This short story originally appeared in Volume 10
There went in two and two unto Noah into the ark, the male and the female, as God had commanded Noah.
—Genesis 7:9. King James Bible
Uçhisar, Cappadocia. A crisp March morning. Our twentieth anniversary. We really are here.
I slide gently from bed as sun begins to pink the sky. At the window, I watch the rosy horizon relinquishing to a pale spring blue. Then. Balloons! Stripped and polka dotted. Red, fuchsia, chartreuse and golden hot air balloons. Shimmering plump jewels ascending and floating over the Gaudi-like formations of porous rock.
Gratitude is all I feel: for Layla; for twenty years of love; for finally spending our honeymoon in this mythical land we used to call Asia Minor. Home to Noah’s family and his ark of creatures. World of the Bosphorus Straight, the Mediterranean, Aegean, Marmara and Black Seas. Birthplace of Layla’s Kurdish grandparents who met in a Detroit Laundromat.
She’s always dreamed of ancestral voices and people with familiar faces walking down the street. Light brown eyes; dark, wavy hair; long, elegant noses.
For my part, I dreamt of Noah and eggplant—or aubergine as they call it on the English menus here. Ah, this is the land of a thousand aubergine dishes.
“Hey, hey, where’d you go?” Layla sits up sleepily, the white sheet over one shoulder exposing a sweet brown breast.
“Stunning morning,” I say. “Balloons!”
She pats the bed. “It’s what? Dawn?” She’s groggy. “And we’re supposed to be on vacation. Please Beth, come back to bed.”
I kiss her forehead and, tempted as I am by her dark, alert aureole and the warmth between those sheets, I decline. “Sorry, sweetheart. I’m wide awake. Think I’ll stroll into town, get coffee and meet you back here—when—eight o’clock—breakfast?
“Deserted on my honeymoon,” she moans, already halfway back to sleep. “Better make it nine.”
I slip on my down jacket, perfect for spring at this high altitude.
Then, as if from a coma, her voice rises, “Be careful! Remember that American photographer who was kidnapped.”
“Yes, sure,” I answer softly, hoping she’ll drift back to sleep. I don’t remind her that the American was taken way out east of Gaziantep, hundreds of miles from here. “Your grandmother told you too many stories, darling. Sweet dreams.”
The air is crisp and I’m glad I brought a shawl. Silk and cashmere according to the hobbled old merchant in Istanbul’s Grand Bazar. Who knows? Whatever the fabric, it’s warm and deep purple. A lush, aubergine shade.
The scruffy little coffee shop is surprisingly crowded.
Of course I’m the only woman. Bald men leaning on small tables, chatting softly in Turkish. In the background, they’re playing an intricate Persian oud piece. I sniff the coffee in my miniature cup. Yes, enough to propel me right into the day. The first sip is sublime. Thick, black, Turkish sludge. Edges of the room suddenly sharpen. I smell musky tobacco, sweet honey and fresh yogurt. Heaven.
“Pardon, you look like a visitor here.” He’s tall, thin, red-haired. Midwestern accent. Wisconsin or Minnesota. His tweed jacket and horn-rimmed glasses are the perfect costume.
I do not want to chat. I want to continue sipping kahve and marveling that I am in Turkey. Fertile womb of civilizations. Ancient land of the Hittites, Assyrians, Jews, Romans, Byzantines, Kurds, Alevis, Sunnis, Shias, Orthodox Greeks, Armenians . . . Home to Holy Mary and the Apostle John.
“Parlez-vous français?”
Yep, his accent is quintessential Milwaukee.
He smiles earnestly, waiting.
No point in being petulant. “Yes, I’m visiting for a few weeks.”
“American, hey,” he sighs. “Great. Do you know the way to Göreme?”
I look through the intruder, willing him to disappear.
He tries again. “The UNESCO World Heritage Open Air Museum?”
He says this slowly as if recalling a page straight out of The Lonely Planet. And I do mean straight.
Thing is, my entire life is about caring for people—the kids I counsel, their parents and lots of burned-out teachers in Philadelphia. Here I’m on vacation.
