Abraham went. Recovered his bags and ran with them swinging out of sync at his side. A car started and its lights swept across him but he just ran, all the way to the crossroads and round the corner and finally into the street Murat had given him, until he was outside the house with the two olive trees, just discernible in the thin moonlight. Now it was really night. No one, surely, would open their door, and if they did they would close it the moment they saw him.
Panting, he put his bags down, smoothed his hair without effect, did his best to straighten his stinking shirt, and knocked.
A wind was getting up, and as he waited, straining to hear, two cars raced past at the bottom of the street. A good minute he gave it, knocked again, and when he could no longer fool himself he bent down to pick up his bags and turned to leave. Where to? He couldn’t go on and he couldn’t go back. No one would have him inside and he couldn’t be out on the street. He was nowhere. Nowhere was all he had.
If he had some oxycodone he could take four and curl up under a bush and nothing would matter.
Behind him he heard a voice, a woman’s voice.
‘Who are you?’
When he turned he saw the door was open an inch, on a chain, but the woman herself wasn’t there.
‘I . . . Murat sent me.’
‘Murat who?’
‘I don’t know. Murat. From the Tarcin Cafe. He said you sometimes take lodgers.’
‘Not after dark.’
‘I was . . . some people attacked me.’
‘That’s what happens after dark. You’ll have to leave.’
‘Do you know where I might go?’
Behind the door there was a cough, and a pause.
‘Your Arabic is strange.’
‘I’m from Egypt.’
‘Then why are you here?’
‘I have to go to Raqqa.’
‘My advice, go back to Egypt. Go now. Don’t go to Raqqa.’
‘My daughter is there.’
Another pause, and when it spoke again the voice was harder.
‘Is she one of them?’
‘I want to bring her back.’
The door shut, with great finality, and then after a pause it opened again, and standing in the light was an old woman, holding a walking stick but completely upright, her eyes burning into his.
‘My husband, he would take anyone, but he is a fool. He would rather have money now than a house later. But you are not a devil. Devils do not come with plastic bags looking like they have been dragged across the desert. Devils are vain creatures, all of them.’
She had a long, straight nose, and tilting her head back she looked down it now from hard, frank eyes. Her forehead and cheeks were crossed with deep wrinkles, her mouth a fixed line across her face, and she wore a headscarf, tightly tied and covered in bright yellow and orange flowers.
‘Come in. But I have more questions.’
Abraham picked up his bags and stepped into the hall. Outside, the house had looked nondescript, featureless. Inside, it was decorated like the houses of the grander families Abraham remembered visiting in Cairo with his mother as a child: fading yellow walls, oil paintings of scenes from country life, dark wood furniture, lace curtains across the windows, the air cool and smelling richly of wood polish. Abraham keenly felt the filth on him, and with a measure of shame. He shouldn’t be polluting this poor woman’s home.
‘What is your name?’
‘Abraham. Abraham Mounir.’
She nodded to herself, as if he had passed the first, minor test.
‘I am Mrs Demirsoy. What is in those bags?’
‘Clothes. I had to buy new clothes.’
‘Hm. Are you a holy man?’
Abraham hesitated. That wasn’t the question he’d been expecting, and probably it wasn’t for him to say.
‘I go to church.’
Mrs Demirsoy’s head clicked a degree, like a bird’s, and she frowned.
‘I’m a Christian,’ said Abraham. ‘A Copt.’
‘I know about Copts.’
It wasn’t clear if that was a good or a bad thing.
‘I’m not a good Christian. I try to be holy and mainly fail.’
‘We all fail. How could we succeed?’
This question didn’t require an answer, and she asked the next immediately.
‘Your wife. Tell me about her.’
‘She is ill. Lost. In her head.’
‘She has devils too. I am sorry. You have sons?’
‘No. Just my daughter.’
‘Probably she thinks she is special. Does she think she is special?’
It was like being back with Vural, only with better questions. Yes, she probably did think she was special. It had never occurred to him before.
‘Perhaps.’
‘Of course she does. She is young and has no family to keep her hands in the soil. And you? You think you can change her now?’
‘I’m hoping she’ll wake up.’
‘All is dark there. Waking, sleeping, it’s the same thing.’
The eyes that looked up at him were full of a hard sympathy: I have no consolation for you, but then there’s no consolation for anyone.
‘So you are alone? In the world?’
Abraham nodded. Part of him felt like he might cry; not from self-pity but simply from relief in having it acknowledged.
‘And you seek death.’
‘I don’t . . . I just want to save her.’
‘But not yourself. You would give yourself for her and it would be a relief. Some parents are like you. I am more selfish. How can we expect our children’s lives to be better than our own? There is no right way.’
Maybe she was crazy. Maybe all the death and horror had found their way into her. But her eyes were clear, as they stayed on his, and sharp, there was a lifetime of sharpness in them. She gave him one last look and nodded.
‘Some things are easy. Washing is easy. Sleeping is easy. You, you need both before you know who you are. But I am satisfied. You are a man and not a devil. Definitely a man. Come.’
Mrs Demirsoy opened a drawer in the desk, picked out a key, took her stick and led Abraham briskly up the stairs to the first floor and a room at the back of the house. A neat, clean, single room furnished with a bed, a bedside table, a chest of drawers and nothing else besides a small rug on the floor and a sink in the corner. A thick velvet curtain had done little to keep the heat of the day out, but it was wonderful, perfect, like falling into paradise.
‘You smell like old meat. Bath is next door. Clean it afterwards.’
‘Thank you. Really. I don’t think I deserve this.’
‘Are you hungry?’
‘I’m fine.’
‘Nonsense. You are hungry. Wash, put on your new clothes, come downstairs, I will find something for you. Full board is a hundred lira each night. How many nights?’
‘I have no idea.’
‘Really, it is a miracle you have come this far. God must smile on you.’