Amsterdam 2020 (Amsterdam Series Book 2) (31 page)

If the police ever found out.

All he knows is they are going up and down hills, each down shift a knife in his aching bladder.

After an hour or so the car stops.  The air is colder, and he smells a farm—clover and manure.  When they yank him out of the car, he slips in mud, nearly falling.  “
Vorsicht
,” a voice says, telling him to be careful. 

He hears cows mooing.

#

“You can tell Chubby to go fuck himself.”

That gets him a rifle butt in the ribs and a “Shut up,” in English. 

“As least let me fucking pee.”

This prompts a few exchanges in whatever language they're speaking.  One of the men unties him and stands him up.

“Unless you want to hold my dick, you at least have to cuff me in front.” 

The cuffs snap open, his arms pulled in front.  He considers struggling, trying to break away, but has heard at least three sets of footsteps around him.  Better to see how things play out.  He lets himself get cuffed again.  That's better.  “It might be nice to see where I'm peeing.  You might appreciate that, too.”

They lead him by the elbow across a room with a wooden floor, and down a hallway.  They open a door, whip off his hood, and shove him in.  They close the door, and Kazan switches on a light.  A small older bathroom with a large zinc tub, white porcelain sink, old fashioned toilet.  Grassy meadow and snow-covered mountains out the window.  He's been to Braunwald a few times, the closest mountains to Zürich.  He doesn't think he's there.

After he relieves himself, he knocks on the door, and they hood him again.  A brief glimpse of a farmhouse, older, bare floors, windows.

After he sits again, they inject him with something that puts him out.

He wakes up, tied to a chair.  The black hood has been exchanged for a blindfold.  Decent of them.  It's easier to breathe.

He tries not to think how thirsty he is, and how much he has to pee again.  He tries to reason it out.  He is only a courier, not political, not important, not someone to ransom.  If they wanted money, wouldn't they nab him when he had diamonds on him? 

A slight current of air wafts over his face, cold and clean.  Someone coming in or out of the building.

He hears two sets of footsteps come into the room.  Men's shoes, a heavy percussive slap on wood.  The floor creaks.  One person slides a chair in front of him and sits.  He imagines the other man is by the door.

“I'm glad to see you're not balding, yet.  I know how it is with you Turks.  Fucked up androgens.  I was worried when you didn't take off your hat at Goethe Platz.” 

Kazan's head jerks up at the sound of English. 

English with an Italian accent. 

“Laszlo?”

PART 3

Seventeen, August 2020

Family Visit

One morning, several months after my marriage, I receive a unannounced courtesy call from Rabia's sister, Dilara, and two of Kazan's sisters—Fatma, the eldest, and Melis, the middle girl.  I am amazed.  No one from Kazan's family has extended friendship.  I have seen none of them since the wedding.

Dilara sweeps in through the living room, black sails billowing, and marches into my bedroom.  She whips off her abaya
,
draping it over a chair.

“Good morning, Salima.  Your mother-in-law is too shy to come on her own, so I have come in her place.” 

The sisters linger at the doorway.  They must be the backup.  They take off their veils, but not their abayas
. 
I guess they don't intend to stay long.

Dilara's eyes graze lightly over items in my room—a hairbrush, a model sailboat my father bought for me in Zeeland, a photo of my childhood companion, Angus, a golden retriever, giving me a face bath with his long pink tongue.  Her eyes darken with distaste.  She directs her critical gaze at me.  “We are very concerned that you produce a male heir.  It is very important to our family.”

Important to your family,
I think.

“Faruk has no children—”

Of course not.  He's gay. 
Basma, will never tell the reason for her childlessness.  It would mean death to her husband and dishonor to the family.  Considering my own sexless marriage, I admire how she deals with it.

Dilara continues
“
—and Uncle Hamza has only girls.  Some of the sisters have sons.  But it is important to have a bloodline through the male heirs.  You must have a son.” 

I can't think of any way to respond to this.  So I don't.

She methodically begins opening drawers to my nightstand and bureau, and motions the other two women to do the same.  Fatma hesitates until Dilara snaps her fingers and points.  Melis just stands there, mortified.  She is as surprised by this interrogation as I am.  

“Did you get your period this month?” Dilara demands.

I really don't want to be discussing my bodily functions with this woman.  I remind myself to be submissive.  “I have my period now.”

“Are you making yourself available?  A wife must be available to her husband at all times, no matter your feelings at the moment.  It is written in the Quran.  The marriage bed is his right.  Are you denying him?”

“Kazan travels a good deal.  He has been very busy.”

Fatma interrupts, “Dilara, it takes time.  They've only been married a few weeks.”

