The Lovers (3 page)

She slid her arm beneath the couch and swept it left and right, checking to make sure she had found everything. Her
wrist brushed against a small tube of toothpaste, also from the plane, and then her hand hit something hard and smooth. She pulled out a large picture frame and turned it over.

Mr. Çelik’s wife—Yvonne recognized her from the photos on the refrigerator—was naked, her legs spread, her pubic hair shaved. A large red ribbon had been tied around her breasts, the bow dangling between her nipples. She was holding a sign printed with seven Turkish words. Yvonne couldn’t decipher their meaning, but knew from the punctuation that a question was being posed.

Yvonne put the photo back and sat up on the couch. She unscrewed the tin of lip balm and applied it to her mouth with her index finger. A minute later, she applied it again. The night before, a thought had wafted into her mind as she tried to sleep, and she remembered it now. She climbed the stairs to the master bedroom and stood up on the mattress. The ceiling hook was toward the foot of the bed, and she placed a finger through its eye and tugged. It was sturdy enough to hold a few hundred pounds.

She neatened the blanket and climbed to the bedroom on the top floor. Spread out on the bed was the contraption. There had been a scandal at Burlington High two years before involving the girls soccer coach, the captain of the boys lacrosse team, and a sex swing, and though Yvonne had never seen one before, she knew a sex swing was what lay before her now. Why hadn’t it been stored away with the naked photo and who knew what else? Why had it been carried upstairs to this room?

A chime echoed dimly: the doorbell. She ran down the spiral staircase, and when she arrived at the front door she was dizzy, almost panting. She unbolted and unchained and turned the three locks, took a breath, and opened the door.

Mr. Çelik had Mediterranean skin, a small, childlike nose, and thick black hair that had been swept back, as though by a brush or a strong breeze. In front of the house a convertible was parked, its top down. He was young for someone so wealthy.

“You are Yvonne,” he said, as if he himself had just christened her.

She smiled. “Yes.”

“Welcome to Datça.” He extended his arms in the living room, to the kitchen. “You like my house?”

“Very much. It’s lovely. How long have you had it?”

“Two years.”

“Where do you live?”

“I have another home not too far from here, a home with vineyards. You should come for dinner one night.”

She noticed they were still standing in the doorway. “Would you like to come into your house?” she said.

“Please,” he said, and made an exaggerated demonstration of wiping his sandals on the doormat. “It’s a beautiful day.”

Yvonne smiled. She didn’t want to let on that she had not been outside. They moved into the dining area and stood by the table.

“I have your money,” she said.

“Let’s not talk about that yet.” He lifted his hand as
though to shield himself from the thought of money. “How do you like my Datça?”

“I like it very much. I was actually here before.”

“Really? When?”

“Maybe twenty-five years ago,” Yvonne said. It had been twenty-eight years exactly.

“You must have liked it, no, if you come back?”

“I was on my honeymoon,” she said.

“Oh, yes, everyone has fun on their honeymoon.”

Yvonne looked at the floor, embarrassed. She thought of the sex swing and the photo, and the parts either might have played in
his
honeymoon.

“And is your husband joining you?”

“No,” Yvonne said. “He passed away.” Up until a year ago she had told people Peter had been killed. But when they realized no knives or guns or poison had been involved, they seemed less interested, even disappointed, and this inevitably turned Yvonne against them. There had been a long period when the details of his death were the only thing on her mind at any given time of day, and always at night.

“I am sorry,” Mr. Çelik said. “I’m so sorry.” His sympathy, so unexpected from a stranger, caused a stinging sensation in her nose, the start of tears.

“It’s okay,” she said, as though consoling him. Now he was the one looking at the floor.

“Maybe,” she started, unsure of what she was going to say. She had to save him. “Maybe you could give me some good restaurant recommendations? It’s been so long.”

“Of course,” he said, brightening up. She knew his type, the kind of person who was happiest with a task, a purpose. “I will draw you a map.”

They both looked around for paper. “Maybe in that cabinet there,” Mr. Çelik said. “Do you mind if I look?”

