by Tyler, P. K.
At least whoever had done this to him could not find him here.
Çayustu, he lamented. Not even a real town. Are there any paved roads that even come out this far?
He was no farther from home than if he had gone to Diyabakir to attend one of the achingly boring meetings the Board of Directors insisted he attend periodically. Keeping up appearances and maintaining the reputation of the Osman Corporation was his only job, and he felt ill every time he sat beneath his father's portrait. The only reason he didn't turn his back on the whole thing and move overseas was the nagging need to honor his mother's memory.
This little village was a blip on the map, could barely even be considered a town. Recai had never been here before—no reason to come this far—but he'd heard of it and knew that some of his friends had come out here to meet tour guides for trips into the desert. No, given the circumstances he was farther than an hour and a half from the city. Here he had nothing but his feet and a maybe a camel.
Recai wiggled his toes and pulled up the sheet covering him, revealing his bandaged feet.
"Probably second degree burns," Hasad said as he walked into the small room, his daughter following behind with something that smelled delicious.
"Easier to navigate without shoes," Recai replied, slowly hoisting himself up. Pain shot through him but he bit back a groan. He took in the appearance of the old man who'd saved him from certain death.
Hasad's pursed face was hardened by age and a life spent in the sun. His dark skin betrayed his Indian heritage, making him an anomaly in Turkey. Recai could still remember when the enclaves of Bangladeshi Jews who had lived in Elih had mostly evacuated, when Mayor Yilmaz declared the return of Shariah law and the absolute power of the RTK.
"Stupid without shoes," the man retorted with a snort as he uncrossed his arms and stepped closer to the interloper. "We will have dinner here with you, then tomorrow I will go to the next village and find a phone. You have money for a taxi?"
"At home, that will be no problem. Thank you for your hospitality."
The old man snorted again. "Hospitality has nothing to do with it. I find a man dying, I cannot leave him. I'm glad you are healing quickly, but it will be days before you can walk on those feet, maybe weeks before you can go without your ribs being bandaged."
"I will have a physician look at me when I get home. I am sure your care has been exemplary."
Recai smiled at Rebekah who blushed and handed him a plate.
"Bazlama with minced meat," she said before passing him a cup of water. She sat on the floor and served herself and her father the same meal with beer.
"A good beer cleanses a man's soul." The man took a long drink and smiled. "My name is Hasad Sofaer. You met my daughter, Rebekah."
"Yes, she has been very kind."
Recai looked over at the girl and noticed she had pulled her hair up under a veil, probably for his benefit, as was fitting. He was touched by her show of respect as well as by the gentle features of her face. She was nothing like the women he was used to—silly and immature. Instead, a simple honesty radiated from her.
The three sat and ate in silence, pausing only to drink. Recai ate slowly to avoid upsetting his system, but found the food so delicious that it was difficult to refrain from taking huge mouthfuls and gulping it down. When Hasad finished eating, he drained his beer and looked directly at the injured man occupying his bed.
"Now you're fed. You've been stitched up and the color is returning to your face. Now, you can tell us who you are."
"My name is Recai. I come from Elih. I was born there but left to travel. I only came back home because my father's business is in need of new . . . oversight."
Without telling them who he actually was, Recai recited some of his history. He did not lie, did not tell any untruths, but he did leave out that he was an Osman, the only son of Baris and Pinar Osman. To volunteer his family name would open him up to demands for ransom and other troubles. These people seemed good, but it was impossible to know what someone was capable of when real power was placed in their hands.
"Recai, you are Kurdish," Hasad stated.
"In part."
"You spoke Kurdish in the desert, but your accent is strange."
Hasad had intended it as a question, but he spoke plainly.
"My mother was Kurdish, my father native to Elih. I received most of my schooling overseas in England. So yes, my accent has many influences."
Hasad considered this information for a moment before continuing with his investigation.
"You are Muslim."
"Yes."
"Rebekah says you don't drink. Do you follow all the tenants of your religion?"
"No, I do not," Recai confided, once again taking the risk of believing that these people were not associated with the RTK. "In fact, I do drink, but from what little I remember, that is what led me to whatever my current predicament is. So for now, I would like to keep my mind as clear as possible."
Hasad peered at Recai before clapping once, and breaking out into a hearty laugh.
"Yes well, we cannot all be as pious as some would like. Even the Pope has to wipe his ass with his right hand from time to time. Now, Bey Recai, you should rest." Hasad said, using the prefix ‘Bey' as a sign of respect.
With that Hasad stood and left the small room, taking his dishes as well as Recai's with him, unlike most men, who would have left those things for Rebekah to do. Recai had stumbled upon some very good people indeed. Rebekah remained at his side, her food half eaten, studying the lines of the blanket covering Recai's legs.
"Thank you, Rebekah," he whispered, looking over at her and suddenly aware that Hasad had left them unsupervised.
Recai wasn't a conservative man; he'd dated many women and had known more than a few in ways frowned upon by his culture. But Rebekah interested him. Her quick wit reminded him of the women he had met in university in Britain, but there was more to her than that. Something that spoke of home.