“They say walk through Pigeon Valley,” I allow, “but . . . ”
“Hmm.” He frowns. His eyes look watery—watery sad or watery sick, I can’t tell—and his hand trembles as he lifts the tiny cup. “I tried that way yesterday and got lost. This is my first trip to Cappadocia, a world apart from the rest of Turkey. From the rest of the cosmos, hey.”
“You can walk along the road. Not as picturesque, but direct. That’s what Layla and I are going to do.”
“Ah,” he says, expectantly.
It takes all my willpower not to invite him. The hazardous helping reflex. I swallow the rest of the coffee too fast and grab my purse. So much for savoring village color.
He nods good-bye. “Nice to meet you.”
◊
Our hotel serves breakfast in a charming brick room with a roaring fire, evoking the famous local underground caves. Eight tables are discreetly set apart in the windowless, lamp-lit chamber.
The first to arrive, we take the corner spot.
Layla selects a fragrant lemon poppy seed muffin from the inviting basket. “Glad you made it back alive.” She winks.
“Good sleep?”
“Delicious. Just missing one thing. The warm body next to me.” She takes my hand.
I squeeze her long fingers. “This isn’t Philly,” I whisper. “You have to tamp down the PDA.”
A waiter pads up silently and places two steaming omelets on our little table.
“Teşekkür ederim,” I say in my best Turkish. My only Turkish so far.
“You’re welcome.” He grins.
◊
We’ve fantasized about visiting Turkey since we met. Layla ached to see her grandparents’ land. She adores the rugs. Yes, I was hooked on the food, but I also felt a childhood tug from my church days, to see where Noah landed. Although access to Eastern Turkey—where our dreams reside—is prohibited, Cappadocia strangely feels close enough.
Both of us shed religion in college. Mine was evangelical Christianity. Layla was Kurdish Muslim on her Mom’s side and Nation of Islam on her dad’s. Her brother Mika is still in the Nation. We both, in our separate ways, always felt we belonged here.
◊
Mr. Lonely Planet ambles into the dining room, laden with maps, two newspapers, a paperback guide and a library book.
I concentrate on the delicious omelet. “Perfect,” I coo to Layla, “golden on the outside and gooey on the inside.”
“Like someone I know.”
I blush. “Really now, cut that out. Save it for home—or for our fall trip to San Francisco.”
“Hello again,” calls the ginger-haired tourist. “I didn’t know you were staying here.”
Layla looks him over with practiced journalist eyes.
“Oh,” he explains uneasily to her. “We met this morning in the coffee shop. Well, we didn’t introduce ourselves.” He extends his hand, dropping books and papers. “My name is Richard Maxwell.” He’s distracted by Layla’s beautiful face. A lot of people stare; some ask what ethnic mix created this woman with cherry wood skin, haunting pale eyes and softly curling hair.
I don’t draw much curiosity since my blond locks and blue eyes bespeak a pretty common English-German partnership.
In spite of myself, I reach down and hand him his copy of For Whom the Bell Tolls.
Layla continues studying him. All she has to do is look and people yield, not knowing to what. “Where’re you from?”
“Wisconsin. I teach history at Beloit.”
“Beth Langley from Philadelphia. And this is my partner, Layla Waters.”
He pulls up a chair, then places his books and papers on the floor. “Mind if I join you?”
Layla is quick. “Plenty of tables, Rick, if you want to spread out your library—over there or there.” She points to the farthest table.
“Richard, actually. And I wouldn’t mind company. My wife stayed behind in Istanbul—for the museums. And of course, the shopping. I could hardly pry her away from that damn covered bazaar.”
Layla smiles thinly, unwilling to admit her fellow feeling.
The waiter appears with an extra place setting and more muffins.
“So you must be on spring break.” Cordiality is my professional reflex and liability. “When do you go back?” I’m hoping he’ll say tomorrow.
“In fact, I’m on sabbatical. So I have all the time in the world, until late August.”
Layla asks, “How do you like the novel?” Somehow, this seems a more polite question.
