without saying too much or too little, and she was smart without being intimidating. She walked into rooms never expecting anything but kindness, and in doing so, found she was greeted with open faces and quick intimacies.
In the past two years she had been different. She had welcomed nothing, had even assumed a pose in which she heldone arm across her body as though to impede a potential embrace or attack. Her face too had changed; it appeared disapproving, even when Yvonne was not. She had worried for a time that the starchlike scent of death clung to her wherever she went, and she had taken to applying honeysuckle lotion to her arms, her neck.
But Deniz’s kindness, her eagerness to share Yvonne’s company, was reassuring to her. It felt like proof that this trip had been a good idea, and that Yvonne needed only to shed her cloak of mourning in order to be who she once was.
The water was murkier close to the beach, and Yvonne put her feet down to feel if it was shallow enough to stand. She almost scraped her knee on the rocks below. She staggered out of the water, trying to navigate the uneven surface between the weeds and, inexplicably, pieces of floating wood. Her body was cold as she emerged, but the warm air quickly blanketed her.
On the beach, a boy of about ten was laying something out on the sand. Boys the world over had the same body, she thought—narrow chests with protruding ribs and tiny paunches. He resembled Matthew at that age.
Yvonne walked past the boy, and saw he was organizing a collection of shells. He was setting them out with great care, the way a society hostess might arrange saucers and cups for a tea.
“What beautiful shells,” she said, pausing in front of them. For a moment, she had forgotten she was in Turkey. The boy turned to her. He had wide pink lips and a straightnose and eyes that were moist and dark, as though they had recently teared.
Yvonne pointed to the shells and smiled, and he surprised her by not smiling back. She had had students like this boy, students who didn’t immediately respond to her. It was the reluctant ones whose respect or attention she most pointedly sought.
She picked up a shell before noticing it was chipped on its side.
“Nice,” she said, and smiled.
The boy said something and shook his head. He stood and pointed to the chip.
“Oh, I see,” she said, holding it in her hand and pretending she hadn’t already noticed it.
The boy said something else.
She was ashamed she hadn’t learned any Turkish before arriving here. She and Peter used to study the basics before visiting any country— hello, thank you, excuse me, where is the …?
“Pardon?” Yvonne said.
The boy held up his fingers. Two.
Of course—he was selling the shells. The elaborate layout on the beach was his shore-front display.
Yvonne tapped the sides of her hips, her hands grazing the edges of her swimsuit, as though to show she didn’t have money on her.
The boy stared. I am an idiot , she thought. She felt the boy with his dark eyes must think so too.
She pointed to her towel on the beach, her small bag, and started walking toward them. She realized she had left her belongings—her car keys, her money—on the beach while she had been on the boat. She sprinted toward her possessions as though hustling now could prevent any theft from having taken place in the past hour.
Everything was where she had left it. She turned to the boy and smiled at him, for she felt he was somehow responsible. He had not taken any of her possessions, nor had he let anyone else take them. She removed a five-lira note from her bag and handed it to him.
Now it was his turn to pat his hips—was he mocking her? He signaled to her to follow him back to the display of shells and began to speak Turkish again, as though if he continued speaking she might absorb his language during the very time he was talking to her.
Yvonne understood she was his first customer of the day, and because he had no
In the past two years she had been different. She had welcomed nothing, had even assumed a pose in which she heldone arm across her body as though to impede a potential embrace or attack. Her face too had changed; it appeared disapproving, even when Yvonne was not. She had worried for a time that the starchlike scent of death clung to her wherever she went, and she had taken to applying honeysuckle lotion to her arms, her neck.
But Deniz’s kindness, her eagerness to share Yvonne’s company, was reassuring to her. It felt like proof that this trip had been a good idea, and that Yvonne needed only to shed her cloak of mourning in order to be who she once was.
The water was murkier close to the beach, and Yvonne put her feet down to feel if it was shallow enough to stand. She almost scraped her knee on the rocks below. She staggered out of the water, trying to navigate the uneven surface between the weeds and, inexplicably, pieces of floating wood. Her body was cold as she emerged, but the warm air quickly blanketed her.
On the beach, a boy of about ten was laying something out on the sand. Boys the world over had the same body, she thought—narrow chests with protruding ribs and tiny paunches. He resembled Matthew at that age.
Yvonne walked past the boy, and saw he was organizing a collection of shells. He was setting them out with great care, the way a society hostess might arrange saucers and cups for a tea.
“What beautiful shells,” she said, pausing in front of them. For a moment, she had forgotten she was in Turkey. The boy turned to her. He had wide pink lips and a straightnose and eyes that were moist and dark, as though they had recently teared.
Yvonne pointed to the shells and smiled, and he surprised her by not smiling back. She had had students like this boy, students who didn’t immediately respond to her. It was the reluctant ones whose respect or attention she most pointedly sought.
She picked up a shell before noticing it was chipped on its side.
“Nice,” she said, and smiled.
The boy said something and shook his head. He stood and pointed to the chip.
“Oh, I see,” she said, holding it in her hand and pretending she hadn’t already noticed it.
The boy said something else.
She was ashamed she hadn’t learned any Turkish before arriving here. She and Peter used to study the basics before visiting any country— hello, thank you, excuse me, where is the …?
“Pardon?” Yvonne said.
The boy held up his fingers. Two.
Of course—he was selling the shells. The elaborate layout on the beach was his shore-front display.
Yvonne tapped the sides of her hips, her hands grazing the edges of her swimsuit, as though to show she didn’t have money on her.
The boy stared. I am an idiot , she thought. She felt the boy with his dark eyes must think so too.
She pointed to her towel on the beach, her small bag, and started walking toward them. She realized she had left her belongings—her car keys, her money—on the beach while she had been on the boat. She sprinted toward her possessions as though hustling now could prevent any theft from having taken place in the past hour.
Everything was where she had left it. She turned to the boy and smiled at him, for she felt he was somehow responsible. He had not taken any of her possessions, nor had he let anyone else take them. She removed a five-lira note from her bag and handed it to him.
Now it was his turn to pat his hips—was he mocking her? He signaled to her to follow him back to the display of shells and began to speak Turkish again, as though if he continued speaking she might absorb his language during the very time he was talking to her.
Yvonne understood she was his first customer of the day, and because he had no
Similar Books
