“You drank wine?”
He chuckles. “Turkey is the fourth largest grape producer in the world. Did you know that? A million and a half acres of vineyards. A thousand different types of grape. The vineyards in the Euphrates valley are in one of the world's oldest wine regions in the world. That's where Noah had his vineyard."
“That old drunk?” I say smiling. “I thought Turkey was Muslim.”
“Mostly. Perhaps a more enlightened version than the present regime.”
His wry smirk disarms me. “Do the women veil?” I ask.
“They didn't back then. They covered their heads with scarves when it was cold, or if there was a lot of dust. No one had a seizure if they saw a woman's hair.”
So Kazan is critical of sharia. I am fascinated, but don't dare press him.
We sit in silence with our own thoughts. Perhaps wondering the same thought. How the worlds we loved as children had changed.
“I am sorry, Salima.”
“For slapping me?”
“No, not for that.” There is a flinch of a smile on his lips. “You have a lot to learn. As you saw tonight, rules can be broken, boundaries can be pushed. But you have to know how . . . when. I haven't given us time to get to know one another. It's my fault. That's what I'm apologizing for.” He spears one of my unruly curls with his finger, He pulls it out, and lets it spring back, which makes him smile. “I hear you spend a lot of time going about the city. You aren't sneaking around seeing another man, are you?”
I jump away, genuinely shocked. “Gosh, no.” When I look at him, he is smiling. Teasing . . . I think. I cuff his arm. “I don't appreciate being spied on.”
“Not spying. Just trying to keep you out of trouble.”
“Spying.”
He laughs and takes me into his arms. The forced intimacy is not entirely comfortable, but not entirely uncomfortable either. Slowly I begin to relax. I feel his warmth, the power of his chest and arms. I melt with the animal-need to be close to another body, so basic, so necessary, so rare. The sound of his heart soothes me and makes me sleepy. After a few minutes he helps me up and leads me upstairs.
We stand outside my door. He stands close. My heart pounds, the atmosphere charged between us. My breathing changes. He leans down, his jaw clenched, his eyes half-closed. “Please be patient, Salima. Maybe this can work out . . . maybe it won't have to. But it has to wait.”
I push him back at arm's length, as if holding out a squirming bug specimen. “Are you gay?” I ask archly. “It doesn't make any difference to me, but I have a right to know. The women from your family won't leave me alone until I get pregnant. Under the circumstances, it seems unlikely. If you're gay . . . fine . . . good for you. We can scoop some of your sperm into me.”
“I'm not gay.”
“Do you have a secret wife? A girlfriend?”
“No.”
“Am I so repulsive? Can't you just close your eyes and do it?”
One brow lifts, and he looks sourly amused. “You are beautiful, Salima. So much that . . . . Nothing is right about this. I didn't want this. I didn't know I would . . . I don't want to hurt you, I can't . . . maybe when we have more time . . . it is more than I can bear.”
More than HE can bear? His vulnerability shocks me. He's not done shocking me.
“If you have a friend . . . a male friend with whom you can have sex . . . someone with my coloring, of course . . . I will say it is mine.”
“What in hell is wrong with you? Just fuck me!”
It is the wrong thing to say. He quietly turns and leaves the house.
I slam my fist in the door. Now I'll never get anything out of him. Especially not a baby.
#
I toss and turn in bed, the fight going round and round in my brain. Certain things he said, “Maybe this can work out . . . maybe it won't have to,” leave me puzzled. Why might the marriage not have to work out? His father won't allow a divorce without cause. It's too politically important.
And why is he so concerned about hurting me? That's certainly atypical. All Muslim men do is hurt their women. Control them. Suppress them. Dominate them.
No, I'm being unfair. But why this show of sensitivity?
His suggestion that I sleep with another man to get pregnant seems completely bizarre. Surely he isn't setting me up to be stoned to death. I think of the woman I saw at Chop-Chop Square, naked to her waist, covered in blood, a pile of rocks at her feet. Surely he doesn't want that for me.
