The Lovers

by Vendela Vida

  His lack of faith in her had to do with Oliver Cromwell. On a Friday that past February, she delivered her standard lecture about Cromwell and the organization of the British Commonwealth. After the first few minutes, she’d noticed that everyone, even her least devoted student, was paying rapt attention. This was followed by snickers, and she knew something was wrong. Later in the day, an anonymous note appeared in her faculty mailbox: “You gave the exact same lecture WORD FOR WORD twice this week.” It was a student’s handwriting—she recognized his oblong Os. No doubt word of Yvonne’s forgetfulness had gotten around school and been brought to George’s attention as well. Summer school was no longer an option; she’d be lucky to have a job in the fall.

  “Mom, please come,” Matthew begged during a phone conversation in mid-April when they had little else to discuss. Yvonne had been standing in rain boots on her porch. She would have been flattered by Matthew’s invitation if he actually seemed to want her presence, but she knew he was including her for the sake of appearances. If Callie’s parents were joining them, how could he explain his mother’s absence?

  “It looks like Aurelia and Henry are coming now too,” he added.

  The prospect of Aurelia’s presence—and especially Henry’s—made the trip more alluring. Yvonne had worried for so long that Aurelia would reject any romantic attention, just as she had shielded herself from her parents’ affection. Now Yvonne was quietly thrilled whenever Henry put his arm around Aurelia and Aurelia allowed it to remain.

  “Could I come for part of it?” Yvonne asked Matthew.

  It had all been settled during that one long phone call. Once they decided Yvonne would meet Matthew, the Campbells, Aurelia, and Henry halfway through their cruise, in Turkey, she knew she would spend the preceding week and two days in Datça. As soon as she made the decision, her mood improved and the light drizzle ceased. She removed the take-out menus rubber-banded to her doorknob and threw them in the trash.

  That evening Yvonne had gone online and found this house. A “gracious house,” a “meer walk” from the beach, the website said. She would spend nine days here and then the boat would pick her up in the Datça harbor.

  In Ali Çelik’s kitchen, she continued eating cherries until her stomach was full and her fingers were purple. She cleaned up and washed her hands, made sure the door and windows were locked, and with heavy legs walked up to the master bedroom.

  She changed into her pajamas, brushed her teeth, rinsed her swollen feet in the shower, and collapsed onto the bed. The headboard suggested it was king-sized, but as she moved under the covers toward the center, Yvonne discovered two mattresses had been pushed together, bound by a single sheet. At home, she had started sleeping in the middle of her queen mattress—it made her feel less small, less irrelevant than staying on her side, or his—but here that would not be possible. Each night she would have to choose.

  She lay on the bed with the light on, staring at a hook in the ceiling, directly above the bed. It was an eyehook, the kind used to hang a plant. Who would want to hang a plant from there?

  She couldn’t sleep. She stood and scanned the bookshelf. The majority of the books were in Turkish—even The Da Vinci Code, whose ubiquitous cover design Yvonne recognized. A few books were in German, and one in English: The Woman’s Guide to Anal Sex. She read the spine again to make sure she wasn’t mistaken. She opened the front cover and an order slip from Amazon.com slipped out. It had been sent to “Manon.” Yvonne flipped through the book, pausing at the diagrams, and replaced the slip and the book on the shelf. Çelik apparently hadn’t gotten around to putting everything away in time for his renter.

  She returned to bed, trying to get comfortable. Various images flew, unbeckoned, to her mind: the note she had found beneath the windshield wiper of her car after Peter’s memorial service, which read, “Can’t you see what you did? If you had parked your car one foot back someone else could have parked in front of you. But you didn’t. Next time, try not to be so selfish. Try to think of other people in this world.” The fact that she focused on this note, that week and for the following months—and still, now—was maddening, baffling. A note about her parked car! But it seemed to contain all that she hated about that time, those days of obligation and defeat.