He located a pad of paper with thin blue lines spaced widely, and sketched a small map. “Here we are,” he said, and drew a star, “and here’s a good place for meat, and here”—he squiggled another star—“is a good place for fish.” The watch on his wrist was large and thick black hair sprouted up on either side of the wide band. “Tell them you’re staying at my house.”

“Thank you,” she said, taking the drawing from him. She already knew the tangle of crooked lines and wayward stars would prove useless.

She lifted her purse and, this time, Mr. Çelik did not object. She removed the white envelope she’d been given by the woman with the plastic thimble on her thumb who exchanged her money at the Amsterdam airport. Mr. Çelik had specified in his e-mail that he preferred to be paid in euros rather than Turkish lire, but she confirmed with him now.

“Euros, yes?” she said.

“Yes, better than lire. I have more faith in their economy.”

“But I changed money into lire too. Around town, can I use lire or…?”

“Lire are fine, but secretly everyone prefers euros.”

“Good to know,” she said, and counted out the bills slowly
on the dining room table. When she was through, Mr. Çelik counted them again quickly before stacking them. He was clearly a man accustomed to dealing with cash.

“Next time I see you I’ll bring you a receipt.”

“When will that be?” Yvonne said, hoping she didn’t sound desperate. It was only now, upon his imminent departure, that she fully comprehended the solitary existence that lay before her. When she had been in Burlington, surrounded by people who paid too much attention to her social schedule, or the paucity of it, isolation had seemed the perfect antidote. But now, only the morning after her arrival in Datça, she was beginning to have her doubts.

“I’ll check in,” Mr. Çelik said as he started for the door. Was it her imagination or, now that he had his money, was he no longer looking at her?

“Oh,” he said, turning around.

“Yes?”

He gave her body the cursory glance people gave to the shapes of the elderly. She no longer had a body or a figure; she had a shape.

“What days are good for the maid?”

“Maid?” She had never used a maid at home.

“Yes, it’s included in the rental. Two maid visits during your stay.”

“Wednesday?” She wasn’t sure what day it was. “And Saturday.”

“Good,” he said. “I will tell her. And not too early. I know you like to sleep.”

Yvonne smiled and stood with one hand on the door as he stepped outside. They nodded at each other and then he turned. She watched his calves as he walked down the stairs.

She was suddenly ravenous. She opened the refrigerator again, as though something inside might have materialized with the arrival of morning. Nothing but cherries, now looking worse than they had the night before. She would walk to town, eat, buy groceries, and take a stroll along the beach. She hid half of her remaining euros in the pocket of a woman’s raincoat she found hanging in the master bedroom closet. Then she gathered her things—straw hat, purse, the ring of house keys, which included a heavy charm in the shape of a boat.

Outside, the sun was so strong she imagined she could see its rays, thin and sharp as blades. Yvonne turned left at the first street that sloped downhill, looking for a street sign to help her find her way back, but there wasn’t even a lamppost in sight. Nor were there sidewalks. She kept to the edge of the road and passed chickens and a family of turkeys.
Turkeys in Turkey
, she said to herself, and was briefly amused until the animals strutted closer and she saw they were scrawny, filthy creatures. She would remember them at Thanksgiving.

Yellow houses, both crumbling and remodeled, stood clustered together, their red-tiled roofs industrial and depressing. The windows of vacant-looking buildings bore signs that said
SATILIK
in red, with a phone number, while the windowsills of visibly occupied houses were lined with
unflowering plants potted in large yogurt containers. Between the houses sat acres of desiccated land that had not yet been developed save for failed attempts to grow grapes. The rows of vines had shriveled, leaving only wooden posts.

From somewhere below came the call to prayer. The sound was fuzzy, as though being broadcast through a megaphone on a parade float.

When she and Peter had first arrived in Turkey they spent a night in Istanbul at a hotel with a view of the Blue Mosque. At four in the morning, Yvonne was awoken by what sounded like a man singing beneath their window. “Can you ask him to keep it down?” she had mumbled to Peter, and he, jet-lagged, had obliged. Through half-closed eyes she saw his gray shape move to the window, and then she heard him laugh.

