Dancing for the General

by Sue Star

  The anger that had swelled in her breast earlier on account of Umit’s absence now converted into anxiety that took her by the throat in a chokehold, cutting off her breath. There was nothing to be done about it at the moment. There was still the matter of feeding the family.

  She tied the eşek’s reins to one of the iron stakes atop the yellow wall that surrounded the Americans’ house and left it there to sniff the low-hanging branches of the willow trees. Emerging from their leafy protection, she continued on up the hill, moving swiftly toward the pink wall that enclosed the general’s yard next door.

  As she crested the hill, rustling sounds reached her, like leaves in a wind. Only, no breeze moved the singed air of this late afternoon. She dropped to a crouch beneath the general’s pink wall and held her breath to aid her hearing.

  Whispering voices.

  She crept to the edge of the wall, where a wrought-iron gate revealed a view into the general’s yard. The garden inside was designed like one of the formal parks in Yenişehir, the new business district of the city. Both there and here, gravel paths followed a crisscross design, where planting beds lay between the paths’ intersections.

  Meryem’s gaze followed the source of the whispering to a grove of young trees, protected by a wall of shrubs. The old asker knelt on the ground among an assortment of tools for the garden. Hunkered close to him was a civilian whose black jacket-clad back aimed in her direction. A newspaper-tied bundle lay on the ground between them, and the asker was ticking his head backwards in the gesture that meant a forceful “no.”

  Suddenly, the civilian rose and dropped a handful of coins on the ground beneath the old man’s nose. He turned with a shrug and strode toward the gate where Meryem spied on them. His step on long, thin legs was brisk, unlike that of the Turks she knew.

  She didn’t know this man, but she had seen him before. Somewhere. Where, she could not remember, but with hair like his, how could she forget? Hair curled in black coils as thick as a lamb’s coat, sheared to a point hanging low over his forehead. Hair curled up from the ends of a thick mustache. His nose shaped like a hawk poked out of all that hair, flapping as he walked, no, raced. He closed in on Meryem.

  She jerked away from the wrought-iron gate and flattened herself against the rough surface of the pink wall. She nearly gave herself away, crying out when a thorny branch from the general’s yard bent over the wall and scratched her face.

  And what if she had given herself away? She had every right to stand on this street, even though he might very well accuse her of spying. What was she doing, separated from her donkey that provided her excuse for fouling this fancy neighborhood?

  She told herself to avoid it all and run away. Hide, as Umit was hiding. Her heart, thundering in her chest, refused to give in to such cowardice.

  The soft sounds of whimpers drifted to her from nearby, echoing the sobs that deep inside her, pricked her heart. No, it wasn’t herself crying out, but a child, perhaps. A child cried from the upper floor of the yellow house only a few feet away, over Meryem’s right shoulder.

  She couldn’t be bothered by a child, not when the gate to her left squeaked, and she turned to face the tall, hairy stranger whom the asker had sent away. The fabric of his western suit was a shiny black, not on account of expensive threads, but rather its worn thinness. Beneath the jacket, he wore a cream-colored shirt of coarse fabric and no tie. Beneath that, black chest hair curled through the unbuttoned collar.

  He was secret police, she realized with a sinking feeling of dread. Now she remembered where she’d seen him, and others like him. In her own neighborhood, patrolling the alleys of Ulus. The secret police were no secret. They wore their identity in the irked lines of their faces as surely as if they displayed a badge.

  He recognized her as well, she could tell from the way his flat eyes went dead from under his sheep-like hair. “How convenient,” he said, “that you have followed me. Now I don’t have to hunt you down.”

  “Do not flatter yourself. I don’t know you. Why should I follow you?”

  “Then, what are you doing here?” His brusque tone meant business.

  “Nothing,” she said.

  “Don’t lie to me.” He stepped forward and squinted past her, in the direction of Umit’s donkey tied up down the hill. “That is yours. You’re one of the hawkers from Ulus. Don’t you know the other hawkers have all gone home by now?” He inched close, smelling like rotting mutton. “You filthy, gypsy trash have no business on this side of town this late in the day.”

