The Debt of Tamar (26 page)

The bleeping of monitoring equipment interrupted his thoughts bringing him back to reality. He looked up.

Rumie sat opposite his bed examining him as though he were a cadaver.

“Mind taking off those glasses? I feel like I’m sitting across from the Terminator.”

The old man seemed pleased. “I’ll take that as a compliment.”

“
Why?”
Selim shook his head limply. “Look, do you plan on sitting here all day?”

“I have no other plans. Nowhere to be.”

Selim closed his eyes as though the act of not seeing might make the man disappear.

“What time did you say she’d be back?” Rumie looked at his watch then glanced up at the door.

“I didn’t say.” Selim allowed his gaze to wander throughout the room settling on one strange object at a time before moving onto the next.

A porcelain sink with a crack in the base.

An empty gurney.

An oddball Francophile opposite the bed.

A spider making his way across the television screen.

A hand-sanitizing dispenser with liquid dripping to the ground.

A heart monitoring device. His eyes lingered on that machine. Its luminescent stems and black backdrop reminding him of days past when as a boy, he would play with the glowing pegs of his the Light-Brite set.

Once, long ago, he was just a boy.

Once, he was a child.

A wave of sadness passed over him as he realized the Osman dynasty might end here, perhaps in this very bed, beneath a coarse white sheet between two metal rail-guards. He had no children and as Dr. Rosen had delicately informed him, the treatment would most likely leave him sterile,
if
he survived.

“Well where is she when she’s not here?” The old man asked suddenly.

“I’m not sure.”

“You don’t know?” His foreign accent bristled at the tip of his tongue.

“You’ll have to ask Hannah.”

“Ask me what?”

The two men turned to find her leaning in the doorway, sunglasses riding low at the bridge of her nose and a blank canvas tucked under the arm of her denim jacket. “What’s going on?” She stripped away her glasses and let her bag fall to the ground as she made her way over.

“You’re here.”

“I’m here,” she echoed. She wove her fingers through a wild halo of hair before making herself comfortable at the edge of his mattress.

Edward Rumie stood and made his way towards her. “Hannah?”

“Hi.” She examined him curiously.

Rumie reached out and shook her hand. “I’m a big fan of your work.”

“Thanks.” She kicked off her ankle boots and tucked her legs up under her. “I’m sorry, who are you?”

“Edward Rumie.” He handed her his card. “I have a gallery in Chelsea.” He smiled when he spoke exposing a row of ivory teeth, crooked and gleaming as piano keys in motion. “We’re having an emerging artists showcase. A new artist every other month. I really like what I see here.”

She shot Selim a questioning glance before turning her attentions back to Rumie. “You’re barking up the wrong tree.”

“I’m old and ugly but it’s the first time I’m being confused with a dog.”

“That’s not what I meant—”

“Americans have been calling us frogs for decades,
m
ais
un chien
! Well that is a first. A first for everything!” He smiled jollily.

“All I mean is that it’s really not my thing.”

“Success is not your thing? Or art is not your thing?”

“You’re twisting my words.”

“They’re your words not mine. And I don’t aim to twist I aim only to illuminate, so my dear, please be a bit more specific. What is it that is not
your thing
?”

Her smile faded as she turned to Selim. “Who is this guy?”

He folded his newspaper and dropped it on the tray. “Truth be told, I don’t know much about him. He seems to like harassing foreigners.”

“Damn it!” Rumie glared up at Selim then lowered his voice to a growl. “I already told you, I don’t discriminate.”

Selim’s eyes beamed with bemused curiosity.

“That’s enough.” Hannah spliced the space between them with her painted fingertips. “Look,” She turned to Rumie and smiled politely. “It’s really sweet of you to offer me something like this. I appreciate it, I really do, but it’s not right for me.”

Rumie seemed disappointed. “May I?” He reached for the newspaper on Selim’s tray, then tore away the front page. He began folding its corners as Hannah and Selim looked on. After a minute, he handed her a rose fashioned from the paper Selim had been reading earlier in the day. “I do not accept your answer,” he said while heading for the door. “I need at least twenty-five, maybe thirty pieces!” His voice trailed behind from the hallway.

