CHAPTER TWENTY
It took some minutes to understand that her birthday party had been attached to a second event, not a celebration but an unfolding crisis, something disastrous that the men were reluctant to discuss in her presence. Her father took her elbow and introduced her to his circle of special guests, the type of distinguished, soft-spoken, and elegant men who were always appearing on the periphery of her life, clean-shaven faces (except for the mustachioed Turks, this general, that general, so many generals) dilated with an attention that was soon withdrawn, the wineglasses and champagne flutes in their manicured hands tipped her way ever so briefly in royal salute, their smiled murmurings fading behind the gravity of their eminence. One was her father’s colleague from Ankara, a gangly dweebish man she knew to be the embassy’s station chief, the resident spy-guy actually, as unlikely as that seemed to her. Two were the fathers of her schoolmates, one a businessman but the other, like every one else, a member of the diplomatic corps of their respective countries. Only fat Mr. Kirlovsky, the émigré businessman who was also the father of her best friend, wrapped her up for a much-appreciated hug, providing her the opportunity to ask under her breath, It’s not another bomb, is it? To which he replied while kissing her moistly on each cheek, Worse, but not to worry.
I’m sorry you had to drive around, her father whispered in her ear, his warm breath making her shiver. There was some difficulty rounding up all these gentlemen, he said, and he didn’t want her surprise interrupted by the Swedish ambassador’s grand entrance, you know how these fellows can be. Join your friends, have a good time, we’ll talk later, he said, letting go of her arm and turning back to his mysterious conclave of statesmen. Bathroom, she said to herself, and asked a waiter for directions to the toilet as she slipped a flute of champagne off his tray.
The door to her stall banged open and there she was, squatting, one hand holding her skirt bunched at her waist, sipping champagne with the other, looking up into mock-scolding eyes, her best friend Elena dressed as usual in a style Dottie called Soviet Goth, military boots and black Levis from the Kapaliçarşi and a lilac angora sweater, ghoulish makeup emphasizing her cadaver’s paleness, black nail polish and chintzy red plastic barettes from Eastern Europe pinning her wavy hair at her temples. There you are, said Elena, speaking English in her thick accent, her voice hoarse and deep, almost mannish, like a man trying to sound like a girl. You never lock the door. Because you have no shame, eh? I am thinking those men with our fathers never let you go. You should see the look on your face when you come in the door, oh, my God. All week, it was so hard not to tell you, and make the other girls not to tell you. Your father is so fucking handsome and nice, you know. My father is like a slobby bear. Now tell me, how did you get this champagne? The waiters only bring children’s drinks to our side of the room. Okay, stop pissing already. How do you carry so much piss, like a cow. Where is the old woman with her scrap of tissue to scream at you for ten lira? Okay, stand up and kiss me now.
Laughing, she rearranged herself and they embraced, her blonde head and Elena’s glossy black curls bobbing sideways as they kissed each other’s happy faces.
Dottie pushed them out of the stall. I can’t believe I keep the secret, said Elena. I never keep the secret.
Dottie paused to check herself in the mirror that hung above the sink, a wistful searching gaze, balling her golden shoulder-length hair behind her head, the experiment ending in frustration. I’ve looked this way since I was thirteen years old, she despaired. She twisted to inspect herself from a different angle and dropped her hands. I want to cut my hair, she said, but my father won’t let me.
Tell me about, said Elena, misstating one of the American expressions she had learned from her friend. My father, he would be furious.
Daddy wouldn’t be angry, she said. I think it would just make him sad. She whirled around, her unsatisfactory moment of reflection dissipated. Wow, speaking of secrets, she said, what’s going on out there?
Some bad thing has happened in the Soviet Union, said Elena. Too bad, yes? she added facetiously.
What kind of bad thing?
An explosion, something, I don’t know.
Where? In a city? In Moscow? Are you worried about your relatives and friends?
It is the Soviet Union, they are Jews, said Elena. I am always worried about my relatives and friends. Now listen, she said as they walked arm in arm back to the party. You are the queen. You must get me a glass of champagne.
