Melis seems nervous, fondling merchandise, putting things back, not purchasing anything. Finally she selects a pair of sandals without much inspection, as if she's told herself she must buy something. I buy two stroopwafels to eat, and give her one. She suggests we stop in a mosque for noonday prayers in the way women used to suggest lunch or a spot of tea.
We walk into an older mosque by Sarphatipark, perform wudu in the women's bathroom, and then head into the women's prayer hall.
Only a few dozen women are there, hastily doing their prayers between errands. Melis has no interest in praying. She points to some cushions by the far wall, and we sit quietly. I wait for her to speak.
She leans close, an inch from my face. She has dark rings under her eyes, her breath is stale. “Salima, do you know where I can get an abortion?”
I inhale sharply. “You are pregnant?”
“Yes. I haven't been to a doctor, but I know.”
“You are married. Don't you want a child? You know what they'll do to you if you are caught.”
Our shoulders touch, and I feel her shiver. She tells me that she was married at fourteen to a fifty-year-old man. She is his third wife. “I want a divorce. My husband, Fouad, has agreed. He spends almost no time with me, and by law, he must spend equal time with all of his wives. He says he doesn't visit me because I cry and make him feel miserable. He is not a bad man. I haven't given him a son, so he is willing to divorce me. But if he finds out I'm pregnant, he won't divorce me.”
“I take it the baby isn't your husband's.”
“No,” she whispers, “but I don't think he would ever suspect. The only time he visits me is during my ovulation. He keeps track of it. I have to get rid of the baby.”
“Do you want to marry the father of the baby?”
“Oh, no. He's a friend of the family. It was an affair of passion. It's over. If Fouad found out he would kill me. The doctors I know won't break the law. They would report it to my husband. I thought you might know of someone.”
I stare at her, unbelieving. I wonder why she is willing to risk so much. As a divorced woman, she will have to move back with her parents, with few prospects for remarrying. She will not be allowed to live alone, independently in her own apartment. Only widows are allowed this privilege.
She grabs my hand desperately. “I'm not trying to trap you, Salima, I promise. Please, will you help me?”
It is hard to trust anyone, but her face is entirely without guile, desperate, pleading, miserable. I wonder why she is so certain I will not report her. “Your family will be very upset if they find out I helped you,” I say. “They already mistrust me. They might command Kazan to divorce me. Or worse, try me in sharia court as an accessory to murder. It's a huge risk. For both of us.”
“If they find out, I will never betray you, I promise. I will say that I went and found an abortionist myself. Please. Will you help me? I don't have anyone else I can turn to.”
There it is. Desperation is what makes her trust me. But can I trust her?
It doesn't matter. I will not see her dragged into Chop-Chop Square.
I squeeze her hand and whisper in her ear, “I will find someone for you. Don't worry.”
Melis begins to cry in relief.
#
I figure I should run it by Gerda.
I buy a newspaper and find out where the barge is going to be tonight. At midnight I sneak out. Thankfully the barge is close, a short walk to a canal off Westerpark.
Gerda thinks it's a stroke of luck. “If you take her, she will owe you, and you will have the ally you need in the family. But be very careful. She cannot denounce you without condemning herself. But sharing her secret gives her power over you, as well.” Gerda gives me a name. A retired gynecologist, who went back into practice after the occupation. She smuggles in abortion pills and contraception, and has as many Muslim as non-Muslim clients. She works on a barge.
I expect some dreary old boat, reminiscent of back-room abortionists centuries ago. But the inside is paneled with white fiberglass floors and walls, with white leather benches and pink flowered cushions in the waiting area. Melis visits the doctor for a half hour, then comes out rattling a single pill in a brown plastic pill bottle.
She's already taken Mifepristone. She is to take the second pill, Misoprostol, within 6 to 72 hours. I ask her if she would like to stay with me for a few days, until the fetus passes. “Kazan is away,” I say. “There would only be the two of us.” She says no. She says she often has very difficult periods, so no one in her household will be alarmed. “Call me for anything,” I say. “If you need to go back, I will arrange it.”
