by Loren Edizel
He took a deep breath and gazed at the immobile airplanes stuck to long metallic accordions outside.
“Where is the boy now?” I urged.
He shook his head. “He had this incredible stature for a tiny, skinny little kid. You noticed him even when he was immobile.” He took a deep breath and closed his eyes so that his eyelids creased into tiny layers and a sound came out of his mouth like a muffled cough. He took out his handkerchief and pressed it to his face. He was drenched in sweat once again.
“Shall we take a walk?” I tried.
He nodded and got up. We gathered our bags and started walking along the long corridor lined with gates, our eyes latching onto bodies moving hurriedly toward their destination, burdened by bags and sleeplessness.
“One morning I woke up, went to bring him breakfast and he was not there. His cot was in the exact same mess it had been the day before. It looked like he had not even lain down since the day before. I thought he was perhaps taking one of his walks around the camp, so I went looking for him once, no sign of him; twice, three times. I asked people if they had seen him. He had vanished. I ran frantically, shouting his name all around the camp, looking in tents, hoping I would find him curled up somewhere in deep sleep. I never did.
“I had my usual contacts in the city: the driver who took me back and forth from the camp, a nearby grocer, the man who had been a university professor and was now translating for the peacekeepers and foreigners stationed there. There were an assortment of random people I had been dealing with over time, and I contacted them all to ask them for advice. The driver shrugged, looking at me in the rearview mirror. He said the country was big and perhaps the child wanted to find his relatives. The professor offered me tea and asked me if I had considered the possibility that the boy may have been kidnapped. The thought had never occurred to me. Kidnapped for what? I asked. ‘For prostitution; or slave labour, in any case.’ He could have stuck a knife into my gut, the professor. He had given me two options, one worse than the other, to keep me awake night after night with hellish visions. I sprang up, ready to run out of there. There was not a minute to waste, where, where would they sell these children? He gave me a long sad look. Neighbouring countries, even farther away perhaps. ‘I will find him,’ I shouted. ‘Goddamn this rotten place!’
“The professor was evidently hurt by my outburst, but he remained calm. ‘Indeed this is a rotten place. Poverty and despair render any place rotten, and corruption waits to pounce on all. Sadly these children are in great demand in brothels, and some people from your part of the world certainly seek such places. People from your country import things made by such unfortunates, too. It’s a chain, my friend, and you’d be surprised how close to home it leads.’ He rose, and patted my back. ‘I hope you find him, in any case. It’s not too late. Ask around in your camp. You need to find a lead. If I can be of any help, let me know.’
“I returned to the camp, heartbroken, after having wandered around the city’s shady crooked streets for a few days, scrutinizing every child, every shadow of one, following every illusion and mirage to its disappointing conclusion.
“I did not have a photograph of the boy, and he had no physical particularities that would stand out in the memories of those I asked. His large, lost eyes were everywhere, I suddenly realized. All the children I encountered had them.”
The man stopped talking. His hand was in his pocket, looking for the handkerchief that I estimated was completely soaked by now. “Would you like to freshen up?” I asked, pointing at the washroom across from us. We had arrived at the opposite side of the terminal. He nodded and walked toward the washroom. “I’ll wait here,” I said, glancing at my wristwatch. In another half hour I would have to start walking toward my gate; I realized I was no longer anxious to leave the airport and reach my destination.
He returned to my side after five minutes, looking dry once again. I suspected he had a large supply of white T-shirts in his backpack. “We don’t have much time,” he said now. “My flight is in an hour. Is your gate back there?” he asked waving in the direction from which we had come. I nodded. “Let’s walk back that way,” he said and led the way.
“I started asking questions to women, old men, people who seemed to always be sitting in the same spot day after day, in case they had noticed the child, or something unusual, or if they knew of other children taken away that night. The doctor seemed to have taken pity on me, and once in a while he accompanied me on these rounds, asking questions and probing further. Everyone in the camp knew him and trusted him, so he was able to get more cooperation than I did in my queries. One woman finally admitted to having seen the boy accompanied by a man in the dark. She did not want anyone to know she told the doctor this, she made him promise; she was afraid of possible retaliations. She had a couple of kids of her own she was not letting out of her sight day or night. ‘They went that way,’ she said, and waved in the direction of the camp gate. She only saw silhouettes. The man was short and fat, she said. He seemed to be holding the boy from the neck and walking beside him. They got in a car, she figured, because she heard an engine revving later. She had gotten up to go to the bathroom when she saw this. She did not think anything of it until word got around the camp that I was looking for the boy. People who had previously treated me with indifference were now nodding kindly when I passed.
“All men short and fat were suddenly of great interest to me and I realized there were not that many in the camp. There was not much food to make anyone fat, for starters. The only rather short and chubby man I knew was the driver and he did not live there, obviously. The only people in the camp who knew I was looking for a short and fat man were the doctor and the refugee woman. I thought I should befriend the driver a little. I asked him to drive me to town again. He knew I was looking for the boy and asked me if I had any news, glancing at me from the rearview mirror. I shook my head no. He nodded.
