The Debt of Tamar

by Dweck, Nicole

  Selim would open the case occasionally, just to have a look. It hadn’t been touched in over a decade. He was content to know that the instrument was unblemished by his fingerprints, confident that the strings were as taut as they could possibly be. The instrument would endure. It was a magnificent burden—He kept its existence a well-guarded secret, locked away in its case in the back of the cupboard. He admired it with the same passive rapaciousness with which he had guarded all things precious.

  Selim was not used to the sound of another person breathing in his room. He wanted to reach out and touch her, for his fingers to whisper “wake, speak,” but he did no such thing. He just sat in his chair, separated from her by a brooding space that seemed to pulsate as the chair rocked towards, then away from her.

  Sensing his eyes upon her, she woke up and turned towards him, her face suddenly seeming younger, fuller. With her eyes still closed, she smiled slowly, but with such unbridled radiance that Selim felt ashamed of himself.

  “You should leave.”

  The huskiness in his voice seemed to startle her.

  He stood up and made his way over to the night table, pouring himself a glass of water from the pitcher on the dresser. He took a long sip then placed it back down, branding a dark wet ring on the mahogany dresser.

  “Leave? But it’s so early?” she answered drowsily.

  Selim looked around the room. Her clothes were strewn about the place. He gathered her purse, the stiletto pumps, and a lacy bra with small pink bows lined along the straps. He found her satin dress lost somewhere in the warm rumpled bed sheets. “I’ve got to get to work.” He handed everything to her in a messy pile.

  As he searched his closet, she rose and left the room, returning a few minutes later with a cup of steaming black coffee. “I hope you don’t mind.” She tucked herself back under his Egyptian cotton sheets, her black course hair splayed across the pillow. She held the gold embossed china with two hands and sipped cautiously as a small plume of steam rose between her dark eyes.

  “How old are you?” he wondered aloud.

  “Twenty-two. You thought I was older?”

  “By at least a decade.” The words had slipped out and he worried that his comment had insulted her. He turned, ready to apologize, but when their eyes met, it was clear she was in no way bothered. On the contrary, she seemed pleased.

  Wide-eyed and glowing, she reached for her coffee and took a deep sip, tilting the cup up against her face.

  “You’ll burn yourself like that.” He reached over and took the cup away from her, returning it to the coaster by the bedside.

  He was suddenly ashamed of how bluntly he had spoken to her the night before, ashamed that he had aired his dirty laundry with a complete stranger. He wanted her gone.

  “I’ve got to get to work. When you leave, just make sure the door is locked behind you.”

  *

  From his office in Taksim, Selim now managed a dozen shopping centers throughout the city and several motels near the airport. They were not the prestigious properties his family had once managed, luxury resorts along the Turkish Riviera, hotels in the Galata region. Yet, Selim took tremendous pride in his work, involving himself in every detail of the business, no matter how big or small.

  Every so often, Miro, the office manager, would knock to let him know about a tenant that was behind on his rent, a broken water tanker in one of the hotels, or just to say they were going down to pick up some lamb kebabs from the street vendor below and would he like a skewer or two?

  During his lunch break, Selim scanned the library that contained books he’d collected throughout his lifetime. The narrow shelves housed Saint-Exupéry’s Petit Prince, works of Shakespeare, the maxims of Confucius, a copy of the Koran, as well as the old and new testaments. Homer’s Odyssey rested between a collection of Aesop’s fables and 1001 Tales of the Arabian nights. The floor to ceiling shelving unit was a majestic mess of undisputed history, tall tales of fiction, and ancient fables passed down for generations. On this day at noon, he settled on Tolstoy and selected a hefty novel he’d not yet read.