Hidden below the world, the ancient cistern seemed to her a glowing chamber of lovely secrets and concealed passions, its warm wavering luminosity—the image struck her as curiously religious—like the light encircled within a communion chalice. With Dottie’s arrival, its sonorous buzz had increased in volume, a festive trio of musicians playing traditional music, the bell-like ringing of tableware, the high-pitched melodies of raucous schoolgirls, like entering a shop that sold songbirds. There was caviar and kebab and every kind of meze imaginable, her piggy school chums cramming it in, and she floated merrily down the length of the tables, accepting a lifetime’s worth of double-cheek kisses, thanking everybody, accepting salutations and little gifts, a cassette of seventies rock and roll, a pack of highlighters for studying, a bottle of bubble bath, makeup she wouldn’t use, a beaded change purse, and sat for an awkward moment with jolly Mrs. Naslun, her history teacher, and the très bohemian French instructor who was the object of her infatuation, unable to be anything but shy and formal in their presence, exceedingly Turkish of her she knew.
Then, with Elena and Jacqueline and Yesho in tow, she broke the vestigial stricture of purdah etiquette—ladies sit with ladies, et cetera—and moved on to the corner of the room where the lycée boys had a table to themselves, some in coats and ties and others in jeans and leather jackets, most too young to be served beer but all of them drinking anyway, blowing smoke rings from their Marlboros, arguing soccer. The American boys struggled to be cool and the Muslim boys struggled to imitate them and the European boys were too cool to even bother, all of them sweet puppies but her interest inclined more toward two of the older boys from the university: Osman, who had somehow gotten an invitation, and Karim, who had somehow not. Osman, the classic entel—long hair, the Ortakoy leather bag on his shoulder with at least one book inside—who shared her love for photography, and the always sulky, sleepy-eyed Karim, the son of a Moroccan father and Turkish mother, who dreamed actual dreams of going to Afghanistan and joining the mujahideen to chop off the heads of Russians. Just by looking at her Karim made her muscles bunch with tension and sent fantasies through her mind she couldn’t begin to explain.
Another barrage of kisses, less polite, more grabby. Osman, the least polite, who quickly wiped her cheeks with a serviette—What are you doing? she laughed nervously—before kissing each one, and then stood back apologizing, I’m sorry, the general.
What are you talking about? she said, and he stammered, He kissed you, the pasha, the chairman of the Turkish army. Excuse me, you understand, he is a criminal, and how could I, I cannot—
She rolled her eyes at Osman’s weirdness, which she forgot about the moment he handed her a present, a stranded bracelet of Turkey’s ubiquitous dark blue beads centered with white circles to ward off the nazar, the evil eye. Oh, how sweet! she said, slipping it onto her left wrist, pecking him on the cheek as she swirled away.
She tapped a waiter as he walked by and asked for a round of champagne and returned his stern look with a bright boldness and said, This is my party, please just bring a bottle and glasses and when he still seemed to hesitate she said, my father’s over there if you need to speak with him, and that took care of it.
The four girls toasted one another again and again, and the lycée boys talked rock bands and boasted about colleges they would be attending next year in the States and France and Germany or England or here in Istanbul and lam
ented with borrowed nostalgia that the revolution in Iran and the war in Afghanistan prevented them from the summertime adventures they had dreamed of having on the Silk Road. They compared notes on connections for hash and opium until Elena and Jacqueline stopped ignoring them and began to flirt. Osman pulled a chair up next to Dottie’s and asked if she wanted to go with him to the secondhand book market in Sahaflar next weekend (yes) and the music bent itself into contortions, a slithery Middle Eastern cadence punctuated by the bash and rattle of a tambourine and darbuka drum.
Oh, my God! the three foreign girls said at once, their hands flying to their mouths and then grabbing at Yesho—Sit down! My God!—who had jumped to her feet and exposed her abdomen—She is auditioning for school slut, said Jacqueline—its muscles performing an undulating rise and fall beneath her taut skin, the smooth tawnyness of her flesh defiled by a hedgerow of coarse black hair that began at her navel and disappeared beneath the belt of her jeans. Their Turkish schoolmates squealed on cue, the boys hooted and jeered.