“Six weeks,” she barks.  “Did you find anything?”

“No,” Fatma mutters, glancing at me apologetically.

So that's what they are looking for—contraception.

“I do not want to sound like I am threatening you, Salima, but if you do not get pregnant within six months, Rabia will ask Kazan to dissolve the marriage.”

A Muslim man can divorce his wife merely by saying, “I divorce you,” three times in front of two male witnesses.  On the other hand, it is nearly impossible for a Muslim woman to divorce her husband. 

Dilara hands me a small glass bottle.  “Drink this when you are ovulating.  You are keeping track, aren't you?”

I nod my head, lying.  “What's in the bottle?”

“Never mind.  Just drink it.  It will help you conceive.  Make sure Kazan eats plenty of fatty fish.”

I don't bother telling her that I have yet to cook for him.  I'm afraid she's going to start suggesting positions for sexual intercourse, so I tell her I have an appointment to get my nails done, and need to leave.  She glances at my chewed nubbins and clearly doesn't believe me.

She waves at her two nieces and imperiously heads to the door.  “Even if Kazan does not want to divorce you, he will be forced to if you do not produce an heir.  Or he will take a second wife.  You have been warned, Salima.”

Her voice trembles with self-righteous rage.  She is no mere messenger.  She is not speaking for my mother-in-law, Rabia.  I also suspect Ahmed Basturk would not so easily dissolve a marriage with the police commissioner's daughter.  This threat comes from Dilara herself.  I am baffled why she cares so much. 

The younger sister, Melis, squeezes my hand as she passes.  “I will pray for you,” she whispers.  “I hope you have a boy.”

“Why?” I ask archly, fed up with all this misogyny.

She hesitates for a moment, making sure Dilara is out of range.  “Would you want this life for your daughter?”  She smiles sadly, and follows the others.

My heart jumps with hope.  I may have found an ally.

#

A few days later at the mosque, I tell Nasira of my surprise visit and she explains it to me.

“Dilara is the wife of Ibrahim Yilmaz, one of the most prominent imams on the Islamic Council.  Her maiden name was Mustafa.  She has no children.  She fears Allah has cursed her.  She wants her sister, your mother-in-law, to have a grandson.  If you don't have a son, the entire dynasty falls into the hands of Levent Basturk, Ahmed's younger brother, a liberal Muslim, who married a Swiss national, a convert named Edda, who gave him four sons.  Dilara loathes Edda for being beautiful, for being a convert, and for bearing sons.  She despises both of them for their liberal politics.” 

“I'm a convert, too.  Is that why she hates me?”

“She doesn't hate you.  She needs you, desperately.  She hates having to need you.”

“They weren't at the wedding, were they?  Levent and Edda, I mean.”  I met so many Basturks and relatives of Basturks.  I do remember Uncle Hamza, who was nice to me.

“No.  He took over the family business in Zürich after Uncle Osman died.  Since Ahmed Basturk is older than his brother Levent, his grandson takes precedent over Levent's four sons.”

“It's like they think they're royalty or something.  The War of the Roses.”

“God's royalty,” Nasira smiles wanly.  “The Mustafas claim their lineage goes all the way back to Mohammad.”

“There must be a million families who can do that.”

“But few of those have imams on the Islamic Council, with powerful ties to Turkey and to the Imperial Council for the United Nations of Islam.”

“That's why . . . .” my voice drifts off, dumbfounded.

“Why Gerda wanted you to marry into the Basturk family,” says Nasira, finishing my thought.  “Through your marriage, you have a connection with the Imperial Council.”

“Why didn't you tell me?”

“I thought you knew.”

“Why didn't Gerda tell me?”

“The less you know, the less suspicious you'll act around them.”

“So I guess I better get pregnant.”

“You said it, girl.”

What I do not say, and what even Nasira doesn't know, is that Kazan and I have yet to have sex.

Ally

Kazan's sister Melis calls and asks if I would like to go shopping with her.  I jump at the chance.  She picks me up in a black Mercedes and orders the driver to take us to
Albert Cuypmarkt,
the largest outside market in Amsterdam, extending many blocks, just south of the Southern Canal Belt.  Surinamese and Indonesian immigrants hawk rice cookers and spices; Turks sell cheap clothes, fresh vegetables, and herring sandwiches; Moroccans sell shoes and purses.  A black market hive, largely ignored by the Islamic Council.  It seems astonishing that despite the war, so many foreign products fill the tables.

Melis seems nervous, fondling merchandise, putting things back, not purchasing anything.  Finally she selects a pair of sandals without much inspection, as if she's told herself she must buy something.  I buy two
stroopwafels
to eat
,
and give her one.  She suggests we stop in a mosque for noonday prayers in the way women used to suggest lunch or a spot of tea. 

