But he doesn’t say it. “Let me give you,” he says instead, “one word of my own. Elli, Princess, cover your ears.”
Then Elli turns around and looks at him. “Bullshit,” she says. “Is that the word, John Martin?”
•
We take six bass. Or rather, Elli catches two and the rest are John Martin’s. I drink my Champagne of Beers at the back, while John teaches my daughter flippin’ and pitchin’ and other neat angler tricks. It’s a bit creepy how he pets her head, how he calls her “Princess” over and over, but the lesson is worth it and I decide not to intervene.
Finally, Elli says she can’t hold it much longer. And would I please quit asking her to go over the side: girls don’t go over sides like that. John Martin orders me to retrieve the cinder block we use for an anchor and I pull on the rope, but the anchor is stuck in the mud below us. With a sigh John takes the rope and pulls, as if he can do better, and his face turns tomato. “God damn it,” he says.
“That’s right,” I say. “Every time.”
We pull on the rope for a while, left, right, in circles. Elli has clenched her legs crossed and, eyes shut, she’s biting her lip. John Martin curses and I curse a little as expected.
“Come on, now,” he says, and twines the rope around his hand. “Come on.”
We pull for fifteen minutes, give or take.
“I can’t hold it much longer!” Elli cries. So John Martin jumps out on one side of the boat and I jump on the other. The water is up to my chest, waist for him, and it gets up to our chins when we kneel and grope in the warm mud for the anchor. We puff, we work the mud, we kick on the block until it finally loosens. With a yelp John Martin lifts the block up and lays it enormous in the boat, a chunk of lake, and weeds, and slimy brown leaves.
Then, after seven pulls of the cord, the motor is roaring and we fly, four miles an hour, toward the closest bank. Elli hops out of the boat and splashes to seek cover behind some mangy bush.
“Jesus Christ, that was close,” John Martin says, and searches the cooler for full cans. He begins to roll one against his cheeks to cool them. I look at his neck.
“John,” I say, “there is a leech the size of a five-year-old Gypsy’s dick on your neck.”
“God damn it, Michael, not again,” he says. Then he leans backward and stretches his neck to allow me easier access.
V.
“The news that Crazy Ali is coming to take her away reaches my great-grandmother as she is washing clothes in the river. Panic seizes all other girls, but great-grandmother never loses her calm. She wrings out a shirt and washes another.
“ ‘I have no time to be frightened,’ she tells them. ‘Work waits for no one.’
“A bright moon blooms in the sky. Ali Ibrahim and the hundred soldiers stop before the wooden gates. Ali dismounts, takes out his yataghan, and knocks three times with the ivory handle.
“ ‘I have come for your daughter,’ he tells the man who opens the gate. He brings his sword to the man’s face, and on the tip of the blade hangs the black imperial feredje. ‘Go veil her face and bring her here. We have much road ahead and time is short.’
“The man takes the kerchief and walks to the cattle shed where the most beautiful of all women is milking the cows. He hands her the black cloth, which flickers like a wounded pigeon in his trembling hand.
“My great-grandmother narrows her eyes, takes the kerchief, and throws it in the dirt. She then finishes milking a cow and jumps on the only horse in the shed.
“ ‘Az litse si ne zabulyam,’ she says: ‘I shall never veil my face.’ She whispers something to the horse and grabs him by the mane.
“People say that right then a great storm rose from the west, and that when my great-grandmother vaulted over the yard walls, over Ali and his soldiers in a cloud of dust with her long hair flowing, her beauty was astounding.
“For a long time Ali stands in disbelief. His face is calm except his right eyebrow, which twitches every now and then. He mounts his horse and puts the yataghan in the sheath.
“ ‘Bring me the feredje,’ he says. And when the soldiers bring him the black kerchief from the cattle shed, he commands them, ‘Chop all heads if you have to, but when I come back I want to hear a hodja chanting in the name of Allah.’
“Then at an even trot he makes after the cloud of dust that my great-grandmother has left behind.”
We’re on the bed again. It’s raining, like never. Even on the way back from the lake, clouds were already lining the sky in thick chunks. We stopped at Dairy Queen and I bought Elli a milk shake. I bought one for John Martin. “You asshole,” he said. “You know I can’t have milk.” But he drank it in gluttonous gulps. We had to stop at gas stations twice before we reached home and once we were in the driveway, John Martin sprinted out to the bathroom with the truck’s engine still running. Involuntarily he granted me the honor of parking under the shed. After he was finished, forty minutes later, pale and sweaty, he went out in the rain to make sure I’d turned the headlights off and straightened the tires. Which I had forgotten to do.
Now on the bed Elli throws a final glance at her cell phone. She’s already texted her mother and gotten her hugs and kisses.
“Keep talking, taté,” she says at last. “What happens next? Does Ali Ibrahim catch her?”
•
“For two days my great-grandmother rides without any rest and for two days Ali Ibrahim follows in her steps. Like a hound he goes after her scent, shortening the distance that stands between them. As he gets closer, as the smell of lilies gets stronger, his heart beats faster, his throat gets drier, and his palms sweat more and more on the handle of the yataghan. With every step the air feels thicker. To Ali Ibrahim it seems as if he were making his way through a rushing stream.
“On the third day, my great-grandmother understands that she cannot outrun the janissary, so she decides to defeat him with her beauty. She sits on a rock in the middle of a river, and this is where he finds her, combing her hair with her fingers.
“ ‘So you are Ali Ibrahim,’ she says without looking. ‘Crazy Ali — the one who sacrifices his own in the name of a fake god.’
“Ali stands on the bank and his fingers rub the ivory handle of the sword.
“ ‘Well, Ali,’ she says, ‘don’t stand there like that. Come help me braid my hair.’ He takes out the sword and lowers it so when he walks through the slow river, the blade scrapes the stones on the bottom. My great-grandmother is still combing her hair, not yet looking at Ali, whose face is as calm as before, although his right eyebrow has started twitching again. He stops in front of her and takes a tress of black hair in his hand. He is ready to cut it, but just then my great-grandmother looks up and her eyes rest upon his face.
“Ali’s hand goes numb and he drops the sword. He takes a step back, stumbles on a stone, and falls on his back in the river. My great-grandmother starts laughing while Ali, lying in the stream, watches her.
“ ‘You are not the first man who fell before me,’ she tells him, ‘and you will not be the last. But you are, by far, the most handsome one I’ve seen.’
“Ali says nothing. He stares at her and licks his lips.
“ ‘What’s the matter with you?’ she asks lightly. ‘If I didn’t know you were Ali Ibrahim, I’d think you were frightened of something.’
“Ali Ibrahim finally manages to rise and get a grip on his yataghan.
“ ‘Stand up,’ he tells her. ‘I’m taking you to the sultan.’
“My great-grandmother laughs again and tosses back her hair. She will never let him take her to Istanbul, but she knows it’s pointless to show resistance now. She’ll obey him until her moment comes.