Amsterdam 2020 (Amsterdam Series Book 2) (38 page)

The kitchen soon runs out of chocolate cake.

Talks on the Beach

Sleeping late, making love, eating, and long walks on the beach.  We take luxurious naps in the heat of the day, making love until we fall asleep.  Many long quiet talks. 

Slowly we get to know one another.

I lie on the beach, my stomach as Kazan's pillow.  His hair is dark, coarse, and springy.  No matter how I muss it, it falls back perfectly into place.  I am amazed how merely touching his body puts all my senses on high alert.  I feel this tremendous pull toward him, and want to touch him all the time.  I resist—I don't want him to feel like a pet rabbit—but in resisting, the pull is more palpable.

My parents raised me to be independent, and this feeling of needing someone alarms me.  I begin to understand why Kazan had resisted intimacy.  Every day the bond gets stronger.  I tremble at the thought of losing him.  The thought of him going on a dangerous mission without me tears me apart. 

Little by little he tells me more about his past and his childhood.

He describes rolling hills of purple hyacinth and bluebells, waist-high grasses that rustle in the dry wind and scratch your thighs.  Of spring, and blossoming cherry and apple trees.  But mostly he talks about food, especially a thin soft bread called
gözleme
his mother made on an open fire
. 
“It puffs up when it cooks, and when it's still warm, it's as soft as a baby's cheek.  You tear it open, and the smell—oh, my God—you can smell flowers and honey and warm fields of wheat.  You can taste the air of Anatolia.  We eat it with spring scallions and salt.  The soft bread, the crunchy bite of the onion, the salt—you
can't imagine how good it is
.”

“You're making me hungry.”

“At night, my mother tucked me in bed with a cozy
yorgan,
a quilt she made out of rags, filled with goose feathers.  I slept in the hand of God.”

Kazan as a little boy snuggled in a gigantic palm.  It makes me smile.  “Did you ever go to Istanbul?”

“No.  But I did see Ankara once . . . on the way to Switzerland.  I didn't like it.  A rundown modern city, with rings of dusty shanty towns on the hills.  We didn't have much in the country, but we never felt poor.  But the squalor of the city—you wouldn't believe the poverty.  Scurrying crowds of beggars and street sellers and soldiers.  Children wearing nothing but grubby T-shirts hanging down to their knees, living in shacks of corrugated roofing and refrigerator boxes.  It gets cold there in the winter.  We have snow.  But the children had no shoes.  I never wanted to see more of Ankara.”

“Your village was completely isolated from modern things?”

“You mean uncorrupted by the evil American empire.”  He playfully bites my bicep.  “Faruk, my God—he loved everything about America.  When he was a baby, his first word wasn't
anne
or
baba.
  It was
America
.”

“That isn't true.”

“
It is.
We picked up English from American movies.  Faruk was fluent in English before he knew Turkish.  He used to walk around the village playing the parts—'I'll be back!'”  Kazan lets out a bark of laughter.  “He knew all the stars' names.  He'd read American magazines in the outhouse like pornography.  I don't even know where he got them.”

“Did they know about Faruk?”

“From the time he was around four.  It's probably why Baba sent him to America.”

“Do you miss your village?”

“I miss my family.”

I guffaw.  “We are drowning in your family.  How can you miss your family?” 

“They were different in Turkey.  You know what I miss most?  The picnics.  The smell and warmth of the animals.  The earth.”  He passes his hand over my hair, and sings:

Bir dalda iki kiraz

Biri al biri beyaz

Eğ
er beni seversen

Mektubunu sikça yaz

On one branch, two cherries

One is red, one is white

If you love me

Write your letter quickly

Wave it, wave it, your handkerchief

Night comes, give me my love

Night comes, give me my love

On one branch, two walnuts

Between us, rivers and seas

You there, and me here

Nothing is left, worry or color

Wave it, wave it, your handkerchief

Night comes, give me my love

I know the folksong.  Rafik used to sing it while I sat on his lap, my hands on his as he strummed his guitar.  I feel myself falling down into a soft patch of miner's lettuce, deep in a forest, falling into my husband.  It frightens me, and I have to break the spell.  “Tell me more about the food,” I whisper, my voice cracking.

He growls and rubs his stomach.  “There's this layered wafer cookie called
gofret.
And sticky diamonds of cake, oozing with orange honey.  Newspaper cones of salted marrow and sunflower seeds.  Skewers of grilled lamb intestines.  Sounds horrible, but they are truly delicious.  Crunchy cucumbers.”  He leaps out of bed.  “Christ, I'm starving.  Let's get something to eat.”

Another time I tell him of my childhood before the Islamic Republic of Holland, of sailing, of parties at Hans and Marta's, of biking for hours on the Nord Holland dikes.  When I tell him about watching my father murdered on the library steps, he takes me into his arms and lets me cry. 

One morning when we go for our walk, we see a string of people holding hands way out in the mudflats.  It looks like Death leading off the villagers in
The Seventh Seal,
and part of me wonders if the Islamists are right and the Apocalypse has come.  Later Evi explains to us that they are engaged in
wadlopen
, mudflat-walking, a sport among the locals.  They go trudging from one island to another, feet slipping and sinking into the mud.  They hold hands to keep their balance and because the tides can come rushing in, unexpectedly.  Some people can become muddled in the featureless horizon, and will lose their way if separated.  “It is a kind of meditation,” she says.  “Like walking through a Zen garden.”

“You mean the ripples in the mud?” I interject.

“Exactly.  It puts you in touch with nature's flourishes—the tiny crabs and cockles.”

“An odd sport,” says Kazan.

“Expensive, too,” Evi agrees, “if you figure on ruining a perfectly good pair of shoes every time you go.”

