I have to find a way to get back home, she wrote. Will Ahmed just let me go if I ask him to? Can I trust Sumaya?
It was past nine o’clock in the morning and Lara had barely managed to get a couple of hours of sleep. After Al Barmaka had left, she had taken a quick bath and gone to bed, but could not shake the uneasy feeling about what had happened on the sofa. Her seventeenth birthday had already passed, and, after having had hundreds of sexual encounters, she had made love to a man for the very first time. She had never imagined that she’d be able to do that. Was this the sign that she was finally accepting her fate, or was it just Al Barmaka? Was this the dreaded capitulation that she had fought, finally imposing itself on her in a sweet disguise? Remember that this man has bought you, she kept telling herself. What are you doing, Lara? A song? Is that what it took in the end, after all the other ways to drag you in had failed? She could hear her friend Susannah make fun of her. ‘You sweet homey thing, a song that your mama used to sing, eh? So now you’re finally one of us, then?’
She desperately needed someone to talk to. Someone whom she could just ask if Avo was angry or not. That mattered. And it mattered to know how ill her mother was. Lara had felt this type of loneliness ever since she left Saralandj, and it had not eased; nor had she become used to it as Anastasia had once told her that she would. First Anastasia, then Susannah, and now Sumaya were the only women who had opened up to her, or pretended to, but these were not questions she could raise with any of them.
And Ahmed? He sometimes acts like he’s in love with me, and other times treats me no differently than any of the clients that I’ve had. I can’t yet figure him out, she thought, and the thought surprised her. This man was the most important reality in her life. He owned her. But she could not understand the hot-cold treatment from him. Perhaps he was fighting it too. He who could have any woman on earth, as they had kept reminding her, was fighting his feelings towards her. Does he sit there wondering what he’s doing loving me, as I do? Does he say to himself ‘remember who you are and who she is?’ He doesn’t have to say anything like that. He’s at home, and he knows exactly who he is. He’s not fighting to remain the man he is. I am the one fighting.
Come down to earth, Lara. You are all alone and you’ll stay that way until you get back home. And when you do get back home, then what? Do you really think that you will no longer be alone? Your papa is dead, your mama is ill, your brother Avo may or may not accept you, your sisters will never understand where you’ve been and what you’ve done. Do you really think that there will be a single person in Saralandj who will understand you?
Lara suddenly began to understand what Sumaya was talking about when she said she no longer wanted to go home. But she swore she would never allow herself to get to that point.
She was in her bathrobe sitting on a chair at the kitchen counter looking out the window to the garden, having her first cup of coffee of the day. She stared at the perfectly manicured lawn, two date trees in the distance and the bright red bougainvillea flowers flowing down like a cascade between the date trees. What a contrast this was to their garden in Saralandj, where they would not waste even the smallest piece of fertile soil with a lawn. This was nothing like the fields where Avo appeared to her. This was a fairy tale land, where one could dream. But she could never be sure how far beyond the fences those dreams could travel.
So it is all about context, she thought; what I do depends on where I am; and my worth depends on where I am. Does who I am depend on where I am? This compound is like a chessboard, and I’m now a queen on this board. I’m worth nothing off the board, just like the queen would turn into a worthless piece of wood off the chessboard. No one can define herself in absolute terms. Remember who you are, Mama said. But who am I where? Here or in Saralandj? Can they be the same? Need they be the same? What am I worth off the board?
She was not expecting a call from Sumaya so early. She normally called in the afternoons, and it was not even noon yet. Sumaya sounded friendly but firm.
“We need to talk,” she said. “How quickly can you get here?”
“Is an hour okay?” asked Lara, resenting the intrusion.
“Okay. I’ll send the car.”
And Sumaya hung up.
As she started getting ready, Lara felt the pressure to make a decision about whether or not she could take Sumaya into her confidence. The question had weighed heavy in her mind in the past two days; there were only two ways for her to try to find a way back home: trust Sumaya or trust Al Barmaka. The two may or may not be mutually exclusive, but at that moment she could not imagine how she could orchestrate both together. Both had risks. The thought that Sumaya herself might be eager for her to leave had not yet crossed her mind.
XIV
Lara was surprised to see another lady in Sumaya’s living room. Until then, Sumaya had always met with her alone. The visitor was a pretty woman with dark brown hair and brown eyes, and her embroidered abaya suited her very much. Lara thought she must be an Arab lady.
“Leila, meet Farah,” said Sumaya. “She’s your neighbor, both here and more far away.”
“Hello,” said Lara, extending her hand; then, turning back to Sumaya, “neighbor?” she asked.
“Yes, here, she lives in the chalet next to you. But she comes from Turkey, so she’s also a neighbor to you in Armenia, no?”
“I understand, yes,” said Lara, surprised by the introduction, as such meetings were not commonplace. This must be the Turkish woman that Sumaya had mentioned earlier.
Farah seemed to be surprised too, not by Lara’s presence, which she was obviously expecting, but by her youth and beauty. Even though Sumaya had mentioned it to her more than once, she was not prepared for what she saw. Farah was sitting on the sofa next to Sumaya, and Lara took the side armchair closer to her. Even as she looked at Sumaya, she could feel Farah’s gaze on her face.