“‘Have you heard anything?’ I asked him.
“‘Everyone’s too busy with their own problems to notice a boy leaving the camp. He must have gone to look for relatives, what other explanation is there?’ he said, once again looking directly at me.
“‘You must be right,’ I nodded. ‘But where would these relatives be?’
“‘Who knows…’ he shrugged. I thanked him when he left me in the central plaza of the city and memorized his license plate. I went directly to the professor and told him about the lead I had, giving him the license plate number. He was well-connected among local authorities and I knew if anyone, he was the person who could help me go further in this investigation. Within hours he had gotten me the driver’s address. The professor offered to take me there. I declined politely but not before asking him to help me rent a car.
“I drove to the driver’s house and parked the car a few buildings down so as not to be noticed. There were hours and hours of waiting in that car, waiting for the driver to get in and out, waiting to see his acquaintances. That first day he left the house and walked down the street, got into a grocery store, left with a plastic bag, and went back to his house. He then left again in his car at the end of the day, presumably to meet me and the others who would be returning to the camp. I followed him and saw him wait for us. Two people showed up. He waited for me for about half an hour and then finally got in his car and drove toward the camp. I went back to his street and waited for him to come home. I got out of the car, and walked to his house. It was a small concrete heap, something ugly and shapeless, the likes of which one saw all around the city, built haphazardly, with metal rods sticking up from parts of the roof. There was one window, one door. I tried to peek in but could not see anything through the slits of the drawn curtains. I spent a few hours again sitting in the car, waiting. The driver came home past midnight with two men. One of them was in uniform; a policeman, I thought. They got into the house and did not come out till the next day. After a few days, I knew that these two
men, one of whom was often in uniform were his friends or associates. When I told the professor of my findings, he insisted on joining me. After ascertaining that the driver had gone for his usual drive to the camp, the professor got out and walked into the grocery store. He spent some time there and then returned to the car. The grocer had given him quite a bit of information in return for some money; it turned out the driver and his friends were well known in the area. The policeman made the rounds asking for money from the stores and restaurants in the neighbourhood — protection money so to speak. The other man was a pimp. The driver never paid for anything he took from the store.
“I became convinced they boy had been taken by these thugs. I needed proof. The professor was helping me, certain that with concrete evidence, we would get these men arrested and jailed. In his own way, he was doing something to clean up the mess his country had become. He needed to do this, I sensed, for his own sanity. The university where he had been teaching was now a heap of rubble. He was reduced to translating here and there, crushed by the pathos of his own circumstance and the devastation surrounding him. I, on the other hand, had a secret plan of my own. I had to be ready when proof arrived. I had no faith in the judiciary system, or the police force. The professor, with all his lofty ideals seemed uselessly naïve to me.
“Proof did arrive after a few weeks of waiting and skulking in the shadows. I was alone in the car dozing off when the three men came. They got out of the car, herding a couple of children into the house. I got out of the car and tried to peek through the slits in the curtains. I could see nothing, but the lights were on for a long time. Rage was rising inside my throat, like some enormous lump that would choke me if swallowed. I touched the gun in my pocket seeking assurance from it. Guns are easier to buy than bread, over there. Cheap too. I had a silencer. I wanted to break the door down and kill the bastards on the spot to save the children. But I had to wait, be patient. I had to wait until I got the driver alone, so I could get the whereabouts of my boy out of him. I had to remain calm and plan the next steps.”
The man was soaked once more; sweat dripping down his neck into the collar of his T-shirt. His voice was reduced to a whisper, eyes darting back and forth in the wide space of the airport. I was terrified.
“I waited in my car,” he continued. “Before dawn, the pimp and the policeman left the house, once again herding the children back into the driver’s car. The kids seemed dazed or drugged. They drove off. I waited some more, counting the minutes. Seven minutes, exactly. I agonized in that car seat. Then I got out, quietly closing the car door and approached the house. I was shaking the whole time. I turned the door knob, it opened. I was relieved that the other guys had not bothered to lock it. I did not want to have to ring his doorbell. I wanted to catch him unaware.
“The driver was sprawled on his couch in his undershirt, passed out. His fat belly had rolled to the side. There were bottles of booze, needles, and other drug paraphernalia on the stained old coffee table next to him. I walked to him stealthily and placed my gun on his temple. The cold, hard contact of the barrel opened his puffy eyes. There was terror in them, then recognition and utter confusion. He closed and opened them again, as if to be sure. ‘What are you doing here?’
“‘You tell me,’ I hissed.
“‘What do you want from me? How do you know where I live?’
“‘Where is the boy from the camp?’
“‘How do I know?’ His mind had started working from beneath his initial terror. His eyes darted to the cell phone on the table. I grabbed it and put it in my pocket.
“‘You know because you took him, slime bag. You know, because you made him disappear.’
“He tried to sit up. ‘I did no such thing!’ he insisted.
“I was shaking. ‘I will be happy to blow your brains out, right now. Don’t make me. Take me to the kid.’
“‘I don’t know where he is!’ He whined. I punched him, clenching my teeth.
