The loophole, p.16
The Loophole, page 16
We’re still about thirty yards away but closing in fast.
Reggie wheezes so hard, her lungs might pop out. “Get … going. Slow … the … train … down …”
I’m dragging her by the arm, and we’re still five seconds away, but he’s already boarded. Damn, he’s fast. “Reggie, you can make it. Come on.”
“I will. Just … give me a second.” She’s speed walking now, clutching her sides, sweat popping out in the most unmentionable of places. “I’ll … get … there. Oof. Thought running around in London … yesterday … would’ve been it.”
I let go of her arm, to rush to board the train and tell the conductor to wait for her, when I hear the shrill screech behind me.
“My bag. Sayyed, that guy has my bag!”
I turn to see Reggie without her beloved pink-and-green tote, taking off after some guy in a leather jacket. The door’s dinging away, on the verge of closing, and I have no idea what to do.
The conductor’s screaming at me in a language I don’t understand, and I’m stuck.
If I let Mustafa go, there’s no guarantee we’ll find him again. Who knows if Reggie’s contact can track his phone a second time, especially if he switches it off like he did yesterday?
If I let Reggie go, how the heck will I find my way around to meeting her again if the thief has her phone and all her money, and she never gets to retrieve it?
I have only seconds to make my decision.
Chapter Forty-Two
Reggie’s gone. Disappeared. Somewhere into the depths of Istanbul, chasing some thief who’s running off with her tote. And here I am. Alone.
Chasing after some guy I know nothing about.
I say a little prayer and pay the fare with leftover cash Reggie had given me last night, my grip on the handrail so tight while eyeing the guy, trying not to attract attention. He’s all the way at the very back. Probably not a good place to chat him up about Farouk, but I don’t want him to freak out if he realizes I’ve been following him.
The train is super packed with laughter and chatter and lots of determined faces rushing to work or the shops, so there’s no way for me to reach him and start with the questions anyway, although is that really a good idea for me in a foreign land all by myself?
But maybe it’s luck that I’m invisible most of the time—no one really notices some scrawny brown kid making his way through the world. There are some advantages to being me, I guess.
He gets off just a few stops later at a station called Aksaray, and I tail him through the streets, past vibrant shops, including one with the stickiest, syrupiest, nuttiest-looking baklava and another that totally reeks of cheese. All this chasing is starting to get my underworked lungs a little winded, and he’s just too fast, but I force my feet to keep on going. Keep on going. I’d make a very bad spy; my tread is very un-stealthy. It’s pretty much a stomp.
My target makes his final destination through a nondescript wooden slab of a door.
Finally catching my damn breath, I tiptoe forward and, not sensing anything diabolical about the establishment, step on through.
AKSARAY TURKISH HAMAM—says the sign by the entrance.
I’ve heard of these. They’re like bathhouses where you get scrubbed down and someone squeezes soap bubbles onto your back. Might be fun. I try to convince myself as I venture on in. Besides, it’s reconnaissance to get closer to the guy while he gets his treatment, unless Farouk might be hiding inside somewhere?
Oh. What if Farouk works here?
The fluty lilt of Mediterranean instruments accompanies my entrance, along with a bouquet of aromatherapy oils and incense. The lady behind the counter’s sales pitch is so good and hypnotizing that in a mere three minutes, I’m sold. I mean, who doesn’t need the ultimate package, which includes massage, facial, and foot scrub? My neck does feel a little sore after all that traveling.
She asks if I need anything before we get started.
Yes, please. Mustafa. If it’s not too much of a bother.
She hands me a key and ushers me to a room. I swing my backpack off and strip down to … Oh, I’m supposed to be naked under this cloth thing hanging on the rack. I see.
But what about the welts on my body? Thank goodness they’re starting to fade.
Wrapping this fabric around my waist is a little tricky, but I manage. I slip on a pair of flip-flops and, after a mini personal pep talk, off I go.
