Amsterdam 2020 (Amsterdam Series Book 2) (45 page)

A spicy floral smell tickles my nose, offending the flavor of the apple, and the smell of the cumin in the cheese.  I swing around, the apple stuck in my mouth like a roasted pig. 

Dilara steps into the kitchen; Melis hangs back at the door.  “Well, look who's back from her honeymoon.  Didn't they feed you properly?”

How did she know I was here?

Slowly, I let go of the cheese and the knife, and take the apple out of my mouth.  I must have forgotten to lock the door.  “There's never anything good to eat on the train,” I mutter lamely.

“That's true.”  She strides through the kitchen and peeks into the living room.  “Why isn't Kazan with you?”

“You know Kazan—off on another business trip.”

“Just after your honeymoon?  He didn't even see you home?  You must've bored him terribly.  But then the Frisian Islands are dull.  What did you do all day?  Make mud pies?”

Woof
.  Already with the insults.  She must've had someone watching the house.  She must know I was on the streets alone without an escort.

My backpack sits on a bench by the foot of the stairs.  I pray she doesn't see it.  She will ask about it.  No woman—as least no woman she knows—would pack her  lingerie trousseau in a backpack.  “We had a delightful time.”  I try to keep the annoyance out of my voice.  “May I help you with something, Dilara?”

“I merely wanted to know how your honeymoon went.”  Her smile is not a pretty one.  “It's such a special time in a young bride's life.”

“Did you bring a pregnancy test?”

She actually blushes a bit.  “I don't know what kind of wife is left to find her own way back from her honeymoon.  It must be your fault.  Did you fight?  You must have disappointed him.”

“Has Kazan expressed dissatisfaction to you?”

“Actions speak louder than words.”  Dilara looks over her shoulder. 
“Melis, don't you think it inappropriate for a young wife to spend time alone while her husband travels?”

Looking horrified to be brought into the conversation, Melis looks left and right as if she wants to escape.

“What's wrong with you, Melis?  Stop fidgeting.  Use the bathroom if you need to.”  Dilara turns her glare back to me.  “I have discussed it with Ahmed, and he agrees with me.  While Kazan travels, you should stay in the Basturk household, so we can keep you safe.”

To keep an eye on me, you mean.
 
“Shouldn't Kazan have a say in the matter?”

“He can take it up with his father.  If he doesn't approve, he can make other arrangements.  But you simply cannot live alone.  It's indecent.  Until he returns, you will live with us, and help around the house.”

“Isn't Wilma still working for you?” 

She looks at me hard, then starts circling the kitchen, as if looking for something.  “We had to let her go.”

“Why?”

“She was seen talking to a Resistant at Niko Nasar's.  Niko has been arrested, you know, his bakery closed.  It is a hardship for all of us.  Who would think someone who could make such exquisite éclairs would be a subversive?”

Does she suspect me?  I look to Melis for clues, but she looks like mice are eating her toes. 

“Perhaps you're right,” I say.  “Let me pack a few things, and I'll come over this afternoon.  I haven't had a chance to unpack from my honeymoon.  I feel terribly disorganized.”

“You will come now.  Melis, please ask Aazim to come in.”

The screen door slams.  In a moment the floor shakes.  I assume the enormous body filling the doorway is Dilara's driver.  He looks like a stuffed lobster, bulging out of his sports jacket, an extra lump under his shoulder for a weapon.

“Surely, Dilara, we should let Salima settle in and pack the things she needs,” Melis finally says.  “Things more appropriate for living at home.  I'll come by later with Aazim and pick her up—you have more important things to attend to.”

“No.  She comes now.”  She turns to me.  “Bring that thing if you want.”  Her nose wrinkles with disgust, pointing at my pack with the crooked finger of the Wicked Witch of the West.  “Did you really go on your honeymoon with a backpack?  I swear converts have no sense of style.”

Melis shrugs an apology. 

At least I have my pack. 

