Ethan is nodding, attempting to speak. “I’m okay,” he whispers, his voice like torn paper.
I shake my head. “Try not to talk.”
Violet returns with the water. “Thank God I came by to check on you two.” She peers into Ethan’s big eyes. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
He brings the water up to his lips. “Yes, okay.”
She pulls me into the hall.
“I was dreaming,” I whisper. “I was in a fight. We had our hands at each other’s throats, and then I woke up. I . . .” I go no further. I rub my hands.
“Jesus. You don’t remember coming into his room?”
“No.”
She shakes her head. “We probably need to call his agency.” She stares at a point on the carpet. “Let me talk to him. You go lie down.”
Shivers creep up my shoulders. I reach for her, then stop. Dr. Wan changed the medications, but . . .
We stare at each other.
“Do you need anything?”
I shake my head no.
“What can I do?”
“Nothing.”
I return to my room, my bed. I try to sleep. I listen, to the murmur of voices.
The shower runs. Someone talks on the phone. Eventually I rise and get dressed. I try to make sense of it all but cannot. Everything has become blurred, my life and the dream and their story and this. The odd feeling that after, I think I remember, far back.
I rub Sultan’s ears. His purr is loud, like a motor.
I walk into the kitchen. Violet is puttering about making breakfast. Ethan is nowhere in sight.
“How is he?” I ask.
She cracks an egg. “I think he’s okay. The agency wants him to be examined by a doctor.” She looks up. “They’ve also called the police.”
I study her expression. Is it accusation? Pity? I nod my head.
I eat. I hear Ethan before I see him. He is carrying his bags down the hall. His neck is swollen, as if stung by bees, ribbons of purple alive in his skin. His eyes are puffy but focused. I start to rise, to express regret. He stops me with the raise of his hand.
“It is not your fault,” he says. Something short of a smile cracks his lips. “You are a strong man, for your age.”
I look down. Images from the dream stream back: Araxie’s neck at the ziggurat, the bloody fight with Mustafa. But this man is a stranger.
“I’m okay now.” His voice sounds better, more like wet cardboard. “How are you?”
“I am fine.” I bring my head up. “You will see a doctor?”
“Yes.”
I nod my head. I want to explain—how do I explain? “It is odd,” I say finally, “these dreams that come now. I have not experienced anything like them, not in all the many years of my life. It is not as if I dream the house is on fire—I keep dreaming a certain story, a continuing story. As if I am another person, living a different life.”
Violet shifts at the kitchen counter. Ethan stares.
“What happens in your dreams?” Violet’s eyes show fatigue.
“Suffering. Cruelty, and bravery. It is a trek. People are dying.”
“And fighting, I gather,” says Ethan.
“Yes. Fighting.” I stare at his hands—so large, like Mustafa’s.
The doorbell rings. Violet goes to answer it, leaving Ethan and me to stand, looking at each other and then away. There are voices, a closed door, a starched uniform. The police have arrived.
The officer is a thin, dark-haired man with a bluish face—Officer Hanna. He begins by examining the bedroom, then takes Ethan’s statement, then Violet’s. This is done in the living room while I wait in the den. I hear little of the conversations other than a few words here and there: “hallucination,” “brain tumor.” I have the TV on,
The Poseidon Adventure
. I eat but taste nothing.
The doorbell rings again. Another muffled conversation takes place. I assume it is more policemen arriving, but instead the door opens and Mrs. Fleming enters.
“There you are. I saw the police car. I wondered what was going on.”
I am surprised but not displeased. She is sympathetic, someone to talk to.
“I assume Violet told you what happened,” I say. My voice is low, and distant.
“She said you were dreaming. That you walked in your sleep.”
“Yes.”
“What were you dreaming?” She takes a seat on the couch, across from me. Her face is pinched in concern.
I stir the remnants of my food. “I dreamed I was in a fight.”
“With whom?”
“Someone who wanted to kill me.”
“Why?”
Sweat forms at my hairline. “I would not do something he wanted.” The dream flashes back, harsh in its detail. I fight it, fight the sense that I’m falling.
“What?”
“I would not sell someone into slavery.”