“I thought it was about time that the two of you met,” continued Sumaya. “After all, you are neighbors, and, if I recall correctly, Leila, you had once asked me if you could have some interaction with other women here, hadn’t you?”
“Yes, I had,” said Lara, shifting her eyes from Sumaya to Farah. “It is good to finally meet you.”
“It is good to meet you too,” said Farah, who smiled warmly.
“Well, we have a few things to talk about,” said Sumaya, “but first, Leila, habibty, I know I called you at an early hour. Shall we have some breakfast together? I haven’t had breakfast yet, and I’m sure Farah hasn’t either.”
Without waiting for an answer from either of them Sumaya lifted the phone, pushed one digit, said “set the table” into the receiver and hung up.
It was an awkward silence as the two women didn’t quite know how to start a conversation. Farah sat there smiling absently, and Lara looked at Sumaya, waiting for her to break the ice. Farah seemed absorbed in trying to unlock Lara’s secret, to imagine her with Sir, and understand his attraction to her. Was it about sex or was there something else? She wished she could get close enough to Lara to be able to compare notes with her about Al Barmaka in bed.
“Leila,” said Sumaya at last, “Farah knows someone in Istanbul who may be able to get news from your family. I thought you’d be interested in that, given our last conversation. That’s why I decided to introduce you two.”
“Someone in Istanbul?” Lara didn’t understand how someone in Istanbul could have news from her family.
“Yes, and it’s not a short story. So why don’t we move to the table and continue there?”
The two guests were surprised at how quickly such an elaborate table could be set. Sumaya must have arranged everything well in advance. It was a large round glass dining table that could seat a dozen guests, set by a bay window overlooking a fountain and garden outside. It was set for three, facing the window. Beautifully arranged trays of every imaginable Middle Eastern breakfast delicacy had been set out, ranging from fried Halloumi cheese, to labni, various types of olives
, za’atar, tomatoes and cucumbers, fresh fruits, boiled eggs, beef and chicken sausages. A young maid from the Philippines was there to help them fill their plates. On the side table was a large assortment of fresh juices, coffee and various teas. The maid offered to serve them beverages, but soon Sumaya signaled her to leave.
“The Halloumi and the za’atar are divine,” said Sumaya. “Please dig in.”
After she arrived in Dubai, Lara had actually acquired a taste for za’atar, a thyme-based spice that is served as a dip, mixed with olive oil. It was a Lebanese delicacy common all over the Gulf and best enjoyed with freshly baked pita bread. Even though she was anxious to get to the topic of the news of her family, she could not resist partaking in what the table had to offer. She usually did not have the patience to eat properly when alone at her apartment. She could order everything at Sumaya’s table at her own place, but it rarely occurred to her to do so.
Sumaya had a few bird feeders outside the window, and as they started eating, the garden was suddenly swarming with finches and hummingbirds. That was one of Al Barmaka’s many attempts to give his estate the look and feel of the old Arab palaces; he had created ideal conditions for the birds to thrive in his compound, so none would fly out into the dry and inhospitable desert. The women couldn’t avoid being distracted by the scene, which reinforced the fairy tale sense of their surroundings.
Sumaya stood up, taking the large oval serving plate full of beef and chicken sausages, came around the table and started serving Farah and Lara.
“Farah,” she said as she placed the sausages on her plate, “why don’t you tell Lara about your friend?”
Lara was anxious to hear about the ‘friend’ as well, but was outwardly admiring the china. They were beautiful Limoges pieces, perfectly matched sets of plates of various sizes with exotic floral designs. As was her habit, she tried to picture all that in her home in Saralandj, and such attempts usually either brought tears to her eyes or made her laugh. At that moment, she had to suppress a loud burst of laughter.
“Do you know someone named Apo Arslan?” asked Farah, taking a bite of the beef sausage.
“No,” answered Lara. “Is he someone I should know?”
“Well,” said Farah looking her straight in the eyes, “he knows the people who brought you to Dubai very well, and probably hates them as much as you do.”
Lara was not prepared for this. Apo was an Armenian nickname, short for Abraham. It would be pronounced Abo in Eastern Armenian. But more importantly, the references ‘the people who brought you to Dubai’ and ‘he hates them as much as you do’ worried her. Are they talking about Ayvazian? Viktor or Sergey? Ano? How do they know I hate the Ayvazians? Do they also know why? What exactly do they know?
“I have never heard of him,” said Lara quietly. Then, looking at Sumaya, she added, “And I do not understand why this is important for me.”
Sumaya was composed and calm, with a gentle smile on her face, which was not characteristic of her, but somehow looked like it suited the moment very well. She could tell that Lara was deeply disturbed by Farah’s revelations.
“Apo hates Ayvazian,” said Farah without any emotion, as if it were the most natural thing to say. “They are competitors in the Turkish market. They have had major clashes over the years. The Turks of course play both sides, as they should. So they both have friends in Turkey, and sometimes their friends are the same people. But they cannot stand each other.”
Lara said nothing. So they knew about Ayvazian, which probably was not a difficult discovery considering the connection with Ano. But how much did they know about the details of her personal story? She was not about to volunteer any information.
