Authors: Eris Field
“You have to have patience and faith. In time, you will have your lady and your children and”—he waved a hand to the tall windows framing a view of a carefully laid-out Chinese-style garden with special areas arranged for play—“your children will play in the garden that Mei Ling planned for our children.”
“Even if I could convince Janan to forgive me, the children would still bear Carl’s name.” Waves of humiliation coiled through him. “How can I live with that?”
Chapter 12
With a quick glance at his watch, Pieter stepped into the dark lobby of the Restaurant De Belhamel.
It was too much to hope that Dirk would be on time
, he thought as he followed the waiter to the white linen covered table overlooking the canal that he had requested. It was not often now that Dirk wanted to meet. When he had been a university student, they had met each week. Pieter smiled as he remembered Saturday mornings and eating huge pancakes filled with cheese and onions with Dirk as he listened to him rhapsodize about his newest love and share his latest career plans.
But that was a long time ago. Now, it had to be a problem that had made Dirk ask to meet
.
But what problem? A fight with Crispin? Not likely, Crispin had given up trying to give Dirk advice.
Money? Please, don’t let it be another request to help finance some project.
He ordered a Jenever and sat back to wait.
“Pieter, on time as always.” Dirk folded himself gracefully into the chair that the waiter held for him and, gesturing toward Pieter’s glass, said, “The same.”
Pieter regarded his brother dispassionately. The quick, easy grin, slightly long haircut, and latest-style clothes did not quite hide the fact that his younger brother was aging no matter how much he might protest. “You are looking well,” he said in a neutral voice, handing him the menu.
“I’ve been travelling with some friends but I have to get ready to go back to the dig in a few weeks.” He moved restlessly in his chair.
“How is that going?” Pieter asked cautiously, aware of an undercurrent of excitement in Dirk. When Dirk did not answer, he said, “The rack of lamb would be a good choice, don’t you think? And a bottle of Bur . . .” He stopped, remembering the slight brush of his hand against Janan’s breast as he had taken the bottle of Burgundy from her and her quick blush. “A bottle of pinot noir.”
“It is going well but my fellowship will be over soon.” He took a quick sip of his Jenever and then set the glass down with a thump. “I am not sure what I will do then.”
He never changes. He’s never going to grow up
, Pieter thought wearily, remembering all the letters he had written on behalf of his brother. “Well, you knew when the fellowship would end. You must have made some plans.”
Dirk frowned at the note of censure in his brother’s response. “There are many interesting projects,” he said stiffly, turning his attention with relief to the rack of lamb that the waiter had set in front of him.
Pieter cut a rib of lamb—crisp, spicy brown on the outside and delicate pink on the inside—and savored the first bite before saying, “You are 29 years old, closer to 30. How many more post-doctoral fellowships do you think you can get?”
“I wasn’t thinking of another post-doctoral fellowship,” he answered with thinly disguised irritation. Lifting his glass of pinot noir and tipping it toward Pieter, he said, “Istanbul. That’s where the focus of archeology is going to be.” He leaned forward, his words tumbling out. “You must have read about the treasures they found at Yenikapi when they were digging the tunnel under the Bosphorus.” His voice was hushed now. “Ships, tools, and human remains from the Neolithic Period.”
“I read about the 34 wooden ships.” Pieter nodded. “An amazing find.” He continued in a dispassionate tone. “I know that some of the ships were turned over to an American, a Texas professor as I recall.” He studied his brother closely. “I don’t remember hearing of any Dutch involvement in the project.”
“No, not directly.” Dirk leaned forward and said in a rush, “But in Amsterdam, the Nederlands Instituut in Turkije is involved in many research projects. They have projects in the Near East, and they might be able to send me there, to Istanbul.”
“Have you contacted the institute?” Pieter was staring at his brother across the table but Dirk’s eyes were on his plate.
“No, I thought . . .”
“I don’t know anyone there. I can’t help you.”
“No, but you could ask Uncle Maarten. He knows everyone, and you are living with him now.” His voice held a cajoling note. “You could ask him to help your brother.”
Pieter could not keep the distaste he felt at his brother’s words from showing in his face as he pulled out some bills and put them on the table. “No.” He started to stand and then, settling back in his chair, asked the questions drummed into him through years of psychiatric training. “What has changed? What has happened that makes you want to go to Istanbul?” He leaned forward and honed in. “Why now?”