When he was younger, he had found Western women exciting. A woman with a mind of intellect and a body for exploring things forbidden to him in the religious community he grew up in had been new and intoxicating. Soon he learned that while their minds stimulated him, their Western ways quickly wore on his nerves, always displaying themselves and jockeying for attention. Rebekah seemed like a woman to spar words with, and to respect. She was a novelty in the oppressed culture of Elih.
"You are very welcome, Recai." The corners of her mouth moved up as she spoke, her smile belying her demure stance. "My father likes you."
"Does he?"
Recai allowed himself to sink lower into the mattress, fatigue returning to him now that he had been fed.
"Yes, he values honesty. Remember that and you may have found an ally in him."
Her eyes lingered on his, open and honest. Rebekah's ease and confidence impressed him. After his ordeal, he couldn't help but consider the importance of having someone on your side.
With that thought paramount in his mind, Recai Osman drifted off to sleep.
Morning came early in the small house on the edge of the desert. One injured Muslim didn't mean the world stopped turning, and Hasad had things to do. There were animals to care for and the day's food to prepare. His morning chores didn't take long, with only the one camel and a few other livestock to feed, but the work needed to be done. This life was nothing like the one he had dreamed of in India; this life he would abandon if not for his beautiful daughter.
Before the sun rose, Rebekah was up boiling vegetables and spicing a sauce for his lunch—food she wrapped easily in paper and that he could eat with his hands. He would be gone most of the day, trading and looking for a day's work where he could find it. Plus today he had the task of finding a ride for Recai back to the city.
Hasad contemplated the man sleeping in the back room of his home. He was nothing like any other Muslim he had met before. There had been no judgment of their home, their religion, or of his daughter's outspoken na
ture. To have Rebekah relegated to living in fear and covering her body thanks to the requirements of another man's religion outraged Hasad. Seeing someone from outside his community regard her as a person, a wonderful person at that, was refreshing.
As he readied to leave the house, Hasad kissed Rebekah and squeezed her tighter than usual.
"Child, the gun is under the couch."
"Aba—" she protested, but he held his hand up.
"Recai seems a good man, but if he is not you aren't to hesitate. And if anyone comes to the door…"
"I know, Aba. I close the door to the back and put on my burqa. I know, I am alone almost every day."
"Yes, but today, there is actually more to fear."
Hasad hesitated, reconsidering his decision to leave her alone with Recai. But he dismissed the thought. Besides earning a living, he had to arrange for the man's departure if he was ever to be rid of him.
Hasad walked out of the house without another word to his daughter and without checking on Recai. He wasn't dead; Hasad could hear his rattled breathing. God help me if there's fluid in his lungs. Was he saving a life or harboring a wanted criminal? Either way, it was time for Recai to go.
Outside, the air was dry, and the familiar taste of the desert greeted Hasad. He had lived here for so long it was hard to imagine his life before. Sand disguised the lines separating road from yard, deep tire tracks and packed-down earth the only marks distinguishing between the two. The few houses near him were bustling with activity: boys heading off to school or work, men congregating to pass the time, women and infants beginning their routine within the home.
Homes in Çayustu were old and in poor repair. It wasn't unusual to see an entire wall replaced with a lean-to or a window without screens. Chickens clucked as they scurried from yard to yard, having escaped one of the make-shift pens so many people had. Hasad could smell spices swirling in the air from kitchens where the day's cooking had begun. Cardamom and cumin, and the taste of yeast accented his hunger.
In a time past, he had been a wealthy man, an engineer teaching at Mumbai University. In a time past, he had a lovely young wife and two small children. In a time past, he did not fear those in charge. It was so long ago it was hard to believe that he was that same man. Now he was poor. A trader. A member of the slave underclass who worked wherever necessary to provide his daughter with as good a life as he could.
Yes, it was time for her to marry; perhaps to a man who could offer her a life like the one Hasad had fled.
Recai woke slowly. As the aches and pains of his body demanded recognition, his mind was overrun with the memories of the last thirty-six hours. He recalled meeting the mysterious woman with his mother's accent. The desert. Almost certain death. And now being here, in Rebekah's expert care.
Groaning once again, he sat up and appraised his surroundings with a fresh clarity of mind. His "bedroom" was actually a converted storage room, full of animal feed and blankets. Stockpiled food lay stacked on shelves: dried fruits, bags of nuts, jarred jelly and chutney. The room was built to serve as a porch, connected to the rest of the home but not built with nearly the attention to detail and quality as the rest. But he was safe, and dry, and the bed was kind. Despite his penchant for luxury, he decided this Jewish family's display of human decency made this among the best places he'd ever stayed.
Recai found sitting up to be easier, and decided to get to his feet. Determined to move around and care for himself, Recai gritted his teeth as he prepared for the inevitable pain. Dressed in cotton pants presumably belonging to Hasad, he stood. An avalanche of agony crashed over him. With a thud, Recai fell solidly to the ground. He cried out from the sudden ripping in his knee as the injured joint bent more than it should have. His damaged feet, ribs, and left knee throbbed.
"Recai!" Rebekah called from the kitchen, running in to investigate what had caused her patient to cry out. "What have you done?! Why didn't you call me?"
