by Jan Coffey
Still, on the third Saturday in September, she invited some of her friends, as well as Tiam’s friends, to their apartment for dinner. She didn’t tell any of them that her daughter’s actual birthday had been two days earlier. It wouldn’t have mattered to them anyway. But it mattered to her. The light of her eyes was now eighteen years old.
Zari had called Emine and asked if she could arrive early. Her friend was coming directly from work and bringing boxes of halva and baklava.
A deep camaraderie had begun when a nurse helped a homeless mother and her sick child in the halls of a hospital. Over the years, their friendship had evolved into a close and abiding sisterhood.
Zari helped when Emine’s mother had a stroke and was bedridden for a year, before passing away. She watched the grandchildren whenever the family needed an extra hand.
On her part, Emine helped her raise Tiam on her own. She helped her get a job and keep a job. She co-signed a lease so Zari could get an apartment, and then get her residence papers. The occasions where they supported one another were so numerous, and each one was woven into the fabric of their connected existence. Emine was a mother to her. A friend. A sister. Her malak, her angel.
When the doorbell rang, Zari dried her hands on a dish towel and pressed the buzzer on the intercom. She opened the door of her apartment and waited on the landing of the fourth story walk-up for her friend to climb the steps.
Emine was out of breath by the time she reached the door. She worked too much. At her age, six days a week in the hospital were too many hours to be on her feet. Streaks of gray hair had turned white in recent years. She wore them proudly. She said she’d earned them.
The women kissed each other on both cheeks and hugged. Shoes were left at the door. Zari took the boxes of sweets into the kitchen and put them on the counter.
Emine poked her head in the sitting room and the two bedrooms before coming into the kitchen.
“Where’s your çocuk?”
“She takes art classes on Saturdays in Kadiköy. She’ll be back by six and bring her friends with her.”
“Such a smart girl, our Tiam. Nothing stops her. Nothing slows her down. Allah iyilik versin.”
God bless her. Zari prayed for the same thing every day.
“What can I do to help you?”
“Nothing! Everything is ready.”
Zari pointed to the dolmas she’d rolled. They were already arranged on platters, alongside the triangular slices of kuku sabzi she prepared for dinner. She turned off the heat under the biryani and the soup simmering on the stove. The Kurdish salad was in the refrigerator. So was the yogurt drink. She’d made all of Tiam’s favorite dishes for dinner.
She poured sweet tea in tulip-shaped glasses and placed a dish of walnuts and raisins on the tray.
Ushering her friend into the sitting room, Zari joined her on the thick carpet covering the floor. The two women leaned back against the Turkmen rug pillows Zari had saved up to buy last year.
This room, this snug apartment, was a blend of the person she was two decades ago and the person she’d become now. Colorful mosaic domes of Turkish lamps hung from the ceiling. Prayer rugs were folded and stacked in the corner, ready to be spread out when adhan was called out by the muezzin in the neighborhood mosque. On the wall, framed verses of poetry were depicted in calligraphy. Near one corner, the square table was her daughter’s favorite place to paint and do her schoolwork. Beside it, a small bookshelf of dark wood was filled with Zari’s own volumes of poetry. Tiam’s schoolbooks were on the top shelf.
“Your house is clean. Your dinner is ready. As always, you’ve cooked enough to feed a hundred hungry people instead of…” Emine paused. “How many are coming?”
“I think ten. But I never know with Tiam. She might bring more friends home.”
Zari glanced at the clock on the wall. She had to say what was on her mind before anyone else arrived.
“I went to the bank today and spoke to the manager. I asked him for a loan.”
“A loan? What are you buying?”
“A car. I’d like to buy Tiam a car.”
“But why?” Emine tsked, the colloquial Turkish way of saying no. “The congestion in Istanbul. The parking. The angry drivers. Why would you do such a thing to your good-natured daughter?”
Zari’s intention wasn’t for Tiam to drive the car every day. But with her frequent bouts of sickness, her breathing problems, Zari wanted her to have options. The university she’d been accepted to had multiple campuses. One of them was in the northeast part of the city. Far away from here. It would take too long if she were to depend on public transportation.
She explained all of this to Emine. Zari’s friend had a car too. Most of the time it was parked in front of her apartment building, but she still had it, in case she needed it.
“But when I was at the bank, the manager asked me why I’m taking out a loan when I already have so much money in my savings account.”
“How much money have you saved?”
Zari leaned forward, studying the other woman’s expression. “You should know. You put it there.”
“Me? I’ve done no such thing.”
This time, Zari was the one who tsked. “Everything around us has your stamp on it. The rug we’re sitting on. The new coats Tiam receives every winter. I can go on and on. We both know what you’ve done. I am grateful beyond measure for your generosity over the years. But this time, I can’t accept it. It’s too much.”
Emine shook her head. “Not me, my friend.”
“There is no use denying it.” Zari patted her on the knee. “I won’t permit this. You can’t put money into my account. You’re still working to retire. You have grandchildren at your sofreh now.”
“I tell you it wasn’t me.” Emine put the empty tea glass on the tray. “Someone else must be putting money in your account.”
