lives. To Lilly, their modern lives were just as much a mystery to her as were those of the ancients.

  Lance, the astronomer, was the most irritating to Lilly He dogged her steps and when she ignored him, he harassed her mother, who was quite affable and encouraging to him. Lilly felt no real kinship to anyone here—she was an odd egg, she belonged nowhere.

  *

  At dinner, for Jane’s party, Morat outdid himself, and came up smiling from the galley time after time, carrying trays filled with amazements—radishes cut like roses, cucumbers like water lilies, a lemon carved to resemble a swan. Each dish brought oohs and aahs from the guests: a soup of tomato, onions and okra, grapevine leaves stuffed with rice, raisins, mint and pine nuts, cold green tomato soup with feta cheese. Harrison O’Hara translated the ingredients to the guests as he sniffed and tasted the various dishes while Izak moved around the table setting down each new platter as Morat devised another one below, frying and stirring in the clouds of heat and steam.

  “These are called Women’s Thighs!” Harrison announced, inhaling the aromas of a deep fried minced meat dish, served in a shapely cylindrical patty. He laughed and reached for the thigh of Gerta beside him. She lowered her eyes gracefully, and in a moment she leaned over and kissed his ear.

  At every meal was a chilled sauce of grated cucumber, yogurt, garlic and mint, and tonight there was a bowl of humus, a spicy dip of ground chick peas, sesame seeds, lemon juice and cumin.

  Fiona O’Hara sat back proudly, dressed in one of her sparkly evening dresses (left over from her days as a torch singer). She was puffed up with satisfaction, as if she had invented every recipe, the foods, the cook and even Turkey itself. Pride in things one could buy always baffled Lilly—it was not as if Fiona had personally created any of these things, or even earned a fortune herself. She had married a fortune—and by her good graces they were all here tonight, relishing the most wonderful food, the gentle night air blowing off the sea, the sweet rocking of the boat under them, the friendship of friends one had not chosen as friends but who were nevertheless bonded together in the essence of this experience.

  Fiona tonight wore a short black cocktail dress, a big feathery hat, and had diamonds around her neck whose facets caught the dim glow of the deck lights and shot arrows of brightness around the table. A show girl grown old, she was still and forever a show girl. She had a photo album she had passed around of herself singing torch songs in nightclubs (where she had met her wealthy husband). In them she was glamorous, young, sexy, and always wreathed in a haze of cigar and cigarette smoke. Another of those amazing lives, Lilly thought. Not the straight and narrow, like hers, not the predictable, like hers, but edgy and dangerous, a little wild, even breathtaking, Fiona on spike heels in those clubs where she leaned over men’s shoulders, and bumped them with her hip as she passed by.

  In the shadows of the boat, Barish hung back shyly, waiting for a time to clear away the dishes, lay out the cups for coffee, a boy who seemed amazingly young to Lilly, and almost invisible. What was his life like, what did he want from it, or dream about? She sometimes saw him sitting among the ropes and gear on the foredeck, smoking a cigarette, staring out over the water. Sometimes he sat leaning against a point of the raised anchor, among the flapping of towels clothes-pinned to the rails and drying in the wind. Did he dream of meeting girls? Surely there were none here at sea and no time to meet any in the ports. The muscles of his back were smooth and perfect. Like a young buck, he walked in a body of strength and grace—and seemed unaware of its beauty.

  “Oh my God,” cried Jane Cotton and everyone looked toward the steps from the galley as Morat came forth with a cake on which sparklers were lit, throwing stars out in front of him as he brought the cake to the table and presented it to Jane. “Oh, I can’t believe this!” she cried in delight, and above the tiny fireworks Morat smiled proudly. Behind him Izak was bringing yet another delicacy, little fried donut balls sticky with sweet syrup.

  “What is that called?” Lance inquired of the sticky balls, and Izak said, “Tulumba Tatlisi.”

  “Why is your language so hard to understand?” Lance demanded.

  “No, it is yours very hard,” Morat replied, laughing. “I study your language, I have lessons with her,” (he pointed to Marianne) “and make worser mistakes every time.”

  “More mistakes,” she corrected him.

  “Yes,” he said. “Yes. Always more worse mistakes. I give up.”