There is something between us. A heat. I know he feels it, too. I cannot understand what he is waiting for.
#
The next evening, Kazan comes home early with tickets to a film neither of us have ever heard of, apparently an Egyptian classic. “Would you like to go on a date?” He gives me a goofy grin, and all of my anger and consternation fade away. I don't spend much time trying to figure out what this gesture of rapprochement means. I'm dying to see a movie.
Every time the Coalition Forces make a major victory, the Islamic Council relaxes its reign a little bit. They try to keep us in the dark, but eventually word gets out, and the Islamists worry we'll rise up and agitate. The vice squads withdraw, the mutatween shrivel back into their mosques. Women start to take chances. They wear makeup underneath their veils. Headscarves blossom like tulips into bright colors—pinks, blues, yellows. People have loud parties where music can be heard in the streets. Movie theaters are reopened.
Everyone wants American films, of course, but the Islamic Council decides to host an Egyptian Film Festival—censored and without subtitles. Lines wrap around the block hours before the box office opens, and tickets sell on the black market at four times the ticket price. Fights break out.
The last film I remember seeing was an American film, The Hunger Games, just before the Jenever Theater Murders changed the world. I was eleven. I don't remember much about it except that wonderful feeling of getting sucked into a completely different world, and the spectacular fiery costumes. Joury and I hid out in the bathroom and waited for a second viewing. It showed a dystopian world. Many films that year envisioned bleak oppressive futures—Looper, The Avengers, The Dark Knight Rises, Dredd, Battleship, Underworld: Awakening. I can't help but think Hollywood imaginations saw this coming. Islamic totalitarianism.
Kazan flaps the tickets in front of my face, and off we go.
At the theater, the crowd is festive, an odd mixture of young families, off-duty soldiers, students, young mullahs. I notice a number of Resistants—we turn our heads, pretending not to recognize one another. Even a few Jews and Christians have sneaked in; they aren't allowed in this part of town. Everybody shuffles quietly into the theater, single file, full of anticipation. Everyone is polite. A whole row graciously gets up and moves down a seat so a couple can sit with their children. This is the first time in years I have been in a crowd of strangers without fear or anger—neither a demonstration or a public execution. It feels like church.
The film starts, and the symphony of colors and sounds sucks us in. We are mesmerized, our faces and bodies washed over by images and music, feeding our starved souls. We don't understand a word of it, but we are in rapture. There is a beautiful woman, a beautiful man, a starkly beautiful landscape. Eyes, lips, hair, emotion. It is a love story. Maybe they are of different religions. Their families don't approve. Then there is a war. Our lovers flee together, then are torn apart. They both die.
At the end, the audience is silent for several minutes, exhausted, drained. I feel as if I have been rubbed with sandpaper, inside and out. Kazan takes my hand, and we quietly shuffle out.
Somehow, through the medium of film, we have come to an understanding of some sort. Not anywhere close to friendship or honesty or love. Something closer to acknowledged interdependence.
For now, that will do.
Receipts
Whenever Kazan is in town, he takes me out to a restaurant. Sometimes we go shopping together. Gradually we become more comfortable in each other'
s company—cracking jokes, teasing one another. Still, we are reserved and cautious—like two actors who know that in several weeks they will be filming a sex scene, careful not to let untidy emotions get in the way of their jobs. Unlike actors, we haven't seen the script. At least I haven't.
“Why do we always go a different way to the farmers' market?” I ask.
“I thought you'd like to get to know your new neighborhood.”
That makes sense, I guess. He squeezes my hand, and we take a short taxi ride, which we easily could have walked. He asks for a receipt. He buys me a Turkish lamp from a vendor at Albert Cuypmarkt. He asks for a receipt. He fills my arms with tulips at the florist. He asks for a receipt. We stop for ice cream. He asks for a receipt.
Who does that?
I watch him tuck them into his wallet. Later, when he showers, I sneak into his room and look into his wallet. The receipts are gone.
Nasira and I wait for Kazan in front of a theater to see a puppet show. We spot Kazan walking down the other side of the street and wave.
