Amsterdam 2020 (Amsterdam Series Book 2) (28 page)

Such luxury leaves me speechless.

Kazan opens the refrigerator.
 
“
Are you hungry?” he asks.  I shake my head.  “How about champagne?  Don't look so shocked.  Haven't you ever had champagne?”

“It is forbidden,” trying my utmost to sound scandalized.  At this point, I'll drink from any bottle with a hole in the top.

Kazan laughs.  “You would be surprised how quickly government officials
forget such things when the doors are closed.”

I know this, of course.  We count on it every time we bribe information out of civil servants, and store cases of
Aquavit
for such occasions.  Still, I am surprised he admits to it.

“Come,” he says, pulling out a bottle of champagne.  He opens a cupboard, and takes down two long stem glasses.  “If you can't break the rules on your wedding night, when can you?”  He pops the cork, pours two glasses, and hands me one.   “I'm not testing your moral purity.  Drink.”

I gulp down half a glass and feel my hair follicles tingle, bubbles up my sinuses and through my chest.
Oh, God, that's good.

Kazan bursts out laughing.  “You've really never had champagne before?”

I shake my head and answer honestly.  “No.  It's delicious.”

“I can see I am going to be a corrupting influence on you.” 

He’s laughing at me again.  My cheeks burn, and I sit up and square my shoulders in an attempt to look taller.  “I'll report you to the Islamic Council
,”
I say lightly. 

He barks a laugh.  “So anxious to get rid of your new husband?”

“I managed fine without one for nineteen years.”

His smile is rueful, but he looks vaguely disappointed.  “We do what we must do.”  He holds my gaze steadily, impassive.  Nervously, I tuck my hair behind my ear.

“Are you tired?” he asks. 

“No,” I say, my voice too high, as if I've shut my finger in a drawer.

He takes my hands and looks at them.  “You have such pretty petite hands.”  He turns them over and rubs my callouses, glancing at me suspiciously, saying nothing.

My heartbeat quickens and my face flushes again.  Unnerved.  My eyes dart around the room and land on a deer head, mounted over the fireplace.  “Do you hunt?” I ask, pulling my hand away.

“No.  I hired a decorator for the house.  It's more appropriate for a bachelor pad, I suppose.  If you don't like it, you can change it.  You can change anything you want in the house.”

I think of mentioning that I used to hunt, but think better of it.  I don't remember it listed in the Quran as an essential quality for a good Muslim wife.

“Let's go to bed.”  Kazan leads me to a bedroom upstairs and opens the door.  “This is your room.”

He looks down at me, his gaze hooded, eyes darkening.  His breathing is labored, and I've stopped breathing altogether.  He closes his eyes, breathing deeply through his nostrils.  I touch his forearm and feel a shiver go up his spine, ending in a small shake of his head.  When he opens his eyes again, they probe me with dark curiosity. 

“This marriage was arranged for me as much as it was for you,” he says softly.  “I don't believe in such marriages.  Strangers should not be intimate, even if they are husband and wife.  Shall we get to know each other a little better first?”

“Yes, of course,” I say, relieved, but puzzled.  His little speech sounds rehearsed, and certainly doesn't match his labored breathing.  “You'll miss out on what it's like to sleep with a plucked chicken.”

“I don't mind a bit of hair.”  He tucks a stray lock behind my ear.

“Whatever you think is best.”

Neither of us move.  We say nothing, standing close in the dark hallway, breathing.  Suddenly I am very weary.  I lean on him, pressing my forehead on his chest, comforted by his solidity.  He says nothing, but places the flat of his hand between my shoulder blades.  I feel him relax.  He is the enemy, but for a moment there is some kind of camaraderie.  We are both pawns in this marriage.  We're in it together. 

I feel how strong his chest is, how loud his heart.

After several moments, he says quietly, “I’m going to stand you up and let you go,” and gently pushes me away.  I sway and reach for the door jamb.