“If not you, then who?”
Emine started to get up. “I’ll pour us more tea.”
Zari put her hand out, stopping her friend. “You know something, don’t you?”
“Think of it as a zakat, a contribution that should be made to you. Accept it. Spend it on your daughter. Buy the car she needs. Do whatever you want with it. You deserve it. It’s yours.”
Zari knew Emine too well. Sitting beside her was a woman who worked hard for everything in her life. There were no shortcuts. No easy roads. The words she’d just spoken didn’t belong on her lips.
“You call me your sister. Then speak to me like one. Whose zakat is it? Why are they giving it to me?”
Emine rubbed her temples as if in pain. “Let it go.”
“I can’t. I won’t. If you don’t tell me, I’ll go back to the bank and tell the manager that there has been a mistake. A bank error. The money isn’t mine. They can do whatever they want with it.”
“Please, Zari.”
“I’ve learned from you. I work hard. I need no more charity from strangers.”
She picked up the tray and got to her feet to get more tea.
“That money is not from a stranger. It was put there by your husband.”
Zari stopped dead, grabbing the edge of the table. She couldn’t breathe. Her heart beat was a pounding roar in her ears. The room swayed, and she sat down on the nearest chair.
“My husband?”
“Your husband. Yahya.”
“Yahya?” She breathed his name as if she could bring him to life. “How? How do you know Yahya?”
He was alive, and the knowledge brought tears. For more than eighteen years, Zari had waited. She’d prayed. And she’d looked for him. She’d gone back to Ankara several times. She’d searched everywhere, there and here in Istanbul. On the streets. At the bus stops. In the Kurdish neighborhoods. She’d searched the lines of men preparing to pray at the mosque, hoping that one day her husband would be there.
“Where is he? Please, Emine.” She dashed away tears from her face. “Where has he been? Why…why would you know, but not me? Where is he now?”
Question after question tumbled out. But she couldn’t slow down long enough to hear the answers. Emine rose to her feet and gathered Zari to her chest.
“This can’t be real. I didn’t think I would ever see him again. He’s alive. Is he well?”
“I’m not supposed to let you know. I was told never to mention his name. But he’s been in Istanbul for a long time. And he’s been watching over you and his daughter. Taking care of you and Tiam.”
“Why wouldn’t he come to us?”
Emine shook her head. Pulling out another chair from the table, she sat down. Their knees touched, and she took Zari’s hands in hers. “He thinks that’s not wise. It’s not what he wants.”
“He doesn’t want me?” Her voice shook as the words tumbled out of her lips. “He doesn’t want his wife?”
“Yahya is not the man you married. He has another life now.”
“What do you mean, another life? Where has he been?” A hard thought pierced her chest. “Does he have a new wife?”
So many Kurdish families were torn apart after they fled their land. Lost to each other, they had to start again and make a new life.
“He went to prison, Zari. For ten years.”
This was too much to comprehend. She struck her own chest with a fist. Why would he go to prison? Yahya?
“He joined a gang there. A criminal gang. And now, the people he works with, they are dangerous men. He is a dangerous man. The person he’s become is different from the person you married. I’m telling you, these are bad people.”
She couldn’t believe any of this. Yahya was a good person. Smart and good. She still had his letters. “How do you know all of this?”
“Remember when Tiam was in the hospital for a month during her first year of high school?”
Zari would never forget those torturous weeks. She thought that her daughter would die. None of the doctors were offering any hope or encouragement. But Tiam had survived by sheer force of will.
“That was when your husband contacted me. He paid for everything. The hospital. The tests. The doctors. More doctors. He visited your boss and made sure your job would be waiting for you, even though no one could say when you would return to work. And he made me promise to keep his secret.” Emine patted Zari’s hand. “The money in the bank is him.”
Zari pulled her hands away and wrapped them around her middle. Yahya. The pain in her heart wouldn’t go away. “How did he find me?”
“You have papers now. You and Tiam have been in the government system for a long time. You use your real name, where you were born. Anyone can find you now.”
A narrow bridge formed, stretching through a mist toward the man she loved. Toward the life she once had. Toward the happiness she’d once known. She needed Emine’s help to cross it.
“Why did he go to prison?”
“I don’t know.”
“When did he come to Istanbul?”
“I don’t know.”
“Can I see him?”
“No.”
“He doesn’t want to see me?”
“He doesn’t.”
Emine’s words were knives, ripping open her chest.
“I said it before. He’s a different man from the one you married. He wants no connection with his past. He wants no one to know he had a wife.”
“But he still feels obligated to provide for us?” she asked. If Yahya wanted to destroy the bridge between them, then why not walk away and forget them?
“He thinks he failed you as a husband. With things as they are, you’re both better off being apart. And yet, he feels responsible for you. Financially. Tiam is his daughter. She’s his flesh and blood. A piece of him. The love of a parent to a child never goes away. He’ll be out there for her, watching, protecting, providing…forever.”
Zari looked up at Tiam’s books. At Tiam’s shoes by the door. At Tiam’s colorful array of headscarves hanging by the door. Her daughter’s handprint was everywhere in Zari’s life. But she was her daughter. Not his.