  And while they talked Izak cleanly cut the cake and passed slices to each one of them.

  LILLY BELLY DANCES

  The next day while the boat was still docked in Kas in order that some repairs could be made to the generator and the larder could be restocked by Morat, Lilly walked alone into town in the brilliance of noon heat.

  She passed a school where small children at the fence begged to know her name and then—as she walked along the road—called after her in their proud new English, “Goodbye Lilly! Goodbye Lilly!” Their sweet voices and round smiling faces brought unbidden tears to her eyes. She imagined that when school was over, the children would play till dusk and then be called inside to the lighted kitchens of their families. Later their mothers and fathers would tuck them into bed. She could picture their smooth cheeks, their eyelashes closed and dark against their pale cheeks. That they had called her by name had somehow torn her heart asunder. She continued on the village street out of sight of them, wiping her tears with a handkerchief and grateful she was alone and that no one she knew could see her so shaken with pain.

  She ignored the calls of the merchants to see their rugs, their weavings, their spices, their candies and stepped unbidden into the dimness of a clothing shop where she studied a rack of dresses whose colors and lightness of fabric seemed to promise that they could transform her. Tonight there was to be another party—why should she not go like everyone else in their group, in a happy and hopeful state of mind? Like Cinderella, she could perhaps be changed by a ball gown from a solid-thighed woman of early middle age to a princess full of beauty and grace, Perhaps (and why not, that was why fairy tales existed, to make the impossible seems possible) she would attract the love of a handsome prince.

  A young Turkish woman came from the back of the store, smiling. “Be free to try on whatever dress,” she said. “Many will be your size.”

  “Thank you,” Lilly said. “I will.” And she seized on one that struck her, that would work the necessary magic.

  *

  After dinner that night, in the heat of the Mediterranean evening, the celebrants, having finished the last of Morat’s delicious food and awaiting further entertainments as promised, collected their wallets from below and followed Izak off the boat and up a hilly street to the center of Kas.

  Now, with dark upon them, the temperature was dropping and the calls to prayer from the minarets in the small town mosque had changed to sounds of night music and celebration from the cafes.

  Lilly walked a little to the side of the others. Morat, the cook, brought up the rear. Barish had been left behind to guard the boat. Lilly’s mother was being helped up the hill by Lance, who took her arm, gallantly. Fiona was between her son, Harrison, and the willowy Gerta, while the others—Marianne, Jane and Jack Cotton, followed in a ragged formation, climbing upward at various speeds, laughing from the effects of too many champagne toasts.

  Jane Cotton, the birthday girl, looked elegant—as always—in her red silk dress and sexy sling-back heels, which she wore with flair, even on these rocky streets. She always managed to look classy and svelte, particularly in her bathing suit. Lilly wondered w
here, on the boat, Jane could find a steady place to shave her legs or even find a level surface where she might file and shape her fingernails, no less polish them.

  For the café event, Lilly was wearing the dress she had bought in Kas that afternoon. Made not in Turkey but in India, of a gauzy gold fabric, it glowed with tie-dyed shades of orange and brown and flashed sparks from its bodice which had—imbedded in its embroidery—little round mirrored buttons. High- waisted, the dress flowed from her breasts and swirled around her ankles. It seemed a blessed and glamorous antidote to the seersucker striped outfit she’d had made-to-order in Istanbul which—she was certain when she wore it—looked like a pair of pajamas.

  Izak kept ahead of all of them, walking with the power and confidence of one who knows his way. Lilly had never seen him in real clothes. Tonight, after dinner, he had changed into sandals and a crisply creased brown shirt and shorts. He seemed almost formally dressed. Could he have actually pressed his shirt with an iron? Imagining him somewhere below deck, in the tiny space that must be his quarters, Lilly felt a tenderness toward him as she imagined him (out of sight of the rest of the crew) pressing wrinkles from his shirt. Three times a day he set her food before her: she would have been happy, even grateful, to iron his shirt for him had he asked.

  The sky was dark now, and the lights of the small houses of the city lit up the hills. The shopkeepers were out in the streets (the same ones she had seen yesterday afternoon)—the rug-sellers, inviting everyone inside to buy their treasures, the souvenir shop owners, pointing to their shelves filled with teapots and chess sets and tasseled brocaded pillows.