I am surprised the Islamic Council hasn't banned
wadlopen
—holding hands between unrelated men and women.  Strictly
haram. 
Perhaps they figure the number of enthusiasts are so small, it isn't worth bothering with.  Perhaps they don't even know about it. 

I feel this overwhelming respect for the mud walkers—traipsing through the mud as if there were no Occupation, no war, following their existential passion. 

Only the mud, the endless horizon, and a line of people holding hands.

#

In our last few days, I feel such a sense of dread in returning that I find it hard to relax.  I'm not the same person I was when I came here.  I don't think I can go back.  All I want to do is escape with Kazan to some place safe.  Our talks turn more serious.

I tell him about my friend Joury.  He tells me about his roommate Laszlo at Berchtold Academy, and his adolescent crush on his mother.  And how he joined the Resistance. 

“After we graduated, Laszlo and I drifted apart.  It's strange—I thought about him almost every day, but I never wrote him.  One day I decided to look him up and called his mother to get his number.  We met at Goethe Platz in Frankfurt.  It was great to see him.  We promised to keep in touch, but we didn't.” 

Kazan then tells me how he was kidnapped on an errand to find pastries for Uncle Osman, and found himself blindfolded and tied to a chair in a country house up in the mountains.  “I'm shitting my pants, thinking I'm going to be murdered, and in walks guess who.”

“You're kidding.”

“No, I'm not.” 

“I asked him what the fuck he wanted from me.  I was pissed.  You don't know Laszlo, but he can be incredibly reserved.  He untied my blindfold, fed me, and gave me a beer to calm me down, then told me why he was there.  He had served four years in the Israeli military service, then went back to Florence, expecting to get on with his life.  One day a man, clearly Israeli military, stopped him in the street and handed him an envelope.  Inside was an address.  He went there and met a shabby-looking bureaucrat, who asked him if he wanted join the Mossad.  He said no, but in another two weeks, he got another envelope with a different address, and the same guy said, 'Your country needs you.  Western civilization needs you.'”  

“I imagine it isn't easy to say no to the Mossad,” I quip.

“No.”  Kazan smiles. 

“And Laszlo recruited you?”

“Not exactly.  He told me that the diamonds I transported for Uncle Osman were  buying arms for UNI troops.  I was dumbstruck.”

“You didn't know?”

“I had no idea.  I felt incredibly stupid.  And angry.  It really woke me up.”

“He wanted you to work undercover?”

“Yes.  I was perfectly positioned to give them vital information.  Where arms were being delivered.  Amounts and what kinds of arms.  Where they were from.  The names of people involved, where they lived, their positions.  I didn't know any of that, but I knew I could find out.”

“So you've been working undercover for Mossad all this time?” I am not completely shocked.  I think about the Jericho pistol in his safe.

“I started out as an informer.  Because of my diamond deliveries, I have special papers that permit me to travel almost anywhere in Europe and the Middle East without being searched.  Like a diplomatic pouch.  Then I realized I had the perfect opportunity to organize Resistance chapters all through Europe and the Slovakian countries.”

“Your work as Reynard?”

“Yes.  Getting us prepared.”

“The invasion will be soon?” 

Kazan takes my hand and gently turns it over.  “Very soon.”

“Do the Islamists know?”

“Sure they know.  Why do you think they're cracking down?”

“That's why you were at the Friday meeting.  To discuss the invasion.”

“Yes.”

I scoop up a handful of sand and let it sift out between my fingers.  “I think Luuk might be the one who told the Landweer.  It's odd he's the only one who got away.  The Landweer
chased him a few blocks, then turned around.”

Kazan's eyes widen.  “We'll keep an eye on him.  Isolate him from any important information, or feed him some false intelligence.  It's a shame.  I really liked Luuk.”

“Do you feel bad about arming the Islamists?”

“It's a good place to be.  I have done it for so long, they don't suspect me when things go wrong—when the Resistance interrupts shipments, or they get dysfunctional weapons.  They blame the sellers.”

“Your father knows you were arming the Islamists?”

Kazan nods, uncomfortable talking about his father.  “It isn't ideological for him.  War and terrorism is big business, and he's a businessman.  He saw the clash of civilizations way back in 1979.  He figured if Islamic fundamentalists could take over a huge country like Iran, then they would make a play for all of Levant and northern Africa.  Then Europe.  He realized there was a great deal of money to be made.”

I feel a sick squeeze in my stomach.  “Uncle Osman knew?”

“No.  I don't think so.  Uncle Osman was a purist.  He loved diamonds.  He loved old things.  He didn't really care much about the selling part.”

“Your father used Osman's contacts.”

“Yes.  You could say Ahmed runs a terrorist-support organization.  He sells to anyone willing to pay the price.  ISIS would never have happened without him.  He knows terrorists need safe houses, safe transportation, supplies of food, clothing, supplies of documents, and people to dispose of everything after a job is done.  All those Toyotas ISIS has?  My father.  But most of all, they need weapons.  And since he was already in the diamond business, it was a perfect way to move money around.  Terrorists favor big cities, certain hotels, rental agencies, and restaurants.  He has a vast network of people on modest payroll, at key crossroads, whose job is to deliver packages and report on new faces.”

“He used you like another one of his couriers.”

“That's right.”

“Doesn't that make you angry?  I mean, if he wanted you to work for the Islamists, shouldn't he have asked you?”

“My father has a plan, and whatever you want or think doesn't really figure into it.”

“Does he care who wins?”

Kazan laughs uncomfortably.  “That's a good question.  I think he's too much of a businessman to want a worldwide caliphate.  Maybe he doesn't care as long as he makes money.”