That is called gobek atmasi, Yesho said proudly, sitting back down. Throwing the stomach. Men become sex maniacs when they see gobek atmasi.
I want to learn this dance, Elena said, looking at the boys for their approval. Yes? It’s good?
All belly dance is not rakkass, with the sparkle bikini and shaky ass, said Yesho. Every Turkish person dance with the wrists like this—she demonstrated, twirling her hands—and the arms like this and the ass like, I don’t know, happy. But if I teach you, she said, you will require bodyguard.
Okay, guys, said Elena wickedly, slapping the table to get their attention as she rose to her feet with an erotic tilt and glide of her pelvis. So who is getting erection? Dottie blushed, Yesho smirked knowingly, Jacqueline spit her mouthful of champagne back into her glass, shrieking, and the lycée boys laughed nervously and Osman put his lips to her ear and whispered I am, but it is because I am sitting with you. Under the table he placed his hand on her knee but when she didn’t respond he returned to her ear and said have I offended you and she seemed to reenter reality and smiled at him and said no, taking his hand off her knee but holding it loosely in hers and she sighed, thinking, these girls, every time someone touched them between the legs they couldn’t stop themselves from proclaiming I love you, but not her.
At the other end of the room, she watched a courier deliver a message to her father. Then the waiters appeared with an immense cake and she heard her father’s clear tenor begin to sing and the room joined in but when she tried to focus on the candles they swam like fireflies in her vision and she almost set her hair ablaze when she leaned forward to blow out the flames. By the time the word passed around that a fleet of taxis had arrived to take everyone to the ferry station or back to Uskudar she had forgotten what she had wished for, peace on earth or going steady with Osman or getting accepted to Yale—her father’s alma mater—or still the Vespa. Her father came to stand behind her where she sat with her uneaten slice of cake and massaged her shoulders, telling her we can’t go yet, honey. Our most important guests have informed us they’ll be a few minutes late.
How’s mom?
Didn’t she call you?
Daddy, she said circumspectly, I want you to meet Osman, and Osman stood up with congenial good manners and shook her father’s hand. The two other fathers came over to the table to tell Elena and Jacqueline to take taxis if they didn’t want to wait, but the girls—except for Yesho, who was headed off to a club with one of the European boys she fancied—announced they would keep Dottie company. She insisted on walking Osman out to the street, for some reason thinking she needed to protect him from the authorities, and on the sidewalk saying good-bye he tried to kiss her but she turned her face so that he kissed her cheek, knowing that to do otherwise was not smart in public, and really dumb with all the cops standing around, any one of them ready to go fundamental on you. Then she went back inside, her concentration set on not falling down the steps, reminding herself she had forgotten to thank her father for the pearl ring—well, he hadn’t asked about it anyway.
He was still at their table, talking to Elena while he stood behind Jacqueline, rubbing her shoulders as, minutes before, he had his daughter’s and she could see that Jacqueline—what a clotheshorse she was, with her Benetton scarves and water-colored dresses and enviable short hair and self-absorption—was enjoying his touch and the sight upset her. Are you okay? her father asked as she sat back down and because he seemed to expect that she was she simply nodded and manufactured a pleasing smile and he said our guests should be here any second now and there will be a short meeting and then off they’d go. As soon as he returned to the men she waved to a waiter for another bottle of champagne but there was no more champagne and he came back with three glasses of sugary white wine.
Osman, said Jacqueline slyly. Très hot, yes? You think so?
Yes, but, said Elena, her accent making the words sound like yizboot, an automatic way to make her friends giggle. Turkish boys have repression.
What?
The sex repression.
It’s true, said Jacqueline, lowering her voice. They won’t eat the woman, yes?
Stop, said Dottie. How would you know?
Yesho! Elena and Jacqueline said together.
And which one of you was in charge of inviting the guys? What happened to Karim? Why wasn’t he here?
