The Lovers
A Novel
When half an hour
had passed and there was still no sign of a white Renault, Yvonne began to fear she’d been scammed. Her flight from Istanbul was the last of the day, and the small Dalaman airport was beginning to empty. She stood outside, under a pink-veined sky, looking for anybody who appeared to be looking for her. There was no one but taxi drivers announcing, “I take you,” or miming the equivalent. She reentered the terminal, hoping she’d missed seeing Mr. Çelik’s employee, who, she’d been told, would be holding a piece of paper bearing her name. But the only visible sign was a large poster on the wall:
TURKEY—WHERE EAST MEETS WEST
. On the poster two figures, each holding a briefcase, were walking toward each other on a bridge.
She opened her laptop to consult her last e-mail from Mr. Çelik, and immediately regretted it. A pair of young men in tracksuits were staring at her. Now a woman pushing a mop
was also looking her way. Peter would have disapproved; they had traveled to nine—ten? no, eleven—countries during their twenty-six years of marriage, and he had been proud of their ability to go unnoticed. This was her first trip since his death, and already she was breaking their rules.
The laptop had been a present from her son and his fiancée, and Yvonne was sorry she’d brought it. She was sorry she owned it. She carried it with her into the ladies’ restroom, where, alone, she propped it on the sink counter. She was troubled to discover she was not mistaken: Mr. Çelik had last written to say she would be picked up by one of his employees at 19:30, on the fifteenth of June, outside the Dalaman airport, and be driven to the house in Datça. His e-mail also confirmed he had received the thousand-dollar deposit she’d wired into his account. A thousand dollars! What a fool she’d been to wire so much money to secure a vacation home she’d seen only on a website. She carefully wrote down Ali Çelik’s phone number on the back of her boarding pass, slipped her computer into her bag, and left the restroom. There was no pay phone in sight.
Outside in the shadeless parking lot, the heat felt thick, as though it had been compacted by the hours of the day. Not wanting to offend conservative Turks, she had flown in a loose, long-sleeved blouse and a skirt that reached beneath her calves—an outfit she had discovered was both stifling and unnecessary. No one on the plane from Istanbul wore a head scarf. The Turkish women, most of them young and wealthy, were dressed in jeans and sequined T-shirts and
high-heeled sandals. The rest of the seats were occupied by British post-grads in sundresses, Turkish men in long shorts, and Norwegian girls with tight bright shirts and nondescript boy friends.
By the parking lot there was a narrow café and newspaper kiosk, where Yvonne asked the cashier if she could make a call. She showed him the number and he pulled a black phone out from behind the bar and dialed for her. A small act of mercy—she didn’t know which numbers to leave off the long row of digits.
She was surprised when a voice answered.
“Mr. Çelik?” she said.
“Oh good, it’s you,” he said. His accent was negligible.
“Yes, it’s me,” she said.
“My man has been looking for you!” Mr. Çelik said. “Where are you?”
“Just outside the airport. At the café.”
“You came out on the wrong side of the airport.”
“There’s another side?” she asked. “I’ll walk over there.”
“Please. No. You stay there. I’ll call and have him come around.”
“Thank you,” she said. He had hung up. “Thank you,” she said again, and laughed with the pleasure of relief. She had not been scammed. She was not a fool.
From the plane, Yvonne had been mesmerized by the Mediterranean, its texture like chiffon. It reminded her of a play
her twins had been in when they were young. Aurelia and Matthew had each held one end of a large swath of blue iridescent material, and alternated lifting and lowering it with their tiny hands. The play was called
The Ocean
.
Now, as she stood in front of the café, Yvonne couldn’t see the water, but she could taste the salt in the air. A white car sped up and stopped, and not one but two men, one tall, the other taller, emerged. They looked too big for the small car.
“Hello!” she said, as though she was the one welcoming them to her country. Both men nodded.
The driver lifted her suitcase from her side and placed it in the backseat. He ceremoniously held the door open for her and she slid inside. The seat was warm and sticky.
“There are two of you,” she said.
“He doesn’t speak English, so I am here to translate,” explained the man in the passenger seat. “He work for Mr. Ali Çelik. His name is Mehmet.”