  A few hours later, he took a taxi to a small hotel he owned near the airport. There were reports that squatters had taken over the place and he wanted to check out the situation himself. The hotel had been closed for several months as a planned renovation had been stalled due to an expired permit. When he stepped out into the parking lot, the first thing he noticed was a loose plank concealing a glassless floor to ceiling window on the ground floor beside some dry hedges. He swung the plank aside and stepped through the empty windowpane. “Merhaba? Hello?” He noticed a pair of men’s slippers. A loaf of bread. A bottle of disinfectant spray and a roll of paper towels near the bathroom. Looking at these abandoned items, he felt a sense of loneliness. He heard footsteps quicken in the hallway. He stood there, engulfed in the warm space where a person had just vanished.

  As he made his way down the hall, Selim stopped before an open door where a young boy slept on a thin mattress. A balding street-mutt lifted its snout and yapped loudly in his direction.

  Startled awake, the boy leaped from his mattress and attempted an escape through the doorway. He stumbled over a pile of dirty clothes and knocked over a wet dog bowl as he tried to maneuver his way past the stranger standing before him.

  Selim took hold of the yellowed sleeve of the boy’s t-shirt and lifted the frantic boy off the ground. “Relax!” he shouted, as he forced the boy to sit back on the mattress. “You’re not in any trouble.”

  “Please, don’t call the police,” the boy pleaded while his dog carried on yapping. “We can leave.”

  “Who sleeps there?” Selim motioned in the direction of a second mattress at the opposite end of the room.

  “My father.”

  “Well when he gets back, tell him he can’t live here anymore.”

  A quiet voice sounded from behind. “I’m Ozgur.”

  Selim turned to discover a rail-thin man with a bandaged leg standing in the doorway.

  “We’re leaving. Just give us a few minutes,” the man said quietly. “Emre, get your things. We have to go now.”

  “What happened to your leg?” Selim asked as the man hobbled through the room.

  “Work accident. Crushed under a falling steel beam.” He picked up a duffel bag and tossed a few shirts inside. “They don’t employ cripples on construction sites.” He made his way to the bathroom and came out carrying a bar of soap, a toothbrush, and a man’s shaving kit.

  “Well you can’t stay here for free.”

  The man frowned then motioned for his son to follow. He tried to push past Selim, but Selim held out his arm and blocked the doorway. “I said you couldn’t stay here for free. I didn’t say you couldn’t stay.”

  The man laughed bitterly. “Do we look like we have money? Emre sells gum and batteries on the side of the highway just to help us get some food to eat.”

  “I have no problem employing someone with an injury.”

  “Work?”

  “Yes. I’m offering you a job. You and Emre can stay here. You’ll be paid like everyone else, except for a small rent deduction for this space. Renovations start next week. What do you say?”

  “What do I say?” The man dropped his bag and put his arms around Selim. “Mashallah!”

  “Yes!” The young boy jumped forward and wrapped his arms around Selim’s long leg.

  *

  He returned home late that evening and discovered that Ayda had left, but only to go home and pack up her things—things that were now packed away in suitcases lined neatly against the wall. She was sitting on his couch wrapped in his terry cloth robe, her hair wet and her feet bare.

  “You’re still here.” His eyes scanned the Louis Vuitton luggage lined up in the foyer. “You have no plans on leaving?”

  “I don’t.” A moment of silence passed between them.

  “What’s this?” She stood up and made her way towards him, then reached for the book he carr
ied and flipped to the title page. “Anna Karenina.” She looked up and smiled. “One of my favorites. There was a big library.” She took out a cigarette and let it dangle between her fingers. “That was probably the only good thing at the orphanage.” She lit up and blew smoke away from them both.

  “I’d prefer you didn’t smoke here.” His voice was flat.

  She seemed to contemplate this for a moment before opening the window just a crack and flicking ashes over the wet street below. “I was interested in Russian literature.” She took a few more puffs then tossed the lean cigarette over the edge of the windowsill.

  He was perturbed that she had the gall to smoke in his apartment, the nerve to shower in his bathroom and then saunter around in his robe, as though his place was her own. As though she belonged. Selim mumbled something under his breath, then headed out into the foyer. He was sad, especially this very day. He wanted to mourn the remainder of the day in solitude.

  “I won’t be here all the time and I won’t get in your way,” she assured him as she followed him into the drawing room. “I’d like to stay here, with you.”

