He is never so thankful than when he sees the Bergisel ski jump tower at Innsbruck the next day.
Goethe Platz
Kazan begins to sense he is being followed. He often carries small bags of gems on his trips, so he is accustomed to practicing vigilance, looking around, avoiding crowds. But here in Zürich, he carries no gems—only the books he needs for his classes at the university. He can think of no reason why he would be followed, and he has yet to spot anyone suspicious.
Is he becoming paranoid? He doesn't think so. But he often feels a laser-like concentration singe the hairs on the back of his neck. He turns, but no one is there.
He gave Michael Chalhoub a false phone number, but somehow he found Uncle Osman's unlisted private line. He calls Kazan two or three times a month, inviting him to coffee or a meeting, which he turns down. Kazan wonders if he is having him followed.
Before he even realizes what he is doing, he instinctively crosses streets in the middle of the block, changing up his routes and routines. He pauses in front of display windows and checks the reflection of what's behind him. He gets on buses, and immediately gets off. He enters stores from one entrance and leaves through another, while assisting an old woman with her packages. He goes to his classes early, and sits in empty classrooms, waiting. He never goes to the same café twice.
When he makes a deflective move, he feels a buoyancy behind him, as if leaving a tunnel. His suspicion becomes a certainty.
Uncle Osman notices a change in him, a jumpiness. “Why don't you get a girlfriend, or visit a friend from school. It isn't good to hang around an old fart like me all the time.”
Friends from school. Right. That's just who he's trying to avoid.
Then he thinks of Laszlo, and has an intense desire to know what he's up to. He hasn't seen him since graduation. He gives his mother a call.
“Kazan! Tesoro! How wonderful to hear from you. What are you doing? Where are you living?” Ana Luzzatti is full of questions, and fills him in on the family. “Laszlo finished his Israeli military service and lives in Frankfurt now.”
“He didn't go to Harvard?”
“I wish he would, but he's decided to put it off until after the war. Why don't you give him a call. He'd love to hear from you.”
Within a few weeks, Kazan finds himself in Frankfurt on business for Uncle Osman, and gives Laszlo a call. It's amazing. He sounds exactly like he used to—as if they'd seen one another just a couple of days ago. They talk for an hour, and agree to meet at an outdoor café on Goethe Platz the next day.
Laszlo is already sitting there drinking beer, when Kazan walks across the plaza. He is taller, still skinny, with a silly little goatee—a French painter from La Belle Époque. He breaks into a wide grin and gives Kazan a percussive hug. Kazan can feel how strong he is under his loose tweed jacket. Sinewy, with arm muscles where he used to have sticks, his back rock hard.
They drink beer and reminisce. “Mom still has that Turkish rug you gave her. She treasures it, you know. She thought you were special. Christ, she still talks about you. How about your family”
“I lost my grandfather.”
“The one who lived in Turkey? Who told you all those great stories about the Mongols?”
“Yeah. I don't think he ever wrote them down.”
“You should do it, you know, before you forget them.”
Most of what they discuss in Goethe Platz is about the old days. Laszlo offers almost no information about himself, but he apparently is not going to school, and does a lot of traveling in Europe.
Kazan isn't sure why he doesn't mention running into Chalhoub and Chahine. He is kind of embarrassed about it. He tells Laszlo he's working with his uncle in the antique business and going to Zürich University, studying engineering.
Politics does not come up. The state of the war does not come up. Kazan's status as a Swiss citizen does not come up.
Before they part, Laszlo gives him a different number than the one his mother gave him, a number in Paris. Kazan can always get in touch with him there. “If you want to mail me, send it here.” It is an address in Israel.
Krankenhaus
Kazan finally got Uncle Osman to go to the doctor, and now he sits in an austere light-blue room at the hospital, waiting for him to get an MRI.