#

I expected to be shoved in to a boarded up room like Joury, but my room is quite pleasant, with views over the canal.  The windows, I note, do not open.  At least I am alone. 

I hide my backpack under the bed, wondering if I'll ever be able to leave.  My guess is they either know or suspect I work in the Resistance.  Rather than have me arrested, which would embarrass the family, they'll keep me under wraps.

Someone knocks on my door.  “Salima, it's me.”

“Come in.”

Melis walks in and looks around as if she's never seen the room before.  I recall that after her divorce, she was required to move back home.  She must feel as much as a prisoner as I.

I reach out, and she rushes into my arms.  We hug silently for several moments. 

“I'm so sorry, Salima.  I couldn't stop her.  She's had a neighbor watching your apartment with instructions to call when you returned.  She is furious about Wilma, and since you recommended her . . . well, she's furious at you, too.”

“What happened?”

Melis sits on the bed.  I sink beside her.  “It was more than talking to a subversive at Niko's.  Dilara wouldn't have turned her in for that.  She adored Wilma.  Wilma cooked all of her favorite foods, and flattered her—anticipated her every desire—treated her like a princess.”

“The princess she thinks she is.”

A flicker of a smile from Melis.  “Everyone was envious of her housekeeper.  It made her feel important.  Then she caught Wilma putting a bug into her phone.”

“Oh, no!  Did she have her arrested?”

“No.  Dilara wouldn't do that.  Her husband is a
mutawa. 
He would blame her for letting someone like that into the household.  She just fired her.  But she's been in a rage ever since.  Out for blood. ”

“My blood.”  Melis nods.  Once more I look around the room for a nonexistent escape.  “How much does Ahmed know?” 

“She wouldn't dare tell him.  He thinks all women are idiots, and probably wouldn't believe her.” 

“I bet she wants me to take Wilma's place, catering to her,” I say glumly.  “She has no idea what a bad cook I am.”

Melis takes my hand.  “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“Could you get me something to eat?  I am absolutely starving.”

Suddenly Melis's face drops, and she puts a hand to my cheek.  “You're pregnant, aren't you?”

“Yes.”

Melis jumps from the bed and begins pacing.  “My God.  We have to get you out of here.  If Dilara finds out you're pregnant, she won't let you out of her sight.  She'll force feed you oysters and liver and salty peanuts.”

“The sex of the boy is determined at conception.”

“I know that, but, you know . . . .”  Melis rolls her eyes.

“Yes,” I say, smiling.

“I'll figure a way.  Don't you worry.  Dilara goes home in the evenings.  Rabia isn't going to keep you prisoner no matter what you've done.”

“Why does she let Dilara run her household?  She has her own home?”

“We're Turkish.  You can never deny family.  Dilara has no children to take care of.  Rabia feels sorry for her, and doesn't mind her help, even if she is bossy.”

“Bossy is being kind.”

Melis smiles.  “You like Kazan now, don't you?”

My face breaks out in a sweat.  She loves her brother—I see that.  She needs to believe not all marriages are horrible.  I hug her again.  “I do.”

Another knock on the door, and Rabia comes in carrying a Turkish outfit folded in a neat square.  Behind her, a servant with a tray of dates, cheese, and tea.  “I thought you might be hungry.  Dilara said she didn't give you time to pack your things, so I thought you might need something comfortable to wear.”

“That's very thoughtful.  Thank you, Rabia.”

“I'm so happy you are staying with us for a bit.  I worry about you and Kazan on your own.  You are in my prayers every day.”

She is completely sincere, and I realize, behind her sweetness is a canny intelligence—she knows far more than she lets on.  I wonder how she can keep so many secrets without crumbling.  I thank her, and she quietly slips out of the room.

“Don't worry, Salima.  You can count on me,” says Melis.  I see for the first time how like Melis is to her mother, far more than the other four sisters.  I trust her.  “The household is very busy in the mornings,” she continues.  “Dilara usually arrives around ten.  We will slip out before she comes.”

