IN THE DHRO OFFICE, no one agreed on the best safety measures to follow in the event of another earthquake. Each of Jeff’s coworkers had read different reports concerning the best plan of action, but his boss, a traditionalist, insisted the entire staff take shelter under the office furniture. During Jeff’s first week back, they drilled this procedure once a day. At random times Andrew yelled, “Earthquake!” and the staff dove under their desks and covered their heads until “All clear!” was shouted. The six-foot-four security guard, however, could not fit under a desk, and during the drills he reluctantly thrust his head under the nearest table, his monumental rear end protruding from it. Laughter spread through the office, first suppressed and guarded, then erupting in a tumult, the first laughter Jeff had heard in two weeks, and as welcome as it was, it seemed a strange, unsettling sound.
Coordination of the DHRO’s relief efforts kept Jeff working twelve-hour days. From field reports he knew relief was slowly spreading, and the survivors were slowly being helped. Even if the DHRO could not do all things for all people, even if they could not feed and clothe the masses, they were helping many.
On his second day back from the tent city he suffered through a particularly lousy afternoon. Garbage bags full of donated clothes lay in piles around his desk, the telephone rang incessantly, and at 1:20 another violent aftershock shook the building. The fax machine broke down. His printer was out of ink, and they had no replacement cartridges. He could barely concentrate on his work.
Midafternoon it took him an hour and a half on the phone with a Sultanahmet travel agent to secure two seats for Nazira and Adam on a flight to Bishkek—leaving in two days’ time. He had warned his friend against the move (what would Adam even do there?), but if it was what he wanted, then Jeff wouldn’t stop him. At least, he thought, he would soon have his apartment to himself. Soon he would have his own life again—solitude, the ability to come and go as he wanted, free from their watchful gaze. He could get over Melodi and think about his next move. Maybe he could talk to Andrew about a transfer, perhaps to West Africa. He had always wanted to work in West Africa.
On the phone he paid for the tickets to Bishkek with his credit card—the least he could do. Then he made one final, futile call to the Kyrgyz embassy to see if anyone had located the body.
That evening, still at the office, he realized he had not checked his e-mail since the quake. He found old messages from family and friends, most of whom he’d already been in touch with by phone, but it was his father’s six worried messages that especially bothered him. I’m seeing total destruction on the television, he had written. I’m so afraid something’s happened to you. Jot me a note, for Christ’s sake, and let me know you’re all right.
Jeff wrote a two-word reply: I’m alive. Then he reconsidered, deleted it, and wrote in its place: Dad, I’m sorry I haven’t gotten back to you. I’ve had my hands full. I’m fine.
One strange address at the bottom of Jeff’s inbox caught his eye, and he clicked on the message. He did not have to complete the first sentence before he knew it was not for him.
Since you left Dad’s been on a tear. He fired the principal and all the teachers and closed down the high school. He took down the grandstand at Red Dust Rodeo. Everyone’s seen him drunk up at the casino, tossing money into the machines. He’s just given up.
Pastor’s told me where you are, that you got stuck in the earthquake. Everyone here’s just worried is all, and wants to know you’re alive. You’re all anyone’s ever talking about. We’ve got council election coming in a month. Dad’s up for the sixth time, and no one’s happy about it. All Red Cliff’s wondering who else to run, but there ain’t no one. People just scared of him. Rumor’s going round that Adam Dale’s coming home, that you’ll run. Pastor, Mom, and Marie think the idea’s the bomb. You’ll win, I guarantee. We’re sick of him. Everyone’ll vote for a schoolboy college grad like you. Everyone here remembers the SHOT. No one talks about Levi—they think you did the right thing. You just gotta come back is all. People already putting up signs. Mom and Marie breaking out pots for the frybread.
PS: I want my abalone shell back. Don’t leave us hanging.
Jeff hoped this letter would be enough, perhaps, to persuade Adam he was making a mistake. He printed it out on his boss’s computer, folded it twice, stuck it in his jacket pocket, then left the office. In the kitchen of his apartment an hour later, he handed the printout to Adam. “Some news from home?”
Adam grabbed the paper, and immediately his face flushed. He read only halfway through the message and walked out of the kitchen in a rage. Sprawled on a blue kilim in the living room, he read the rest of it, holding the paper up at the ceiling lamp so the light shone through it.
Jeff joined him after a few minutes. “I got your tickets today, Adam. You know what I think, though.” He sank into the couch and wiped his face with his hands. His arms felt like weights; he was exhausted. “You want to make sure she gets back, well, okay, I get it. But staying there?” He shook his head.
Adam scowled, folding the paper. “I did all right here. I’ll do all right with her.”
“It’s not like you can just turn around and change your mind. You don’t know what it’s like, over there, Adam. It’s isolated, way up in the mountains. Freezing long winters. No jobs. And the place is falling apart. Half the time there’s no electricity.” Jeff pointed to the letter. “You’ve got important things to take care of in Arizona.”
Adam slapped the paper. “I don’t need to think about all this shit. It’s good being away. I forget stuff.”
“All right. Just forget about it then.”