He's the only father I've ever had. This is what he thinks as he stares at his shoes, elbows on his knees. If he put together all the times he'd seen Ahmed, he doesn't think it would come to more than a few weeks. All through his childhood, Ahmed breezed into the village in his silver-metallic Mercedes, handing out presents and money, had a few serious discussions with the village elders, then a drink of coffee, a pat on the head, disappearing again in a cloud of dust. He got monthly calls when he was at Berchtold, no visits. In the few times he's been to visit family in Amsterdam, his father was rarely there.
Uncle Osman has always treated Kazan like an adult, a companion, a friend. It always gave him comfort to hear him puttering around in the workshop, fussing with a difficult stone, looking at it a hundred times before breaking it. He was his anchor.
The doctor comes out, sits beside Kazan, and tells him that Uncle Osman has “squamous cell carcinoma, which has spread to his lymph nodes in his neck and esophagus. We could give him radiation to ease his discomfort, but there is no cure.”
The doctor gives him three to six months.
#
One morning Uncle Osman asks Kazan to go to a Turkish bakery for him. “I dreamed last night of biting into tulumba, orange-blossom honey oozing down my fingers.”
Kazan grins, eager to please, grateful his uncle is hungry.
Osman's favorite bakery is way out in District 11, a place called Simit Dünyasi, several tram changes away. It will take him a couple of hours for the errand, and the weather is wretched out. Yet it is the first thing Osman has shown interest in since he got back from the hospital; there is no way Kazan can say no.
Too impatient to wait for the second tram, he ends up walking. The temperature is in the low thirties, and a cold, piss-freezing wind whips across the lake. It starts to drizzle.
He is about to step off a curb, when a black Mercedes with dark tinted windows screeches to a stop in front of him. Two men jump out. Kazan instinctively backs up, and turns to run, but the men are on him.
A black bag is shoved over his head. Twitching and struggling, he thinks he has a chance. His muffled cries go nowhere. Hands with vise-like grips shove him into the backseat of the car. Doors slam.
He tries to sit up, trying to remember if he saw anyone on the street, anyone who might help. His mind goes blank.
Someone kneels on him, yanks his hands behind his back, and cuffs him. The nose of a pistol stabs him under his jaw. “Schön unten bleiben,” barks a voice. Stay down.
The car sways through the streets of Zürich, not fast, not to attract attention, bumping over cobblestones, stopping at lights, every vibration terrifying. Kazan loses all sense of direction.
Kidnapped. Not entirely unexpected, he thinks, trying to calm himself.
He assumes Michael Chalhoub is behind it. He wants something from Kazan. Money. Or plans to blackmail him into working for the Islamists. Or use him for propaganda, a beheading to show the Swiss government that neutrality is not an option.
If it's money he wants, Uncle Osman will pay. But will Osman know how much to pay? Terrorists never ask for a number. Bidding too low leads to mutilations, presents of ears and fingers.
The hood muffles the men's voices, but he thinks they are speaking a Slavic language. The rain-soaked hood clings to his face; he gets a mouthful of fabric every time he breathes. The cuffs dig into his wrists, and make leaning back uncomfortable.
He figures they are taking him back to the jihadi training camp in Slovenia—eight hours away—but then senses they are on small roads, not Via A10, which they'd probably take west to Munich, down through Salzburg and into Slovenia.
The car's transmission shifts down, his weig
ht thrown backward. They are going into the mountains. They could be winding their way south, then get on the A4 to Milan and east to Slovenia. Longer, for sure, but they might go that way to evade police.
If the police ever found out.
All he knows is they are going up and down hills, each down shift a knife in his aching bladder.
After an hour or so the car stops. The air is colder, and he smells a farm—clover and manure. When they yank him out of the car, he slips in mud, nearly falling. “Vorsicht,” a voice says, telling him to be careful.
He hears cows mooing.
#
“You can tell Chubby to go fuck himself.”
That gets him a rifle butt in the ribs and a “Shut up,” in English.
“As least let me fucking pee.”
This prompts a few exchanges in whatever language they're speaking. One of the men unties him and stands him up.
“Unless you want to hold my dick, you at least have to cuff me in front.”