  He caught her arm in a grip that stopped the blood from flowing. Her arm went numb, then he twisted it in an angle that sent stabs of pain piercing her shoulder. Her eyes rolled back and forth, and she cursed Umit and all men in general.

  “Why are you hurting me?” she said, her voice rising to a wail. Pain wracked through her as he ratcheted his grip on her. “I have done nothing wrong.”

  “Do not become too accustomed to the soft life of our city. You have no business in our affairs.”

  She refused to protest, and he twisted her arm some more. She swallowed a low cry.

  “Go back to where you came from,” he said, spitting the words on her cheek. “And take the rest of your gypsy trash with you.”

  His closeness to her brought him within reach of a thorn, which snagged a coil of his hair. His eyes rolled up and rested on something past her head and beyond the thorns—the source of the stifled sobs issuing from the Americans’ house.

  The gate squeaked, and just as fast, the asker shot into view, jabbing one of his garden tools into the secret policeman’s back. “Leave her alone.”

  Her foe suddenly stiffened. His grip on Meryem slipped enough that she twisted free. Before she backed away from him, she spat on the scuffed, black leather shoe of his nearer foot. He was more peasant trash than she.

  “I’ll take care of her,” the asker said, pressing his tool as if it were a gun into the back of the shiny, black suit.

  The secret policeman lifted his hands up, showing that he carried no gun. He glanced over his shoulder, and when he saw the old man’s harmless weapon, he snarled. He untangled his coiled hair from the limb, snapping the twig in two. By the time his attention turned back to Meryem, she was more than a body length away from him.

  “I’m not finished with you, gypsy,” he said, pointing a finger at her. “I know where to find you.” Then he strode swiftly away, out of sight, toward the mosque on the opposite side of the hill.

  Meryem breathed again and rubbed her wrist. “Thanks,” she mumbled. She could’ve taken care of herself. The asker did not have to intervene on her behalf. But she was glad he had.

  “A man of your strength needs something better than a garden shovel,” she continued.

  He grunted. “The general provides everything I need.”

  “But it’s not enough. Maybe I could help you find a more suitable weapon. One with real bullets.”

  His breath rasped on a sharp intake. “How would someone like you find a thing like that?”

  “I have my ways.”

  The asker’s gaze moved up and down her figure. “The general wouldn’t allow it.”

  Rearranging the heavy folds of her scarf to hide the curves of her body that the tussle with the secret policeman had revealed, she recognized her opportunity. “For only a few lira,” she said, her eyelids fluttering, “I will persuade the general for you. At his next party.” She took a breath and nodded in the direction of the yellow house. “Or I could tell my friends the Americans of your interest in them. You choose.”

  The asker grunted. “Come back later tonight. You can dance tonight.” Then he retreated into the garden, slamming the gate behind him.

  Left alone in the street, Meryem glanced first to the east, the direction of the mosque. The secret policeman did not reappear. Then she contemplated the west, where the eşek twitched at flies. Finally, she looked up at the yellow house. A small face, framed with curly red hair, watched her from a
narrow balcony.

  Chapter Ten

  From the verandah Anna could see Atatürk’s Tomb, miniaturized by distance on one of the swells of the central plateau that rolled along the edge of the city. She wondered if from now on she would always associate the place with murder and death. She wondered if the guard the police had promised to put on her house was somewhere out there now.

  “Where’d they go?” Priscilla asked, interrupting Anna’s glum thoughts.

  Anna turned. Her niece—who hadn’t wanted her here only a short while ago—was now obediently wearing her pedal pushers and watching Anna with a look of curious innocence. “They had to go home.”

  “But why? Tommy and I were going to play.”

  “I believe they had important business to take care of.”

  “But we just got home. They wouldn’t leave already.” Her voice rose to an insistent whine.

  “Shhh, lower your voice,” Anna said. The Turkish soldier, the asker next door, shuffled back into view along the fence.