“You see what he's doing?” Nasira asks.
“What?” All I see is my husband waiting for cars to pass to cross the street.
“He's scanning?”
“Of course he is. He doesn't want to get run over.”
“He was doing it walking down the street.”
I think about it for a moment. I had noticed it before. Resistants are trained to look for scanners, one of the easiest ways to spot an undercover Landweer or Speciale Operaties officer. Their eyes sweep back and forth without turning their heads. They never smile in public—too preoccupied observing and taking mental notes.
After the show, I watch him as we enter a restaurant. As soon as he steps into a room, his eyes scan it top to bottom, pausing briefly at each table. Later, I test him.
“How many women were in the restaurant?”
“Eleven. Why?”
“It's nice to see women getting out more. Did you notice the couple by the window?”
“The dark-skinned woman who ordered fish and ate only a few bites, who was fighting with her husband? My guess, a low level bureaucrat. What about them?”
“Oh, nothing. I thought I saw her at our wedding.”
“I don't think so. She is a left-handed convert. She was a little awkward eating with her right hand and she favored her left hand for other things. You and your mother were the only converts at the wedding.”
“Why do you say they were fighting?”
“She wasn't eating. If you don't like what you're served, you push the plate away. If you're refusing to eat out of spleen, you let it sit there.”
I tell Nasira of my little test. And the receipts. And how we never walk the same route. “Either he's an extremely observant fellow who is a little paranoid, and nearly pathological about where his money is spent, or he's working as an operative of some kind.”
“My God! Do you think he works for Speciale Operaties?”
Nasira shrugs. “His receipts are going to an accountant. That's why you can't find them. He wants to get reimbursed.”
“He is awfully polite.”
Nasira nods. We have discussed this before—how the deeper undercover you are, the more polite you become. You can almost tell who the assassins are—the ones who help little old ladies across the street. It is probably true for the Islamists as well.
All the traveling, the receipts, the scanning, the politeness—it isn't looking good. What kind of monster have I married?
Fredrika Maria
I pick up a copy of De Telegraf and turn to the crossword puzzle. The barge has moved to Zuider Amstel Kanaal in De Pijp, south of the city center. It's a good thing I brought my bike.
I spot the barge and park my bike under a plane tree around the corner. Since the July raid, I approach cautiously, passing once, watching for a trap. I see Hansen through a porthole, and figure it's safe. The pig's tail is in the window.
I give Gerda an update, trying not to sound petulant. “I worry I'm losing my edge. Kazan is keeping me isolated. I have very little interaction with the family.”
“You have to change that. Tell him you want to get to know your new family better. Befriend his sisters. I suggest you try to get pregnant. In those families, you aren't really considered part of the family until you have a baby. It's a baby that cements the bond.”
Getting it from all sides. “Give me something,” I plead. “I'm dying of boredom.”
There it is, the awful truth. Once you begin risking your life every day, you become addicted to the adrenaline rush, and the romance of rebellion. Staring death in the face, you feel exhilarated and alive. Everyday existence feels oppressive.
Gerda looks at me sternly, knowingly. “We can't risk losing your position.”
“Something. A one night gig. Anything.”
“Are you sure you can get away without notice?”
“Kazan works all the time. He doesn't want servants in the house. Getting out is easy.”
Gerda looks at Hansen, then back at me. “Doesn't that seem strange? Most Muslim men require a servant or female relative to stay with you overnight if he is going to be away.”
“He isn't as strict as the others,” I say lamely.
“Based on the bug in the Basturk household, we've managed to intercept several arms shipments, but we need to know more. You've given me nothing I didn't already know.”
I blush to my roots.
She looks at me for several moments, evaluating me, running through options. She hands her tea cup to Hansen for a refill. “We need someone inside the Basturk household. We had hoped that would be you. Newly married couples often live with the groom's parents, especially if the husband travels. Could you find an excuse—you're frightened to be alone—something to get you in there. We need someone with access to Ahmed's office. Someone who can overhear conversations, take note of Ahmed's visitors, photograph documents.”