Only to be face-to-face with him, his deep brown eyes drilling me, lips so curvy and swollen.
Just. So. Dreamy.
“Uh …” is all I can say.
And he has those bulgy biceps under that super-tight, almost uncomfortable-looking T-shirt.
“Hello, sir. My name is Mustafa. This way, please.”
I cough out a “sure” and follow his lead into a steam room. “My first time.”
“You will enjoy, I promise.”
What a very powerful weapon. He can use that raspy voice against anyone to get what he wants.
“I will leave you here for fifteen minutes. Please lie down and relax. I’ll come back, and we will start.” He eyes my bruises. “I promise I’ll be gentle.”
It’s just me, no one else around, and my heart thumps faster and faster, because as exciting as it is to be one step closer, I’ve also seen gangster movies where someone’s relaxing in a steam room just like this and some hit man tries to knock them out or twist their neck. So I crawl to one corner and watch all sides and all entrances.
How the heck does anyone relax in here? What else can I do but twist my thumb ring.
My blood pressure has spiked to the ceiling when Mustafa finally returns. I’m in even bigger trouble because he’s shirtless, and I can’t help but melt into a hot, steamy puddle on the floor.
Wait—what’s that gleaming thing hanging from around his neck?
No freaking way. It can’t be.
Mustafa leads me into another chamber with octagonal walls and a raised octagonal marble central table that can easily fit a dozen people on it. “Please lie down on your back.”
It is at this point that my embarrassment starts to show because, hey, I am a (hopefully) virile boy with … needs and desires, having to cover my downstairs region. “Mind if I lie on my stomach?”
“If it works for you, of course. On the edge, please.”
If he tells me to lick the tiles, I’ll do it, but I must resist. Farouk, Farouk, Farouk. “How long have you been doing this?”
Mustafa splashes warm water over my entire body, head to toe. “Two years. I had to study hard. You are from America?”
“Yes, I am.” I try to get a glimpse of the pendant hanging from his neck. “You’re from here.”
“Of course. I know someone from America too. He gave me this necklace you keep looking at.”
I sit up straight, my manhood deflating in an instant. “Can I see it?” I inch forward, his chest so close, I can feel the radiant heat. His pecs are so defined, and there’s a little musk to his scent, which I think is an aphrodisiac and—
Eyes straight. At the piece of gold. It’s the only thing that exists. Nothing else.
The book locket, smaller than a matchbox. I reach out to grab it, to read the inscription on the back, and Mustafa doesn’t stop me, only saying, “You’ve been following me. Why?”
There it is. With the inscription on the back:
A Koran for Sayyed.
The gift from Umi. “How did you get my locket?”
His eyes turn hard and cold. “Yours? This is yours? You are Sayyed?”
I don’t need to nod or say mm-hmm or do anything at all.
Because he sees it in my face. “So you are the one, the mystery boy Farouk had to let go of so he could find true happiness.”
Ouch. “How do you know Farouk?” I am suddenly afraid of the answer.
Mustafa inches toward me. “You don’t need to worry about that.”
“Please. I just need to know how you know Farouk.”
There’s a shift in the steamy room as Mustafa takes a step back, a glower blazing from his eyes. “You should not be asking that question. Weren’t you the one who refused to leave with him? Let him cross the world all alone?”
“What … what? How do you know that?” Fear grips my throat, hoping the answer doesn’t strangle me. “Who are you?”
“I was the one who comforted him. I was there for him when his heart was broken, and I made him well again. You have no right to be here.”
I have a choice to make at this very moment. Do I prove my worth to Farouk against this well-built teen and maybe lose, with a concussion as a consolation prize? Or do I run out, with a very limp tail between my legs, giving up the chance of ever finding the love of my life?
Chapter Forty-Three
ONE YEAR AGO
It was a starlit night, full moon in the sky, and a packed Griffith Observatory. Spotlights shining, swarming busloads of tourists invading. Every parking spot taken for a whole mile down the road.