Dirk straightened in his chair, his eyes shining with eagerness. “I have met the most beautiful woman and I think I have fallen in love with her.” He nodded. “I am burning with the need to have her. I want to take her away from here, to Istanbul with me. We could have such fun in Istanbul.”
Pieter rested both hands on the table, unable to move. “Where did you meet this woman?”
“You won’t believe it but I haven’t actually met her. I saw her in Leiden. She is young, well, my age, I suppose,” he said with a slight frown, “and so beautiful. It was love at first sight.”
“In Leiden?”
“Yes. Mother had asked me to drive her there so that she could have a client, someone named Carl Ahern, sign some papers, something about insurance benefits. She said that he was not well enough to come to her office and the papers were too important to risk losing.”
“You saw the woman at Carl Ahern’s home?”
“Yes, in the hallway as we were leaving.” He gave his brother a sheepish grin. “I don’t even know her name or why she was there.” A belligerent expression swept across his face. “I suppose you are going to say that there is no such thing as love at first sight.”
“No,” Pieter murmured, remembering the same feeling as he lay on his back in the snow gazing up at the loveliest face he had ever seen and waiting for those perfect lips to touch his. “I wasn’t going to say that.”
As they stepped out of the restaurant, Dirk turned to his brother. “If you had only seen her, you would understand. She is beguiling, bewitching. I only saw her for a moment but I knew then that I wanted her.”
Pieter wrestled with his thoughts
. Should he let Dirk enjoy his world of make-believe or should he tell him that the woman he had seen was Carl’s wife?
“Dirk,” Pieter said in a low voice, taking his brother’s arm to pull him toward the shelter of the building.
How much should he tell Dirk?
“When I visited Carl in the spring, there was a young woman looking after him. She had come to the U.S. as a child refugee after a terrible earthquake in Eastern Turkey.” He stopped as the pain of his loss ripped through him again.
Dear God! How much did he owe his brother?
He released his hold on Dirk’s arm and then said in a rush, “Carl married recently. It is most likely that the woman you saw was his wife.”
“Don’t be a fool!” Dirk snapped. “She’s much too young to be his wife.” He glared at his brother. “I should have known that you wouldn’t understand.” He hurried off without saying goodbye.
Pieter tried to push the conversation with Dirk from his mind as he swung himself onto the train that would take him to the Osdorp Refugee Center but the torment of the thought of Dirk and Janan together kept coming back. He forced himself to consider the facts. Dirk was young, close to Janan’s age. Dirk was healthy. He had no ticking-bomb threat of leukemia hanging over him. And, most damning of all, Dirk most likely had healthy, active sperms, not frozen ones stored away in a sperm bank.
A practiced glance at the stack of cards on the battered desk in the small room that served as his office told him that there were at least 10 cases for him to see.
Excellent. He might be tired enough to fall asleep tonight for a change.
He opened the door and said, “Good afternoon” in Dutch to the young people waiting to see him. He was not surprised when no one returned his greeting. The Dutch government provided them with a year of instruction in Dutch but most showed little interest in learning the language even though they might have to use it to earn a living if their request for asylum was approved. This afternoon there was no volunteer to act as a receptionist but there was no need. Old customs would insure that they would file in according to age, the youngest first and he would switch from Dutch to English, French, or Arabic as needed.
He lifted the remaining card. Sophia Sadik. He’d been aware of it all afternoon and it had stirred a half formed plan that was churning in his mind. He saw the note reminding him that she would be eighteen years old in two weeks and would have to leave the refugee center. He suppressed a sigh as he watched her enter the room. She was thinner if anything than the last time he had seen her and dressed in clothes that were too big for her. Her expression of melancholy was now tinged with despair.
He began the customary clinical opening in halting Turkish. “What has been happening since I saw you last?” He listened as she told him that she would have to leave the refugee center where she had lived for nearly three months and that there would be no government income. She would have to find a place to live and a way to earn her living. Her face was pale as she told him but she held herself erect. When he asked what work she might be able to do, her lips trembled but she did not answer. He shifted uneasily in his chair. Years of experience told him not to get involved, but, almost against his will, he found himself asking if she had any experience caring for babies. He watched her face come alive as she told him about helping with her sister’s baby. Slowly he lifted a sheet of paper and an envelope from the desk drawer. He addressed the envelope to Mevrouw Janan Ahern, and, as he began to write the letter, he explained to Sophia what she was to do.