“Oh, Hemingway, one great writer. A classic. I’ve read everything he’s written.”
Layla digs into her eggs, handing the conversation back to me. I can just imagine what she’ll say on the walk to Göreme.
◊
I learned to read her expressions in college. Douglass completely transformed our lives. As a hyper Christian freshman, I was phobic about near occasions of sin. I graduated as a lesbian socialist with a full fellowship to grad school and a most unlikely lover.
President of the Black Caucus and two years older than I, stunning, brilliant Layla was thoroughly intimidating. Like everyone else, I admired her from afar. Late one evening, we found ourselves walking in tandem back from the library. In the chilly darkness my shyness lifted. The following week we went out for pizza. Then a couple of movies. One three-day weekend, we checked in at the Starry Night budget hotel and we’ve been together ever since. I chose a graduate program in Philadelphia, because Layla had been recruited by The Inquirer. A fast, and as I would have said in the past, a “blessed” two decades.
Eventually, Layla quit The Inquirer to do investigative work. For the last two years she’s commuted to DC as the go-to freelancer on the DIA, DHS, NSA, CIA. I’m still learning about the Bureau of Counter Terrorism and the National Reconnaissance Office and—hundreds—thousands—of other intelligence programs. Her articles are weighty, edgy and a little scary. I’m a worrier, so she spares me some background. Anyway, we both love our jobs and do pretty useful work. We have a comfortable condo and a wacky dog.
Each December, I send a donation to Douglass and a Christmas card to the Starry Night Hotel.
◊
Naturally, Richard tags along on our walk to the museum.
“Terrible sense of direction,” he explains.
“I bet.” Layla says archly.
“Hope you don’t mind the company.” He’s speeding, looking better after a big breakfast and four cups of kahve. “I always find it more interesting to share an expedition.”
“Especially on one’s honeymoon,” Layla mutters not quite under her breath.
“Oh, my, congratulations,” he declares. “When did you get married? Can you do that in Pennsylvania? I know you can in Iowa and Massachusetts.”
Layla pretends to clean a spot from her sunglasses.
“We’ve been together twenty years.” I don’t bother to express our queer disdain for bourgeois matrimony.
“Ah,” he fills the silence. “Aren’t we lucky with the weather?”
Neither of us responds.
“I mean, because it’s an open air museum.”
“Unh hunh,” Layla allows.
Her resistance winds him up. “They have the best Byzantine art in Cappadocia. Frescoes and paintings dating from the tenth century.”
“You’ve done your homework. Or do you teach Turkish art history?” I ask in spite of myself.
“Well the art, it’s all part of studying a culture.”
“Perhaps you can show us a thing or two,” says Layla, making the most of our abduction.
“I’ll try. Hey, thanks for letting me join you.”
“It’s nothing.” Layla shrugs, then glares at me.
Our trek takes us through a greening valley. It’s longer than we expected—four miles—and we arrive at the same time as four coaches.
“Let’s start at the end,” Richard says. “That way, we’ll avoid crowding into those little churches with the organized tours.”
“Good idea.” Layla nods, almost warming up.
Richard, of course, knows all about the Byzantine bishops and saints and icons. He’s full of information, but not pedantic. Probably a good teacher.
The Dark Church is supposed to be a highlight, but the Chinese arrive first. Trailing close behind are the French.
“It’s worth waiting for.” He snaps his fingers nervously.
Richard is right. Under protective dim candle light, the ceiling murals are astonishing, yet nothing compared to the almost living scene of the crucifixion above the altar. The iconoclasts missed this church in their rampage, beheading and defacing Christian images.
Four hours pass and we’re starving.
◊
Our companion knows a café in the Cave Hotel and greets the owner Mehmet by name.
“Richard, you are back! And with beautiful women. Come, come to my best table, here against the wall.”
Richard ushers us in as if he’s the local pasha. “What would you like to eat, Layla and Beth?”
“I don’t care as long as it’s aubergine,” I proclaim.