The night after his first chemotherapy session, Hannah sat in the dark with her knees at her chest, watching him sleep and listening to him mumble. He shot up suddenly—his body choking—desperate to rid itself of the contents of his stomach and the poison in his blood.

She reached out to him.

“I’m sorry.”

“I’m here. You’re going to be fine.”

“I’m so sorry.”

“Everything’s ok.”

“Forgive me.”

“Are you thirsty? How about some water?”

“You have to forgive me.” He was still very much asleep. “Ayda.” He took hold of her hand and squeezed. “Is it you?”

“Shhh. Try to rest now. I don’t know an Ayda.”

“Ayda?” His voice was frantic.

“I’m here, Selim. It’s Hannah.”

His breathing slowed.

“It’s really you?” A quiet moment passed between them. “Ayda?”

She swallowed a knot rising in her throat. “Yes,” she lied.

“Ayda.” His voice was a whisper.

She took his hand and brought it to her lips.

“I’m so sorry.” She could barely make out his words.

“Everything is going to be ok.”

“You forgive me?”

“I forgive you.”

“Ayda?”

“Yes, Selim?”

“You love me?”

“I love you.”

In the morning, she coaxed him from his bed and helped him change into a fresh tracksuit. Unsure of what to make of the things he’d mumbled in his sleep the night before, she said nothing of it. He had been agitated and delirious and had slept only intermittently throughout the night.

Selim pushed the metal pole supporting his IV drip as they made their way through the hallway towards the ground-level courtyard. There, she led him to a cool stone bench in the shade, where, earlier that morning, she’d set up her easel and canvas. They sat there listening to water running in the fountain.

“I guess that’s yours?” he asked suspiciously of the easel positioned beside them.

She crossed her legs and leaned back against the bench. “Set it up this morning.”

“What’s it doing out here?”

She shrugged than sank deeper into the seat of the bench.

“You’re not going to paint my portrait.”

She kept her emerald eyes on the fountain ahead but said nothing.

“Hannah, I need to hear that you understand what I’m saying. You’re
not
going to paint my portrait.”

She stood abruptly and turned to face him. “Selim, that’s exactly what I plan on doing.”

“No.”

“No?”

“I won’t let you.”

“It doesn’t matter if you let me or you don’t let me. I’ve already begun it.”

“The canvas is blank!” His hands shot up wildly as he spoke.

“In my mind. I’ve begun it in my mind.”

“I won’t sit for you.”

“You don’t have to.”

“You’re going to paint it from memory? You think you know my face?”

“I know you.”

“Damn it, Hannah. I didn’t ask for this.”

“No, and I doubt you ever would.”

“I’m telling you from now, I don’t want to see it. All these people,” He dropped his voice to a whisper. “I know what they see.”

“You don’t know what I see.”

“I don’t want to know.”

“I’m sorry, Selim.” She made her way to the canvas. “I’ve made up my mind.”

“Go to hell.”

“I’m not going anywhere.”

“And what if you do?” he asked.

“I said I’m not going anywhere.”

“Promise me, Hannah? Can you promise me that?”

“I don’t need to. I said it and I meant it.”

He shook his head and dropped his chin. “I’m scared.”

“You’re brave.”

“I’m so scared.”

“No one’s ever been brave without first being scared.”

“Do you even know me?
Really
know me?”

She thought about the words he’d uttered in his sleep the night before. Words he would never recall and she would never understand. She looked up. “I don’t know a
thing
about you. Is that what you want to hear?”

“That’s not what I asked and you know it.”

She put down her brush and pushed closer towards him. “All right, Selim.”

“All right?”

“Yes, all right. I
do
know you. I’ve never known anyone like I know you. I can’t explain it and I don’t understand it, but I’ve never been more sure of anything in my life.
I know you.
”

“Hannah?” he said quietly.

“What is it?” she asked, her voice strained by exhaustion.

“I know you, too.” He studied her emerald eyes for a long, lingering moment. “I think I always have.”