  Selim stepped out onto the balcony and found himself engulfed in the night’s moisture. The street below was dark, lit only by a few flickering street lamps and the red taillights of passing vehicles.

  The engine of a motorbike roared in the distance of his memory. Slow down, Brother. Slow down! Those last words before his brother’s death never ceased to haunt him. He swallowed the knot forming at the base of his throat. His palms gripped the iron railing and he found himself leaning against it with all his weight.

  He spun around to face her. “Why?”

  Ayda sat on his couch just a few feet away, leafing through the worn pages of Anna Karenina. After a moment, she looked up. “Because I like you, and I think you like me too.” She put down the book, made her way to his liquor cabinet, and poured herself a drink.

  Watching her move, he was overcome with a tranquility he had not known for some time.

  They sat beside one another for a few quiet minutes. He reached for her hand and weaved his fingers through hers. He realized that just by saying them, she’d made her words true.

  18

  Ayda cooked dinner for him, looked after the hydrangeas on the small balcony garden, and kept the place tidy. Oftentimes, he was welcomed home by the scent of simmering borek, savory meats ground with onions and peppers, stuffed away into fried pastry dough. She served him mint tea with a dash of pine nuts that gathered in a floating loop along the rim of his steamy glass.

  He’d come home from work and sip his tea quietly through a small cube of sugar held between his teeth and against the tip of his tongue. After dinner, he’d retreat to his study where he smoked cigars and drank cognac in the big leather chair by the window. Sometimes, he’d read a book or play online poker with strangers who went by names like Tommyboycruze or Jesusismyhomeboy. Then, he’d return to bed for something that looked like love, but hadn’t yet been named. For a month, her loving satisfied him in a way that made his pain a little duller, a little less real. In his dreams, he spoke to Ali. “So much time has passed, and you’re still so young,” but it was not Ali who answered, it was Ayda. “Darling, I’m not young, I’m old. I always have been.”

  *

  It was six thirty in the morning, four weeks to the day since they had begun their affair. Selim sat on the living room sofa with his head on one armrest and his feet propped up on the other.

  He was still in his robe when she strolled out of the bedroom wearing a dangerously chic, white pants suit and red-soled, Louboutin pumps. Her dark hair fell in loose waves that she had styled with a curling iron.

  “You’re up early.”

  She made her way towards the couch where he sat, leaned over and kissed him quickly. “I’ve got an early breakfast.” She glanced at her watch.

  “What’s this?” Selim reached for something she seemed to be concealing behind her back.

  “It’s nothing,” she explained while placing what appeared to be a journal on the surface of the dining table.

  Selim sat forward. Not content with his view, he got to his feet and shuffled over for a closer look. Its linen jacket was embellished with silver stitching, mirrored beads, and loose strings dangling where some threads had come undone. It was the notebook of a young girl, fashioned in the same tawdry fabric that lined countless knickknacks sold throughout the Grand Bizarre.

  Ayda’s long fingers hovered over the notebook. While Selim looked at her, she looked at the sea. Her dark eyes met his on the surface of the glass window. She stood unmoved while the waves lapped over her ghostly reflection.

  “What is it?” Selim nodded in the direction of the notebook.

  She stepped away, vanquishing the watery phantom that had been hovering by the window. “It’s my journal.”

  “What do you write about?”

  “I don’t write.”

  Selim nodded.

  “I used to write. I stopped a while ago.” Her polished nails moved to her lower lip and rested between her teeth.

  “What did you write about?”

  “Everything. Nothing. I didn’t have anyone to talk to when I was younger. I was pretty much on my own.” Her hand fell away and she stood a little taller. “That’s why I began to write. It just made me feel better. It’s hard to explain, but when I wrote in it and read through it, it reminded me that I was someone, even if no one else knew it.” She shook her head as her cheeks flushed. “Does that make sense?”

  Selim frowned uncomfortably. “It makes sense.”

  She glanced down at her watch. “I have to go,” she said while heading towards the door.