I don’t like this Karim, Elena said. This Karim has murder in his eyes.
Yizboot, Dottie said mockingly, you say that about—
Yes, but it’s true, protested Elena. I am a Jew. What do you expect me to say? Have you noticed? Muslims are very happy to kill the Jew.
That’s just not true, Dottie said. You spend every minute of every day surrounded by Muslims.
And what about the bombs? Elena said. Who is killing people with bombs? Oh, yes, I forgot. It is the Eskimo.
And what the Jews are doing in Lebanon? countered Jacqueline, her English beginning to fail with the wine.
I think you must be anti-Semite, said Elena. You are French and the French are this way.
The Jews have all the money, pouted Jacqueline. Everyone know.
Jews know how to make money. They work, said Elena. Arabs know how to get money. They steal.
You are a paranoid, Jacqueline said.
I am not speaking now, you bitch, said Elena, and turned in her chair away from their familiar quarrel in time to see the long-awaited guests arrive, a hush spreading through the haze of the room as they stood gruffly on the landing sending a grave regard down toward the group assembled below, a civilian and a soldier, or rather a high-ranking officer judging from his uniform, the red epaulettes and peaked cap and tunic adorned with service ribbons and medals. Oh, shit, said Elena, Soviets. And of course she would know, thought Dottie, since Elena’s family had emigrated from Leningrad four years earlier, yet it seemed improbable that the bow-tie-wearing civilian of the pair, who more resembled a florid-faced British schoolmaster than an iron-hearted Stalinist apparatchik, could bear any responsibility for the crimes of the president’s evil empire. As if to prove her point, Comrade Bow Tie’s somber expression dissolved into warm collegiality as the two men descended the steps side by side, Bow Tie’s flat-footed shambling bonhomie almost a parody of the military officer’s rigid movement, his arms clenched out from his body as though there were tennis balls clasped in his armpits while Bow Tie extended his hand to greet old friends and calm a fresh crop of adversaries. Elena decided they had come to arrest her father.
Chairs were offered but declined. Bow Tie explained they were needed elsewhere in their duties and regrettably could stay at most a few minutes, and the diplomats and Turkish generals formed a half-circle in front of the Soviets and questions were asked in English and French. Her father, unusually subdued, apologized for the American ambassador’s absence and then def
erred to the interlocutors. The military officer remained silent as well, confrontation etched into the lines of his face, while his civilian counterpart offered breezy answers basted in optimism that only increased the chorus of questions from the diplomats.
The three girls sat quietly nearby, titillated, keen to hear every word of the dispute. Chernobyl, Dottie finally whispered, where is that? The Ukraine, Elena whispered back, you have been given nuclear meltdown for your birthday.
Someone said his country’s monitors were reporting radiation levels that were alarmingly high. Each repetition of the accusation found itself paired with the same cavalier denial. Offers of assistance—technical, humanitarian—were brushed away with an effusion of insincere gratitude. The questions turned into admonishments. Catastrophic, said a deputy from the German embassy, his voice disturbingly loud. Winds. Fallout. You understand? Europe, humanity.
Mais oui, said Jacqueline, exactement, nodding sagely when she heard her father’s emphatic interjection to own up to it.
Our business, said Bow Tie. No problem. Small problem. Routine. Under-control problem. How is your wife? Under control. How are the children? Under control. Comrade Kill-You-In-Your-Sleep sends his best. Comrade Slit-Your-Throat remembers you fondly.
Good, let’s go, she thought, watching the grim-faced statesmen reaching for their coats and hats—who gave these pinko a-holes license to interfere with her seventeenth birthday?—but the other man, the military officer, suddenly came to life, barking in a language so aggressive she felt it in her stomach and thought, so that’s Russian, an eruption that froze everyone in place, heads rotating slowly to search out the one among them who seemed to be the object of the officer’s outrage.
Elena said as if to herself, Oh, my God, Dottie, this bastard is yelling to your father!
The Woman Who Lost Her Soul Hardcover Page 32