With a shake, I clear my head.  “Thank you,” I murmur.  I really need to lie down.

“Salima, I . . . .”  He stops, his voice raw.  He runs his hand through his hair, his  control evaporating.

“What, Kazan?” 

“I will never ask you to do something you do not want to do.”

What about this bloody marriage!
I want to scream.  But I know it wasn't his idea.  He means sex, I suppose.  Or some of the more restrictive Islamic rules.  But it feels as if there is something else.  Something he's not telling me.

“Good luck, Salima,” he says. 

Good luck? 
What an odd thing to say.

He bends to kiss me, intending a brief goodnight, but his mouth is soft and warm, and I move instinctively toward him.  Pouring myself into his warm solidness, as if water over granite.  After a long moment, we draw apart, both a little wobbly.

“Good luck to you, too,” I say. 

I walk into my bedroom and close the door.

#

I sleep restlessly, tossing and turning.  I dream of smoldering amber eyes, of long fingers caressing my body, exploring unexplored places.  I wake twice, uneasy in this strange room, with its strange open feel—cool, dust-free, sterile like a museum.  I punch my pillow and try to settle down.

I berate myself.  Letting myself get caught up in the emotion of the wedding.  As if it were real.  The actress falling for her leading man.  What a fool I am. 

I cannot allow myself to have feelings for Kazan.  I don't know what Gerda has planned for him.  I cannot allow myself to let my emotions get in the way of my duty.  Just because I want to be hugged and kissed, my body buffeted by the hot winds of desire, crushed by hot human weight.  To feel like a normal woman.  If only for a single night.

Even with someone I'm supposed to hate.

Not having sex frightens me more than having it.  At least then I would be of some worth to him. 

#

The next morning I wake oddly refreshed.  I dress quickly and set out to explore my new home.  I walk down a dark narrow hallway, which leads to a large living room with an open kitchen.  Sliding glass doors lead to a cantilevered steel deck, looking out over old shipyards on the Het IJ. 

I start coffee and open the refrigerator.  I gasp in wonder, almost afraid to touch.  Refrigerators don't look like this anymore, not since I was a child—grapes, both red and green, cantaloupe, yogurt, cheeses wrapped in white paper, pastries, bread, jams, jars of herring.  Meat.  I later learn that Kazan's mother assigns one of her servants do Kazan's shopping for him because he refuses to hire a housekeeper.  She can't stand the thought of her son having to do his own shopping.  I take out strawberries, yogurt, and cheese.  I heat up croissants in the microwave, and set everything on the small table near the window. 

I nibble the berries, looking out at the gray landscape, oddly numb.  My breathing is shallow and nervous. 

I hear someone enter the door downstairs.  Kazan walks up the steel stairs carrying milk and a newspaper, his unruly hair damp from the mist outside.  My mouth goes dry looking at him.  “Good morning,” he says.  “I see you've found the pantry.”

“Good morning.” 

He pours himself a cup of coffee, and sits opposite me.  The air of embarrassment is thick between us.  He watches me intently as I eat, taking occasional sips of his coffee.  I watch his lips. 

“How do you like it here?”  Kazan is polite, slightly distant, his voice warm and cool at the same time.

“It's very nice.  Quiet.”  I flush at the memory of his mouth on mine. 

“Feel free to explore the house and make it your own.  It's your house now.  Set it up as you will.  Hire household help if you desire, but no servants.”  He means he wants no one living in the household.  “I like my privacy.”

“Okay.”

“I suppose we should discuss how we are going to live.”

“Okay.”

“We have to occupy the same household, but we don't have to share a life.  You go your way, I'll go mine.  In the Quran it says a wife must ask permission from her husband to leave the house.  I give you permission permanently.  When we attend family functions, we will go as a couple.  Otherwise, you are free to do as you wish.  Is that satisfactory to you?”

