“And where do you think you’re going?”
“I think I saw a pipe up ahead. I’m gonna grab it and come back to meet you. Go on.”
The younger man heaved the bag and turned to jog as best as he could back to the rest of their team. Gregor was alone. He heard the rattling of the cage door. But wait, that was coming from the wrong direction. The cage was back to his left. He spun around, using his hands on the wall to guide the way until he spotted that flashing red light. The noise was coming from just below it—the double doors. Someone was trying to get in.
8. March 8, 2017. 6:29 P.M. Istanbul, Turkey
Altan and Sule stopped to take a collective breath before approaching their friends’ home. The estate was expansive, with whitewashed walls broken in spots by tall iron gates, twin pairs of palms lining the driveway and walkways, and three jeweled water fountains. There was no amount of riches, though, that could overpower the dense feeling of sorrow that hung in the air. In their arms lay a feast that Sule had immediately started on the moment she’d hung up with her husband earlier that day. Spiced lamb meatballs, cucumber-mint yogurt, hot pita bread, and baklava all lent their scents to the evening breeze. It was the least they could do, when there was nothing else to be done.
The beautiful matriarch opened the front door, draped in black, her eye kohl obviously having been recently touched up. It barely concealed the redness there. Three children hung from her clothes, their faces blank with confusion.
“Lale. Let us come in. We’ve brought you some food.” They bowed slightly, revealing their gifts.
“Oh Sule. Thank you.” Her voice crackled in her throat.
Their footsteps echoed in the roomy entryway, their shoes clicked against the tile. Slowly they were relieved of their baskets as the children deposited them in the kitchen down the hall. Altan bent to kiss the cheek of his best friend’s wife, but it wasn’t until Sule wrapped her in a hug that she resumed her crying.
“Shh, shh. It’s okay, Lale. Come sit.”
They parked themselves on the two silk settees, trying to comfort the new widow.
“Tell us what happened.”
She sniffled and dabbed at her eyes with a white handkerchief.
“It was the bridge. Otoyol 1. Collapsed today. Mehmet was there.”
Altan knew where it was. He’d crossed the bridge many times on his way East to inspect the fields.
“It just collapsed?” asked Sule.
“No, no, no. Bombs!” she wailed into her hand.
It was as he’d predicted after seeing the report on the news. They had refused to place blame on any one group, saying that the bridge simply collapsed early that morning, but he knew differently. It was the rebels, and it meant that they were getting closer to the heart of Istanbul.
“I thought so, Lale. I’m so sorry.” He grasped her free hand, holding it firmly in his own.
“Mehmet! My Mehmet! Why? Now I am all alone!”
“You still have us,” Sule nudged her gently, “We can help. Cook you food. Watch the kids.”
“Thank you for this,” she blotted her eyes again, “since I will have to fire our staff now. No money for these things anymore.”
“Will there be a service?” Altan was trying to find a gentle way to ask.
“We might have something here at the house, but they haven’t pulled all the bodies out yet.”
She confirmed his suspicion. It was impossible to follow traditional rituals if the body hasn’t been recovered. The possibility must have been weighing heavily on Lale, adding stones to her pile of grief. It would be a terrible omen if Mehmet’s remains were never found.
“You will let us know? Let us help.”
“Of course.” Her tears had ceased once again. “Thank you for the food.”
“You’re welcome. I know cooking is the last thing on your mind right now.”
The oldest child, a girl of thirteen, burst into the sitting area.
“Anne, the computer isn’t working again!”
“Like last time?” There was a hint of fear in her mother’s voice.
“Yes! Come see.”
All three of them rose to follow the girl into the den. Sure enough, the computer screen was blue, a warning in Turkish flashing repeatedly in yellow. It wasn’t unusual for the government to restrict the internet access of the citizens, but this was something more. Perhaps the work of hackers or an organized media shutdown. Altan whipped out his mobile phone, eyed an apology to his wife. He had to check something.
“Sule.”
“What is it, Altan?”
“We need to go.”
9. March 8, 2017. 11:40 A.M. Oxnard, California
The sky was clearer that day, the smoke having moved on, having broken its body into a million tiny pieces, floating up towards the sun. But the road had a fresh ashy layer, as did the roofs of all the abandoned houses. The truck bed and trash bins were coated with a fine grey chalk, and everything reeked of fire, of death.
It was eerily quiet now that their neighbors were gone and the girls were at school. Matias had spent three hours waiting at the day-labor pick up site, hoping for even the smallest menial job. But nobody came. It was like either the bosses and contractors had left town or they were drinking the poisonous fear of a labor uprising. He wasn’t interested in an uprising. He just wanted work.
Defeated, he had turned back for home, but stopped at the church on the corner, the one with the cracking adobe and weathered crosses, the one whose wooden benches creaked under the weight of a hundred migrants every week. He walked to the front altar and lit a candle, kneeling on the pad to pray to Our Lady. He looked up at her face; a beacon of calm and peace surrounded by a golden halo, and clasped his hands together. He knew She was listening. She was always listening.
Teresa was still asleep on the chair with the blanket around her shoulders when he got home. Their old Chihuahua, Junior, was nestled in the crook of her arm, his tongue lolling out of his mouth. He bent to kiss her forehead, then busied himself with ridding their tiny home of the smoke and ash, trying his best to not make noise. The broom quietly scratched its way across the floor, followed by the mop and then by the wiping of the cabinets and shaking out of the linens. He opened the windows, allowing the toxic air to be replaced by fresh that rode in on the warm afternoon breeze. When at last he was satisfied, Matias pulled on his boots and walked down the road to the field.
It was as desolate as one could imagine, a giant grooved rectangle of blackened dirt. He bent to scoop up a handful and the tiny granules sifted easily through his fingers. Among the rows he could see the skeleton of the irrigation system, tiny patches of darkened dirt lying beneath the joints. He touched the pipe and brought a wet, cool finger to his lips. There was obviously still water running through the field, but who had left it on? Or had someone turned it on recently? He hadn’t seen anyone around all day, except the odd onlooker, and he was convinced that the bosses had left for good. This was unfortunate, as they were decent men to work for, or at least weren’t miserable to work for. He knew they owned another farm on the other side of town. Maybe he’d check there later today.
His melancholy reverie was interrupted by a loud cracking noise behind him, almost like gunfire. He crouched out of habit and spun around. He started running back towards the house, his stomach in knots. Teresa was at home by herself. What if she was right? They had come for them next? As he rounded the neighbor’s house, he glimpsed a gold Cadillac, its rims still gleaming despite the dust. There were two men stalking around the outside of his house, peering in windows, wearing white wifebeaters and jeans that sagged, blue boxers clearly visible. Sunlight bounced off the chains on their necks, occasionally catching in his eye and blinding him. Suddenly the taller one turned and spotted him and started walking towards him with huge angry strides. He pulled a handgun out from behind his back and stuck it in Matias’s face.