Layla cracks, “I’ll have a bacon cheeseburger.” Registering Mehmet’s troubled eyes, she quickly adds. “Joke. I like all the food in this country. What do you recommend?”
Two hours later we are sated.
Throughout the lavish lunch, something nags at me. “Richard, this morning you said you didn’t know the way to Göreme.”
He takes a sip of the dark purple wine. “Yes.”
“But you’ve been to this restaurant.” I’m getting nervous. “You know Mehmet.”
The men exchange cursory glances.
Richard starts laughing.
Mehmet blanches, retreats to the kitchen.
“You know my terrible sense of direction,” Richard falters, staring absently at Mehmet’s empty chair. “Yesterday I got off the bus here, I mean, uh, outside Göreme, instead of in Uçhisar at our hotel.”
“That’s right,” Mehmet confirms, carrying a tray of coffee and sweets. “At lunchtime. So Richard ate. And since it was early in the season and he was my only customer, I drove him to Uçhisar.”
I cock my head waiting for Layla’s response. She’s blissed out by the dessert.
“Rose petals, sugar, almonds. Perfect,” she purrs deliriously.
“You know?” Mehmet throws up his hands in surprise. “You know this dish?”
“My grandmother made this for birthdays.”
“A Kurdish dessert,” observes Richard.
“Yes,” she grins.
“Of course. Layla is a Kurdish name,” Mehmet muses.
She smiles, takes another bite. “Yes, my grandparents were born east of here.”
“Really,” remarks Richard. Then adds for some reason, “I have a lot of Kurdish friends.”
Why does he make me so nervous? He’s just an awkward nerdy guy, right?
By late afternoon, we manage a successful escape. Richard does not follow us into the hammam.
Quiet. Yet another place where we are the only customers. Layla was right about traveling off season.
First: the facials. A small young woman wearing a turquoise hijab paints our foreheads, noses, cheeks and chins in a grainy substance with a rude odor. Then she leads us to the sauna. It’s pretty much like our YWCA sauna except for the presence of a majestically large woman in a black bra and lace-trimmed black panties.
Layla raises her killer eyebrows.
The woman ignores us. She exits every five minutes and returns quickly with wet hair. Finally, she leaves for good.
We hear a rap on the sauna door.
It’s our midnight negligee lady. She takes my hand and whispers, “Seni seviyorum.”
I smile, completely lost, but this is just a bath house, nothing to worry about.
She tightens her grip on my fingers. “That means, ‘I love you,’ in Turkish.”
“Teşekkür ederim,” I murmur.
“My name is Aydan, meaning ‘moonlight.’”
“Nice to meet you. I don’t reveal the meaning of my name—“house of figs”—to her or anyone else. “I’m Beth.”
“This I know.”
Aydan scrubs me as if I were a muddy five year old—between my toes, behind my ears—then orders me to lie on the marble slab. Across the room, Layla is getting similar treatment. All of a sudden, I’m pummeled by a huge plastic bag of sudsy water. Again. And again. And again.
Aydan sits me on another marble surface, pours clean water over my head and torso as I watch the soap gurgle down a large drain in the stone floor.
◊
Layla is already stretched out on the massage table on the other side of a latticed room divider.
“You OK?” she asks.
“Clean,” I say. “And apparently well-loved.”
“What?”
Our masseuses swish in. Khushi, from Krgyzstan, diagnoses my back as “a catastrophe.” After twenty minutes, she says, “I think you need another half-hour.”
◊
I admit, Derinkuyu is my idea. I’ve always loved hidden things. And this ancient city is ten stories underground.
We’ve rented a car for the expedition and as we drive through the emerald countryside we find snow clustered around tree trunks and in crevasses in this season between winter and spring. A few purple and blue wildflowers grow low to the ground.
“OK,” Layla looks at me pointedly from the driver’s seat; I want her to focus on the twisting road. “I’ll visit this ancient town for you because you agreed to have dinner at the Museum Hotel for me. But I’m not looking forward to it.”
Although I fret about prices at the posh hotel, I’ve agreed. You learn compromise during twenty years.