  And then there was the image of the woman in the gray winter coat who had appeared at her doorstep all those Decembers ago. Yvonne had been pouring water into the red bowl at the base of the Christmas tree when she saw a woman she didn’t recognize walking up their front steps. Even the woman’s gait was angry. A loud, determined knock. Yvonne opened the door.

  “Are you Aurelia’s mother?” the woman said. Her face was ravaged, her eyes wild.

  “Yes,” Yvonne said.

  “Well,” the woman said, “I want you to know that your daughter just landed my daughter in intensive care.”

  How deceived Yvonne had been to believe Aurelia was sober then, that it was so easy to return from a rehab center in Arizona to Burlington High School. How deluded she had been to think that Aurelia wasn’t dealing. It was what they had told Yvonne and Peter in the family counseling sessions they’d gone to: “All kids who do drugs, deal drugs.” “Not our Aurelia,” she said to Peter, who was reluctant to welcome their daughter back home. “Not our Aurelia,” he had repeated, but coming out of his mouth, the words meant something very different.

  Soon the two episodes joined together, and it was the enraged mother leaving a note on Yvonne’s car. Yvonne shook her head, as though she could detach the image from her mind. Her skin was moist, covered with salt. She got up and swung open the window. The wind promptly swept it shut. She looked at the clock. Three. She’d been trying to sleep for two hours. She tried sleeping on her side, with a pillow between her legs, the way she had when she was pregnant. She tried to sleep on her stomach. The pillowcase was rough on her face. She removed a well-worn T-shirt from her suitcase and wrapped it around the pillow.

  At dawn she realized the crocheted curtains offered no solace from the light. She rose to examine her other options for sleep. As she stood on the threshold of each of the other bedrooms, she was reminded of her younger self. Every night, after brushing her teeth, she would check on the twins. Matthew’s room smelled of buttermilk, that heavy scent of boy. But from the start Aurelia had been a restless sleeper, given to bizarre positionings. One night her legs would be crawling the wall by her bed, her mouth open in amazement. The next she would be facedown, limbs spread like a skydiver.

  At six in the morning, wandering the Datça house like a phantom, Yvonne settled on the room with the twin beds and heavy curtains, and crawled into the bed closer to the door. She needed to sleep; she wanted to be strong the next day. It had been twenty-eight years since she and Peter had honeymooned in Datça. She wanted to wake up ready.

  A piercing sound was slicing through the house. A siren? An air raid? She rolled out of bed, taking the covers with her at first, then disentangled herself. She ran into the hallway and tried to determine the source. It seemed to be coming from everywhere around her—above, below, the walls themselves. She was surrounded. She ran down the stairs and it shrieked louder. In the living room, she lunged toward something black, plastic, near the TV. A telephone. She listened to it wail again, and heard similar cries coming from above, from what she now realized were the other phones.

  She picked up the phone nearest her. How did one say hello in Turkish? She settled on “Allo.”

  “Good morning. Did I wake you? It’s Ali Çelik!”

  “I was resting…”

  “You can’t sleep the day away!”

  What time was it?

  “I was calling to check on you, to make sure everything is okay.”

  “The house is great,” she said, looking around the living room. In the morning, it looked less romantic, more sterile. But still, it was clearly a well-kept, clean house.

  “Good. I’d like to come by and say hello.”

  “Yes,” Yvonne said. “And I
owe you the remainder of the deposit.”

  “Oh, yes, that too,” Mr. Çelik said, as though it was an afterthought. “Maybe I’ll stop by in two hours?”

  “Sure,” said Yvonne. “What time is it now?”

  “Eight o’clock. Time to get up!”

  Upstairs, she changed out of her pajamas, which she noticed were threadbare at the thighs and faded everywhere. Peter would have bought her a new set by now. He was the one who pointed out when the heels of her boots were wearing down, he was the one who suggested it was time to trade in her old Toyota. Yvonne, the youngest of three daughters, was not accustomed to shopping for something new when the old, or handed-down, could suffice.

