Gardens of Water (9 page)

The Americans arrived late. After descending the stairs from their apartment, they stood in the open doorway looking lost. Sinan waited a while before greeting them, hoping they might give up and leave, but people started gossiping about them—he was a director at one of the expensive private missionary schools in
stanbul, they were from California and knew famous actors personally, they only summered in Gölcük and owned a fancy apartment in the rich
stanbul neighborhood of Ni
anta
—and etiquette finally forced Sinan to be gracious.

The wife handed Sinan a red package wrapped with a white bow.

“Just something little,” she said. Her eyes were green, and when she smiled they became very small, as though she were squinting in the sun.

“Thank you,” he said. “Please come in.”

If his father knew he was letting Americans into his home! Americans who helped the Turkish government destroy Kurdish villages! Why did he let Nilüfer talk him into these things?

“Can I take your coats?” he heard
rem say before he saw her standing next to him.

The American boy smiled. It was terribly hot, and they weren’t wearing any coats.

rem laughed, her forehead growing red.

“What’s wrong with you?” Sinan said quietly.

“I mean, tea.” She glanced at him and then smiled to the guests. “Can I get you some tea?”

“Yes,” the woman said, taking
rem’s hand. “Yes, darling, that would be wonderful.”

The party continued, and soon Sinan forgot about the Americans. His son watched from the raised bed, looking upon the scene as though he could not be bothered with such a spectacle. Sinan was happy, but it was time for the
sünnetci
to arrive, and he was nervous for
smail. Would he cry out with the pain? Would the
sünnetci
slip with the knife and permanently ruin his child It did happen, although very rarely. There was a story about one boy bleeding to death in his sleep, the parents waking the next morning to find him cold and white as stone in his circumcision bed.

The
sünnetci
arrived, carrying a black bag in his hands. He stood in the doorway, took off his shoes, and waited to be invited in. When the dancers saw him, they stopped, and stood fixing their untucked clothes and ruffled hair. Men snuffed out their cigarettes and women took last sips of tea. Ahmet turned down the music and Sinan welcomed the man.

“
Ho
geldiniz, efendim,
” he said, and kissed the man on each cheek.

“Ho
bulduk.”

He was an old man, dressed in black, his cheeks gaunt and sunken, his teeth yellow where the enamel had been stripped from a lifetime of tea drinking. He pulled at his thin white beard with his left hand as he nodded hello to the guests.

From his bag he produced a white sheet, a bottle of antiseptic, a few cotton balls, a bottle of anesthetic, and a battery-powered knife. Ahmet took
smail’s arm in his hand, and whispered something in his ear. Ahmet was the
kirve,
and from this day forward would be like a second father to the boy. If something terrible happened and Sinan should die, Ahmet would raise
smail as though the boy were his own. Sinan couldn’t hear what Ahmet said, but in his own mind he was saying to his son, “It will hurt, but it will pass, it will hurt, but it will pass.”