  “Why should I? What are you worried about?” Priscilla followed Anna’s flicker of attention to the neighbor. “Asker? He just takes care of the general next door!” Whirling around and stomping across the cement floor, she created a small force that shook the verandah as she headed toward the door into the house.

  “Stop!” Anna called. Her voice turned to ice. “We’re not done talking.”

  Priscilla’s stomping feet stilled, but she didn’t turn back to face Anna.

  At least she had the child’s attention, Anna thought. She’d take whatever small victory came her way. “You said in the car that you knew the man from the tomb today. He’s come here to the house. Are you sure those two men are one and the same?”

  “Don’t you believe me?”

  “Of course. I want to know who he was. I’m trying to understand why he came here.”

  “To fix stuff for Fededa, or something. He and his sister go up and down our street every week with their donkey. He fixes stuff, and she tells fortunes, ’cause they’re gypsies.”

  “He has a sister?” Anna’s voice rose with interest.

  Priscilla nodded.

  “What else do you know about them? Do you know where they live? Are there others in their family?” Someone else who might know about Rainer’s letter. Someone who might know what happened to Rainer. Someone who could give Anna the closure she’d needed all those years ago.

  Priscilla shrugged and turned to give Anna a wary look. Red splotches showed around the child’s eyes. She’d been crying.

  Anna felt stabs of sympathy and guilt. She hadn’t noticed the residue of tears before now. “What did he say to you at the tomb today?”

  “He said, ‘Come here, little girl’.”

  “You say he’s a gypsy. How can you be sure? He didn’t look like one, not the way he was dressed. Did your daddy give that suit to him?”

  “You shouldn’t make up your mind about someone just from the way they dress,” Priscilla said.

  Anna startled, then drew up her posture into a stiff, erect line. Priscilla had accused her of the very prejudice she abhorred. She didn’t display her mixed blood by the way she dressed.

  Priscilla tipped her head to one side, wondering, no doubt, why her aunt had gone silent.

  “You’re absolutely right,” Anna finally said. “And I was wrong. I’ve been wrong from the beginning.”

  Priscilla’s jaw dropped, parting her puffy lips wide with surprise. Had no adult ever confessed that to her before? An urge to hug her niece overcame Anna, and she took a step closer to her.

  “What do you think he wanted today?” Anna asked. “At the tomb?”

  “He wanted you.”

  “Did he say that?”

  “No, but he asked me if you were Anna Riddle.”

  “Is that when you told him ‘no’?”

  “Of course not. I told him yes.”

  A sinking feeling weighed through Anna. Then, the man in Henry’s suit with her letter to Rainer had known her identity. But even though he’d known where she lived, and even though he’d been here to the house, he’d gone to the tomb, looking for her there. Instead of speaking to her here, at home.

  Why? Goosebumps tickled her arms.

  He’d had something to say to her, but someone had shot him first. To prevent him from speaking with Anna? From telling her...about Rainer?

  Anna swallowed hard to summon her voice. “I heard you say ‘no.’ When did you tell him ‘no’?”

  “He showed me that necklace,” Priscilla said, “like he wanted me to come closer, so he could give it to me, but I wouldn’t! Then, he started to fall, and he threw it at me.”

  Anna looked away. A bird sang from the direction of the apricot tree along the edge of the hill’s ridge, where the house perched. She did not share any of the bird’s joy. Her niece had so little trust in Anna that she’d felt compelled to hide such important information from her.

  “I didn’t take it,” Priscilla said. “You know what it is, don’t you?”

  “Why did you hide it from me?”

  “The policeman would’ve taken it away, like he took your letter. You didn’t want that, did you?”

  “We’ll have to give it to him, you know.”

  “But you don’t want to.”

  “Sometimes we have to do things we don’t always want to do. You might’ve told me about it.”

  “I’m telling you now.”

  Yes, and it was a start. She smiled with hope.

  “If I can’t play with Tommy,” Priscilla asked cautiously, “can I play with Gulsen instead?”