Kazan has made it clear he doesn't want me living with his family. Befriending one of the servants would take time, and bribes do not ensure trust. My ally, Melis? No. Rebelling against onerous rules is one thing, betraying family quite another. “I think I might know a way,” I say.
“Go on,” says Gerda.
“Rabia Basturk's sister, Dilara Yilmaz, loses servants all the time. She is continuously looking for new ones. She spends most of her day with her sister in the Basturk household.”
“Can a female servant get access to the men's chambers?”
“Yes. Women are not allowed in those rooms, except the female servants. They are not considered important enough to exclude from male conversations.”
Gerda shakes her head grimly. “Perhaps you could ask one of the household staff how they were hired.”
“I have a better idea. I need to hire a housekeeper, one of our own.”
“You work well with Nasira,” Gerda suggests.
I shake my head. “The Basturks would never have a black woman as a servant.”
“How about Femke?”
“Too pretty. Pretty servants are often taken as sex slaves by the men in the household. I need someone who is middle aged, extremely competent, and pleasant. Someone who makes great desserts.”
“Wilma. She'll be perfect.” Gerda gets up, excited, when I tell her my plan. “I never imagined we might get someone in Ibrahim Yilmaz's household. This could be huge.”
Tea
Wilma starts as my housekeeper. She is over forty, an incredibly nice woman, very efficient. I learn she was a veterinarian in her former life, before the Islamic Council banned dogs and abolished swine farms. There isn't enough work from cats to keep her business open, so she joined the Resistance full time. Before the war, she loved to bake to unwind after a day of work, a hobby most difficult to pursue with butter and sugar shortages.
Wilma is kind and sweet, and loves to laugh. It is easy to adore her. The more I adore her, the more Dilara will try to steal her.
I invite Kazan's sister
s over for tea, including his sister-in-law, Basma. I also invite his mother, knowing she hates to leave the house and will send Dilara in her place. This is better than inviting Dilara in the first place. She will arrive with a chip on her shoulder, and will need to put me in my place.
Just in case she hesitates, I ask Melis to encourage Dilara to come. “Tell her she needs to chaperon the younger women.” Melis senses collusion and immediately agrees.
Pim works overtime getting me extra coupon cards for chocolate, butter, and sugar. I ask Jana to come over, and Wilma teaches us how to bake petits fours, profiteroles, pots de crème, chocolate truffles, and cherry clafouti. I stop by Niko Nazar's. I know Dilara has a weakness for his chocolate éclairs.
Of Kazan's sisters, only the three oldest come—Fatma, Pinar, and Melis. Basma is busy taping her show. As expected, Rabia sends her regrets; Dilara accompanies the younger women. She enters the house, chin in the air, obviously put out by this social obligation—until she sees the spread of delicacies. She has barely taken off her niqab before she rushes into the living room, eye's wide at the powdery confections. “Salima, did you make all of this yourself? I can hardly believe it!”
“I don't cook,” I say modestly, “but I found the most wonderful woman to help me. She cleans and shops, too. Kazan adores her cooking. I couldn't run the household without her.”
Wilma cleverly picks this time to enter the room, carrying a plate of chocolate éclairs. Dilara lets out a small gasp.
All the women dig in, gorging themselves, even Pinar, who never lets anyone see her eat. It is a rare treat. No one has seen marzipan since before the war. The sugar high loosens tongues and the women chat and giggle, gossiping about their husbands and children. Talking about sex is strictly forbidden, so naturally that is the women's favorite topic.
I make a point of getting up and talking to Wilma, touching her hand lightly in appreciation. She makes a small bow, and hurries out as if to do my bidding. I see Dilara take note of Wilma's submissive demeanor.
The women stay longer than they had anticipated, but finally stagger out. Before she leaves, Dilara pulls me aside and says, “I would kill for a cook like Wilma. It would make Ibrahim so very happy. Do you think I could borrow her every now and then?”
Amsterdam 2020 (Amsterdam Series Book 2) Page 29
