This sordid scandal tormented Kenza. Perhaps another charter had been arranged for Turkey? She reassured herself with the thought that there weren’t enough Turks in Spain to fill a plane. She went by the restaurant, where one of the waiters told her they hadn’t seen Nâzim for a week and gave her an address where she might find him. Kenza took a taxi to what proved to be a dark little street between the Barrio Chino and the Barrio Gótico. The entryway was dirty. A tipsy Latino was begging; she gave him a coin and asked him if he knew a Turk, tall, dark-complexioned, with a thick black moustache.
‘Ah, el moro, top floor in the back, the red door.’
She knocked on the door and called Nâzim’s name several times. Inside, she could hear only the voice of a child. She knocked louder.
‘Nâzim, it’s Kenza, open up, it’s important.’
The child was crying. Kenza could hear a woman trying to comfort him, and thought she must have been sent to the wrong address. Nâzim couldn’t live in this derelict building. Unless he was married and lived there with his family… Kenza felt guilty immediately for thinking that — and yet, anything was possible: Miguel had told her that, time and again. Now her doubts about Nâzim burrowed deep inside her, taking up all the space, gnawing at her, playing tricks on her and making her suffer. There was only one thing to do: find her man and put the question to him straight out.
The next day, towards the end of the afternoon, Nâzim reappeared, seeming tired and preoccupied. He explained to Kenza that he’d had to leave for Galicia for a well-paying job, which he hadn’t wanted to tell her about, because it had meant taking some risks. After a moment of silence between them, he took Kenza by the shoulder and spoke softly to her.
‘You know, Kenza, my life is complicated, I have debts I must repay to a very bad man. I can’t go into details, and anyway I haven’t even the right to talk about it, I’m asking you just to trust me.’
They had gone to a café. He put his arms around her. Kenza felt like crying, while her intuition kept telling her, Watch out, watch out. Nâzim got up to go to the bathroom. Then Kenza noticed that he’d dropped his wallet. She picked it up, placed it on the table, and stared at it. An insane idea came to her: If you open this wallet, you’ll discover something important. It was like a sign from fate. Still, she didn’t dare touch the wallet, but Nâzim was taking a long time… She reached out slowly towards the wallet and flipped it open with one finger. A photo. Showing Nâzim hugging a young brunette with long hair, flanked by two children. A family photo. The classic photo that fathers carry in their wallets. She couldn’t hold back the tears trickling down her cheeks. Nâzim finally reappeared, smiling, ready to spend a wonderful day with his beloved. Kenza had regained control of herself. She rose without a word, left the café, hailed a taxi, and vanished, leaving Nâzim alone on the sidewalk.
35. Nâzim
THE SECRET had almost corrupted his mind and body. He had kept it locked away, as if in a box firmly shut upon memories that wanted only to return to life, scraps of a previous existence kept prisoner for a few months, perhaps a few years. He had steeled himself not to revisit them, not to recall them. He knew that memories exist only when they are brought back to the present. Sometimes he did circle around them, breathing their perfumes, intoxicating himself with loneliness, taking a good look as if to convince himself that there was no point in going back and forth between his past and present lives. Now there were no more precautions to take. He carried the foul disgrace inside him and thought he could get rid of the dirty, stinking, shameful thing by shoving it down into the realm of inadmissible crimes. He had lied through omission. He’d kept quiet, that’s all. Kenza had never asked him specific questions about his past. What would he have said if she had asked him if he’d been married in Turkey? He would have mumbled a few words, then changed the subject. Me, married? Of course not! Naturally, I could have married my neighbour, but she’d been promised to her cousin. And as the great Nâzim Hikmet said:
I tore the gazelle from the hunter’s hands, but fainting still, it could not be revived
I plucked the orange from its branch, but it could not be peeled
I slipped in among the stars, pell-mell, but they could not all be counted…
It was now two years and three months since he’d seen his wife and two sons. He sent them money, called them from time to time from a phone booth, telling them anything at all, saying that he was working in a private university whose name he never mentioned, that he lived in Madrid but also taught mathematics in Toledo. He invented, made mistakes, became confused, apologized, then curtly hung up the phone. He knew that he could count on his wife, who worked for a firm of architects; she was quite capable of taking care of the children, and she would wait for him. He had left Turkey because of massive gambling debts, when he’d found himself suddenly brutally pressed by one of his creditors, a wealthy and perverted man.
‘I know that you have nothing, not a thing,’ the man had said. ‘You could never pay me all that you owe me. Killing you, that wouldn’t bring me back my money. You can’t imagine how much money I have, but you see, I love Evil, I love to see my fellow man suffer, I can’t explain to you what happens inside me, but I get off on seeing someone, especially someone nice, like you, slaving away and suffering the worst humiliations in life. Your punishment — is exile. I’m throwing you out of the country. Sending you to hell, not prison, that would be too simple, no, I condemn you to exile. I take you from your wife and children, on whom I will keep my eye. For three years, do not set foot in Turkey. My men are everywhere, they’re ruthless, and delight in cutting their fellow men into very small pieces; that’s how it is, and you owe me three million, so I sentence you to three years’ nonexistence in Turkey. Got that? And do not make me cry: when I cry, I turn mean. You’re lucky, you know, your punishment isn’t cruel enough, so consider yourself fortunate to have wound up with a creditor of my stamp. Wait, don’t leave yet, you haven’t heard where I’m sending you. Someplace where Turks don’t usually go. Hey, Spain, for example: it’s a lovely country, Spain, very hospitable. You’ll make discoveries there, might even like the place. Don’t apply for a visa, you’ll never get one. Just set out, walking, day and night, and think of me if you get tired — I’ll be getting off. You have forty-eight hours to disappear. Listen, take this phone number: the guy’s name is Omar, his friends call him Taras Bulba; he’s not a poet, but he likes to butt-fuck men like you, so give him your ass and he’ll help you get out of the country. It’s up to you; Omar’s a sicko, soon as he spots some buttocks, he whips out his dick to try having a go at them — a strange fellow, loyal, he’s never betrayed me, has no feelings or emotions. Unless you’d rather tackle everything on your own… Don’t think you can mention our contract to anyone, or ask for political asylum, for example; I know Europeans are bleeding hearts, soon as they see someone looking a little lost, they slip him political asylum — not in your interest to try for that, I’ve got your family in the palm of my hand. Mind you, you don’t have to go to Spain, you could try Germany, but that would be too easy, with all the Turks they’ve got. Germany, that wouldn’t be exile. Exile’s an icy-cold place. But don’t forget, even there, I’ve got my spies.’
Nâzim knew he was dealing with a twisted man. He had no choice but to leave, flee, get out of Turkey and into Spain as fast as possible, staying three years, exactly as ordered. His creditor must have had his henchmen there; Nâzim took all his threats seriously and already saw himself, as in films about the Mafia, pursued by killers, with his wife and children in danger. His debts were enormous. How had he come to this? A kind of mindlessness, a madness, a curse. Gambling for him had been like drinking for alcoholics, a true plunge into hell. His wife, though, had never known a thing. He would never, ever, have told her about it. He simply used to disappear now and then, saying he had meetings at the university or that he’d run into some childhood friends and would be getting home late that night. His exile in Spain was a punishment, of course, but he also saw it as a chance to free himself from gambling. Before leaving, he explained to his wife that the university was sending him to Europe for a few months; he didn’t go into details. He kissed his children as they slept, packed a bag, and vanished, blinking back tears.