“At least we have privacy today.” She shakes her head. “I really thought Richard was going to trail us into the hammam.”
I laugh at the image of him pummeled with soapsuds by those sturdy women. “He’s just a lonely guy.” I’m following Khushi’s advice to lighten up.
“I don’t know.” Her eyes grow serious. “There is something weird about him.”
◊
Along with the entrance ticket, we each accept a plastic wrapped hand sanitizer. I’ve collected five of these wipes at different tourist sights. Are they meant to protect us or the museums? We pass through a metal detector and enter the cool, dark cave, where the last vestiges of a traditional museum disappear.
“Can’t see a fucking thing,” groans Layla.
“Voila!” I switch on a halogen flashlight.
“I’ve always said my girl was brilliant.”
“And practical,” declares a man behind us.
My stomach flips.
“Professor Maxwell, I presume?” Layla doesn’t bother to turn around.
“From your voices, I’d guess Bethany Langley and Layla Waters.”
Lightheaded, I wonder how he knows my birth name. Everyone assumes it’s Elizabeth and I never reveal my tribe of raging born-again sibs: Constance, Beulah, Caleb, Gideon and Zachariah.
“Clever to bring a flashlight.” He fills the silence. “If you don’t mind sharing your illumination, I’ll share some of mine about this astonishing site.”
“You’re an expert on underground cities?” Layla assesses him.
He’s wearing a striped sweater over his checked shirt and I’m grateful I can’t make out the colors in this dim light. He seems even taller and wraith-like in this spooky atmosphere.
“I’ve read up on the place, but I’m no expert.”
Resigned, Layla concedes, “Lead on.”
“The site goes back to 2,000 BC. The Hittites built here first, digging into the porous rock to make winter shelter for themselves and their animals. They settled the top two floors.”
One by one, we slither down narrow, low-ceilinged passages toward the floors and civilizations below.
One long chamber, he explains, was a classroom. Early Christians hid down on this level from the Romans. Throughout the rooms and passageways, we find air holes reaching to the sky, to admit light, to release smoke.
He takes our photo in front of the baptismal font. He says he wants to send it to his wife, to show her what she’s missing.
So much in this country happens underground. The hammam yesterday. Derinkuyu today. Although the mysteries of Turkey always attracted me, the hiding, the secrecy is unnerving.
“They have everything: bedrooms, kitchens, wine presses, animal stalls. The Byzantine Christians were the ones who dug the very bottom floor, hiding from the Muslims, who—depending on your politics—were conquerors or invaders.”
“And yours would be?” Why am I so testy?
“Pardon?” He snaps his fingers nervously.
“Your politics?”
He steps back. “Oh, I’m a registered independent. But I suppose I’m a wishy-washy liberal like most of us.”
Us. I wonder.
Layla is moaning.
I rush over. I’ve been so preoccupied with Richard that I just now notice that she’s sweaty and trembling.
“Oh, god.” She slips to the floor.
“Are you OK?” He bends down to take her hand.
“It’s just,” she wheezes, “that I’m having trouble breath . . . breathing.”
“Are you claustrophobic?” He’s acting like Dr. Médecin sans Frontières.
“No!” she snaps as if he inquired about an STD.
“Some people react.”
She takes a long breath. “This place is kind of freaky. Imagining twenty thousand people burrowed together down here.”
“Take my arm,” he says, all bedside manner. “We’ll walk slowly. You’ll be in the fresh air before you know it.”
Outside, the late morning light is blinding.
“Breathe deeply,” he instructs, “slowly.”
Color returns to her cheeks and focus to her eyes.
“Gee, thanks,” Layla rubs her temples. “I knew I didn’t like heights but this is my first—and last—underground city.” She continues hectically, “I guess I’m basically a functional person; there isn’t much call to climb ten stories down into the earth.”
I wonder how deep missile silos are.
“This happens to many people.” His hand is still on her shoulder, the red curly hairs creeping from the cuff of his green checked shirt down to his manicured nails.
We stand silent and awkward for a moment.