She calls me in a few days and tells me everything went fine. “I'm a little tired, that's all.” She pauses and I hear her struggling to say something. “Salima, I know the women in our family have been cool towards you. I am very grateful to you and want to be your friend. I . . . I don't think like them.”
Those last five words “I don't think like them” comes out like a plea, her voice full of misery, as if sinking in an ice-covered pond, crying out for help. I think of Joury in her padded room, and a deep pain stabs my chest.
“Thank you, Melis,” I reply. “I would like very much to be your friend.”
Eid al-Fitr
We intersect at breakfast. Kazan insists on making his own. He tells me we are going to the Basturk household for dinner.
“They aren't going to kill another goat, are they?”
He looks at me strangely—the first real look he's given me in weeks—then barks a laugh. He is still uncomfortable around me, but realizes I have a sense of humor. “You only get that honor once.”
“Too bad.”
That evening, I put on a traditional Turkish dress—a thank you present from Melis—and pack my handbag, which conveniently has a secret pocket in the lining. I tuck away the small electronic listening device Pim gave me.
Twirling in front of Kazan, I allow myself for a moment to feel frivolous and feminine. Billowing yellow pants, an orange, yellow, and brown striped tunic, a long green apron, and a red-embroidered jacket ending under my breasts. Everything is fringed and tasseled. And red slippers. I feel like an overstuffed sandwich, with everything on it.
Kazan regards me and tucks in a bit of hair that has escaped from under my headscarf.
I can't help but admire his long fingers, gently lifting my chin. His impossibly long eye lashes. “If women's hair poses so many dangers to men, don't you think God would've made us bald?”
He gives me that look again—surprise, suppressed delight—then frowns. “Please don't say such things in public.”
“I thought I might bring it up at dinner.”
A slap snaps back my head. I stumble in shock. My palm flies to my cheek, my mouth drops open in outrage.
He looks as surprised as I am, and takes a step back, his confidence shaken. He shakes his head with an expression of regret, dread, and—something that surprises me—fear. He turns away, takes two steps, stops, and slowly faces me again, his voice low and firm. “I give you a lot of freedom, Salima. But in public, among family . . . we must act our roles. I beg you.”
He begs me? I am furious, but nod my head silently. I put on the veil, grateful for the first time to be hiding my face. I imagine my cheek will be red for hours.
He approaches me, undoes my veil, and looks at me levelly. I let him touch me, but glare at him.
“I know you are accustomed to thinking for yourself, and you are allergic to letting a man tell you what to do.”
“What makes you think that?” I say petulantly.
He sighs, exasperated, unwilling to fight. “You must learn to do so, for all our sakes.”
He is right. I am finding it incredibly difficult to maintain my role.
We are two satellites orbiting in opposite directions. I haven't a clue how to get to know my own husband. I cannot flirt like Joury. I cannot be honest. Trying to be submissive merely makes me angry and resentful. “
Men are easy to manipulate,” I hear Joury say. “They think with their dicks.” But it goes against my nature. Manipulation, control, coercion—these are what we're fighting against.
We drive out to the Eastern Docklands. Neither of us says a word in the car, the tension thick between us. I glare at the lump of flesh beside me, filled with dread and resentment. I wonder if he can tell how much I loathe him.
Every light in the Basturk household is lit up. We go inside. Lots of chatter, servants and children running around. An air of celebration.
“Eid mubarak!” Uncle Hamza shouts at us.
“Eid karim!” we say simultaneously. Another wave of small people scampers through the foyer.
“Salima, you are a vision. An Anatolian princess.” Uncle Hamza winks conspiratorially at me. He is the only Basturk I've actually had a conversation with, who goes out of his way to make me comfortable. I wonder about his political views, but of course cannot ask.
Kazan and I pass out the Eid presents we brought for the children. Eid al-Fitr is the three-day celebration after Ramadan. Meant for visiting family and neighbors, eating sweets, wearing flashy new clothes, and giving presents and charity. Thanksgiving, Easter, and Christmas all wrapped into one. Perhaps that's why they need three days. By the time the three days are over, you no longer fit into your new clothes.
