Vendela Vida - The Lovers: A Novel

When half an hour had passed and there was still no sign of a white Renault, Yvonne began to fear shed 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 shed missed seeing Mr. eliks employee, who, shed been told, would be holding a piece of paper bearing her name. But the only visible sign was a large poster on the wall: TURKEYWHERE 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. elik, 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 nineten? no, elevencountries 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 fiance, and Yvonne was sorry shed 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. elik 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 Data. His e-mail also confirmed he had received the thousand-dollar deposit shed wired into his account. A thousand dollars! What a fool shed been to wire so much money to secure a vacation home shed seen only on a website. She carefully wrote down Ali eliks 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 calvesan 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 caf 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 mercyshe didnt know which numbers to leave off the long row of digits.

She was surprised when a voice answered.

Mr. elik? she said.

Oh good, its you, he said. His accent was negligible.

Yes, its me, she said.

My man has been looking for you! Mr. elik said. Where are you?

Just outside the airport. At the caf.

You came out on the wrong side of the airport.

Theres another side? she asked. Ill walk over there.

Please. No. You stay there. Ill 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 caf, Yvonne couldnt 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 doesnt speak English, so I am here to translate, explained the man in the passenger seat. He work for Mr. Ali elik. His name is Mehmet.

Yvonne asked the interpreter what his name was, and when she couldnt 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 Peters 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, soundsthe 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 Data peninsula now, the man in the passenger seat said, turning his dented chin in her direction. Data 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. Thats 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. elik is a very powerful man.

Yvonne shrugged. I dont know much about him.

They looked at her, as though wondering how it was possible that she was unaware of Mr. eliks power.

What do you know about Turkey? Mehmet said.

Well, a few things, she said. I know its one of the most beautiful countries in the world.

Mehmets 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 hasnt 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.

Its okay, the interpreter said. We just dont agree. I think that if EU doesnt 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 couldnt be certain. The interpreter seemed to be finding English more difficult as his frustration grew, and his attempts to include her in their conversation dwindled.