“Really, thanks Richard.” Layla says with renewed confidence. “Nice to see you. We’re off to Soğanlı for lunch and some above-ground churches. Enjoy your adventures.”
◊
As I open the door to our rental car, he calls to us.
“If I’m not intruding. . .”
I get in the car, pretending not to hear.
“Yes, Richard, what is it?” Suddenly, she’s solicitous.
“Well, I have an old bus schedule and it turns out I’ll be waiting another two hours. I was going to those churches—some of my favorites—9th to 13th century—too.” He looks pointedly at the empty back seat.
“Hop in,” she says, as if he were an old friend.
He buckles the seat belt and leans forward. “I know a café where we can get great lentil soup and Patlicanli Pilav, oozing with onion and eggplant.”
“I bet you do,” I say, almost sotto voce.
◊
Despite my big attitude, I enjoy lunch.
He’s as curious as ever, asking about life in Philadelphia. Our work. Again, he knows just the right wine to order and Layla, still ascending from Derinkuyu, enjoys several glasses.
“I admire good reporting.” He’s leaning a little too close to her. “It’s like being an historian, only in real time. I guess you always have to be ‘on;’ anyone could be a source.”
“Not really. Here, for instance, Beth and I are just on holiday.”
“Oh.” He’s momentarily disconcerted. Then: “Tell me more about your family. Where in Turkey were they from?”
“Grandfather was born in Hani. Grandmother left the Dersim region in the 1930s.”
“Ah, the famous Dersim Rebellion. Was your grandmother a hero for the cause?”
I fiddle with the pepper mill, untwisting the bottom to find the hidden microphone.
“No, but she was proud of her father’s involvement. Quite a fiery guy, apparently.”
I’ve never heard of this relative, her great-grandfather, let alone of the famous rebellion. The wine—and the relief of escaping Derkinkuyu—are having strange effects on Layla, who is cryptic at best with strange men.
“Those were hard times in Turkey,” Richard nods. “But now the country is so open.”
◊
Naturally Richard knows all about the churches. He explains which frescoes were defaced by Muslim iconoclasts and which by more recent vandals. Still much of the ancient paint—deep blues as well as the bloody reds—survive.
At a higher elevation now, we’re bundled in coats and scarves. The photos Richard takes make us look like Siberian refugees. I doubt his wife will feel she’s missed much.
◊
Driving back to Uçhisar, past snow-covered fields, I gaze at the late sun blazing in the golden grasses.
“Thanks for letting me tag along,” he says.
“No problem,” says Layla. “Our luck to find a whiz in Turkish history.”
“Hardly a whiz.”
“But you’re a professor at Beloit,” I declare. I feel prickly, perhaps it’s the red wine headache. “Speaking of the college, doesn’t Nick Adams teach literature there? He’d be an old man now. But it’s a small campus, right?”
“Now that you mention it, I think I met him at a reception.” He drums his fingers on the door handle. “So many of these social functions, you know.”
Layla is grinning, looking like her old self. “Richard, as thanks for guiding us around, not to mention for rescuing me from Derinkuyu, let us take you out to dinner tonight.”
“Why I’d love . . . ”
I interrupt. “Layla, don’t you remember we got the last reservation at the Museum Hotel.”
She stares at me. “We could go somewhere else.”
“You promised the Museum Hotel. Don’t you remember, for my birthday?” I’m frightened now by all the coincidences and inconsistencies. And determined to dodge Richard—or whatever his real name is—as long as possible.
“Oh, riiight,” she finally tunes into my urgency. “How did I forget? Sorry, Richard. But thanks for everything.”
“My pleasure,” he says in that forlorn Mr. Lonely Planet voice.
◊
This last evening, I try to concentrate on the beautiful village. I listen to the percussion of our heels on the cobblestones as we walk from dinner to our room. A sliver of moon shines along with Jupiter and Venus, and I recall the logo of the Starry Night Hotel.
Layla is softly humming “If I Ain’t Got You.”
I can’t help myself, and soon Layla and I are arguing about Richard again.