Yvonne asked the interpreter what his name was, and when she couldn’t understand his response, she asked again, and then gave up. “How long is the drive?” she said instead.
“Three hours, maybe not so much. They remake the roads, so maybe longer or smaller. We stop for coffee.”
The car started. The men spoke to each other and laughed and Yvonne sat in the back, next to Peter’s old Samsonite. This was her companion now.
Through the window Yvonne saw rows of squat palm trees and turquoise minarets. The car slowed through the
town of Marmaris and passed by an endless strip of bars, many with British flags and sunburned, sandaled tourists sitting outside, drinking beer from narrow glasses.
After Marmaris there were short stretches when water was visible, until the sun, which had been making a drawn-out exit, finally dropped. Then, only shapes, sounds—the occasional house, a barking dog. Yvonne and the two men moved quickly: the moment they reached something they left it behind. She was having difficulty understanding how the trip could take even two hours at the speed they were traveling, but suddenly, after passing no particular town or landmark, the road was unpaved, and she could feel every bump, every kilometer. “We are on Datça peninsula now,” the man in the passenger seat said, turning his dented chin in her direction. “Datça the town is near the end.”
Yvonne nodded into the sepia darkness.
Soon after, the car pulled into a lit and landscaped area, a restaurant with only outdoor seating. The men ordered coffee and Yvonne ordered an orange Fanta.
“How do you say thank you?” she asked the interpreter as they walked to a table.
“Simplest way for you is tea and sugar. That’s what sounds like. Tea and sugar.”
“Tea and sugar?” said Yvonne.
“You are welcome,” he said, and laughed.
They sat at a picnic table near a short bridge that spanned a small pond. Around them, at other tables, round and
square, sat couples on dates and large groups of men laughing and smoking unfiltered cigarettes. The scent was both aged and ripe.
Mehmet said something and his friend translated: “Mr. Çelik is a very powerful man.”
Yvonne shrugged. “I don’t know much about him.”
They looked at her, as though wondering how it was possible that she was unaware of Mr. Çelik’s power.
“What do you know about Turkey?” Mehmet said.
“Well, a few things,” she said. “I know it’s one of the most beautiful countries in the world.”
Mehmet’s friend smiled and translated her words. Mehmet nodded. In her travels, Yvonne had yet to meet anyone, in any country, who argued with the assessment that their country was among the most beautiful.
“What else?”
“I know that Turkey hasn’t been allowed into the EU.”
Mehmet understood
EU
and he and his friend began a private discussion that seemed to escalate into an argument.
“Sorry,” Yvonne said.
“It’s okay,” the interpreter said. “We just don’t agree. I think that if EU doesn’t want us, then fuck EU. But Mehmet, he thinks Turkey needs to look at its past. He thinks Turkey needs to be truthful about its history.”
The men continued their heated discussion in Turkish. Yvonne thought she heard
Armenia
, but she couldn’t be certain. The interpreter seemed to be finding English more dif
ficult as his frustration grew, and his attempts to include her in their conversation dwindled.
The exclusion was a relief. Yvonne pulled up the sleeves of her blouse and tucked her skirt between her knees so the warm air could touch her skin. She was enjoying the role of being the observer rather than the observed. It was only now, while sitting at this roadside restaurant on the Datça peninsula, that she fully comprehended the claustrophobia she’d experienced for the past two years. She had been under surveillance, in the way that was particular to new widows. The faculty at her high school, her students, her neighbors, the dry cleaner, the clerks at the video store—especially the clerks—had all been watching her. “How are you?” was no longer a casual question, for an ambivalent response from Yvonne could inspire gossip, which in turn triggered unsolicited phone calls and concerned visits.
Recently, whenever she was asked how she was spending a weekend, she had resorted to lying, claiming her kids or some unnamed cousins were coming to visit, so no one would be aware she was passing the time alone. Burlington, Vermont, her home for half her life—the married half—had become a dollhouse, the fourth wall removed, the vacated and cluttered rooms of her solitary existence visible for all to see. Why had she waited so long to get away?
