“No, Sir, really. It was my great-aunt’s ring. It has only sentimental value to me.”
That’s when Al Barmaka had asked her to call him by his first name. “My name is Ahmed,” he had said. “When we’re alone, you call me Ahmed.” She had found it difficult to do at first, but he had insisted. Her voice, her accent, her inability to pronounce the heavy Arabic ‘h’ in Ahmed, her faint blush and soft smile, all had moved Al Barmaka deeply. And that was also when he gave her a beautiful ring, with a shiny emerald stone.
“I hope this too will have sentimental value to you, my dear Leila,” he said. “Because it is from me. Because you give me so much happiness.”
Sumaya has been very friendly to Lara lately. She invites her over to her apartment and spends hours talking to her. Woman to woman, personal stuff. Often she stays at Lara’s apartment long after her Arabic lessons are over and goes over some of the lessons again, explaining details that Lara has missed, and practicing conversational Arabic with her. Her characteristic curt style of speech disappears during these sessions and is replaced by a more patient and personal tone.
“Sir really likes you, Leila,” she says, looking at her warmly. “I’m very happy for you.”
“But I’m here just for one year, right? What usually happens after the year is up?”
“Leila, habibty, there is no ‘usually’ with Sir. He has even sent some away before their term was up. And he may keep you long after your term ends. Everything is negotiable. Would you like to stay longer than your term?” asks Sumaya warmly, sounding as if she would like that herself.
“Sir is very kind,” says Lara carefully. “But sometimes I miss my home.” Lara does not fully trust Sumaya yet, but she also realizes that there will not be a better opportunity to find out the possibilities of finding a way out. There is no doubt in her mind now that she needs to get home. Sumaya likes what she hears. This could be an interesting ‘plan B’ if the plan for Turkey falls through. But she decides not to follow up on that just yet.
“You sound exactly like I did a long time ago,” she tells Lara, “and I am still here. There are always solutions to everything, you know, but I also believe that we end up living for our priorities, and our priorities change. Trust me, Lara, your priorities will also change as you grow up.”
“What happened a long time ago?” asks Lara. “Why did you say I sounded like you?”
“Well, it was around seventeen years ago,” says Sumaya. “Sir was only seventeen then. Hold on, that’s exactly your age now!” she exclaims, suddenly realizing the coincidence. “Seventeen years ago, he was seventeen, as you are now, and I was about ten years older than him, and they hired me to be his, um, teacher.”
“Teacher?”
“Yes, of sorts. I did not teach him Arabic, though. I taught him love, sex, sensuality. I was his introduction into the sensual world.”
“So you were Sir’s first lover?” asks Lara with a huge smile. “You taught him everything?”
“Well, I’m not sure about everything; he’s had many lovers since. But yes, I introduced him to sex.”
“Well, Ms. Sumaya, I congratulate you!” laughs Lara, which was unusual for her. “You can be proud of your student. He is very kind and considerate. Men do not turn out that way naturally, especially if they learn about sex from each other, and I know that for a fact.”
“Thank you, habibty,” smiles Sumaya. “As I said, that was a long time ago. You were just born, he was seventeen, and now, when you’re seventeen, here we are sitting together talking about this. Life is a mystery, habibty, which we’ll never understand. Who would have guessed? Who could have guessed? Does everything really happen for a reason? You know, here everything is attributed to God’s will. Everything. Good, bad, fair, unfair, doesn’t matter. There is one and only one source for everything that comes your way in life, and everything that comes in everyone else’s way. It’s hard to understand, really, but once you accept it, it answers a lot of questions that you cannot answer otherwise.”
Lara is quiet for a while, looking past Sumaya, and it is obvious that her mind is somewhere else.
“Do you think there is one source for everything?” asks Sumaya after a while.
“Religion is not as big in my country as it appears to be here,” says Lara. “It used to be, a long time ago, but not anymore. My father used to read the bible to us, the stories about how God created everything, the heavens and the earth, the oceans and the land, the mountains and the valleys, the night and day…and how He worked all types of miracles. I guess it is the same thing, right? If He created everything, then he is the source of everything.”