Farouk had convinced me we could hike all the way up there from the flatlands of Los Angeles, and he’d promised it’d be worth it. I had hmm’d and I-don’t-know’d because I’m not a fan of sweat—it’s just icky—but I went along with his strange suggestion anyway.
He’d lied.
It was a million times more than worthy of being worth it. It was breathtaking, phenomenal, wondrous, seeing all those bright lights and the grid the city was constructed on. I stood there—after a good ten minutes of gasping and panting—staring out over the railing, when he leaned into my back, wrapped his arms around me, nuzzled my neck, and said, “I present to you, your city.”
Magnetic? Electric? Combustible? Irresistible? It was all of those things and more. But most of all was the feeling of being enveloped in his cocoon of safety.
And that was only our first date.
A week later, we took the bus all the way up to Malibu for our second date.
This time, he had convinced me to bring a change of clothing and again, I had hmm’d and I don’t know’d because that meant I might actually need to change my clothes, which also meant it might involve doing a mud run or something more athletic than hiking. Altogether no-no’s for me.
It was dusk—again—as we walked along the beach, with warm sand in between our toes, salt air tingling my nostrils. We held hands in the near dark and stole kisses from each other on every body part we could see—shoulders, palms, cheeks, lips, etc.
Until he stripped and threw everything down to the sand.
I loved watching Farouk naked. My mind would never stop reeling at witnessing his lithe swimmer’s body, the skin so flawlessly brown, the new growth of hair on that chest. I wouldn’t be surprised if I had hearts for eyes every time I looked at him.
Then he told me to join him.
Join him? In what?
He started explaining. How there was no feeling as free as swimming in the ocean naked.
Aaaiiieee. That was precisely the squeal I made when he suggested something so ludicrous. But I toughened up my soft shell and hmm’d and I-don’t-know’d a bit more, plus a little shuffling in place, until I was like, Fuck it.
I did it. Sprinted into the water with a splash and leaped right out with an unholy howl over what felt like ice freezing me to the spine. Farouk dragged me into his arms and held me close, keeping me warm, slowly leading me back into the ocean, which he claimed was in the warm sixties, and I got lost in his eyes for hours.
H-O-U-R-S.
The waning moon might’ve grinned as it witnessed two virginal boys sloshing around, then lying in the sand, the quiet darkness cloaking them from the rest of the world.
I had never felt more alive.
Our third date, in the space of just as many weeks, was when he insisted I remained blindfolded until we reached our destination.
The bus ride was fine, and he played some Ariana and classic Mariah on our shared earphones to keep me occupied, since I couldn’t see anything but black. Behind the blindfold, I was still pretty sure people were staring at me the entire time. I’d also learned by then that his long neck was a safe haven for my tiny face. Multiple buses later, we got off at our stop. All I could hear was the rumbling of tracks and screams of pure terror. I thought he was taking me to a Halloween House of Horror, even though it was August, but everything made sense when he ripped off the blindfold.
We were at Disneyland. And he had planned for us to be there the entire day.
And what a magical day it was.
I didn’t know if I was afraid of heights or if my heart could take being up so high and then plunging what looked like seventy-five floors down, but damn those kiddie coasters—they dug out actual screams from deep within the caverns of my untrained lungs. From Space Mountain to Indiana Jones Adventure, from turkey legs to funnel cakes, Farouk showed me the best time ever.
From first date to third.
As we rode the many buses back home that evening, I knew I was madly in love. I would do whatever I could to be happy with this boy for the rest of my life.
Chapter Forty-Four
Fuck that asshole Farouk.
That’s my first thought as I eject myself from the hamam, after embarrassingly having to walk my naked body away from Mustafa. I hope I will turn the corner and bump into my ex so I can drag his ass into the nearest restroom and flush his apologetic face down the toilet.
I mean, my silence left Farouk to make his own decision to leave the country, but still. It’s only been three months. Could he not have waited before finding some hussy to comfort him?