The cuffs snap open, his arms pulled in front. He considers struggling, trying to break away, but has heard at least three sets of footsteps around him. Better to see how things play out. He lets himself get cuffed again. That's better. “It might be nice to see where I'm peeing. You might appreciate that, too.”
They lead him by the elbow across a room with a wooden floor, and down a hallway. They open a door, whip off his hood, and shove him in. They close the door, and Kazan switches on a light. A small older bathroom with a large zinc tub, white porcelain sink, old fashioned toilet. Grassy meadow and snow-covered mountains out the window. He's been to Braunwald a few times, the closest mountains to Zürich. He doesn't think he's there.
After he relieves himself, he knocks on the door, and they hood him again. A brief glimpse of a farmhouse, older, bare floors, windows.
After he sits again, they inject him with something that puts him out.
He wakes up, tied to a chair. The black hood has been exchanged for a blindfold. Decent of them. It's easier to breathe.
He tries not to think how thirsty he is, and how much he has to pee again. He tries to reason it out. He is only a courier, not political, not important, not someone to ransom. If they wanted money, wouldn't they nab him when he had diamonds on him?
A slight current of air wafts over his face, cold and clean. Someone coming in or out of the building.
He hears two sets of footsteps come into the room. Men's shoes, a heavy percussive slap on wood. The floor creaks. One person slides a chair in front of him and sits. He imagines the other man is by the door.
“I'm glad to see you're not balding, yet. I know how it is with you Turks. Fucked up androgens. I was worried when you didn't take off your hat at Goethe Platz.”
Kazan's head jerks up at the sound of English.
English with an Italian accent.
“Laszlo?”
PART 3
Seventeen, August 2020
Family Visit
One morning, several months after my marriage, I receive a unannounced courtesy call from Rabia's sister, Dilara, and two of Kazan's sisters—Fatma, the eldest, and Melis, the middle girl. I am amazed. No one from Kazan's family has extended friendship. I have seen none of them since the wedding.
Dilara sweeps in through the living room, black sails billowing, and marches into my bedroom. She whips off her abaya, draping it over a chair.
“Good morning, Salima. Your mother-in-law is too shy to come on her own, so I have come in her place.”
The sisters linger at the doorway. They must be the backup. They take off their veils, but not their abayas. I guess they don't intend to stay long.
Dilara's eyes graze lightly over items in my room—a hairbrush, a model sailboat my father bought for me in Zeeland, a photo of my childhood companion, Angus, a golden retriever, giving me a face bath with his long pink tongue. Her eyes darken with distaste. She directs her critical gaze at me. “We are very concerned that you produce a male heir. It is very important to our family.”
Important to your family, I think.
“Faruk has no children—”
Of course not. He's gay. Basma, will never tell the reason for her childlessness. It would mean death to her husband and dishonor to the family. Considering my own sexless marriage, I admire how she deals with it.
Dilara continues “—and Uncle Hamza has only girls. Some of the sisters have sons. But it is important to have a bloodline through the male heirs. You must have a son.”
I can't think of any way to respond to this. So I don't.
She methodically begins opening drawers to my nightstand and bureau, and motions the other two women to do the same. Fatma hesitates until Dilara snaps her fingers and points. Melis just stands there, mortified. She is as surprised by this interrogation as I am.
“Did you get your period this month?” Dilara demands.
I really don't want to be discussing my bodily functions with this woman. I remind myself to be submissive. “I have my period now.”
“Are you making yourself available? A wife must be available to her husband at all times, no matter your feelings at the moment. It is written in the Quran. The marriage bed is his right. Are you denying him?”
“Kazan travels a good deal. He has been very busy.”
Fatma interrupts, “Dilara, it takes time. They've only been married a few weeks.”
“Six weeks,” she barks. “Did you find anything?”
“No,” Fatma mutters, glancing at me apologetically.
So that's what they are looking for—contraception.
“I do not want to sound like I am threatening you, Salima, but if you do not get pregnant within six months, Rabia will ask Kazan to dissolve the marriage.”
