14
The roses in my parents’ garden were in bloom. Cem was on the phone, pacing the lawn, gesticulating with his free hand. My parents looked at me with a mixture of silent accusation and relief. My mother was going back and forth between She’s over the hump and Two lonely old people in a foreign country. My father had other things on his mind.
“What kind of a job is it?” he asked.
“I was hired as an interpreter for the international branch of a German foundation.”
My mother stirred her tea, lost in thought. Food smells drifted over from the house. My guess was trout stuffed with thyme. Cem’s gestures became bigger and bigger.
“But don’t you think you’re overqualified for this job? You had such good grades.” My mother sighed. “You always said that you wanted to work for the UN. What about the UN?”
“Which UN? Do you think it’s easy getting into the UN?” my father said and went back into the house to get more tea for himself and my mother. When he returned he laboriously sat back down on the garden bench and said, “No.” Then he shook his head to further emphasize his words. “She has to climb the ladder slowly. It doesn’t go that fast. First she has to prove that she’s reliable. Then maybe she’ll be appointed to the UN.”
“You don’t get appointed to the UN, Dad.”
“Of course you get appointed to the UN.”
“Nope.”
“Yes. We always got appointed.”
“Here you apply directly.”
“Then why the hell didn’t you apply?”
Awkward silence and rhythmic stirring in teacups followed.
“Back in my day, there was still wiggle room,” said my father, who couldn’t get over the fact he no longer had connections.
“Daddy, so far I’ve managed fine on my own.”
My father shot my mother a concerned look.
“I don’t need help,” I tried again.
“Do you need money?” my mother asked.
I shook my head.
“What kind of an organization is it?” my father finally asked.
“A political organization,” I responded.
“A leftist one?”
“Yes.”
“Good. Then at least we didn’t fail completely as parents.”
“You really needed to attach that nice afterthought, didn’t you?” said my mother. “After chasing your own child out of our house.”
“I chased no one out of the house. Besides, we can hardly claim that it’s our house if the lion’s share of your salary pays the rent.”
My mother bit her lip nervously. She feared that the argument would escalate, but my father’s face relaxed again. Silently we sat next to each other and watched Cem. He yelled into the phone: “Dude, I don’t have a problem with my national identity … Don’t give me this crap again. National identity. I’m pressing charges. I’ll go to court. I don’t care about this nation bullshit … I need a lawyer, not a lecture in cultural theory. Shit, man.”
“What’s he saying?” my mother asked and took a sip of her tea.
“He’s having a fight with a friend, Mom.”
“What’s wrong with his friend?”
“Cem, don’t step on my roses!” my father yelled in Turkish.
On the plane I sat next to a woman and her baby, who was sleeping peacefully in a cradle in front of our knees. In the row behind us were four more children, who also belonged to her. The woman spent the four-hour flight standing, watching over her children. She addressed them in plural: “Les enfants, asseyez-vous! Soyez calme!” The flight attendants had trouble allocating the kosher meals. Every single one was noted on a list, but the list was off. The kids ate kosher, but not the in-flight meals. Instead, they had the cookies their mother had brought.
I had tried calling Sami before takeoff. I hadn’t said goodbye and he didn’t answer. As soon as the seat belt signs turned off, the Israelis got up, walked around—looking for familiar faces.