  She dressed in a crisp skirt and a bright plum top, and ran a comb through her hair. A week before the trip, she had been to a hairdresser who, after an hour of snipping and brushing and blow-drying, pronounced Yvonne’s cut “youthful.” For an hour after leaving the salon, she felt lighter, walking on the balls of her feet until she noticed the heads of every other fifty-something-year-old in Burlington, and even some sixty-year-olds, were similarly coiffed. Now she pulled her hair up behind her head, securing as much of it as would stay into a short ponytail.

  She carried her purse with her downstairs to the living room and lay on her back on the blue couch, her hands joined over her chest, her ankles crossed on the armrest. She looked, she thought, like a parody of someone in a psychiatrist’s office. But here she could fall asleep and still be able to hear the doorbell when Mr. Çelik arrived.

  A thump. Yvonne awoke and leaped up, but no one was at the door. She returned to the couch and saw her unzipped purse had fallen to the floor and some of the contents had spilled. She knelt down on the zebra-skin rug, the coarse hair scratching her shins. Beneath the couch, she saw her tin of lip balm, the squashed orange earplugs she had used on the flight, and the small bottle of evening primrose oil she kept with her when she traveled. The capsules had helped her through menopause, and now she was afraid to be without them.

  She slid her arm beneath the couch and swept it left and right, checking to make sure she had found everything. Her wrist brushed against a small tube of toothpaste, also from the plane, and then her hand hit something hard and smooth. She pulled out a large picture frame and turned it over.

  Mr. Çelik’s wife—Yvonne recognized her from the photos on the refrigerator—was naked, her legs spread, her pubic hair shaved. A large red ribbon had been tied around her breasts, the bow dangling between her nipples. She was holding a sign printed with seven Turkish words. Yvonne couldn’t decipher their meaning, but knew from the punctuation that a question was being posed.

  Yvonne put the photo back and sat up on the couch. She unscrewed the tin of lip balm and applied it to her mouth with her index finger. A minute later, she applied it again. The night before, a thought had wafted into her mind as she tried to sleep, and she remembered it now. She climbed the stairs to the master bedroom and stood up on the mattress. The ceiling hook was toward the foot of the bed, and she placed a finger through its eye and tugged. It was sturdy enough to hold a few hundred pounds.

  She neatened the blanket and climbed to the bedroom on the top floor. Spread out on the bed was the contraption. There had been a scandal at Burlington High two years before involving the girls soccer coach, the captain of the boys lacrosse team, and a sex swing, and though Yvonne had never seen one before, she knew a sex swing was what lay before her now. Why hadn’t it been stored away with the naked photo and who knew what else? Why had it been carried upstairs to this room?

  A chime echoed dimly: the doorbell. She ran down the spiral staircase, and when she arrived at the front door she was dizzy, almost panting. She unbolted and unchained and turned the three locks, took a breath, and opened the door.

  Mr. Çelik had Mediterranean skin, a small, childlike nose, and thick black hair that had been swept back, as though by a brush or a strong breeze. In front of the house a convertible was parked, its top down. He was young for someone so wealthy.

  “You are Yvonne,” he said, as if he himself had just christened her.

  She smiled. “Yes.”

  “Welcome to Datça.” He extended his arms in the living room, to the kitchen. “You like my house?”

  “Very much. It’s lovely. How long have you had it?”

  “Two years.”

  “Where do you live?”

  “I have another home not too far from here, a home with vineyards. You should come for dinner one night.”

  She noticed they were still standing in the doorway. “Would you like to come into your house?” she said.

  “Please,” he said, and made an exaggerated demonstration of wiping his sandals on the doormat. “It’s a beautiful day.”

  Yvonne smiled. She didn’t want to let on that she had not been outside. They moved into the dining area and stood by the table.

  “I have your money,” she said.

  “Let’s not talk about that yet.” He lifted his hand as though to shield himself from the thought of money. “How do you like my Datça?”

  “I like it very much. I was actually here before.”

  “Really? When?”

  “Maybe twenty-five years ago,” Yvonne said. It had been twenty-eight years exactly.

  “You must have liked it, no, if you come back?”