Did He create Ayvazian too? Lara wonders. Did He make Ayvazian do to me what he did? Will the same God now help me do to Ayvazian what I must? No, my dear Ms. Sumaya, accepting God as the source of everything does not answer all the questions, not all of my questions.
“I guess so,” says Sumaya, and decides to change the subject. “You said you miss your home; do you ever think of going back there one day?”
“Of course,” says Lara matter-of-factly. “Doesn’t everyone? Don’t you?”
“Not anymore, Leila. Many years ago, I missed home. Today I miss the days when I used to miss home. There is something very sweet about missing home; it gives one hope. I’ve lost that now. Now when I look back, I no longer want to go home, but I yearn for the days when I was like you, still able to picture home, to feel its warmth, to need to see family members. And you help me remember, Leila, habibty, you really do.”
I don’t want to ever reach that point, thinks Lara, realizing that what Sumaya is saying is even a greater loss than what she has endured.
“Can the girls take some time off, like a short vacation?”
“That would be impossible,” says Sumaya. “There can be no contact with the outside world. You know that. It just doesn’t work.”
“Ms. Sumaya, you said there are always solutions to things. Then what’s the solution to my need to go home, at least for a visit?”
“My dear Leila,” says Sumaya, assuming her motherly tone of voice, “I also said that we live our priorities. What is your priority now? To stay, please Sir, and build a substantial financial future for yourself, or to go home? Once you answer that, the solution will come to you.” And, as if reading Lara’s mind, she quickly adds, “And no, you cannot do both. Priority means you have to choose one.”
But Lara is not thinking of doing both. Her ‘priority’ is one thing that is still clear in her mind. But she cannot yet bring herself to trust Sumaya enough to tell her that all she wants is to get home, that her break from home was far too abrupt, that she was not prepared for any of this. Sumaya senses her hesitation to answer her question and decides not to push things. She is making good progress in building trust and a real bond. Rushing could ruin it.
At last she says, “Sir will probably call on you tonight. Go get ready for him. And when you’re ready to talk about my question, let me know.”
Al Barmaka did call on her that night.
“I have a little surprise for you, Leila,” he said, handing her a CD. “Play it.”
Lara noticed that the CD had no jacket and no writing anywhere. It was clearly a home-burnt CD.
“There are only two songs on it,” said Al Barmaka with a smile. “And then I have a good story for you to go with the songs.”
Lara put the CD in and walked over to him.
“Bring the remote,” he said.
She took the remote and sat next to him. He placed his hand on her thigh and closed his eyes. The CD had started playing what seemed to be the prelude of a song, with the typical Arabic slow rhythm of drums accompanied by the oud filling the room. Al Barmaka seemed to be carried away by the music. Then the song came on. A beautiful, velvety female voice chanted one of the most alluring melodies Lara had ever heard. The song had a mysterious, calming effect on her. Lamma bada yatasanna…Aman, aman, aman, aman…Lamma bada yatasanna…She could not understand
the Arabic lyrics, but the music alone had an ability to transport the listener. Al Barmaka was waving his free hand in the air to the tune of the melody, while still holding her thigh with the other hand, as if he was trying to link the two in one reality, one world.
The song went on for a few minutes. Without understanding the words, Lara could easily guess that it was a love theme; the voice of the singer, the melody itself, Al Barmaka’s reactions, all spoke of love and deep emotion.
When the song came to an end, Al Barmaka picked up the remote and stopped the CD. Then he looked at Lara for a long minute.
“That was beautiful,” said Lara in a soft voice, clearly moved by the music. “Really beautiful. What is it about?”
“It is about you, my sweet Leila,” said Al Barmaka.
“About me?”
“This is a very old song, Leila. Its genre is called Muwashaha Andalusiya. Muwashaha is a genre of Arabic music that became popular in Andalus, Spain, where we ruled for several centuries. It speaks to me.”
“But you say it is about me?”
“It is about a lovely woman, who moves and sways so seductively that her beauty simply captivates her onlooker. Whoever looks into her eyes becomes a prisoner of those eyes forever. Yes, my dear Leila, it is about you.”
