Rubies are distinguished gemstones known by their fiery red color. Yet it is not uncommon for them to alter their color, growing darker and darker inside, especially when their owners are in jeopardy. There exists a particular kind of ruby which the connoisseurs call the "Pigeon's Blood"-a precious blood-red ruby with a hint of blue, as if dimmed deep inside. That ruby was the last surviving reminiscence from The Little Lost Pigeon and the Blissful Country.
On the eve of the third day, Shermin Kazanci found a brief moment of solitude after dinner to sneak into her room. Appealing for consolation that no one could grant her, she stared at the Pigeon's Blood.
Only then did she acknowledge what she needed to do.
A week later on a Sunday morning she went to the harbor where her brother awaited her with a pounding heart and two tickets to America. In lieu of a suitcase, Shermin only had a small bag. She left all her possessions behind. As for the pomegranate brooch, she put it in an envelope with a letter explaining her situation and asked her husband two things: to give the brooch to their son as something to remember her by, and to forgive her.
When the plane landed in Istanbul, Rose was exhausted. She moved her swollen feet carefully, fearing they wouldn't fit into her shoes anymore, though she was wearing comfortable orange leather
DKNY footwear. She wondered to herself how on earth these stewardesses with their high heels could stay on their feet through a whole day of flying.
It took Mustafa and Rose half an hour to get their passports stamped, get through customs, pick up their luggage, exchange money, and find a car rental service. Mustafa thought it would be better if they had their own car, rather than using the family car. From a brochure Rose first chose a Grand Cherokee Laredo 4x4, but Mustafa advised something smaller for the crammed streets of Istanbul. They agreed on a Toyota Corolla.
Shortly thereafter, the two of them walked out of the arrivals area, pushing a cart loaded with a matching luggage set. They found a semicircle of strangers waiting outside. Among the group they first spotted Armanoush, smiling and waving; next to her was Grandma Gulsum, her right hand pressed on her heart, about to faint from excitement. A step behind them stood Auntie Zeliha, tall and aloof, wearing a pair of dark purple-tensed sunglasses.
SEVENTEEN
White Rice
Rose and Mustafa spent their first two days in Istanbul eating. At the table they answered a plethora of questions different members of the Kazanci family asked them from all directions: How was life in America? Was there really a desert in Arizona? Was it true that Americans survived on mammoth portions of fast food, only to go on a diet in TV contests? Was the American version of The Apprentice better than the Turkish version? And so on.
Then there followed a series of more personal questions: Why didn't they have children together? Why hadn't they come to Istanbul before? Why didn't they stay longer? WHY?
The questions had opposing effects on the couple. Rose for her part did not seem to mind the interrogation. If anything she enjoyed being in the spotlight. Mustafa, however, steadily drifted into silence, getting smaller and smaller in his body. He spoke little, spending most of his time reading Turkish newspapers, conservative and progressive alike, as if trying to catch up with the country he had left. From time to time he asked questions about this or that politician, questions answered by whoever might know the answer. Though always an avid newspaper reader, he had never been so interested in politics.
"So this conservative party in power seems to be losing blood. What is their chance of winning in the coming elections?"
"Rascals! They are a bunch of liars," growled Grandma Giilsum, in lieu of an answer. There was a tray in her lap with a pile of uncooked rice, which she sorted through before cooking in case there were any stones or husks. "All they know is to make promises to the people and forget what they said as soon as they get elected."
From his armchair by the window, Mustafa glanced up at his mother over the newspaper in his hand. "What about the party in opposition? The social democrats?"
"Same difference!" came the answer. "They are all a bunch of liars. All politicians are corrupt."
"If we had more women in the parliament everything would be different," Auntie Feride joined in, wearing the I LOVE ARIZONA T-shirt Rose had brought her as a present.
"Mama is right. If you ask me, the only trustworthy institution in this country has always been the army," Auntie Cevriye said. "Thank God we have the Turkish army. If it weren't for them-"
"Yes, but they should let us women serve in the army," interrupted Auntie Feride. "I myself would go immediately."
Asya stopped translating the conversation for Rose and Armanoush, who were sitting alongside her, and chuckled as she said in English, "One of my aunts is a feminist, the other is a staunch militarist! And they get along so well. What a nuthouse!"
Grandma Gulsum turned to her son, suddenly concerned. "How about you, dear? When are you going to complete your military duty?"
Having a hard time following despite the instantaneous translation, Rose turned to her husband and blinked.
"Don't you worry about me," Mustafa said. "Provided I pay a certain fee, and show them I live and work in America, I do not have to complete full-term military service. I'll be done with only basic training. Just a month, that's all…."
"But isn't there a deadline for that?" someone asked.
"Yes there is," Mustafa replied. "You need to go through this training by age forty-one."
"Well, then you need to do it this year," Grandma Gulsum said. "You are forty now…."
Sitting at the end of the table painting her nails a shiny cherry, Auntie Zeliha raised her head and darted Mustafa a glance. "What a fateful age," she hissed all of a sudden. "The age your father died, just like his father and his grandfather…. You must be pretty nervous now that you are forty, my brother…. So close to death…."
The silence that followed was so deadly it made Asya inadvertently recoil.
"How can you talk to him like that?" Grandma Gulsum rose to her feet, the tray of rice still in her hands.
"I can say whatever I want to whomever I want." Auntie Zeliha shrugged.
"You shame me! Get out, miss," Grandma Gulsum rasped, her voice low and steely. "Get out of my house right now."
Still having two fingernails unpainted, Auntie Zeliha left the brush in the bottle, pulled back her chair, and walked out of the room.
On the third day of their visit, Mustafa stayed in his room all day long, excusing himself as sick. He had been running a fever, which must have diminished not only his energy but also his ability to talk, for he had grown excessively quiet. His face was drawn, his mouth dry, and his eyes bloodshot, though he was neither boozed up nor had he cried. For hours on end, he stayed in bed lying still and supine, studying indiscernible motifs of dirt and dust up on the ceiling. Meanwhile, Rose and Armanoush and the three aunts walked the streets of Istanbul, particularly the streets around shopping centers.
They went to bed earlier than usual that night.
"Rose, honey," Mustafa whispered to his wife as he caressed her light blond hair. The straightness, the blondness, the smoothness of his wife's hair had always soothed him, canopying him tenderly against his dark-haired family and dark-haired past. She lay against him, her body warm and soft. "Rose, sweetheart. We need to go back. Let's fly back tomorrow."
"Are you crazy? I'm still jet-lagged." Rose yawned, stretching her sore limbs. She was wearing an embroidered satiny nightgown she had bought that day from the Grand Bazaar, and looked pale and tired, less from the jet lag than from the shopping frenzy. "Why are you so antsy? Can't you bear to see your own family for a few days?" She pulled the soft covers up to her chin and in the warmth of the bed pressed her breasts against him. Then she patted his hand as if sweet-talking a boy and she kissed his neck gingerly, soothingly, but when she tried to pull away he wanted more, hungry for passion.