  “Do you usually just leave it out like that?” he called after her.

  “No.” She turned so that her chiseled profile was on display. Her chin was slightly elevated and she barely blinked at all. Nothing in her demeanor suggested that it had been left there accidently, and she made no move to retrieve the thing.

  It took only a moment before her motive became glaringly obvious.

  “I’ll be back in a few hours.” She cleared her throat and reached for her purse and keys.

  Selim followed her to the door and pressed his palm up against it blocking any possibility of her passing. “Are you sure you want me to?”

  She offered a blank smile. “I really shouldn’t be late.” She reached for the knob but fell short of turning it.

  Reluctantly, Selim stepped away.

  Catching a glimpse of her reflection in the mirror by the door, she tossed her hair casually, then headed away with only the slightest hint of hesitation.

  When she was gone, he collapsed back onto the sofa. He sat there in what seemed to be a standoff with the journal. His eyes never wavered from its garish cover. The faint sheen of the green jacket seemed to glare back at him.

  She wanted him to know, but did he? In an instant, the journal had become his home’s new center of gravity. Everything seemed to revolve around it. He got up to fix himself a cup of coffee, orbiting its perimeter as he made his way to the kitchen. On his way back into the living room, he eyed it suspiciously, considering it from his rotating vantage point. Selim placed his coffee and coaster down on the table then rose as quickly as he’d sat.

  Eventually, he made his way to the dining table. He took hold of it, (or it of he?) He’d be late for work if he started reading now.

  Work be damned.

  He opened the journal of Ayda Turkman and this is what he learned.

  Ayda Turkman

  Ayda was born in a tenement in Tarlabaci, a crumbling shantytown just a few miles away from some of Istanbul’s most elegant and renowned hotels. She’d attended an all-girls school at a government-funded orphanage on the fringes of the city.

  Her mother lived in a bunker with a dozen other women at the toy factory where she worked long hours outside Istanbul. She’d take the bus into the city on Saturdays to visit her daughter. As gifts, she’d bring toys th
at she swiped from factory assembly-lines, stuffed beanies intended to be sold to European children who frequented souvenir shops around the Eiffel Tower and the piazzas of Rome.

  The orphanage became Ayda’s permanent home the day of the big earthquake, when the shoddy roof of the dilapidated factory collapsed, trapping hundreds of assembly-line workers inside. No one thought to tell Ayda of this when it happened, and so, every Saturday for months, she would put on her good shoes and spend the afternoon looking out the window, waiting for her mother’s visit.

  She grew up in that orphanage with dozens of other girls, sharing tears and beds and bedtime stories. When she was not studying or doing her chores, she spent her free time climbing up and down ladders, pulling dusty books from high shelves in forgotten corners of the library. Encyclopedia volumes were stacked in piles that doubled as nightstands. She’d return them all promptly, keeping only one encyclopedia volume for herself. No one would miss it, she reasoned. She was the only one at the orphanage to borrow books anyhow.

  In the evenings, she would withdraw the volume and flip forward to a bookmarked entry entitled family. There were all types of families, as Ayda would discover. There were Eastern families and Western families, big families and small families. Conservative families and liberal families. There were mothers for daughters and fathers for sons. Brothers for sisters and sisters for brothers. It seemed that on every street in every city in every country of the world, children lived with families that loved them. “Why am I alone?” She went about trying to answer the question methodically, scouring translucent pages, pouring over encyclopedia volumes one at a time. In the end, she knew much about the world, but little more of herself.

  At sixteen, Ayda discovered a stash of liquor stored under a loose floorboard at the orphanage. She waited until sundown to try the stuff. Completely intoxicated, she and a few other girls were laughing fiendishly by the time they’d finished the bottle. The girls’ laughter awoke the headmistress. After acknowledging her role as ring leader, Ayda was told to lay down on her bed, backside up, before the headmistress removed her belt and whipped her legs while the other girls looked on. The shame and embarrassment stung far worse than her wounds ever did. Alcohol was haram- forbidden according to the Koran.