his hands and began to adjust the scarf. She would not look at him, but instead turned her eyes away and watched the cars on the freeway. She had his eyes; they were dark and furious and he knew he was going to have real trouble with her.
“I know this is difficult, but what’s demanded of us doesn’t change.”
She blew air out of her nose and her shoulders slumped. He folded the curls of her hair beneath the fabric; even he was a little sad to cover it up—it was so beautiful, black and rich with streaks of red.
“We must still be who we are,” he said.
She looked at him, water in her eyes. “Are you finished?” She said it softly enough to hide the challenge.
“Yes,” he said.
In the growing darkness he sat and drank cold tea, but Nilüfer’s eyes shamed him and he spun away from their tent and walked into the field, looking at the grass at his feet and trying to calm himself. A blast of light lit the field below and he watched the Americans crisscross the dirt, bathed in the bleaching white of floodlights. They looked like shadows walking on scissor legs. From this distance they seemed to have the efficiency of a machine, a hundred moving parts setting tent after tent in rows, each one casting a triangle across the ground. Just a few meters away from the camp, separated by a low hill, Gölcük was lost in darkness, like a bombed-out village—all collapsed roofs and walls that sheltered nothing except the haunting reminder that life once attached itself to this plot of land.
Sinan needed to do something, he knew—everything was gone, everything had changed—but he couldn’t bring himself to take his family into that camp.
At his feet, ants moved among the dried blades of grass like black rivulets of water. Some turned circles in the ground, some climbed over the slow-moving bodies of others, and still others climbed upon his shoes and up over his ankles. He walked over to the ewe’s carcass and lifted the blanket. The ants were already upon it.
Chapter 17
“ Y ES, YES, MY BROTHER,” KEMAL BEY SAID. “I HAVE A COUSIN who can help you out.”
For two days Sinan had been searching for a job—at the open market in Gebze, in the clothing bazaar in Yalova, even at the hot springs in the hills—but there were none to be had; at least none to be had by a Kurdish “terrorist dog,” as one butcher near Baghdad Street called him, pulling from his wallet—as Sinan backed out of the shop—an army portrait of a son killed fighting the PKK. He had even tried to sell tissues along with the barefoot boys at the Yalova ferry landing, but there were few cars and fewer buyers and he found himself stuck with a pocketful of tissues he did not need and would not sell. On the third day, today, he ran into Kemal in front of the bulldozed ground that used to be Kemal’s shop.
Kemal produced a cell phone from his pants pocket.
“Can you believe this?” he said, pointing with one hand at the flattened spot that used to be his store as he dialed a number with the other. While he held the phone to his ear, he said, “Life is an angry mistress. You want her, but she’ll rip your balls off.”
Sinan knew Kemal Aras from the grocery. Before the quake Kemal owned a small electronics shop, but he always came in to the grocery to buy lightbulbs for his store. Ahmet teased him about it, but it had been a good business arrangement: Kemal regularly bought their bulbs—a slow-moving commodity—and sold them, just two blocks away in the light-store district, at inflated prices for a small profit. Although Sinan was not particularly fond of the man—his conversation was always interrupted by cell phone calls and they had to listen to him yell at suppliers in front of their customers—he admired the man’s business savvy; he had his own truck with the name of his store painted on the side; a summer before he had installed at his store a beautiful red awning that could be seen from a block away.
“Merhaba,
“I know this is difficult, but what’s demanded of us doesn’t change.”
She blew air out of her nose and her shoulders slumped. He folded the curls of her hair beneath the fabric; even he was a little sad to cover it up—it was so beautiful, black and rich with streaks of red.
“We must still be who we are,” he said.
She looked at him, water in her eyes. “Are you finished?” She said it softly enough to hide the challenge.
“Yes,” he said.
In the growing darkness he sat and drank cold tea, but Nilüfer’s eyes shamed him and he spun away from their tent and walked into the field, looking at the grass at his feet and trying to calm himself. A blast of light lit the field below and he watched the Americans crisscross the dirt, bathed in the bleaching white of floodlights. They looked like shadows walking on scissor legs. From this distance they seemed to have the efficiency of a machine, a hundred moving parts setting tent after tent in rows, each one casting a triangle across the ground. Just a few meters away from the camp, separated by a low hill, Gölcük was lost in darkness, like a bombed-out village—all collapsed roofs and walls that sheltered nothing except the haunting reminder that life once attached itself to this plot of land.
Sinan needed to do something, he knew—everything was gone, everything had changed—but he couldn’t bring himself to take his family into that camp.
At his feet, ants moved among the dried blades of grass like black rivulets of water. Some turned circles in the ground, some climbed over the slow-moving bodies of others, and still others climbed upon his shoes and up over his ankles. He walked over to the ewe’s carcass and lifted the blanket. The ants were already upon it.
Chapter 17
“ Y ES, YES, MY BROTHER,” KEMAL BEY SAID. “I HAVE A COUSIN who can help you out.”
For two days Sinan had been searching for a job—at the open market in Gebze, in the clothing bazaar in Yalova, even at the hot springs in the hills—but there were none to be had; at least none to be had by a Kurdish “terrorist dog,” as one butcher near Baghdad Street called him, pulling from his wallet—as Sinan backed out of the shop—an army portrait of a son killed fighting the PKK. He had even tried to sell tissues along with the barefoot boys at the Yalova ferry landing, but there were few cars and fewer buyers and he found himself stuck with a pocketful of tissues he did not need and would not sell. On the third day, today, he ran into Kemal in front of the bulldozed ground that used to be Kemal’s shop.
Kemal produced a cell phone from his pants pocket.
“Can you believe this?” he said, pointing with one hand at the flattened spot that used to be his store as he dialed a number with the other. While he held the phone to his ear, he said, “Life is an angry mistress. You want her, but she’ll rip your balls off.”
Sinan knew Kemal Aras from the grocery. Before the quake Kemal owned a small electronics shop, but he always came in to the grocery to buy lightbulbs for his store. Ahmet teased him about it, but it had been a good business arrangement: Kemal regularly bought their bulbs—a slow-moving commodity—and sold them, just two blocks away in the light-store district, at inflated prices for a small profit. Although Sinan was not particularly fond of the man—his conversation was always interrupted by cell phone calls and they had to listen to him yell at suppliers in front of their customers—he admired the man’s business savvy; he had his own truck with the name of his store painted on the side; a summer before he had installed at his store a beautiful red awning that could be seen from a block away.
“Merhaba,
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