10
This afternoon Elias was to be released from the hospital. I had spent half the morning painstakingly waxing hair from my body. Then I cleaned, swept, mopped, and went shopping.
At the entrance to the supermarket I took a basket in due form. Then I stood around indecisively in the vegetable section before finally moving to the aisles, where I started filling my basket with random items. I would squeeze oranges, caramelize pears, cut and steam vegetables, stay clear of the pork, knead dough, then roll out and bake it. I just didn’t know how to do all this and therefore added a few housewifey magazines to my shopping basket. Another woman also stood indecisively in the aisles. She had soft features, wore no makeup, and had on flat gray velvet shoes with a little bow on each rounded toe. She studied the small print on the boxes, wheezed, then lunged at a supermarket employee, waving her tote bag threateningly. “That’s just not possible. The organic lettuce can’t be sold out. Just like that? You’re hiding it. The other one is no good, you understand me? No good. All that stuff comes from America!” And then she broke out in tears. The undercover security guard and I looked at her, stunned.
At the cash register I got a pack of cigarettes and smiled. My fingers drummed a march on the conveyor belt. The female neck on line in front of me was so perfect, so slender and white, that it immediately sparked a desire in me.
Elias filled the bed again. I was grateful that he lay there, on his back, his arms spread wide, breathing calmly and regularly. The comforter wasn’t big enough to cover his feet, arms, and shoulders at the same time. So I covered him with my half and went into the kitchen to get a glass of water and cigarettes. Then I sat down on the windowsill. The bedroom seemed somehow bigger now, and the sticky, grayish layer of dust that covered the white wood of the shelves now rested in the dark—colorless like everything else. The morning air was fresh. I stubbed out my cigarette and crawled back into bed. In his sleep Elisha turned to me and kissed my shoulder and continued sleeping peacefully.
His absence had come as a shock. It was almost like back when Sibel left. The apartment had been too full of emptiness. Elias hadn’t been there to eat, to sweat, to sleep, to breathe, or to look at me. Everything in our apartment belonged to him. Most of the furniture, the kitchen, the table, the bookshelves. Elias had built our bed himself.
She said she was from northern Germany. She said Rügen, but I didn’t believe her. Her family was Turkish, and very traditional. Three older brothers—all born in Germany, equipped with an old-fashioned sense of honor. Sibel wasn’t allowed to have boyfriends or talk with Germans, Yugoslavians, or Russians. She wasn’t allowed to leave the house after dark. One of her brothers accompanied her to school. When he decided that Sibel had looked at her teacher a little too long he branded her back with a flatiron. Sibel’s father was appalled, he walked in circles on the living room carpet and then beat Sibel’s brother. Then he drank some tea and slapped Sibel’s mother in the face, because the tea had cooled too quickly and because she allowed her daughter to dress like a German. Sibel was pulled out of school and her father started researching in an Internet cafe for a husband. Sibel’s father was determined to get a good deal. Even if Sibel wouldn’t get a big dowry, she was a German citizen and therefore attractive to many. Marriage was the only legal way to get into Europe and Europe was the big hope.
Sibel refused the first potential husband and the second as well, and for that she got a beating from her oldest brother. The youngest, a year older than she, held her, slipped his hand in her panties and whispered into her ear: “You are a disgrace to our family. We will kill you.” Her mother said: “He is a good man. He will work for you, protect you. Do you think anybody will fall in love with you, just because you are young and pretty? That he’ll stay with you forever? That he’ll love you? Don’t be so naive. Please don’t be so naive.” Sibel stood facing a mirror and cried because she was naive. Wanted to be.
Sibel ran away and at first stayed with a German friend. But her friend’s parents were afraid of Muslim men, without even needing to be told about Sibel’s own experience with Muslim men. Or about Islam. After three days Sibel was back out on the street. Bitter and alone.
She only wore dresses, skirts, silk blouses, and shoes with shiny buckles. She walked on tiny, clattering heels and looked like candy. Innocent, irresistible, and absolute. Twice she f*cked my lovers. I had hated her for it, in a Germanly thorough fashion. But I couldn’t stop desiring her. The apartment and landline were in my name. I did money transfers for her and when she had to go to the doctor she borrowed my insurance card.
She slept without a cover. Her underwear shimmered dusky pink. No, she only pretended to be asleep. For a long time I looked at her skinny body, the bent knees and the straight dark hair that spilled across her pillow. The curtains were drawn and the room was bathed in a soft light. We’d had a week of beautiful weather. Nothing in the sky moved. The closest thing to a cloud was the occasional vapor trail from a plane. Sibel breathed calmly and regularly, didn’t hear the buzz of the house-flies. I pulled my dress over my head. In the window across the street the curtain moved. I unhooked my bra, took off my panties, and sat down on the bed. I leaned over her and kissed her shoulder. She smiled without opening her eyes. I traced her areolas with my fingers.
“You dirty little thing,” she whispered into my ear and laughed. “Did you know that Kurdish girls always kiss each other on the mouth, as a substitute for real sex? They can’t afford riding lessons.”
“Are you a Kurd, Sibel?”
She looked at me, grinned, but didn’t answer. Then she turned over onto her stomach. Her entire body was covered with scars.
The calls had started when we made love almost every night, first in the middle of the night, then on late mornings, then during the day. The caller didn’t say anything. We heard nothing but his heavy breathing. Sibel started leaving the lights on in the hallway at night and didn’t leave the house by herself anymore. She took taxis, even if her trip would only take her five minutes on foot.
One evening the entire apartment went dark. At the same moment, Sibel’s cellphone rang. The number was blocked. On the other end, somebody breathed heavily and remained silent.
“My brother works for the secret service!” Sibel yelled, as I fumbled with the fuse box. I was almost as scared as she was, if for different reasons.
When I came home from school the next day, Sibel was gone. She had taken with her her shimmery dresses, hair clips, cosmetics, and perfume samples, as well as my passport, my insurance card, and cash.