  “I was on my honeymoon,” she said.

  “Oh, yes, everyone has fun on their honeymoon.”

  Yvonne looked at the floor, embarrassed. She thought of the sex swing and the photo, and the parts either might have played in his honeymoon.

  “And is your husband joining you?”

  “No,” Yvonne said. “He passed away.” Up until a year ago she had told people Peter had been killed. But when they realized no knives or guns or poison had been involved, they seemed less interested, even disappointed, and this inevitably turned Yvonne against them. There had been a long period when the details of his death were the only thing on her mind at any given time of day, and always at night.

  “I am sorry,” Mr. Çelik said. “I’m so sorry.” His sympathy, so unexpected from a stranger, caused a stinging sensation in her nose, the start of tears.

  “It’s okay,” she said, as though consoling him. Now he was the one looking at the floor.

  “Maybe,” she started, unsure of what she was going to say. She had to save him. “Maybe you could give me some good restaurant recommendations? It’s been so long.”

  “Of course,” he said, brightening up. She knew his type, the kind of person who was happiest with a task, a purpose. “I will draw you a map.”

  They both looked around for paper. “Maybe in that cabinet there,” Mr. Çelik said. “Do you mind if I look?”

  He located a pad of paper with thin blue lines spaced widely, and sketched a small map. “Here we are,” he said, and drew a star, “and here’s a good place for meat, and here”—he squiggled another star—“is a good place for fish.” The watch on his wrist was large and thick black hair sprouted up on either side of the wide band. “Tell them you’re staying at my house.”

  “Thank you,” she said, taking the drawing from him. She already knew the tangle of crooked lines and wayward stars would prove useless.

  She lifted her purse and, this time, Mr. Çelik did not object. She removed the white envelope she’d been given by the woman with the plastic thimble on her thumb who exchanged her money at the Amsterdam airport. Mr. Çelik had specified in his e-mail that he preferred to be paid in euros rather than Turkish lire, but she confirmed with him now.

  “Euros, yes?” she said.

  “Yes, better than lire. I have more faith in their economy.”

  “But I changed money into lire too. Around town, can I use lire or…?”

  “Lire are fine, but secretly everyone prefers euros.”

  “Good to know,” she said, and counted out the bills slowly on the dining room table. When she was through, Mr. Çelik counted them again quickly before st
acking them. He was clearly a man accustomed to dealing with cash.

  “Next time I see you I’ll bring you a receipt.”

  “When will that be?” Yvonne said, hoping she didn’t sound desperate. It was only now, upon his imminent departure, that she fully comprehended the solitary existence that lay before her. When she had been in Burlington, surrounded by people who paid too much attention to her social schedule, or the paucity of it, isolation had seemed the perfect antidote. But now, only the morning after her arrival in Datça, she was beginning to have her doubts.

  “I’ll check in,” Mr. Çelik said as he started for the door. Was it her imagination or, now that he had his money, was he no longer looking at her?

  “Oh,” he said, turning around.

  “Yes?”

  He gave her body the cursory glance people gave to the shapes of the elderly. She no longer had a body or a figure; she had a shape.

  “What days are good for the maid?”

  “Maid?” She had never used a maid at home.

  “Yes, it’s included in the rental. Two maid visits during your stay.”

  “Wednesday?” She wasn’t sure what day it was. “And Saturday.”

  “Good,” he said. “I will tell her. And not too early. I know you like to sleep.”

  Yvonne smiled and stood with one hand on the door as he stepped outside. They nodded at each other and then he turned. She watched his calves as he walked down the stairs.

  She was suddenly ravenous. She opened the refrigerator again, as though something inside might have materialized with the arrival of morning. Nothing but cherries, now looking worse than they had the night before. She would walk to town, eat, buy groceries, and take a stroll along the beach. She hid half of her remaining euros in the pocket of a woman’s raincoat she found hanging in the master bedroom closet. Then she gathered her things—straw hat, purse, the ring of house keys, which included a heavy charm in the shape of a boat.