“It’s the call to prayer,” he said. He crawled back into bed and, unable to fall back to sleep given their proximity to the mosque, they made love, their limbs beating at the tangle of the comforter and sheets, like swimmers struggling not to drown.

She had not remembered this until now.
Good
, she thought. It was happening. After Peter’s death, she had cocooned herself in a mood, both woolly and ethereal, that had separated her from her kids, her students, from the rest of the world. But it was good to remember these things. Already the sky and the ocean felt closer, their colors brighter. She realized she had stopped walking.
You can remember and move at the same time
, she said to herself. Careful not to
slip in her sandals, she continued down the crooked blocks until she reached the main street. Swerving mopeds and small honking cars crowded the road. The sidewalks were narrow and filled with tables where shirtless old men played checkers. Outside Internet cafés, teenage boys sold phone cards. Yvonne passed a store where rolled-up rugs, standing erect as columns on either side of the entranceway, emitted a musty scent in the heat.

She crossed the road, quickening her pace as she approached the water. This was where she and Peter had spent most of their nights. They had walked along the promenade and, each evening, permitted a different maître d’ to beckon them to eat at his establishment. Always they sat at an outside table and watched the sunset stretch wide and narrow across the flat sea.

Now, as she started down the length of the promenade, hope swelled in Yvonne’s chest. Hope that this would be the reward for her trip: she would feel the way she felt during their honeymoon, she would remember every conversation, every joke, every breeze, every laugh and silence, and the feel of Peter’s thigh, warm from the sun, against hers. She felt she was tracing an unraveled ball of string to its source. They had been so happy at the beginning.

The beach was filthy. Small plastic bags, gelatinous in the sun, had been deposited by the tide on the wet sand. Dark, dead leaves swirled and settled around a boat that looked like it had docked on the beach five years before and never left. The water too looked dirty, the foam of the small waves that
crashed on the beach the color of beer. The promenade itself was not half as populated as she remembered it. The short trees bordering the walkway provided little shade and had rooted themselves under the cement, creating small hills and crevices. From somewhere in the trees came the eerie daytime hooting of owls.

Half the restaurants had been shut down. The remaining ones displayed sick-looking fish on beds of crushed gray ice. With soiled rags, waiters shooed away mangy cats trolling for food. A sprinkling of tourists speaking German sat outside the cafés, their skin sunburned to a peculiar shade of orange.

In the distance, she saw the waterfront hotel where she and Peter had stayed. As she approached the building she noticed the balconies were bare—no smokers, no beach towels draped over railings to dry. Closer now, she saw broken windows, an overgrown lawn, a drained pool, the light blue paint at its bottom blistered and cracked.

She looked around for food and a place to sit. In front of the abandoned hotel, by the water, stood a small ice cream parlor with an outdoor patio that overlooked the dinghies rocking back and forth. Yvonne surveyed the flavors and pointed to pistachio and raspberry. The man behind the counter, his arms spotted with white freckles, scooped her choices into a large glass bowl, and handed her a spoon with a tiny, useless napkin.

She sat at a table and prepared herself to enjoy the coolness, but all she could taste, a moment after swallowing, was
the metallic flavor of the spoon. It tasted like other people’s mouths, a century of tongues. She put the spoon down and watched the ice cream melt.

For a year after Peter’s death, she had wondered how anyone could speak of anything else. When Matthew came to her door six months later—making the long drive from New York in only a few hours—and told her Callie had proposed to him, she thought,
How can you talk about weddings?
“That is the best news, Matthew,” she’d said. “You and Callie are a perfect pair.” Aurelia called eight months after the funeral to say she’d been sober two years; she’d just gotten her second gold chip at that afternoon’s AA meeting. “Oh my darling,” Yvonne had said. “I couldn’t be more proud.” Yvonne
was
proud, but confused, and then confused about why she was confused. How had Aurelia, who had once turned to drinking with any minor provocation, remained sober after her father’s death? She didn’t want her children to fall apart, but neither did she want them seeming stronger. Was it too much to ask them to stagger around a few more months? No. Such thoughts she couldn’t express, not out loud.