Mrs. Fleming moves closer, her eyes bright with attention. “What kind of slavery?”
“I am unsure—something like a harem.” I spread my hands. “I would rather not discuss it.”
“Okay.” She sits back in her seat. “How fascinating. At one time I kept a dream journal. Do you write your dreams down?”
I consider this. The dreams are clear now in my memory, even from the first cold and wind, but will they remain so? So much time has gone past, now. I have forgotten so much.
Officer Hanna enters with Violet, motions that it is time for us to talk. I follow him into the living room, leaving Violet and Mrs. Fleming behind in the den. Ethan is not in the room when we enter. I assume he has given his statement and left.
I sit down on the couch. The room seems dingy. Dust breaks and glides through the air. There is the photo Lissette once gave me of the Statue of Liberty, arm raised in greeting.
“Your name, please.” The voice is measured, southern.
“Emmett Conn.”
“Your age?”
I give it. Certain rights are explained—I do not have to answer. It is not like TV. The questions unfold. Was I angry with Mr. Eppes? Have I dreamed like this before? Ever had a similar altercation?
I am polite in response, cooperative. No, I was not angry. The dreams are elaborate, confusing. I have not fought, not in years. I did not know this man’s name.
“What will happen now?” I ask when it is over, when he has closed his slim notebook.
“I don’t know,” he replies. “We need to talk with the medical people. We need to speak again to Mr. Eppes. We’ll have to see. You will stay in the house?” He directs this to Violet, who has entered the room.
We shake hands.
I retire to the den, where Mrs. Fleming still waits. There is silence, an awkwardness.
“Perhaps I’d better be going,” Mrs. Fleming says finally.
I smile. “Thank you for coming.” I am grateful, truly grateful, but I sound only bored. I wish to be alone now, in the dark of this . . . this . . .
Mrs. Fleming smiles back. “I’ll check on you.” She swings her hips as she exits.
Violet calls Dr. Wan’s office, wades through responses, insists on speaking to the doctor, says she will hang on. My hands still tremble. I think of a job site in New York, a scaffolding failure in which a man broke his leg. I was not at fault, but there was an inquiry . . . Haley—that was the man’s name. I felt bad for him afterward. The inspectors questioning, big men with clipboards. I was older then and yet nervous. Could I not still be deported? I remember them talking to my subordinate as if I were not there, as if I were too stupid to bother with, too foreign or dark. I read Shakespeare, Steinbeck! Were my teeth fixed then? Another ground for derision. We spent good money fixing my teeth.
A squawk comes from the phone. “How are you this day!” I hear the voice from where I’m sitting.
Violet explains the situation. The phone whispers. Violet murmurs and clucks. There is a pause, then she holds out the receiver, the phone cord unwinding to become almost straight, like a rope. “He wants to speak to you.”
“Mr. Conn! Hello!” Dr. Wan’s voice buzzes, a dragonfly caught in a drum. “This is unfortunate. As I think you will agree, it must be treated seriously. You will need to be monitored. Your medication needs to be adjusted. You may need to see a psychiatrist.”
A psychiatrist? I am already being monitored. He continues his discourse, but I am thinking again, about history, about genes, how babies’ eyes are blue at birth and then brown. About time slipping past like a wind, ninety years, and at the end there is turmoil, as at the beginning. And the middle—the long and dulled middle? Working, providing. Shaping. So much is wasted.
We drive to the medical office, meet with Dr. Wan. Blood is drawn, more questions asked. There is testing to be done, evaluation. And then? I am tired. We sit in the car afterward, the radio on, the melody triggering some memory of music, something—a chord?—from the time long before. I yawn and it fades. I want to ask Violet if she finds it embarrassing, the old man bringing shame, the bitter switch in our postures. Or is it now satisfying, perhaps even pleasurable? I turn but her head is bent as she writes, some note on what to do next or things not to forget. She looks determined. She reminds me of Carol, extracting me from the British. I stare out the window and say nothing more.