Lara was moved, not so much by his words, but by the honesty of his emotions and the truthfulness of what he claimed he was feeling.
“Thank you, Ahmed,” she said so softly that he felt his heart miss a beat. “Thank you for telling me this, for sharing this music with me. I did not understand the words, but it moved me beyond description.” And Lara realized that she too was being very truthful.
“Wait, we’re not done yet. My real surprise is yet to come, my sweet Leila. Now we have to listen to the next song.”
With that, Al Barmaka pressed the play button on the remote, closed his eyes, and began to caress her thigh again. “Now listen to this,” he said gently, as if preparing himself for a profound spiritual experience.
The next song had no long musical preludes with drums and oud. The song started almost immediately, and it was sung by the same woman as the first song. But Lara froze in her seat, unable to suppress her tears no matter how hard she tried. She had goose bumps all over her body and was thankful for her long-sleeved abaya, because she didn’t want Al Barmaka to notice the standing hairs on her arms. The same lady was now singing Sareri hovin mernem, a song Lara knew well. Throughout her childhood she had heard her mother humming this tune while doing her endless chores. Sareri hovin mernem, im yari boyin mernem, mi dari yar chem desel, desnoghi jukht achin mernem….She could sing along, and had the strong urge to do so, but she controlled herself. But she could not control the tears that had filled her eyes and were flowing down her cheeks. She did not care. Let Sir see the tears. Let him know that he had finally hit home, touched her soul, knowingly or not.
“It is my turn to say that I did not understand the words, but the song moved me beyond description, ya habibty Leila,” said Al Barmaka softly, his eyes still shut, his hand gripping her thigh so tightly that it almost hurt her. “Now tell me, what’s this song all about?”
“It is about love, Ahmed. About a woman who has not seen her lover for a year, and in her deep sorrow, she says she is up on her feet but cannot walk; she’s overflowing with emotion but cannot cry; and she says she’d die to be the two eyes of the person who saw him last…Crazy, stupid love.”
“If it’s so crazy and stupid, why are you crying, my sweet Leila?”
“Because my mama used to sing this song,” she said, as she got up from the sofa to remove the CD from the player.
“Come back,” he said, “and we’ll play it again. I want you to explain the words. How can such a beautiful voice fit so perfectly both with a Muwashaha Andalusiya and with your mama’s song? But first, let’s listen again.”
Lara returned to the sofa, rested her head on his shoulder, and put her hand on his chest. “Let’s listen again,” she whispered. “I’ll do my best to explain what it’s all about.”
As the song went on, and as Lara whispered short translations into Al Barmaka’s ear, he was not listening to what she was saying; he was listening to her. He did not care about the translation. He cared about her and what she was transferring to him. What did the song really mean to her? Who was this little girl that he was falling in love with? Half his age, but sometimes with twice his depth, twice his sorrow, twice his grief, and half his joy of life.
They sat there for a long time after the song ended. He held her tight and would not let her get up.
“Her name is Lena,” he said at last. “She is an Armenian singer from Syria. She can sing Arabic songs that would make me cry, and Armenian songs that would make you cry. Now isn’t that something?”
“That is something,” said Lara, impressed. “Do you know her?”
“Not yet. But a friend does. And he recorded the two songs for me. He knew the first was one of my favorites, but we were both taking a chance with the second. I had no idea if it would be a good song for you. All we knew is that it sounded beautiful.”
Come back to earth, Lara. This isn’t real. Don’t fall for this. Remember who you are and who he is. Remember the toughness in his desert-hardened eyes. Stop it. Why are you kissing his cheek now? Why is your hand soothing his chest? Get up, Lara. Go wash your face. No, don’t kiss him, not now!
Their kiss was long and deep; it engulfed and overwhelmed them both, and they surrendered to its force in total abandon. This was the first time that Lara had initiated an intimate gesture toward him, and the first time ever that she had led a seduction. They stayed on the sofa; he did not want either of them to get up. Afterwards, he got up, got dressed and left, while Lara lay there covered by her abaya.
Tonight he won me over with a song and I loved him. Then he left. Nothing has changed. I wish Avo would return.
“Any news from Mehmet?”