  “Why, yes, honey, of course.” Gulsen was the Turkish name Priscilla had given to her Tiny Tears baby doll. Mitzi had made Priscilla introduce the doll to Anna as if Tiny Tears were real. Now, Anna suspected that her niece would erase today’s trauma by escaping to her imaginary world. She felt her heart twist. Tomorrow, they’d find something more fun to do, something exciting to bring a sparkle to Priscilla’s eyes.

  Ulus.

  Priscilla rattled the French doors and skipped into the house. Anna heard her say something in Turkish to Fededa, whose wavering voice rose in a song. She sounded like a bird trilling.

  Now that the maid’s prayers were done, Anna hurried inside. A sudsy smell filled the air as she entered the narrow kitchen at the back of the house. Fededa still knelt in her balloon pants, but this time she’d rolled up her sleeves past knobby elbows and was scrubbing the floor with a rag.

  “Yok, yok, yok,” Fededa said, clucking her tongue with each yok, a more severe word that meant “no.” Her chin jerked up, emphasizing each tick, and Anna sprang backwards.

  When Fededa looked up from her pail, dismay shone on her face along with recognition. Anna was the invading culprit, not Priscilla. The maid limped to her feet, bowed, and murmured a stream of apologetic-sounding words. Anna wondered how on earth Mitzi, who didn’t know Turkish, communicated with her own maid.

  “It’s okay,” Anna said. “I’m not going to walk on your clean floor. I just wanted to ask you some questions, that’s all. About the man who came here to polish the pots a few days ago.”

  Fededa continued murmuring in Turkish, and Anna felt her chest tighten with frustration. Neither one of them understood the other.

  “Priscilla!” Anna called, raising her voice as she turned toward the back stairs leading down to the basement playroom. “Will you come translate for me?”

  While Anna waited for Priscilla to appear, she took down a copper pot from a wall hook and pantomimed the act of polishing it. Fededa watched her, then grinned a toothless grin, imitated Anna’s motion, and bobbed with excitement, as if she understood.

  “Yes, that’s it,” Anna said, feeling pleased with herself. “Who was he?” Now she lifted her shoulders in an exaggerated shrug and gestured with her palms up to indicate her question.

  Fededa watched her again, then understanding lit her face, and she imitated Anna’s shrug. “Uuu-mit,” sh
e pronounced carefully.

  “Umit? Is that his name?” Anna felt pleased with herself for producing the information without an interpreter’s assistance. If Umit was a name, then it was something to go on to start tracking down information about Rainer. But how was she ever going to find a Umit in the labyrinth of Ulus?

  Murmuring, Fededa picked up her bucket of sudsy water and disappeared through the back door off the kitchen. Then came a shout and an exchange of angry words. Anna rushed to the window and saw the maid sloshing the contents of the pail onto the grass beside the thin mesh fence that separated the Burkhardts’ yard from the general’s. Fededa and the asker jabbered back and forth, then the maid shook her fist at him and scurried away.

  Back in the kitchen, she smiled at Anna as if nothing had happened. She headed for a closet in the back hall, where she pulled out a string bag, crammed full of her things. She flung the pail into the closet, on top of a small package wrapped in newspaper and tied with string. Then she slammed the door shut, told Anna goodbye, and ducked away.

  “Wait,” Anna said, opening the closet and lifting the pail to reveal the package. “You forgot something. Is this yours?”

  “Yok! Yok!” Fededa clasped Anna’s arm and pulled her away from the closet. Then she reached inside and snatched up the package. With her face drained of color, she tucked the package into her string bag and raced for the back door.

  Stunned, Anna watched through the window as the maid darted around the side of the house in the direction of the street. Her lips continued to move in agitation, still muttering “yok” as she headed for the dolmuş, that sardine can of a Turkish bus Henry had warned her against using. Anna had only tried to help, but clearly the reminder of the package had upset the maid. Perhaps her “yok” meant that the package didn’t belong to Fededa. Or it might’ve just meant that Anna wasn’t allowed to see it.

  Maybe it contained the rest of Rainer’s lost batch of letters.

  Anna’s head spun. Fededa wouldn’t have Rainer’s letters.