“Apo also has his resources in Armenia,” continued Farah. “He knows about your village and your family.”
Lara calmly dipped a piece of pita bread in the za’atar, turned it around to make sure that the olive oil would not drip, and brought it to her mouth. It was actually very good. Dried thyme, sumac, white sesame seeds and olive oil made a brilliant concoction, which for some reason had never reached Armenia. She deliberately focused on the za’atar because she did not want her interest in Farah’s story to be obvious.
“Oh, so he knows my village and my family?” she said, trying not to speak with her mouth full, apparently paying more attention to her table manners than to the subject matter.
“No,” said Farah gently, “I said he knows about your village and your family. He does not know your family yet, but he can easily visit them if you want.”
A chill went through Lara’s body and she wished she could talk to Sumaya alone. Her family did not know where she was or what she was doing. Having one of Farah’s friends contact them would be the worst risk to take, even though she was dying to hear from them. She could not trust Farah with any of her personal family issues. The thought of her last night with Al Barmaka popped into her mind, and a very uneasy sense of betrayal started to take shape in her thoughts. He would not approve of this conversation. This whole conversation could very well be a violation of Al Barmaka’s trust. It all boiled down to the original question when she came to Sumaya’s house: Who could she trust? Sumaya or Al Barmaka? And now she was concerned with a more dangerous thought: Who could she afford to betray? Because it had just dawned on her that trusting one meant betraying the other.
“I would not want a stranger to go to that kind of trouble,” Lara said calmly, “going from Istanbul to Armenia, let alone traveling to my village, which is no small matter. Besides, what would be the point? There’s no point in that at all. But Farah, many thanks for the offer anyway. I truly appreciate it.”
“We just thought perhaps you’d like to hear some news from home,” said Farah, still smiling gently and looking back and forth between Lara and Sumaya. “If you don’t see any point in it, then of course there is no point.”
“Leila, I understand your position perfectly,” said Sumaya, who had just realized that the meeting was a big mistake and should not have involved Farah. She was kicking herself for her error in judgment. She had assumed that the prospect of contacting home would so overwhelm Lara that she would put all other considerations aside, but she had not factored in the risks that such a decision could pose for Lara. “But no harm done. It is always good to know the options that one has, no? And this Mr. Apo is an interesting option, which one day you may want to use, that’s all. We can forget about him for now.”
The rest of the breakfast passed with barely disguised tension and apparent pleasantries. All three were very polite and cultured with one another. Lara had already made up her mind about how much she wanted to reveal to Sumaya. She had also decided that there wasn’t much that she could possibly tell Farah, at least not at this stage in their relationship. Farah had long sensed that Lara would not trust her and that Sumaya would have to smooth things over if they wanted to pursue the Turkish connection.
A few days earlier, about an hour after the meeting in which they had tried to plan Lara’s fate, Farah had called Sumaya.
“You asked who else we know in Istanbul,” she had said. “I know someone who would give us an entirely new angle. We might not have to bother with Mehmet.”
“Come back over,” Sumaya had said.
Farah had told her about Apo, the Istanbul Armenian. He was very active in the Turkish market and handled a lot of traffic from Armenia.
“Could he have been involved at all with Leila?” Farah had asked.
“I doubt it. The people who brought Leila here have a different name. I cannot think of it now, but I have it written somewhere.”
Sumaya went to the desk in her bedroom and produced a thin file.
“Here it is,” she said. “Ayvazian. Is this Apo of yours Ayvazian?”
“No,” said Farah excitedly. “But I have heard the name. From Apo, in fact. They are competitors in Turkey and they don’t like each other. So actually this may be good. Apo may be happy to embarrass Ayvazian by having Leila disappear somewhe
re in Turkey. Unlike Mehmet, he may also be able to ship her back to Moscow. The farther the better, don’t you think?”
Sumaya had agreed. In Apo’s case, she had no objection to Farah calling him directly; this was different from calling Mehmet, as Al Barmaka had had no dealings with Apo, so the risk associated with establishing a link was much lower. Farah had called Apo and talked to him about a young Armenian girl who may need his “help” in relocating out of Dubai. Apo had not asked a lot of questions over the phone but had agreed in principle. He knew Farah. Based on the information provided by Sumaya, Farah had given him some details about the involvement of Ayvazian and the region in Armenia that she came from. Apo said he knew the region; and he was intrigued by the prospect of snatching the girl from Ayvazian.
Sumaya suspected that Lara would call her as soon as she got back to her house, just as Farah had done a few days earlier. And sure enough, Lara did.
“Thank you for a delightful breakfast,” she said.
“You’re welcome, habibty,” said Sumaya. “I’m glad you enjoyed it. I only hope the mention of this Apo guy did not upset you.”
“No, it did not upset me. But frankly, I’m still wondering what that was all about.”
“I understand,” said Sumaya. “Leila, I need to run a few errands now, but I could stop at your place later this afternoon. We can talk then.”
“Okay,” said Lara, “see you soon.” And then to show her progress in her Arabic studies, she added, “Ma fi mushkele. There’s no problem.”
A Place Far Away Page 24