“Not yet,” answered Farah, letting the frustration show in her voice. “But it would be much easier if I could just call him directly.”
“You know that’s not wise,” retorted Sumaya with her typical dismissive tone. “Do you want a link between you and Mehmet?
“I understand,” said Farah with a sigh, “but we’re being so careful that we cannot move!”
They had decided to draft a written message to Mehmet and send it inside an envelope containing a letter that Sumaya had arranged for Farah to send to one of her relatives in Istanbul. She was a distant cousin but also a prostitute, working in Istanbul under Mehmet’s patronage. In her letter to her cousin, Farah had asked her to deliver the enclosed sealed envelope to Mehmet. The note to Mehmet was short. “A seventeen year old beauty from Armenia is yours for next to nothing. She’ll probably come to Istanbul from Oman. Do not keep her in Istanbul. Better in Antalia or Izmir. Respond via Kuchuk. We need to mobilize soon, so respond ASAP.”
The risk of Farah calling Kuchuk, which was the nickname of her distant cousin, was considered acceptable. Farah had called her and confirmed that she had received and delivered the message, not personally hand-to-hand as instructed, but through one of Mehmet’s most trusted associates. Mehmet had not yet responded.
“We’re not even a hundred percent sure that Mehmet has received the message,” said Natalia. “And we cannot be unless we either hear a response or Farah calls him directly.”
“Let’s not go over the obvious again,” snapped Sumaya. “Farah cannot call him directly. Nor can anyone else from here. Now tell me again, Farah, what is the problem with Kuchuk calling him and following up?”
“She tried. They keep saying he is not available.”
“Not available?”
“Not available. Maybe not in Istanbul. Maybe not at home. It is not clear.”
“You have to do better than that, Farah. What makes you think you can reach him directly, then? If Kuchuk cannot reach him from Istanbul, neither can you. Who else do we know in Istanbul who can check dir
ectly?”
“Maybe this is no longer such a good idea,” said Natalia, possibly echoing what was going on in Sumaya’s mind. “Just chasing and pinning down this Mehmet guy seems to be full of its own risks. I wonder what new risks will arise once we actually locate him and manage to get a response. This whole operation needs to be more solid and predictable. There must be no surprises.”
“What are you saying?” asked Farah. “Do you have another suggestion?”
“Not yet, but we should think of an alternative plan. I don’t think going after Mehmet is going to do it for us.”
“I still would like to know what’s going on with Mehmet. He would have been our best bet; this Leila girl would have disappeared in his network like you said people just disappeared in Moscow. No traces, no leads. All we need to do is locate him. Ms. Sumaya, coming to your question about who else we know in Istanbul, let me work on that. I’ll give you a couple of names tomorrow.”
Sumaya had the impression that Farah did not want to speak her mind in front of Natalia. The jealousy and mistrust between the competitors was surfacing. But she did not dwell on it; there were far more important things to sort out.
Avo came back. It was a grey, wintery day, and he was walking toward her in the dark fields. She could not tell exactly where she was standing, but it was somewhere in their fields in Saralandj. The trees in the distance were lost in a gray blur. He approached with fast, determined steps, and first walked right past her without looking at her; he then turned around, faced her, and said, “Mama is very ill.” No “kurig jan” this time. “Avo, wait, are you angry with me?” she asked, as he was turning away to leave. He turned back and looked at her for a long moment. His face looked old and tired. There was a dark shadow over his eyes, and his forehead was glistening from perspiration. “I’m not angry, kurig jan,” he said, and the very faint trace of a smile appeared on his face. He then turned around and left.
Lara woke up in a cold sweat. The look on Avo’s face gave her a chill, even after she was awake. He was looking at her, but he did not seem to be looking into her eyes. He was looking past them, beyond them. He had lost weight; his face was bonier than what she remembered. What did it all mean? The old questions kept popping up in her mind. Why was Avo coming to her in terrifying dreams? Both times he had looked like a ghost, not really alive, not entirely real, but clearly there, and clearly Avo. Both times he had looked rushed and angry, and even though he had attempted a smile, she could tell it was forced, almost as if he wanted to appease her.
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