#

Apparently Dilara has given orders to the staff that I am not to leave the house.

Fortunately, she has offended or incensed every single one of them.  What she takes for incompetence is quiet rebellion.

The kitchen at 9 AM is a riot of food preparation.  Many traditional Turkish foods take all day to prepare—meat beaten and marinated, vegetables pickled, pastes ground, spices roasted, pastries rolled and layered.  When Melis takes me through the kitchen, the cooks pretend not to see me.  We go to the back door, veil our faces, and slip out.

After several blocks, I stop and turn to Melis.  “You don't need to come any further.  I'm good from here.  Thank you, Melis.”

She grabs my hand.  “We are going to lose the war, aren't we?”

“Yes,” I say.

“I wish I could go with you.  There is nothing for me here.  Islam has never done anything for me.  Please.  I have my papers with me.”

She must've been thinking about this all night.  If she leaves with me, Ahmed will have the entire country looking for us.  It breaks my heart to tell her no.  I have never refused to help anyone escape.  “I can't take you, Melis.”

She nods as if she expected me to say no.  “You'll see Kazan again?”

“Yes.”  I kiss her cheek.  “What will you say to Dilara?”

“I'll tell her we went to the market and I lost track of you.  She can't hurt me.” She presses her veiled cheek against mine.  “Tell Kazan I love him.”

“I will.”  I spot two soldiers in their red turbans several canals away.  I don't think they've spotted us, but it's time to go. 

“What will happen to us?”

“I don't know.  Stay out of the mosques.”

Emotional Farewells

I wait as Pim forges my travel documents.  After Rikhart's arrest, Gerda brought him back from Copenhagen to help Lars.  Lars feels the tension between us and busies himself in the corner of the workshop.

“Are you sure you want to leave just before all the fun starts?” Pim asks.

“I'll be with you in spirit.”

“You don't have to go, you know.  We can keep you underground until the invasion.  It won't be long now.”

“I'm meeting Reynard in Copenhagen.”  I suddenly feel ashamed I used Kazan's underground name, knowing how much Pim despises my husband, but respects the Resistant.  It is cowardly. 

“After the war, no one will expect you to honor a forced marriage.  You'll be free.”

I shake my head.  “Please, Pim.  It's too late for that.”  I look him in the eyes, praying he won't make me spell it out for him.

He understands.  Things have changed.  He looks like he is swallowing dry sand, his face pinched, distressed.  He takes three deep breaths.  He could almost live with my arranged marriage.  But the thought that I now love my husband hurts him unbearably.

“What does he have that I don't have?” his voice rasps. 

The forlorn cry of every rejected lover.  So raw, so exposed.  I can't stand being the person doing the rejecting.  Anything I say will hurt him.  My argument about needing a friend more than a lover rings false.  Kazan is both.  Why couldn't Pim have been both?  I can't even say it would never have worked between us, because that's not true either.

Do I tell him the truth?  That I find it hard to breathe without Kazan by my side?  But that's not quite right, although close.  I feel invisible when I am with him, without a body—pure spirit, pure emotion, pure thought.  I lose that crushing sense of self.  I feel safe, because I don't exist.  I am nothing, and, at the same time, something much much more. 

Pim is a good man.  He is strong and good-looking, smart and funny, honest and solid.  I know him and he knows me.  Yet Kazan, whom I barely know at all, possesses me entirely.

“I am pregnant, Pim.” 

“Oh.”  He nods as I've often seen him nod, when he is informed of a snag in an operation. 

“It's not an obstacle to overcome,” I say, trying to be gentle.

He blushes and looks down, admitting that I guessed his thinking.  “Three new IDs, birth certificates, and travel passes to Denmark.”  He slides over the documents, and leans back in his chair.  “Before you go, I have to tell you something.  Reynard was arrested in Istanbul.”

I gasp.  “When?”

“Yesterday.  I'm sorry, Lina.”