Adam was growing angrier. “You know what it’s like, Jeff? I mean the pressure. Watching everything around you die, and there’s nothing you can do.”
“No, I have no idea. What’s that like?” The sarcasm was unintentional. “I lived there, Adam.”
“And I remember once you told me to get away. ‘Gotta get away, Adam. Somewhere with a future.’”
Jeff shook his head. “I was pissed because no one wanted me there. It’s different with you. Stop the self-pity already. Look at the goddamn e-mail. They’re begging you! You don’t go back, who’s gonna help?”
“You read this, Jeff? He’s tearing the place up. I mean, he’s never been able to take care of family; how’s he gonna run the town? You forget what was happening? You forget the teen center?”
Jeff was silent a moment. A car alarm sounded from the street below. Adam’s eyebrows knotted up, and his voice grew louder than Jeff had ever heard it. “Look, you don’t get it. You can take off wherever you want. You’re from some happy family down in Phoenix. You don’t have nothing weighing on you.”
Jeff almost laughed. “Happy! You’re so caught up in yourself, Adam, you’ve never even listened to me. You don’t know the first of it. I haven’t talked to my dad in years. Happy! Who’s ever been happy?”
Adam rolled over on his side and stared at the wall. “You tell me I should stop the self-pity. What about you?”
A new note had crept into his voice—vindictiveness, and the words stung. Jeff shook his head, saying, “Look, don’t suck me into this. I don’t ever have to go back there, but you’ve got to live with this decision. Your family’s waiting. At some point you’ll want to return. And then what? You’re not going to find what you’re looking for in Kyrgyzstan. I know. I’m trying to watch out for you here.”
“Well, stop it then.”
A nasty silence filled the room. Jeff stood to leave, but Adam slammed the heel of his fist on the carpet. “Ah, fuck. I’m telling you Jeff, I don’t know what to do. I promised her.”
Adam arrived at the shoreside table late the next afternoon and found Burak already waiting for him. It was cloudy, and the wind cut south across the straits under the bridge, churning up pointed green waves. A napkin on the table flapped under the weight of a teacup.
“Well?” Adam asked, approaching.
Burak stood and raised his arms in triumph. “Success! I passed!”
“I am not shitting.” His student was grinning so hard it seemed his neck would burst. “I was very nervous because it was the last chance. I hate taking such exams on the computer. My hands were wet three hours, from the sweating.” He gestured wildly as he spoke. “After, at the end of the exam, you can accept or cancel, before they show the score. I am thinking, I did so badly, I must cancel.” He pounded his forehead with his palm. “But it is the last chance, so I accepted the result.”
“What’d you get?”
He made a thick fist. “Five hundred ninety. I spoke already with the coach of the Queens College of New York.”
“Was he happy?”
“He was very proud to me, as my parents are. Adam, because of you I will study in America.” Burak grabbed his hand and shook it violently until Adam tore the hand away and sat down.
Burak said, “You don’t look glad for me.”
“I am. No, I’m real psyched for you, Burak. You earned it. You worked hard.”
Across the expanse of water a white fishing boat rocked toward them. He could smell the countless odors of debris lapping against the shoreside jetty. Cypress trees on the opposite shore swayed against the wind. A ferry was plying through the current from Üsküdar to Eminönü, and he wondered if Nazira was on it.
Burak pulled his chair close to Adam, sat down, and reached into his shirt pocket. “Here.”
“What’s this?”
“My parents say to give you this, as thank you for helping me win the TOEFL.” The Turk shoved a roll of green bills into his hand.
Adam said, “Forget it. I didn’t do anything. Your English is probably worse ’cause of me.” He refused to close his fingers around the money.
With his opposite hand Burak grasped Adam’s fingers and in his water-polo grip forced them shut. “You do not refuse a present from the Turks. It is rude.”
Adam laughed and nodded once. He gazed past Burak, as far as it was possible to see along the green currents of the straits, all the way to the horizon, where, if he kept his eyes fixed long enough, he thought he could just sense the world turning.
They parted awkwardly, and Adam walked all the way up to Istiklal Caddesi, listening to the distant wail of the ferry boats, the high-pitched brakes of the street taxis. At the top of the hill he hustled through the sparse evening crowd. Two weeks ago he had come here with Nazira, and the outdoor cafés had been full, the beggars were playing accordions, AC/DC blasted from the open record shops, the trolley car rang its bell at couples on the tracks, and cooks stirred eggplant stews in restaurant windows. He had felt assured of a future with her, of a reality more vibrant than what he had yet known. Now the gray streets were nearly empty. He realized he had somehow deceived himself.
In Taksim Square he smelled French fries coming from a Burger King. He ducked in, ordered a serving, and took them upstairs to the terrace. Red tables lined the roof of the building, but he was the only customer. He slid into a booth. The tabletop was wet with ketchup and soda spills, and he chewed the hot, salty fries, one by one. Across the street gleamed the windowpanes of the French consulate, and on the other side of the square the heights of the Marmara Hotel were lit in purple. The skyscraper blocked his view of the straits, but he knew they were there. The city, once so foreign, was suddenly familiar and cheerless.