The women float by, unveiled, wearing their best silks and finest jewelry. The children wear new shirts and bright yellow vests. Everyone is bright-eyed and high-spirited, showering each other with endearments, passing huge platters of sweets. Eid mubarak!
There is more mingling of the sexes than there was for the wedding. The men seem more attentive to their wives. I have come to think of all Muslim men as narrow-minded and bigoted, closet psychopaths, but I see they are tender and protective with their wives. It makes my skin crawl. I think of Kazan, and touch the back of my neck, which aches. Whiplash from his slap.
As I hang up my abaya, I look in the mirror. My cheek is only slightly red.
Kazan leaves me to speak with his uncles. I look around and hesitate—an actress with lines half memorized, shoved onto stage. I am a happy newlywed, the perfect Muslim wife. Those who had doubts about me can put away their reservations. I am one of the family.
I seek out the women and tell them how beautiful their dresses are, how much I like their hair, how exquisite their jewels are. My admiration isn't entirely bogus. I have never seen such lavishness. Islam preaches modesty, but when the women take off their veils, they strut and flaunt themselves like exotic birds in a mating dance.
Dilara sees me and beelines toward me. Of course, she asks if I am “expecting.” An evening of humiliation—that's what I'm expecting. Fortunately Rabia comes and saves me, steering Dilara away, casting me a kind glance over her shoulder. Even my mother-in-law finds Dilara a bit much. I try to think of the Yiddish word for Dilara. Yente. I suppose every family has one.
The old crone, Nil, gives me a slight smile. Perhaps because of my costume. Or maybe she's merely adjusting her dentures. Fatma shows me the latest baby boy. I'm not sure who he belongs to, but the women pass him around proudly. I assume Fatma wants me to be filled with longing for a son. Or perhaps she is telling me it is my only hope. I hold the baby boy, trying to relax my body and not stiffen. It's not his fault he'll grow up to be a misogynist. I kiss him on the forehead, and feel such a stab of regret that Faruk's wife, Basma, comes and puts her arms around me. She has her own regrets.
After twenty minutes of flattery, I retreat to a corner and try to be invisible, silently watching. My thoughts return to the slap. It was partly my fault. Living like strangers in the same household is emotionally exhausting. The strained politeness—I don't know how much more I can bear. What kind of secrets can I learn if we don't even talk? I was intentionally trying to rile him, trying to engage him. To see what he's made of. I saw only too well.
My private pity party must stop. I look up and observe.
Kazan's brother, Faruk, takes a tray from a servant, and whisks it around the room, serving the women, making them giggle. It seems so obvious to me he is gay, but that is so beyond acceptable, no one else sees it. Or perhaps, like so many things, they pretend not to know. As long as it is not public, it doesn't exist. Don't ask, don't tell. I am still trying to figure out all the loopholes in Islam. People have too many faults to survive so many rules. Such an unforgiving religion demands loopholes.
The women flock around Kazan, who compliments them and holds their attention, giving each of them a simple diamond necklace. The way these women love jewelry! Squealing with joy.
Happily invisible, I slip out of the room.
I pass the dining room and kitchen, down a hallway past several bedrooms. I walk up a a few steps to a second level. The walls are painted brown, the carpet maroon, recessed lighting aimed on illuminated Islamic texts in Plexiglas frames.
I turn the corner into a large library. The walls are filled floor-to-ceiling with books. Comfortable brown wingback chairs, teak furniture, lamps with green glass shades, the faint smell of cigars—an English gentleman's club. French doors provide most of the light to the room, guarded by a large desk.
Planting a bug in the phone is too dangerous, but Pim's bugs will pick up conversations from twenty feet away. It is about the size of a hearing aid, and needs to be exposed, but well hidden. I consider below a window sill, or under the edge of the desk, but I don't want the servants to discover it when dusting. I decide on the bookshelf, up out of reach. A long ladder is mounted on a track below the ceiling. I slide it toward the desk, climb a few rungs, slip the bug out of the secret pocket in my purse, and slip it behind the molding.