“You know, I’m usually the suspicious one with my journalistic trigger,” she shakes her head. “But he seems harmless. So there are a few discrepancies. So you think he’s what—CIA? MIA? MIT?” She laughs.
“A few discrepancies?”
“He was pretty useful in that goddamn cave.”
I keep my voice low. “He’s a helpless stranger on Monday morning and then gives us a complete tour of Göreme. He stalks us to Derinkuyu.”
“Stalks? Come on. It’s a small place. You run into people.”
“How about ‘Bethany?’ No one’s ever guessed my given name. You wouldn’t even believe it at first.”
“So maybe his family is fundamentalist, too.”
“The guy who’s read all of Hemingway, cops to maybe meeting one of his fictional characters at a Beloit Faculty Reception?”
“Adams is a common name.”
“Wake up, Layla. He was super curious about your NSA articles. Mika’s work for the Nation, your Kurdish grandparents.”
She takes my hand. “Darling, you were interested in those things when we met.”
“Any of them could get you arrested here.”
She laughs, “Calm down, Beth. Remember Khushi’s hard work on your rhomboids. Besides, Turkey is a democracy, a NATO member, an American ally.”
“And he’s probably wondering if our Layla is an American ally.”
“Enough,” she tickles my palm. “This is our last night. We’ll be in Philly tomorrow. Let’s enjoy these beautiful mountains under the stars.”
I gaze at the bright sky and remember the first Cappadocian dawn of dazzling balloons. I try to be grateful that we truly are here, in the land of our dreams.
◊
Damn. The flight from Kayseri lands late, so we have to sprint across the Istanbul airport. Sprint as fast as we can, lugging big suitcases stuffed with rugs, woven pillow cases and ceramics.
Check-in goes smoothly.
And the security line isn’t long.
“We’ll make it easily,” Layla says. “Time for a latte and one more baklava.”
“Maybe.” I’m sweating despite the aggressive air conditioning. Pulling out the hand sanitizer from Derinkuyu, I wipe my forehead. “You still have your passport? Your boarding pass?”
“Of course! What’s going on with you, Beth? We’re taking a simple, non-stop flight to New York. We’ve got good seats at the front of economy. We’ll be fine.”
Obviously, she’s right. Security is a breeze. Now we have seventy minutes before the flight. Plenty of time for coffee and to browse the duty free chocolate for our dog-sitter. Right on schedule.
“Sorry, don’t know what got into me.”
“You’ve stopped fantasizing about J. Edgar Jr?”
“Yeah, yeah.” I rub my tired eyes.
“Coffee?” she offers.
“No, I’ll watch the carry-ons. I don’t want to get too wired before the flight.”
As she walks away, I hear a child giggling. I turn to find a woman waving a yellow balloon animal at her toddler.
A sports team—young boys in green uniforms—are laughing and jiving outside the electronics store.
Beyond them, in a corner, I notice a uniformed man listening closely to a tall, thin guy in a baseball cap with his back to me. I try not to stare. Try not to watch the skinny guy snapping his fingers.
Suddenly, the world turns red and silent.
The men are both running toward the coffee bar.
Layla looks up, startled.
The click of handcuffs echoes across the duty free zone. Some travelers stare. Others turn away quickly.
I run toward them, dragging the briefcases and backpacks, shouting, “No, no, no!”
Out of the blue, a round woman uncannily resembling Aydan from the hammam takes my elbow. “Relax. They will just ask her a few questions. But your friend may miss the flight.” She checks the baggage tags and hands Layla’s carry-ons to another woman. “I will escort you to the gate.” There’s a compact black pistol at her waist.
“Layla, Layla,” I scream.
She turns, tugging away from the man in uniform. Richard has disappeared. “Call Uncle Daras,” she shouts. “As soon as you land. And Mika.”
I try to pull away, but the guard’s grip is too tight. “Yes, yes.” Tears stream down my cheeks. I can’t leave her. But Aydan’s sister gives me no choice. “Oh, Layla, Layla.”
“Come!” the woman demands, yanking me toward the gate.
I stand firm, turning back, but Layla is nowhere in sight.