Chapter 13
As she tucked the babies into their baskets for their morning nap, Janan’s mind clicked off the things that she must do that day.
The daily grocery shopping, refilling Carl’s prescriptions, finding the wine that Carl had asked
for, picking up more formula for the babies . . . endless errands. She dare not leave the babies in the care of Carl and the resentful Betje. She would have to bundle them up warmly and push their stroller from shop to shop.
At the sound of the doorbell, Janan waited for a moment to see if Betje or Wim would answer it and then, with a quick glance at her watch, she smoothed her hair and hurried down the narrow, dark hall.
Who would be ringing the bell at 10 in the morning? Perhaps it was the missing carton of bedding at last
. Pulling open the heavy door, she was surprised to see an older, conservatively dressed woman who looked Dutch and a slim, young woman, scarcely more than a child, wearing a faded blue wool jacket, worn gray tweed skirt, and cream-colored headscarf standing on the doorstep.
“I am a volunteer at the Osdorp Refugee Center,” the older woman said. “This is Sophia Sadik, a refugee from Iraq.” She motioned to the young woman standing silently beside her. “Her Dutch is not fluent yet and I was asked to accompany her.” She folded her arms across the front of her coat. “She has a letter for you.”
“Please come in,” Janan said politely unable to keep the questioning note from her voice. The oval face, ivory skin, and dark eyes under thinly arching dark eyebrows told her that the young woman from Iraq was most likely Turkmen, not Arabic or Kurdish. With a quick glance at the lacy edging of the headscarf, Janan read the ancient language of Anatolian women. The fine silk thread used in the needle-made oya told her that Sophia came from a well-educated, probably old Ottoman family. The flower motif indicated that she was a virgin, and the soft-pink color of the hyacinths announced that she had not met the man of her dreams yet.
When Betje finally appeared at the door, Janan said calmly, “Please bring coffee for my guests.” The words, ‘refugee center,’ had sent a wave of excitement surging through her and, remembering the day that Pieter had told her that he worked with refugees, her heart beat faster as she took the letter the young woman was holding out to her.
“Please sit down,” she said, leading them to the dark, old-fashioned living room. “If you will excuse me, I will read the letter while we wait for our coffee.” Glancing at her name written in a clear angular script, Janan felt her pulse race. She knew that the letter must be from Pieter even though she did not know his handwriting. A hysterical laugh threaten to erupt as she considered the incongruity. She knew the sound of his voice, his touch, his scent, his taste, and the hard planes of his body but she did not know his handwriting. Her hands trembled as she pulled out the folded sheet of paper and read it quickly. She turned to the young woman and asked slowly, in very simple Dutch, “Do you want to work?”
Sophia nodded gravely, her eyes fastened on Janan’s face.
The volunteer filled in the silence. “She’ll be eighteen in two weeks and will have to leave the center.” She hurried on anxiously, “She has been taking Dutch lesson but she’s not proficient yet.” Her face was troubled as she said, “Unless she can pass a proficiency test, she will not be able to work . . . legally.”
Janan nodded, thinking of the thousands of refugees who struggled to survive on the streets of Amsterdam. “I understand.” She turned to Sophia and spoke in Turkish. “The letter says that you’ve had experience looking after babies? Your niece?”
“
Evet. Hanimefendi
,” Sophia answered politely in Turkish with a quick nod of her head and then, with a nervous glance at the volunteer, she added, “
Ja, Mevrouw
,” in Dutch.
“Ah, here is our coffee,” Janan said as the housekeeper set the tray down noisily with a truculent look at the visitors. She poured their coffee and passed a plate with three Stroopwafel cookies arranged precisely so that the sweet, creamy caramel filling of the waffle-shaped cookies was revealed. “I realize that this matter is of some urgency. If you will excuse me for a few minutes, I will discuss it with my . . . husband.” The word felt awkward and she cringed involuntarily. She had never uttered the word, husband, but now she had forced herself to use it to help a desperate, young refugee sent to her by Pieter.