Rose, on the contrary, was full of nervous excitement. She sipped cup after cup of bad airplane coffee, munched the meager pretzels they served, skimmed through the complimentary magazine, watched BridgetJones: The Edge of Reason, though she had seen the movie before, engaged in a long prattle with the old lady sitting next to her (she was going to San Francisco to visit her elder daughter and see her newborn grandchild), and when the latter fell asleep, dedicated herself to attempting to answer the history trivia questions on the video screen in front of her.
Who suffered the most casualties in World War II?
a. Japan
b. Great Britain c. France
d. Soviet Union
What was the name of the leading character in George Orwell's 1984?
a. Winston Smith
b. Akaky Akakievich c. Sir Francis Drake d. Gregor Samsa
For the first question Rose confidently answered B, but having no idea whatsoever about the second, she simply guessed A. She would soon be surprised to learn she had the first response wrong and the second one right. If Amy were here next to her, she would have answered both correctly, and certainly not by accident. Her heart ached when she thought about her daughter. For all their conflicts and quarrels, for all her personal failures as a mother, Rose was still confident that she had a good relationship with Amy. As confident as believing Great Britain suffered the most casualties in the Second World War.
Then they landed in San Francisco.
Once inside the airport, Rose was swept away by another shopping urge: goodies for the road. So miserable had she been with the crumbs served on the first flight that she now took matters into her own hands. Though Mustafa tried hard to explain to her that Turkish Airlines, unlike the domestic flights in America, would serve a whole bunch of delicacies, she wanted to be on the safe side before embarking on the twelve-hour flight.
Rose purchased a package of Planters peanuts, cheese crackers, chocolate-chip cookies, two packages of BBQ potato chips, a bunch of honey-and-almond granola bars, and sticks of bubblegum. Long gone was the idea of carb watching just for the sheer possibility of being watchful of something, anything. That was back in the days when she was young and determined enough to prove to the Tchakhmakhchian family that this woman they had stamped as odar, and never seen as one of them, was in fact a very nice and even enviable person. Now, twenty years later, she only smiled at the resentful young woman she once had been.
Although her bitterness toward her first husband and his family had never really subsided, in time Rose had learned to make peace with her flaws and incapacities, including her widened hips and belly. She had been on diets for such a long time, on and off, she didn't even remember when exactly she had stopped dieting once and for all. Whatever the timing, Rose had managed to discard, though not the pounds, at least the need to shed the pounds. The urge had simply ceased. Mustafa liked her the way she was. He never criticized her looks.
The announcement for boarding came when they were standing in line at Wendy's, waiting for two Big Bacon Classic combos and a sour cream-and-chive baked potato to be ready, just in case the food they served on Turkish Airlines turned out to be inedible. They grabbed their orders just in time and headed to the gate, where they would have to go through an extra security check reserved for those on intercontinental flights, particularly those heading to the Middle East. Rose watched with worried eyes as a polite but sullen officer searched through the presents she had bought in Tucson. The officer plucked a cactus-shaped pencil intoo the air and waved it to and fro as if wagging a finger at some wrong she was about to commit.
Once aboard the plane, however, Rose swiftly relaxed, enjoying every detail of the experience-the tiny, chic travel kits they distributed, the matching pillows, blankets, and eye blinds, the continuous service of beverages interrupted by complimentary turkey sandwiches. Before long, the dinner service commenced, rice and oven-roasted chicken with a small salad and stir-fried vegetables. THERE ARE NO PORK PRODUCTS IN OUR FOODS, it stated on a piece of paper that came with the tray. Rose couldn't help but feel guilty about the Wendy's combos.
"You were right about the food. It's good," she said, giving her husband a shy smile and rotating a bowl of dessert in her hand. "And what's this?"
"Ashore," Mustafa said, his voice oddly constricted as he looked at the golden raisins decorating the small bowl. "It used to be my favorite dessert. I'm sure my mother cooked a big pot of it when she heard I was coming."
Much as he tried to refrain from remembering such details, Mustafa couldn't erase the sight of dozens of glass bowls of ashore lined on the shelves inside the refrigerator, ready to be distributed to the neighbors. Unlike other desserts, ashore was always cooked as much for others as for one's own family. Accordingly, it had to be cooked abundantly, each bowl an epitome of survival, solidarity, and cornucopia. Mustafa's fascination with the dessert had become apparent when at the age of seven he was caught wolfing down the bowls he had been entrusted to dole out door to door.
He still remembered waiting there in the stillness of the apartment building next to their konak with the tray in his hand. There were half a dozen bowls on the tray, each for a different neighbor. First he had nibbled the golden raisins sprinkled on each bowl, confident that if he ate just those nobody would notice. But then he went on to the pomegranate seeds and the slivered almonds used for decoration, and before he knew it, he had eaten everything, consuming six bowls at one sitting. He had hidden the empty bowls in the garden. The neighbors often kept the bowls until they would return them with some other food that they had cooked, oftentimes another ashure. Thus, it had taken the Kazanci family some time to discover Mustafa's misdeed. And when they had, though visibly embarrassed by his greediness, his mother had not scolded him, but from then on she had kept extra bowls of ashure in the fridge, ready for him and him alone.
"What would you like to drink, sir?" asked the stewardess in Turkish, half bent toward him. She had eyes of sapphire blue and wore a vest of exactly the same color, on the back of which were printed puffy, pasty clouds.
For a split second Mustafa hesitated, not because he didn't know what he would like to drink but because he didn't know which language to reply in. After so many years he felt much more comfortable expressing himself in English than in Turkish. And yet, it seemed equally unnatural, if not arrogant, to speak in English to another Turk. Consequently, Mustafa Kazanci had up till now solved this personal quandary by avoiding communicating with Turks in the United States. His aloofness toward his fellow countrymen and countrywomen became painfully blatant at ordinary encounters like this one, however. He glanced around, as if searching for an exit, and having failed to find one nearby, finally answered, in Turkish: "Tomato juice, please."
"I don't have tomato juice." The stewardess gave him a sprightly smile, as if finding great humor in this. She was one of those devoted employees who never lost their faith in the institutions they worked for, capable of saying no regularly with the same cheery face. "Would you care for a Bloody Mary mix?"
He took the thick, scarlet mixture and leaned back, his forehead broodingly creased, his hazel eyes blurred. Only then did he notice Rose staring at him, scrutinizing his moves carefully, apprehensively. Her expression darkened when she asked, "What is it, honey? You look nervous. Is it because we're going to see your family?"
Having already discussed this trip exhaustively, there wasn't much to say now. Rose knew Mustafa had no desire to go to Istanbul and was simply yielding to her adamant request to go there together. Though she appreciated that, it is hard to say she felt grateful.