We walk into an older mosque by Sarphatipark, perform
wudu
in the women's bathroom, and then head into the women's prayer hall.

Only a few dozen women are there, hastily doing their prayers between errands.  Melis has no interest in praying.  She points to some cushions by the far wall, and we sit quietly.  I wait for her to speak.

She leans close, an inch from my face.  She has dark rings under her eyes, her breath is stale.  “Salima, do you know where I can get an abortion?”

I inhale sharply.  “You are pregnant?”

“Yes.  I haven't been to a doctor, but I know.”

“You are married.  Don't you want a child?  You know what they'll do to you if you are caught.”

Our shoulders touch, and I feel her shiver.  She tells me that she was married at fourteen to a fifty-year-old man.  She is his third wife.  “I want a divorce.  My husband, Fouad, has agreed.  He spends almost no time with me, and by law, he must spend equal time with all of his wives.  He says he doesn't visit me because I cry and make him feel miserable.  He is not a bad man.  I haven't given him a son, so he is willing to divorce me.  But if he finds out I'm pregnant, he won't divorce me.”

“I take it the baby isn't your husband's.”

“No,” she whispers, “but I don't think he would ever suspect.  The only time he visits me is during my ovulation.  He keeps track of it.  I have to get rid of the baby.”

“Do you want to marry the father of the baby?”

“Oh, no.  He's a friend of the family.  It was an affair of passion.  It's over.  If Fouad found out he would kill me.  The doctors I know won't break the law.  They would report it to my husband.  I thought you might know of someone.”

I stare at her, unbelieving.  I wonder why she is willing to risk so much.  As a divorced woman, she will have to move back with her parents, with few prospects for remarrying.  She will not be allowed to live alone, independently in her own apartment.  Only widows are allowed this privilege.

She grabs my hand desperately.  “I'm not trying to trap you, Salima, I promise.  Please, will you help me?”

It is hard to trust anyone, but her face is entirely without guile, desperate, pleading, miserable.  I wonder why she is so certain I will not report her.  “Your family will be very upset if they find out I helped you,” I say.  “They already mistrust me.  They might command Kazan to divorce me.  Or worse, try me in sharia court as an accessory to murder.  It's a huge risk.  For both of us.”

“If they find out, I will never betray you, I promise.  I will say that I went and found an abortionist myself.  Please.  Will you help me?  I don't have anyone else I can turn to.”

There it is.  Desperation is what makes her trust me.  But can I trust her?

It doesn't matter.  I will not see her dragged into Chop-Chop Square.

I squeeze her hand and whisper in her ear, “I will find someone for you.  Don't worry.”

Melis begins to cry in relief.

#

I figure I should run it by Gerda. 

I buy a newspaper and find out where the barge is going to be tonight.  At midnight I sneak out.  Thankfully the barge is close, a short walk to a canal off Westerpark. 

Gerda thinks it's a stroke of luck.  “If you take her, she will owe you, and you will have the ally you need in the family.  But be very careful.  She cannot denounce you without condemning herself.  But sharing her secret gives her power over you, as well.”  Gerda gives me a name.  A retired gynecologist, who went back into practice after the occupation.  She smuggles in abortion pills and contraception, and has as many Muslim as non-Muslim clients.  She works on a barge.

I expect some dreary old boat, reminiscent of back-room abortionists centuries ago.  But the inside is paneled with white fiberglass floors and walls, with white leather benches and pink flowered cushions in the waiting area.  Melis visits the doctor for a half hour, then comes out rattling a single pill in a brown plastic pill bottle.

She's already taken Mifepristone.  She is to take the second pill, Misoprostol, within 6 to 72 hours.  I ask her if she would like to stay with me for a few days, until the fetus passes.  “Kazan is away,” I say.  “There would only be the two of us.”  She says no.  She says she often has very difficult periods, so no one in her household will be alarmed.  “Call me for anything,” I say.  “If you need to go back, I will arrange it.”

She calls me in a few days and tells me everything went fine.  “I'm a little tired, that's all.”  She pauses and I hear her struggling to say something.  “Salima, I know the women in our family have been cool towards you.  I am very grateful to you and want to be your friend.  I . . . I don't think like them.”

Those last five words “I don't think like them” comes out like a plea, her voice full of misery, as if sinking in an ice-covered pond, crying out for help.  I think of Joury in her padded room, and a deep pain stabs my chest.

“Thank you, Melis,” I reply.  “I would like very much to be your friend.”

Eid al-Fitr

We intersect at breakfast.  Kazan insists on making his own.  He tells me we are going to the Basturk household for dinner.