A Muslim man can divorce his wife merely by saying, “I divorce you,” three times in front of two male witnesses. On the other hand, it is nearly impossible for a Muslim woman to divorce her husband.
Dilara hands me a small glass bottle. “Drink this when you are ovulating. You are keeping track, aren't you?”
I nod my head, lying. “What's in the bottle?”
“Never mind. Just drink it. It will help you conceive. Make sure Kazan eats plenty of fatty fish.”
I don't bother telling her that I have yet to cook for him. I'm afraid she's going to start suggesting positions for sexual intercourse, so I tell her I have an appointment to get my nails done, and need to leave. She glances at my chewed nubbins and clearly doesn't believe me.
She waves at her two nieces and imperiously heads to the door. “Even if Kazan does not want to divorce you, he will be forced to if you do not produce an heir. Or he will take a second wife. You have been warned, Salima.”
Her voice trembles with self-righteous rage. She is no mere messenger. She is not speaking for my mother-in-law, Rabia. I also suspect Ahmed Basturk would not so easily dissolve a marriage with the police commissioner's daughter. This threat comes from Dilara herself. I am baffled why she cares so much.
The younger sister, Melis, squeezes my hand as she passes. “I will pray for you,” she whispers. “I hope you have a boy.”
“Why?” I ask archly, fed up with all this misogyny.
She hesitates for a moment, making sure Dilara is out of range. “Would you want this life for your daughter?” She smiles sadly, and follows the others.
My heart jumps with hope. I may have found an ally.
#
A few days later at the mosque, I tell Nasira of my surprise visit and she explains it to me.
“Dilara is the wife of Ibrahim Yilmaz, one of the most prominent imams on the Islamic Council. Her maiden name was Mustafa. She has no children. She fears Allah has cursed her. She wants her sister, your mother-in-law, to have a grandson. If you don't have a son, the entire dynasty falls into the hands of Levent Basturk, Ahmed's younger brother, a liberal Muslim, who married a Swiss national, a convert named Edda, who gave him four sons. Dilara loathes Edda for being beautiful, for being a conver
t, and for bearing sons. She despises both of them for their liberal politics.”
“I'm a convert, too. Is that why she hates me?”
“She doesn't hate you. She needs you, desperately. She hates having to need you.”
“They weren't at the wedding, were they? Levent and Edda, I mean.” I met so many Basturks and relatives of Basturks. I do remember Uncle Hamza, who was nice to me.
“No. He took over the family business in Zürich after Uncle Osman died. Since Ahmed Basturk is older than his brother Levent, his grandson takes precedent over Levent's four sons.”
“It's like they think they're royalty or something. The War of the Roses.”
“God's royalty,” Nasira smiles wanly. “The Mustafas claim their lineage goes all the way back to Mohammad.”
“There must be a million families who can do that.”
“But few of those have imams on the Islamic Council, with powerful ties to Turkey and to the Imperial Council for the United Nations of Islam.”
“That's why . . . .” my voice drifts off, dumbfounded.
“Why Gerda wanted you to marry into the Basturk family,” says Nasira, finishing my thought. “Through your marriage, you have a connection with the Imperial Council.”
“Why didn't you tell me?”
“I thought you knew.”
“Why didn't Gerda tell me?”
“The less you know, the less suspicious you'll act around them.”
“So I guess I better get pregnant.”
“You said it, girl.”
What I do not say, and what even Nasira doesn't know, is that Kazan and I have yet to have sex.
Ally
Kazan's sister Melis calls and asks if I would like to go shopping with her. I jump at the chance. She picks me up in a black Mercedes and orders the driver to take us to Albert Cuypmarkt, the largest outside market in Amsterdam, extending many blocks, just south of the Southern Canal Belt. Surinamese and Indonesian immigrants hawk rice cookers and spices; Turks sell cheap clothes, fresh vegetables, and herring sandwiches; Moroccans sell shoes and purses. A black market hive, largely ignored by the Islamic Council. It seems astonishing that despite the war, so many foreign products fill the tables.
Amsterdam 2020 (Amsterdam Series Book 2) Page 27
