Gardens of Water (29 page)

“But I do, Sinan Bey. I know you prayed for days for
smail. I know you’d give your life for your son.”

rem looked at the American and then shot a glance at Sinan. Sinan thought he knew what his daughter was thinking, that he had abandoned her, that he wouldn’t give his life for her, and seeing that doubt surface across her face shamed him.

“I don’t trust you Americans,” Sinan said.

Marcus nodded and continued working on his foot. Nilüfer told
rem to move away from the men.

“I’ve noticed,” Marcus said.

As Marcus continued to clean the blood away, Sinan saw the dark bruise discoloring the skin. It looked as if his flesh were rotting away. The circles around his father’s eyes had looked that way the day Sinan had cleaned the body for burial. You could see where the bullet had cracked open his skull—a tiny, insignificant hole, like what a drill leaves in wood. He and his aunt had washed the body, smearing away dried blood where his left eye should have been. The bullet had finally lodged in his cheek, a gold spike puncturing bone. They pulled the bullet out with pliers, pressed the bone back in place, and sewed the skin together with sock-mending yarn. They poured warm water through his father’s matted hair and smoothed it down against his scalp with a comb, just as he would have groomed it before leaving the house in the morning. But no cleaning could get rid of the bruise. It looked as though the force of the bullet had sent everything inside his skull bashing up against his eye sockets.

“Leave us,” Sinan said to
smail.

When the boy was gone, Sinan said, “My father was murdered.”

Marcus snapped two plastic packages in half. He took gauze from the first-aid kit, surrounded the foot with the ice packs, and wrapped them tightly with tape.

Sinan sucked air through his teeth. “Yes, that hurts.”

Marcus was careful not to push too much with the tips of his fingers, but instead cradled the foot in his palm, and Sinan felt a strange, involuntary gratitude, like a man who has had his shame exposed and hidden once again.

“I, myself, had to pull the bullet out of his cheek. It was an M-16.”

Marcus hesitated, then finished wrapping his foot, and finally looked at Sinan.

“I’m a teacher, Sinan.”

“Your government sold those weapons to—”

“I’ve lived in this country for nineteen years.” He snapped shut the first-aid kit. “It’s not
my
government.”

He stood to leave.

“We have good tents,” he said, “ones that will keep the water out when it rains, ones that will give your family some privacy. We’re setting up a school, we’ve got toilets, we have food. It’s not good for the children,” Marcus added. “The exhaust fumes, the—”

“Please…” Sinan took a deep breath and waited until he could control his voice. “My friend, do not tell me what’s good for my children as if I do not know.”

“You cannot stay here and you know it.”

“I know many things, Marcus Bey.”

Marcus nodded as though he were giving up. “Many horrible things happen in the world,” he said. “I, too, wish I had someone to blame for them.”

He briefly placed his hand on Sinan’s shoulder, and Sinan thought it was to remind him of a debt. Then he left the tent.

Nilüfer watched the American go.

“We have to go to the camp,” she said softly when he was gone.

“I know,” he said.

“We cannot stay here,” she went on, as though she didn’t hear him.

“I know!” he said, kicking the floor with his good foot. He was tired, so tired, and he was sick of fighting a war—a long, old, futile war that was over now anyway. “I know.”

Chapter 22

O
UTSIDE INTO THE SUN, AND NOT TO BUY VEGETABLES OR
to pick up shirts at the tailors! Outside without her mother dragging her by the hand and without eyes watching to make sure she didn’t look at the boys smoking on the corner. She couldn’t deny that she was happier since the earthquake—she felt a little guilty for it, but she couldn’t help it; for a few hours a day, between meals at the soup kitchen, she was free in a way she hadn’t been since she was a child.

It was a hot day and she passed the men playing backgammon and smoking near the soup kitchen. She passed one of the Americans playing a guitar on a red folding chair near a fire pit. He wore shorts and she could see the thick muscles of his legs where they disappeared into the darkness of the fabric. A few of the other workers sat on a blanket and sang with the man, happy-sounding songs they occasionally clapped to. She looked for Dylan at the soup kitchen. She looked for him at the school tent and at the soccer field, where the American men and even some of the women kicked up clouds of dust with orphan boys of the camp.

Down one of the rows, she found Dilek and Ay
e swinging a rope in the street, a game the American women had been teaching the girls. A little girl she didn’t know jumped in the middle, her black hair slapping against her back as her feet hit the ground.

“
rem,
can
m,
” Dilek said when she saw her coming. She dropped the rope and the little girl got tangled up.

“Dilek!” the girl yelled.

Ay
e laughed and helped untangle the girl, while Dilek and
rem greeted each other with kisses on each cheek. Smiling, Dilek took
rem’s arm and they walked together back toward the jump rope.

“How’s your mother?”
rem asked.

Dilek’s smile disappeared and she jerked her head in an uncomfortable way, as though
rem’s question had reminded her of something she had forgotten. In front of the tent, Ay
e and the little girl uncoiled the rope.
rem said hello and kissed Ay
e on both cheeks.

“She won’t come out of the tent,” Dilek said. She scratched her elbow and looked away. Her arms were sunburned and blistered in a few places. Dilek was
rem’s age, but she wore short-sleeve shirts and sometimes even shorts. To
rem, Dilek’s clothing made her look like a little girl instead of a woman, and she fought back disdain for her friend’s lack of modesty. But when
rem remembered the freedom of her childhood—the warmth of the sun on her legs, the coolness of the evening sea breeze on her bare arms, she found herself wishing her father was a secularist, too. No one expected modesty from a secularist.