Sadness and relief swirled through her like twin spirits. She was glad Yahya didn’t want to see her. For the first time, she realized she couldn’t see him. Not today. And not eight years ago or whenever it was since he got out of prison. And not tomorrow either. How could she?
How could she face him and tell him she’d lost his daughter? Their daughter.
Part V
Last night, when Irem's magic garden slept,
The wind of morning through the alleys stepped,
Stirring the hyacinth’s purple tresses curled,
"Where is thy cup, the mirror of the world?
Ah, where is Love, you Throne of Djem?" I cried.
The breezes knew not; but "Alas," they sighed,
"That happiness should sleep so long!" and wept.
— Ḥafeẓ
16
Christina
Now
Ending the call and jamming the phone in my bag, I move away from the sliding glass door into the terminal, past massive gray pillars that are arranged in rows for the entire length of the building.
I’ll be here, madam. Waiting. That’s all the driver had to say for himself when he dropped me off at the curb. Are you fucking kidding me? Are you pretending that nothing happened? That you didn’t scare me shitless?
My heart is racing, and my entire body is trembling. I’m relieved that I reached the airport in one piece. Too scared that he’d gun the engine and kidnap me, I shoved the door open and bolted.
Because of the late hour, there are fewer people in the long gallery of the terminal than when I arrived with my mother. A large coffee shop in the center of the huge space is open, and I consider stopping there, but I don’t think I can hold a cup steady enough to drink it without spilling.
This airport is new. Istanbul has become a hub for so many airlines. The bridge between continents, cultures—a crossroads for all of us. People fly in, change planes, and fly out, but with the change comes a transition from one stage of life to another. In an airport, people give themselves permission to reflect on their past and ponder their future, so long as there are no distractions. But that doesn’t describe me at the moment.
Everything had to happen today. I think of the documents on Jax’s email and Elizabeth’s rationalizations. Then there’s Kyle and our long overdue conversation. The driver is the icing on the cake.
A monitor mounted on one of the pillars says Kyle’s flight from Osaka by way of Tokyo has already landed. I check the time. He might still be coming through customs.
A trickle of travelers becomes a stream, and then a rushing river. Most are Japanese businessmen and tourists. I spot Kyle among them in the line funneling through.
His mussed hair and tired face show the effect of the hours he’s been in the air. He stands head and shoulders over the others as he comes out. I’ve honestly never been so happy to see him.
He’s surprised to see me waiting beyond the barrier. “What are you doing here? I told you I’d see you at the hotel.”
When he reaches the end of the exit, I’m there waiting for him. I don’t know if I intended to hug him, but I do and then pull away abruptly and shoot a glance toward the cars lining the curb, beyond the glass wall of the terminal. His tired smile quickly darkens into a questioning look.
“What’s going on?”
The thought of what happened has me shaking again. My words tumble out on top of each other. “I came to pick you up. I hired a car service. But on the way here, the driver…well, it was scary.”
“What exactly was scary? What happened?”
Pulling his luggage behind him, he leads me away from the crowd waiting for other passengers. He looks at the sliding doors.
“What the fuck did he do?”
This is Kyle. A lacrosse player and a frat boy in college. Since we’ve been together, I’ve heard plenty of wild stories from his old buddies. I know he’s got enough ‘alpha’ in him to get into a fight. He’s never had to on
my behalf, but I know he would if the situation demanded it.
“On the way here, everything was fine. Then, out of the blue, the driver asks me if I know some Turkish name. It was so random.”
Kyle frowns. “Okay. But that doesn’t sound too scary. Was he being conversational? Maybe he mixed you up with another client.”
“He pulled over to the side of the fucking highway to ask me this question.”
I’ve got his full attention now. His eyes are blazing when he stares at the doors.
“Did he touch you? What did he do?”
“Nothing. He didn’t do anything. But he kept asking the same question. It wasn’t conversational. I didn’t know what was going to happen.”
He runs his fingers through his hair. “What did you say?”
I take a deep breath, holding it together. “I said I don’t know anyone by that name. And I had to say it over and over.”
Two grim policemen wearing vests and carrying machine guns walk by. They stop by an exit. Kyle is watching them. I can tell he’s considering talking to them.
“What happened then?”
“He stares at me for what felt like forever. I was sure I was dead. Then, he just starts driving again and comes here. Like nothing happened.”
“Is he out there now?”
“Yeah, he’s waiting for us.”
Kyle flexes his shoulders and nods toward the doors. “We’ll take a cab back to the hotel. First, I’d like to say a few words to him.”
We walk out of the terminal together. I’m not about to let him go out there alone. The black Lexus is waiting right in front, where he dropped me off.
But then the driver’s door opens, and a young woman, wearing a black suit, white shirt, and black tie, steps out. I peer into the back seat, up and down the sidewalk.
“Who are you? Where’s the driver that brought me here?”
“Good evening, ma’am.” She has almost no accent at all. “An emergency call came for him. The dispatch office directed me to replace him.”
“Where did you come from?”