She looked him over to make sure none of his healing wounds had re-opened from the fall.
"I'm fine," he smiled through clenched teeth. "I only bent my knee too far, but look—I can straighten it!"
He moved to extend his leg but grimaced as he forced the angle.
"Don't hurt yourself worse in the name of pride," she teased. "I'm sure that in other circumstances your leg can bend and straighten quite impressively."
Her smile was radiant. Wavy black hair whispered around the frame of her face, unwilling to be completely tamed by her headscarf. The consideration she showed in covering within her own home touched him. It wasn't necessary—he was a guest—but he appreciated her gesture.
The two struggled together to get Recai back into the bed, where he succumbed to the weakness of his body. It had taken three tries and much more contact between the two than should have been allowed to manage it. But in the end, both were laughing comfortably, although Recai's voice was ragged and his breathing labored. As she gently tucked him in, she chuckled beneath her breath.
"It's not nice to laugh at an infirm man," Recai feigned offense.
She laughed openly.
"It's not nice to show up on a woman's doorstep bloody and missing pieces of yourself!"
"Not the best first impression I admit."
He scooted against the wall to make room for her to sit. She sat gingerly on the edge of his bed, careful not to allow their bodies to touch.
"No, but it is the most memorable."
"Memorable I will take."
Recai's tone was soft and sincere; his face relaxed into a grin.
"Are you hungry?" Rebekah asked.
"Yes, thank you."
She stood and patted down her skirt. Rebekah left and quickly returned holding two bowls of oatmeal with raisins and dried apricots.
"I didn't add anything to it. Do you want sugar or cinnamon?"
"No, this is wonderful."
Recai took the proffered bowl and blew on the steaming meal. He shifted on his bed, hoping she would join him again. But Rebekah lowered herself to the floor, her skirt pooling around her legs.
"Are you feeling better? Your color has improved."
"Yes, much. I don't feel like I'm actually being processed through a meat grinder."
He sat up straighter, away from the wall and began eating. The thick oatmeal warmed him within.
"I can fix that. I have one in the kitchen."
Rebekah's tone was flat as she cocked her head and looked at him with mock sincerity. Recai barked a laugh.
"Such a generous offer, but no, I'll pass for now."
"If you're sure."
She shrugged her shoulders and began her meal.
Silence surrounded them as they ate. Rebekah's eyes remained on the floor or her food, for the most part, but now and then Recai would catch her peering up at him. She was a curiosity. Living out here at the edge of civilization was a woman with intelligence and humor. She was more interesting than most of the men he encountered in Elih, but was graced with a soft beauty. This world had beaten the individuality out of most people and here, where chickens strolled casually in the street, was a woman of worth.
The day passed slowly, with Recai napping on and off. Rebekah went about her day as usual, dusting the thin film of sand that covered every surface in her home and then sweeping it all outside, only to have the wind blow it back in through the cracks around the doors and windows. Sometimes she would hum softly to herself, and Recai would close his eyes, pretending to be asleep so she would continue.
She prepared lunch and they ate together again, laughing more easily, becoming comfortable with the strangeness of their burgeoning friendship.
Recai still found it difficult to move, His badly blistering feet required Rebekah to change the dressings often. His vulnerability embarrassed him but Rebekah tended to him quickly and without fuss. She simply did what needed to be done and moved on to her next task, her smile quick to return whenever she glanced his way. A sharp knock at the door broke their peaceful aft
ernoon.
Knock. Just one solid sound.
Recai sat up too quickly and fell back against his mattress gasping as Rebekah stuck her head into his small room, her face creased with worry and fear.
"Cover yourself and stay silent," she whispered before closing the door and rushing back into the living room to retrieve her burqa and open the door. Recai heard the movement of the heavy fabric she wore on top of her house dress as she moved across the room to greet their visitor. He wondered if she had retrieved her father's gun which he'd overheard Hasad say was under the couch in the living room.
Before hiding beneath the thin sheet that covered him, he reached down and pulled the rug from the floor and threw it across his legs. He covered his head and melted against the wall with the pillow on top of his upper body. Feeling foolish, Recai laid there, wishing he had his ID, his phone, anything to help bribe his way out of this situation if it was indeed the RTK at the door.
Perhaps it's just a neighbor, he thought. A neighbor come to ask after Rebekah's father's health or to borrow some salt. His attempt at rationalizing the unexpected visit did not quell his fears. The RTK made a habit of performing home inspections, especially if they suspected a woman alone. It wasn't a safe time for anyone under the jurisdiction of Mayor Yilmaz.
Rebekah's voice from the front room was soft and gentle. Recai could not make out the words but he managed to hear the sound of another voice. Was it a man? What man would she let into her home, knowing he was back here and her father away? Only one she could not turn away. Recai squeezed his eyes shut and prayed to Allah that it was her Rabbi, come to check on her.
" . . . Only a storeroom, my father sleeps back here with the supplies and sometimes the animals so I can have the proper privacy a woman should be afforded," Recai heard her say.
Rebekah's voice was right outside the door to his room. She remained calm, not a hint of fear betrayed her. Few were able to handle themselves as coolly as she sounded. Recai prayed her strength would be enough.