This is not going the way I thought it was going to go.  I can’t believe I’m feeling so antagonistic towards him, especially since he is trying to be considerate.  “How are we going to get to know each other if we don't share a life?” I ask. 
How will I discover your secrets?

He blinks, unaccustomed to being challenged by a woman.  “I will be away for a week,” he says.  “We will discuss it when I return.”

“What?  No honeymoon?”

He gives me a strange look.  He isn't used to sarcasm.  “We'll have to postpone it for awhile.”

“Yes, of course.”  He is granting me a great deal of freedom, which I need.  But unless we form some kind of relationship, he won't vouch for me if suspicions arise.  I can't manipulate his affections if I don't have them.  “Where are you going?”

Again he is surprised—apparently women never ask questions in his family—but he answers.  “On a business trip.”

“What am I to say if your family phones asking for you?”

“Tell them I got an urgent call and had to go on an important business trip.”

“Okay.”

He stands from the breakfast table.  He picks up his already packed bag, and heads out the door.  He stops himself, comes back, and kisses me on the top of my head.  He leaves and gets into a waiting taxi.

#

I wait a half hour before going through his things. 

The ultra modern look of the place makes me suspicious of hidden video cameras.  I must be careful.   

I find cleaning supplies and a vacuum in a closet off the pantry.  I vacuum the bedroom first.  Under the pretense of cleaning, I run my feather duster over the walls, over pictures, peeking behind.  I check all the light fixtures and phones for listening or video devices.   I pick up the rugs, and clean beneath.  I prod the ceiling panels.  I look for a hidden safe, or a door to a secret room.  I find nothing.

When I get to his clothes, I brush them, and hang them up again.  But not without checking the pockets first, looking for anything—old airline tickets, an itinerary, gas and restaurant receipts, train stubs, an agenda.  Nothing.  Not even a piece of lint.  While putting away his laundered socks, I look in his drawers.  I check the wastepaper baskets.  Not a single scrap of paper.  Not even a dry cleaning receipt or book of matches.

I do the same routine for the rest of the house—such a good little housekeeper I am.  But I find nothing of a private nature at all.  No photos, no old letters, no papers of any kind.  It is no more personal than a hotel room.  Who lives like that?

If there is any evidence of what he does, he has taken it with him.  He empties his pockets before he enters his own home.  Only a man with a great deal to hide is so careful. 

Razzia

I hear a loud thump downstairs.  It sounds like a bird has flown into the living room window.  I scramble downstairs to see if I can revive it.  I open the front door.  A magazine lies on the threshold.  I look around, and quickly bring it inside.

If there is an emergency meeting at the barge, someone bikes past my house and tosses a magazine against the door.  That is the agreed upon signal.  This is the first time. 

I turn to the letters from the editor, and put together the circled words.  The barge is all the way over in the Plantage neighborhood, southwest of the Centrum.  We meet in four hours.

#

“We knew there would be reprisals.”  Gerda folds today's edition of
De Telegraf
and looks around the barge at each of us.  We are still in shock.  “Over the last twenty-four hours, the
Landweer has arrested seventeen printers, distributors and their liaison officers, discovered two secret copy shops, six caches of clandestine material, and two secret photographic studios.  They've dug up gardens, stripped off wallpaper, ransacked attics and cellars.  We must assume all of the detainees will be tortured and will talk.”

We have heard the stories—men hung from their thumbs, burnt with cigarettes, subjected to water-boarding, their heads plunged into buckets of water, women stripped naked, made to kneel and to listen to the tortured screams of their children in the next room.  They give up names or die.  Almost everyone breaks eventually.

Gerda continues.  “Shirzad Sahar has decreed that for every Landweer or IRH soldier killed by the Resistance, thirty political prisoners will be taken out and shot.  I see no reason not to take them at their word.”

“Was anyone taken from our group?” asks Femke.

“Kaart was making a delivery to a safehouse and was taken.  I want everyone to see Rikhart for new ID papers.”