Love and Raki

Love and Rakı

The American girl blinked in the sunlight.  She reached up through her thick blond hair; her foreign hair that stood like an exclamation point in this country of dark haired people and slid sunglasses onto her face with a slightly trembling hand.  She didn’t want them to see her cry.

From inside the café, the waiter placed two rakı on a tray while watching the Turk and the American girl on the balcony.  It was early for alcohol, he thought.  Tea would be better.  He didn’t like the way the Turk was sitting either; his lips so pressed together in anger that they were turning white.   

On the balcony the Turk and American girl faced each other across the table.

“You have to choose” the Turk told the girl through pressed lips.

“We talked about this when I moved in. The night we drank Bourbon till 6 am.”

The girl readjusted the cushion on her chair.  On it was a familiar white star and crescent moon against a red background, the Turkish flag.  Simple and traditional, she thought, like this country.  She loved it here.  Here she could be whomever she chose, redefining herself with every conversation, every relationship.  

“That was every night.”

“I know; that’s my point.  We’ve talked and talked and talked and you never listened. You never listen to me” she said, accusingly.

“You never know what you want. You say you want to live one way but it’s all a game. You just want to do whatever you want to do and you don’t care who gets hurt.”

“Yeah.  You are so right about me,” she said, sarcastically, rolling her eyes behind her sunglasses.

“You hurt me.” 

“How?  I’ve told you from the start that I didn’t want this. It’s too much; too soon.  I want to take things slow.  Not rush into anything.  I’m not ready. “

“You don’t know what you want.  And besides, things have changed.” He said, ignoring her question.  He pinned her arm to the table with his hand, forcefully.  She jumped a bit in her chair.

“You don’t even try to underst…”

“I read the letter,”  he said, cutting her off.  “I know what you told him. You told him the same things as you told me! “

The American girl stopped breathing.  She felt as if someone had reached into her lungs and ripped her breath away.  

The door closed softly as the waiter stepped out onto the balcony with their tray of drinks. He placed one half-full glass of rakı in front of each of them and asked the man in Turkish if he wanted him to pour the water to mix the drink.  “Hayir” was the curt, negative response of the man.

While the waiter stood over the table placing the drinks and talking in Turkish to the man, the American girl’s world stood still. Her heart pounded in her ears.  He’d found the letter.  She repeated it to herself, over and over.  I was careless, she thought, panic drying the tears in her eyes.  She felt nauseated.  

“How did you find it?” were the words she finally managed to say, sounding mangled and weak as she inhaled for the first time in what seemed like minutes.

“You were careless. You left it open on your computer while you were walking earlier this morning.  And now your game is over.  I know what kind of girl you are! Such a liar. “

The Turk reached over and poured water into her glass from the pitcher.  His lips had all but disappeared in anger. They both watched as the drink turned from clear to milky white. She picked it up and took a sip. The anise was overpowering, but welcome.  If he was going to kick her out on the streets, at least she wouldn’t have to be sober.  An entire year here spent drunk, she thought, bitterly.  And to think I came here to change.

“You want me to leave,” she said, more of a statement than a question. She took another deep sip of the bitter drink.

“Slow down” he said, a bit disgustingly. “You’ll be drunk.”

“What do you care? You hate me now.  I know that,” she let loose with a sob.

He let her cry.  He folded his napkin, half in his lap, half on the table.  He placed the fork on the right side and the knife on the left.  Two men walked by, arm in arm, with curious looks toward them.

The only sounds now were her crying, and an Imam calling out the afternoon prayer.  It must be four thirty already.  On a different day, on any other day, the girl would have made a point to listen, smiling at her own bravery in coming here, to a land so far away and foreign.  Nothing could have been more foreign than the calling of the Imam to prayer.  She delighted in the way they called to each other from the mosque tower; a beautiful strange song, like a dance, one and then the other.

Time passed, without either one talking.  The girl pulled off her sunglasses and rubbed her eyes. The Turk ordered more rakı.

The waiter came back with clean glasses and a new pitcher of cold water. He gave the girl a look of reproach.  It was much too early for a woman to drink.  He wondered why the man allowed it.  He took the old glasses from the table in a huff and went back inside, to watch them through the window. 

I hate it here, the girl thought.  I hate him, she realized.  I hate how he looks at me, like I’m a cavatina he has to conquer.  I can have no voice as long as I am with him.  But as soon as she had the thought, she buried it deep inside.  She wouldn’t look at it again for another year.  When she did, it would be long after they were married, and well on their way to divorce.

As for right now, she had no right to anger.  She was guilty.  She was everything he’d said, and more.

“What do you want from me?” She asked, quiet now; her eyes swollen red.

“I want you to choose; me or him.  Or them!  Who knows, with you.”

She winced in pain.  His words rung true in deep corners of her she didn’t want to face. She felt her gut slip out of her stomach and down her legs into a puddle at her feet. He had arranged everything so perfectly, she thought, dazed. She had no choice.  Her hold on whom she wanted to be and the entire purpose of her traveling 8,000 miles was lost in a second.

The next words were easy to say. She just had to do what she’d always done. Compromise everything for nothing.

“I choose you, “she whispered.

“What?” A smile played on his lips. Dear God, she thought. He’d heard her. Yet she’d have to say it again.  Deep shame washed over her in waves.

“I choose you, is that what you want?” she called out in pain. “I choose you, god damnit.  I choose you.”

“Good.”  He took a sip of his rakı.