He drew Verdena’s e-mail out from his pocket and read it again, twice. He turned the facts over in his mind, examining them from every angle. He’d never considered the possibility of replacing his father as councilman: he’d never entertained the slightest interest in politics. Now he realized it was a simple matter of will. The possibility that his family might think he was afraid to run made him furious; then he thought of Nazira, and pushed away the remaining fries.
It was getting late, and he had only tonight to make up his mind. He exited the restaurant, dodged traffic across Taksim Square, and hailed a taxi. He told the driver, an elderly man who managed to steer, smoke, and eat a doner sandwich all at once, to take him to Üskudar. The cab rushed downhill, sped through yellow lights past the Besiktas soccer stadium and up the highway to the entrance of the Bosphorus Bridge, where they slowed into a line of stalled traffic. They inched their way across. Adam had never taken a taxi between the continents—he had always used the ferry. From the top of the bridge the monuments of the desecrated city spread in all directions. He contemplated the open heights, the dark waters below, and tried to imagine a nomadic people journeying across straits like this—across the ice, from the farthest tip of Asia, into North America—and making their slow way along the coast and farther down into the deserts, until they had populated the lands, and all great migrations had come to an end.
The traffic sped up; Adam rubbed his dry eyes, and when he uncovered them saw the sign approaching: WELCOME TO ASIA.
Nazira waited by her packed sports bags—all of her father’s things, sorted and folded—but Adam did not return to the apartment until after ten that evening. With the door open she could hear him and Jeff speaking quietly down the hall. She made out the words “airport” and “tickets” and grew frightened. A minute later Adam’s door shut with a thud. He had not come to see her.
She rose from the bed, left the study, and rapped the hollow wood of his door softly with her knuckles. The floorboards groaned behind the door, but Adam did not answer. After a minute she pounded harder with her palm. “Adam?” she called. “Adam? It is I. Nazira.”
He opened the door only halfway. He was wearing a stained white T-shirt and the long pair of black shorts he wore for playing basketball. “I was just changing.”
“May I come in?” she asked.
He opened the door wider. “I just, you know, gotta pack up.”
“Yes. I too have packed.” Nervousness played on his face; thick veins showed in his temples, in the backs of his hands. “What is wrong, Adam?”
“Come in. Come sit.”
He tried to lead her over to the bed, but she resisted. “No, please tell me.”
He knelt at his duffle bag and pulled out a crumpled piece of white paper from the pocket of his jeans, unfolded it, and handed it to her.
She sat on the bed, reading. With each word a pressure built up in her chest. “Adam!” she said, and leaned back against the bedpost. “I cannot understand it, Adam.”
“I promised I’d come with you to Kyrgyzstan, to help with your father’s service.”
“You will come, no?”
“Nazira, I want to come. I want to be with you. But this letter—”
“I do not understand this letter.”
“It’s from my sister back home. There’s this election coming up soon. They want me to run for councilman, something like mayor of the town.”
She hesitated, fingering the paper for a moment, then laid it gently on the bed. “It’s an honor?”
“Not sure you’d call it an honor.” He searched the floor. “It’s pretty important.”
“You want then to do this?”
He nodded. “I think I gotta.” Slowly he reminded her about his father, how the town had no future if he continued to lead, how Adam owed it to his family to return.
“Adam, but our plans? That you promised! You won’t come with me?”
“I’ve got no choice.”
She straightened up, ready to leave, to release him from his obligation. When she stood, though, he held her by the arm and directed her back to the edge of the bed, next to him. “I was thinking you could come over to Arizona. Live with me, over there. On the reservation.”
“I also want to be with you. But I cannot go to America. I have the duties in my village. The services.”
“I mean after. I mean after your father—after the services. In a couple months.”
“And I also have Manas.”
“You’ll bring him. You bring Manas along. He likes horses, you say? We’ve got tons of horses. I’ll teach him to ride fast.”
“But—my sister.”
“Your sister?”
“And my stepmother, Lola.”
“Yeah.”
“She has the son, too. Oolan.”
“Yeah.”
Beside her he had grown stiff. Her head was swimming. Suddenly she saw herself as a ridiculous figure—a foolish romantic, idealizing these hard-hearted men; a pitiable, impoverished woman who, thinking she was capable of higher things, had forgotten her place in the world. “I don’t think I can live in America, Adam. I don’t like this being far from home. Kyrgyzstan is my—”
“What?”
“Your motherland?”
“Oren says not to use this word.”
He touched her knee. “It’s okay, you’re right. A motherland. You’re right.”
“Yes?”
He was silent for too long. Only his thin chest rose and fell. When he spoke, the words were simple and promising, but she could hear in them the deflation of hope. “Maybe a different time, it would work out for us.” His deep voice wavered. “We both gotta go back, take care of business, and then we’ll see.”
“Yes, maybe a different time,” she said. She bent her head and tugged down the side of her skirt. This was pain. This was what it felt like to be alone. “I wanted you very much to come,” she whispered.
She followed his gaze to his duffle bag, open on the floor, the white, rubber tips of his basketball shoes jutting out. His eyes remained downcast, his voice low.
“Me too.”