She began his portrait, at first only sketching the right side, as though she was putting a puzzle together despite a missing piece. He thought to himself. “It’s not my time.” When he lowered his head, she lifted his chin. He sat on that bench before her easel. For three days, she painted.

For the first time since his arrival in New York, he didn’t push Ayda from his mind, but allowed his guilt to speak its piece. It had only taken him an instant to close the door and walk away—an instant to destroy another human being. He knew now it would take a lifetime to make it right. That was something he didn’t have.

And what had become of little Emre? Was he still living in the hotel by the airport? Was it even still operating? He should have been looking out for the boy
.
Was he back to selling gum and batteries on the side of the highway? Where was he now, at this very moment? If he ever got back to Istanbul, he would take Emre under his wing. He’d make things right. Not too many people get second chances. He needed to survive. Go back and find Emre.
Slow down, Selim. Slow down!
He could recall Emre shouting in the hall. Emre could have used a big brother. He needed to get back and find him.

And what of Ali’s burial site? Who would be there next month to sweep away the dirt, to say a prayer and place flowers by his grave? No, he was not yet ready to join his brother. He was not ready to join
Baba
.

He sat before her easel and dozed off into a dream saturated with the smells of Bosphorus blossoms and berry juices, rose water, saffron and cinnamon spice. He dreamt of pistachio cakes and pomegranate trees. Every few moments he awoke with a sudden sense of dread. He’d look up to say, “Don’t leave me.”

For three days she painted his image, mixing colors and carefully selecting the right brushes. At home she’d sketch his image a dozen times over. She drew his image, the left side shattered like broken glass, but that wasn’t right at all. She tried countless sketches, but with each one, she was certain she was a little further from the truth. Like her father, Selim Osman was a man of secrets. Painting a secret was no easy feat.

After three days of illness, followed by three days of recuperation, Selim underwent his second dose of chemotherapy. He clenched his fists as the toxins spread throughout his body. “I can’t do this,” he said between waves of nausea.

Hannah’s eyes locked with his. “You can.”

He endured three days and nights of nausea and vomiting. His insides felt as though they’d caught fire- his mouth and tongue and lips, like hot coals he wished he could eject. At the end of the third day, the nausea subsided—The toxins ceased to ravage his body.

She helped him change into a fresh shirt. They drank tea and played backgammon. He slid the ruby ring from her finger and examined the inscription.

He looked up and for a minute was transfixed by her gaze.

“Well, what does it mean?” she asked.

A sudden déjà vu flashed through him. A fleeting vision, green and fresh and smelling of the sea. Frustrated, he leaned forward and examined her closely, trying to recall the slightest clue to that lost memory.

A hiding tree of lush green leaves. A girl. A vanishing. Like a bolt of lightning, it slipped away before he could grasp it.

It was then that a strange thought crept through him. Slowly and steadily, it made its way into his consciousness and rooted its seed firmly in his mind. There it was. He was sure of it now.

The Sultan’s Curse.

Had it been looming over him all this time? As he recalled, there was only one way the curse could ever be broken. A green eyed girl. A ruby ring. A cryptic inscription carved from old Ottoman times.

“So what does it mean?” Hannah pressed him.

He dropped his face into his palms and began to laugh.

“Selim?”

But he could not answer. He just laughed until he was gasping for air.

“What’s so funny?”

“Nothing.”

“Why are you laughing?”

He wiped the tears from his eyes and tried to catch his breath. “Because I’m happy.”

He leaned in once more and slid the ring back over her finger, then kissed her with every ounce of strength he had left.

Several more weeks passed with intermittent periods of illness followed by periods of recuperation. It was during these times of recuperation that they checked out new music and downloaded old movies. When it was warm, they sat out in the garden and she worked on his portrait. There were times they quipped and joked. There were times when they were silent too.

He moved from his place in the shade to a bench in the sunshine. He wanted to feel the burn of the sun on his chest and neck. He sat for a few hours while Hannah recreated his nose and brow and chin, his insipid pallor and somber expression. Only, she did not paint the left side. She was not ready for that.