Exhaustion hit her on the second leg of the drive, but the unpaved road prevented her from sleeping. Each time she was
on the cusp, a turn or bump jostled her awake. By the time they approached Datça, the idea of rest had been shaken from her body, and her head felt hollowly alert. She recognized the sensation from her jet-lagged adventures with Peter, and, more recently, from the jagged sleep cycles that had consumed her after the funeral. Those months of nights when she would finally, exhausted of tears, fall into a sleep so deep that when she awoke, she would blink in the light, drunk with the possibility of a new day, until only a minute later the reality—Peter had been killed and was gone—tightened around her again.
Once they were in Datça, Mehmet turned and drove straight uphill for ten blocks. He stopped the car in front of a white house. Yvonne recognized its shape, though the staircase was imposing, much larger than it had looked in the photos. The stairs sullied the house’s appearance like bad teeth in a wide smile. As she stepped out of the car, Yvonne could see the outline of flowers that covered the entranceway. She knew from the pictures they were purple. Bougainvillea.
Yvonne followed Mehmet up the steep set of stairs while the interpreter followed behind with her suitcase and bag. The front door opened into a tiled foyer, with a dining room and kitchen to the left, and a living room to the right. The decor was white and black with red, blue, and yellow accents. A Mondrian palette. A large red steel staircase, like a structure at a children’s playground, spiraled upward and down.
She had come to Turkey, land of ruins and antiquity, to stay in a modern home.
With brisk steps, the men ventured around the house. The lights turned themselves on as they entered each room. At first Yvonne thought her escorts were confirming no one was in the house, but then she understood their instincts were less protective: they were curious. Mr. Çelik was a wealthy man—their boss—and Yvonne guessed this was their first time inside his home unsupervised.
“Where does Mr. Çelik go when he rents this place?” Yvonne asked. She had stepped down into the living room, which contained a large TV, a zebra-skin rug, a blue leather couch, and, behind a locked glass case, a display of old rifles.
“He has many houses. Now he stays at his winery house,” the interpreter explained. He and Mehmet were standing in front of the rifle display. Yvonne could tell they were speaking to each other about Mr. Çelik’s collection with admiration and not an insignificant amount of envy.
The interpreter carried her suitcase up the red spiral stairs. “What room?” he called down.
“The master one, I guess,” Yvonne said. “The big one,” she added.
“You are alone,” he said when he came down.
“I’m waiting for my family.” Her explanation was promptly translated for Mehmet. Both men nodded. It wasn’t completely a lie, but as with many untruths, it made everyone feel more comfortable.
She was handed the keys to the house and to the car—Mr. Çelik had arranged for that as well. When she’d informed him she was considering renting a car from the agency at the airport, he’d promptly e-mailed her back, saying, “Don’t waste your money. I know people.”
Yvonne tipped Mehmet and his friend. “Tea and sugar,” she said. They seemed pleased. She inquired how they’d be getting down the hill—as a teacher and a mother, she constantly worried about how people would get home—and the interpreter pointed to another car they had apparently parked at the house earlier. She nodded, smiled, and said good-bye. As she closed the front door behind them, she tried to inhale the fragrance of the flowers before she remembered bougainvillea had no scent.
Now she was able to explore the house on her own. She climbed the staircase to the second floor. In the center of the landing was the entrance to a large bathroom, with a shower curtain patterned with green frogs and a shelf stacked with colorful beach towels. At the back of the house were two small bedrooms, one with twin beds, the other with a single bed and an ironing board standing on its insectlike legs.
Her suitcase had been placed in the largest room, in the front of the house. The bed was covered with a thin yellow bedspread, and one wall was lined with books. Yvonne pulled back the curtains, which reminded her of a crochet dress one of her sisters had owned in grade school. She pressed her face to the glass. At the bottom of the hill lay the ocean, silent and still.
The third floor was smaller, with only a single bedroom and a balcony. On top of the bed, a piece of exercise equipment, complete with black straps and silver chains, had been laid out. Yvonne couldn’t identify its purpose.
She descended the staircase three floors until she was in the basement. Even with the light on, it was a dim place, full of odd tables and lamps and with a couch in the center of the room. She had ventured only a few feet from the stairs when, wary of the automatic lights that might snap off, she returned to the main floor.