Furious. Mad. Angry. Devastated. Confused. So many different words to describe how I feel. Expletives, pejoratives, synonyms, antonyms—I want to fling them all at the boy even if I stumble upon his grave, because he may as well be dead at this point.
Okay, fine. I don’t wish him dead.
What the heck did I get myself into? And where the hell am I going? Just keep walking. Just keep walking. I’m drunk on adrenaline, and it feels great.
Whatever. Whatever. Whatever.
Here I am. Alone in Istanbul. And where the heck is Reggie? Because maybe I should just go home. Convince Umi to leave Baba—even though he’s probably recovering from surgery, which would make us pretty heartless. Could I try to live with Baba’s presence in my life and force him to accept me?
The thumb ring feels awfully heavy right now.
What should I do with it?
People mill about, going to work, or school, or to shop, and it’s not even noon yet. Can they see the steam pouring out of my ears, the smoke leaking out of my nostrils? Oh, if they only knew what I’ve gone through.
Down this cobbled street, and another, through a really narrow alley. The char of toasted bread and Turkish coffee hang in the air. But none of it matters.
I’m lost.
I switch to rage; it’s the only thing preventing me from panicking. I want to scream at someone. But what can I do until Reggie decides to save me from chomping on all my fingers out of fury?
I’m pacing a street corner when something catches my eye. It’s a man, reaching out to a stray dog.
At first, he looks like he’s just holding an open hand for it, but no, he’s feeding it water. And the dog … it’s lapping it up. There’s lots of coaxing and smiling and plenty of gentleness, and many tries later, the creature lets the kind man pet it on its head.
Muslims and dogs aren’t supposed to be friendly—but look at these two.
I guess his heart is so big, he’s willing to bear the price of such a sin.
A tiny amount of rage melts off as I sneak away from them. I walk past cafés serving more of those steamed burgers that smell like ketchup, storekeepers hawking their latest burka fashions, and lively bicycle stores until I turn another corner, where a woman stands guard against a folding table with a variety of bread on it. Her eyes flicker over me, and I can’t imagine what’s written on my face, but she beckons at me and hands me a slice.
Ooh! Free sample!
Although it must be a ploy, says my doubtful self. She must want something.
A girl no older than ten, in a shabby T-shirt and raggedy shorts, dirt speckling every inch of her face, joins my side. The lady takes one look and hands an even bigger slice to the small thing.
Funny how life works. While my entire being is in conflict, here the universe gives me extraordinary, completely unselfish acts.
I turn to the girl and, after one final twirl from my fingers, hand the ring to her. Confusion flashes on her face, but she grabs the ring anyway. She can throw it into the Bosphorus for all I care, because I don’t need it anymore.
She’s all smiles as she takes off, and I can’t help but follow to see where she goes.
The girl seems to be familiar with the shops as she continues her afternoon journey as a gatherer. In the span of ten minutes, she’s added two packs of orange juice, an apple, and an imperfect blue scarf to her collection.
Back in LA, the homeless are invisible. No one acknowledges their presence; I have hardly ever seen anyone give anything to them.
Because it’s just easier to navigate with one eye closed.
When her arms are full, she weaves her way through the streets with even more purpose. Past shoppers who give her no mind, down quiet streets littered with even more stray dogs, ending up at a back alley no one would ever think of going through if they have no reason to do so.
That’s when I see them. The young mother in tattered clothes, propped against a wall, with an infant clamped around a nipple as she assesses the day’s donations. She runs a hand through her daughter’s hair and hand-feeds the girl most of the bread, sparing little for herself. They share a warm smile as they work on the apple and sip orange juice together.
The girl drapes the scarf around her mother to conceal the breastfeeding.
I finally decide to walk away. Guilt stabs me in the side. With what little they had, I probably shouldn’t have taken away their right to privacy.
There is kindness everywhere. Everywhere I least expect. In the middle of my hopelessness, all I see … is hope.
What else have I missed walking with one eye closed?