We struggle
toward Aleppo. The sky becomes the ground, the clouds crags and valleys, turning and shifting and re-forming like sand. Vultures circle, suspended on updrafts, silent, held by a string or a thought from beyond. The sun grows hotter, the terrain drier, water soon becoming our most immediate objective. Our supplies are never enough, particularly for those suffering from dysentery. Many collapse, left behind as we trudge on in the sun. One boy of perhaps nine or ten develops
gurû
-sized lip blisters. The tongues of others turn gray and black. Still others are dragged on thin blankets, pulled by hunched women without shoes, their feet scabbed and bloodied. I allow for multiple breaks and water searches, at the same time insisting on progress. Reality dictates completion of this journey, for any of the group to survive.
We descend on wells like jackals. We buy water (with coins the deportees pull from clothing or orifice) at exorbitant prices. We lick dew from leaves, we beg when trains puff by, we forage in empty fields. We see no sign of the Arabs we encountered earlier, no sign of Mustafa. I place Karim, who has improved to the point that he can now ride a donkey, at the back of our group to guard against attack. He eyes my wound with interest but offers no questions, makes no reference to Mustafa. I keep a close watch on him. I sleep little.
Araxie descends to near delirium. I keep a goatskin of water especially for her. I check on her constantly. The old woman who tended to her when she first became ill grows sick herself and dies and another woman named Ani takes her place, wiping Araxie’s forehead, changing her soiled clothing. I offer them various modes of transportation, placing them aboard my horse, pulling them behind in a small cart. Araxie actually feels most comfortable walking, plodding with her head down, her footsteps heavy in the dust. During one such march I thank her, for I am sure she saved my life by alerting me to Mustafa’s attack, but she offers no response. During other periods I question myself, wondering why I am here, why I covet her and not others. She is haggard now, the bones visible in her thin shoulders, her arms rigid and stick-like. She smells like rotten meat. The eyes that had so beguiled me before squint now against glare and sand, her lips swollen, her face burned by the sun. Still, I worry, I plot. I dream. I will not let her die.
We follow the railroad tracks, the route I have been told leads to Aleppo and beyond, to Damascus. More trains pass, headed in both directions, their rumble apparent long before any sighting. Several of the northbound trains carry Turkish soldiers in familiar olive-tan uniforms, the soldiers gawking and laughing, shouting derisive epithets. Their jibes make me cognizant of my own appearance, more like that of a deportee now than of a gendarme, my police tunic faded and stained, my head still bandaged from Mustafa’s attack. The occasional travelers on foot or horseback avoid us, giving way or making wide circles. One Turkish-looking woman tosses food at my feet, a package of bread, cheese, and halva. Others shout, or sneer, or look on in silence.
The terrain changes as we near Aleppo, desert giving way to tended fields, to farmers working at crops. We pass apricot orchards, fields of wheat and barley, groves of pomegranate trees. Children scurry near a house in a field. A group of adolescents stare from the side of the road. Several peddlers’ carts pull around us, knives and cookware jangling. Our pace quickens. Mothers urge their children on, the dying gain new life. It strikes me that I have left my homeland; I have entered a foreign state. For the deportees this will become a way station, a refuge until the end of the war, perhaps a new home. For me, all is less clear.
Farms and fields give way to houses, to people and streets. I stop our group on a boulevard fronted by large white buildings, searching for someone of officialdom, marveling at the sights and colors. Aleppo is large, much larger than Harput, with hordes of exotic-looking women, some covered in black burkas with only slits for their eyes, others with large gold earrings and bracelets stretching from wrist to elbow, still others in colorful clothing and flowery hats. Boys in caftans dart and run, men in suits smoke. Vendors young and old offer walnuts, breads, and candies on tablets hung from their necks. Turkish, Armenian, and Arabic mix in the air, stirred by a flowery language I assume to be French. A number of men in military uniform pass, paying no attention to our filthy band. Finally, an officer in a crisp uniform and tall black boots crosses the street toward us. I move to address him.
The man asks something in Arabic. I bow, exposing the wound atop my head. I remember again my appearance. I straighten, pressing my heels together in some semblance of military posture.
“Effendi, I have delivered these deportees from Turkey,” I say in Turkish, my voice still graveled from Mustafa’s grip. “Many are ill.”