“He covered his face with his hands. I moved the gun farther away, but it was still pointed at him.
“‘Really, I don’t know where he is. I take them and pass them on to … others. They handle the rest. I never know where they end up.’ He whispered that bit. I punched him again. I wanted to shoot him.
“‘Where are the others? Those who were here last night?’
“Don’t kill me, please.’
“‘Where did they go?’
“That morning, in exchange for a few hard punches and some broken teeth from the fat man, I found out how vast this underground trade was. I had no idea. There were well-connected people, politicians, businessmen respected in the community, a mosaic of thugs and deceptively clean-looking, well-meaning men, all intertwined in the lucrative business of drugs, prostitution, and child abuse that flourished beneath the war-torn facade. He really could not tell me where the boy was, or the other children, most of them orphans and strays who were drugged, gathered, and bussed through the night, across the border to another country. The border guards were in on it; they had their commission too. The kid could be anywhere — in a brothel, on the street, in a clandestine factory, anywhere….
“‘Take me to your buddies.’ He was stumbling, hands tied behind his back, his aching jaw hanging open. The sun had not risen yet; the street was quiet, and a faint light was starting to dilute the darkness. Soon, a rooster would crow somewhere. We got in the car. I drove to the warehouse where the other two had gathered the children to be taken away. It was in the outskirts of the city, a dilapidated warehouse like many others in the area, a company name stencilled over its door. I took out the cell phone and asked him to give me the number to dial. He did not want to. I raised the gun and was ready to hit him with the handle. He gave it to me. I dialled and told him to call the other two out. ‘Find an excuse,’ I said, ‘get them to meet you outside the warehouse.’ He did. I untied him and told him to walk toward the place. The door opened, the two men came out looking annoyed.
“‘What the hell are you doing here?’ shouted the policeman walking ahead of the pimp. I knew I had to act quickly, before the driver could spill the beans. In fact, he did not have to say a word, his appearance would be alarming enough. I was hiding behind bushes not far from the driver. I waited until the three got close enough. I aimed and shot them one by one before they could react. I hit the policeman in the leg at first; he had his gun out and was pointing it at the bushes. I shot him three more times. He screamed, his body bounced a little and then fell flat. I raised my T-shirt to hide my face, and ran into the warehouse. There were more than a dozen children there, their ankles tied to each other with metal chains. It smelled of urine and vomit. I managed to release them and told them to run as fast as they could, just run away.
“They fled out of there, barely glancing at the three blood-soaked inanimate bodies sprawled on the ground. I cleaned the cell phone and pressed it into the driver’s hand. I got in the car and took off.”
He stopped talking. I had been so engrossed in his tale I did not react for a while, staring dumbly at his face.
“I need to get to my gate soon,” he said.
Out of my speechless stupor, I managed to blurt out that I wanted to hear the rest, what had happened after that?
He smiled a tiny bitter crack. “Nothing,” he shrugged. He told me he went to the camp, gathered his few belongings, bid his goodbyes and left. He travelled for a few more months looking for the boy. He told me that he was on his way over there now to look for him again. He was not going to give up; as long as he could, he would look for the kid.
“No one came looking for you? You murdered three people and just walked away? How is that even possible? Why didn’t you call the police to help the kids?”
“Because the police would help the kids?” He spurted something like a whinny that was supposed to be a laugh.
“They did not catch you….”
“Not yet, as you can see. Do you think anyone will bother in a war-torn, corrupt, screwed-up place if three louts are killed in front of a shady warehouse? They’ve probably chalked it up to some inside job. Happens all the time, I imagine. Maybe they will figure it out eventually, who knows? I hope not before I find the kid, first. I promised to put him on an airplane out of there and I mean to keep my word.”
He started walking away from me, rearranging his backpack on his shoulder and then turned around to find me standing there, immobile, gaping. He walked quickly back to me and touched my arm.
“Close your mouth. Write it.” He gave my arm a friendly squeeze and walked away.
The Imam’s Daughter
I WAS A TEENAGER the last time I saw Fatma. I had just returned home for my summer vacation after my first year of university and she had come to visit us with her two children. One was a small boy of three or four, the other still a baby. We sat in the living room of our cottage, facing the bay of Izmir while she changed the baby’s diaper on the sofa. It was one of those searing July days when the lodos blows down from the mountains, making the air dry and the sea icy cold. She was wearing a sleeveless lilac dress with ever-growing sweat stains under her armpits and milk leaking from her breasts. It had taken god knows how many dolmus minibuses to finally get to Kalabak from where she lived. I watched her pick up her baby and place him on her left side, so that he could look around over her shoulder. His head was bobbing as she rocked around the room patting his back to prevent possible wails while at the same time telling her little boy to sit still and behave, which he was already doing. In fact, he spent his time mostly looking at his toes until he was told to run along and play in the sand. At that point, he got up and went to the beach where he gingerly crouched so as not to dirty his immaculate shorts and sandals. Fatma, whom I always called Fatosh, lay her finally sleeping baby on a bed in a room. When she came back, her face was harsh. “Do you have a fiancé?” she asked me, frowning.