“Salima, there you are!”
Melis strides into the room. I gasp, my heart beating loudly. As I wobble, I grab a book from the shelf.
“I've been looking everywhere for you.”
“I was attracted by all the books,” I say. “Is it okay that I'm here? Is this your father's study?”
Melis shrugs, uninterested. “He'll notice if a book is missing. You better put it back. Come, I want to show you the new greenhouse father built.”
After I climb down from the ladder, she pulls me close, whispering. “Father is angry, but has accepted our divorce. I am forever in your debt. I am a free woman. He says he will allow me to study medicine. It's what I've always wanted to do. The Islamic Council wants more women doctors. They think it is indecent for women to go to male doctors.”
I give her a sincere hug. “I'm so glad for you.”
She doesn't let go, but whispers in my ear. “I owe you my life. I would have killed myself if I had to stay married. I am a new person. If there is anything I can do for you—”
We both freeze, smelling her perfume before her angry figure fills the doorway. “What are you two doing here?” Dilara demands. “This area is closed to women.”
“Forgive me. It's my fault,” says Melis. “I was just showing Salima around the house.”
“Just because you are divorced, Melis, doesn't mean you can do whatever you feel like.”
I jump in. I won't let Melis be punished for my wrong-doing. “I saw all the books, and was drawn in. So many wonderful books.”
Dilara shrugs dismissively. “Women don't need to read.”
I recall once seeing a romance novel fall out of Dilara's purse. Banned, of course. “Allah is all things and everywhere,” I remark. “Surely he would want me to read about his vast creation.”
She gives me a hard look, but I see something give behind her eyes. Perhaps even in Dilara there is a bit of a rebel. But she is cagey enough not to engage in such conversations. “Rabia wants all of the women together for a photo before Basma has to leave.”
As a news anchor celebrity, Basma is hosting the fireworks display over the Amstel tonight for Eid al-Fitr. I think of Ryan Seacrest at Times Square for New Years. Even as they revile them, the Islamists copy the Americans.
We follow her obediently down the ha
llway. Melis squeezes my hand.
Lover's Quarrel
“Did you have a good time?” Kazan asks, when we return home. The first we have spoken since leaving for the Eid celebration.
“Yes,” I say. Despite myself, and despite being surrounded by the enemy, I did enjoy myself. It made me nostalgic for the wonderful parties in Enkhuisen with Hans and Marta. Uncle Hamza uncased a baglama, a long-neck lute-like instrument, shaped like a paddle, and played a Turkish folk dance. The rhythms of Appalachia in a minor key. Dilara, of all people, rattled the tambourine-like tef over her head, shuffling her red slippers in tight circles. Ahmed and Faruk danced a hopping line dance. Everyone clapped. Apparently music and dancing is haram, except when it isn't.
“We aren't always so dull.” Kazan takes my hand and pulls me over to the couch.
“No?”
We sit thigh-to-thigh. Kazan puts his arm around my shoulders. “I grew up in a little village in the northern Anatolian plain, under the shadow of the Pontic Mountains. For us Eid was three days of dancing and singing. Everyone hung lanterns outside their houses at night, and went visiting in colorful clothes . . . like yours. Old men sat under sycamore trees, drinking raki, playing the baglama and the zurna, and an old shepherd's instrument made from an eagle's wing bone called the çigirtma. Everyone drank wine, and ate these wonderful sesame cakes called simit. Kids played with painted eggs, running in and out of houses, four or five piled in a bed. It didn't matter if it was your house or someone else's. The fathers joked they didn't know which of the children were theirs. So much laughing and singing and dancing.”
This is the first he's told me of his childhood. His way of apologizing, I assume. “It sounds—” I struggle, looking for the right word “—joyful.”
Kazan looks at me, surprise drifting into wistfulness. “It was joyful. Every day, not just Eid.”
Amsterdam 2020 (Amsterdam Series Book 2) Page 28
