The week before, Chloe had agreed to move in with him. He\u2019d searched for piano transport companies, visited them personally, and settled on a firm based in Kad\u0131k\u00f6y, on the Asian side of Istanbul. Their rates were more than he could afford, but the safe transference of Chloe\u2019s 1898 B\u00f6sendorfer grand piano forte to their new apartment was his knightly quest, the proof of his undying amor<\/em>. Madame Eva, her mother, hadn\u2019t objected when Chloe announced that she was leaving, nor did she say a word when her daughter added that, apart from clothes, books, and personal items, she would also be taking the B\u00f6sendorfer.<\/p>\n Benyamin turned his back to the Bosporus quay and faced the crane. He watched the main hoist rotate. The telescope extended, and the boom reached over the high stone wall of the clapboard yal\u0131<\/em> mansion, where three brawny movers were rolling the dolly-perched, legless piano onto a balcony. What if something went wrong? What would happen if a strap broke, or if they moved the piano too fast and it slipped out of its hammock and through Chloe\u2019s roof, or worse, through the roof and floors of the neighboring yal\u0131? Benyamin would be to blame.<\/p>\n The hoist line lowered. The men wrapped the heavy-duty yellow straps around the sideways piano and attached them to the crane\u2019s hook. Chloe stepped onto the balcony. The Etesian winds tangled her black hair. Benyamin was too far away to see the expression on her face, but he knew she was worried. He waved to reassure her.<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n When they met in September of their senior year at Istanbul University, Benyamin Alhadeff hadn\u2019t understood that Chloe Stefanopoulos was on different footing in life than he was. The disparity in their religions might have been a red light half a century ago, but now, with so few Jews and Rum Orthodox Christians left, they could almost be lumped together into one group: non-Muslim. When Chloe said she lived in Tarabya, Benyamin didn\u2019t guess that her family owned a vast Ottoman yal\u0131 built in 1869 for Nurbanu Han\u0131m, the daughter of Sultan Abd\u00fclaziz\u2019s dentist. Nor did he think much when Chloe described her garden\u2019s highlight, an ancient plane tree, because he wouldn\u2019t learn until much later that it had been planted by Nurbanu Han\u0131m herself. He didn\u2019t even pay attention when Chloe raved about her flower beds, which hosted wisteria and tulips in spring, hydrangeas and roses in summer, and chrysanthemums in autumn. For Benyamin supposed that Chloe lived in one of the rundown shacks remaining from the time when Tarabya was a Rum fishing village. Besides, Benyamin\u2019s late mother \u2014 alav ashalom<\/em>, peace upon her \u2014 had also grown flowers on their back balcony, mostly geraniums on which the neighborhood tomcats tended to urinate. Benyamin didn\u2019t understand that there was still a great divide between beds and pots, even if the gap between Jews and Christians had narrowed.<\/p>\n The following spring, while walking with his father in their working-class neighborhood of Kurtulu\u015f, he said in Ladino, \u201cPapa, will you disown me if I marry a Christian?\u201d<\/p>\n It was Orthodox Easter Sunday, just two days after the end of Pesach. Across the avenue, the municipality had hung banners that read \u201cHappy Holidays to our Christian Brothers.\u201d Bakeries still displayed sealed boxes of \u201cKosher for Pesach\u201d matzah in their windows, and the warm mastic and mahleb perfume of tsoureki<\/em> Easter bread sailed through every bakery door into the chilly street. That was what Benyamin loved about Kurtulu\u015f: despite its graceless cement blocks and dodgy newcomers, it was the last interreligious neighborhood in Istanbul.<\/p>\n Sammy Alhadeff, sidestepping an Armenian woman\u2019s pavement display of illegally imported vodka and Russian sausage, said, \u201cIs the question theoretical or practical?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cPractical,\u201d said Benyamin.<\/p>\n \u201cIf it\u2019s really amor<\/em>,\u201d said Sammy, \u201cyou shouldn\u2019t be asking.\u201d<\/p>\n Just then a man standing outside a semi-basement shop \u2014 in a confidential tone more suited to a bordello keeper pushing his whores than to a merchant trying to unload made-in-China tops \u2014 murmured to Benyamin in Turkish: \u201cEverything on sale for ten liras.\u201d The advertisement unsettled Benyamin: it was almost as if the man had intimated that even amor would sell for ten liras. But of course, he didn\u2019t understand Ladino.<\/p>\n Benyamin shook off the false impression and asked, \u201cWhat would mama say if she were alive?\u201d<\/p>\n Sammy turned the thin wedding band on his right pinky. \u201cDeskoje mujer y vakas de tu civdad<\/em>.\u201d Choose a woman and cows from your city.<\/p>\n \u201cShe\u2019s from my city, but . . .\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cIn my opinion, Benya,\u201d Sammy continued, \u201cyou should be announcing rather than asking for permission. Love means sending everything to hell with one kick.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBut what would that make our children?\u201d<\/p>\n Sammy stopped short. An Iraqi refugee \u2014 judging from the cross around his neck and the Arabic he was speaking into his phone \u2014 walked straight into Sammy. That was the problem in Kurtulu\u015f Avenue. The sidewalks weren\u2019t even a tenth of the width necessary for the neighborhood\u2019s pedestrians, and everybody used the main avenue to avoid the steep up-and-down streets surrounding it.<\/p>\n When the Iraqi had passed, Sammy looked Benyamin in the eye and said, \u201cOur ancestors came to Istanbul from Galicia in 1492. We stayed Jewish even though plenty of others converted. We gave you your grandfather\u2019s name instead of a modern Turkish one, and we taught you Ladino even though everybody else stopped speaking it decades ago. But only you can decide what\u2019s right for you. Haberes buenos<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n Good news. But did his father use the expression to confirm good news or to ward off bad news? That was the problem with haberes buenos<\/em>: it could be used for both.<\/p>\n Chloe\u2019s mother, Madame Eva, was another matter. During the week, Chloe was not allowed on dates with Benyamin. Madame Eva ostensibly knew he spent some weekends in her yal\u0131, while she was absent at their summer house in Burgazada or traveling in Europe; during the week, however, she did everything in her power to keep the lovers apart. Nevertheless, Benyamin was determined. In freezing rain and snow, he had made the trip from Kurtulu\u015f to Tarabya on his motorcycle \u2014 a BMW R65 older than he was \u2014 only to spend three minutes with Chloe beneath Nurbanu Han\u0131m\u2019s plane tree. Could he have had an accident? Or gotten frost bite while waiting for her late at night, in the heart of winter, when her mother delayed going to bed or tried to prevent Chloe from going to the minimarket for a magazine? Of course, he could have. But Benyamin didn\u2019t even think about that.<\/p>\n One evening after graduation, while he was lying in bed with Chloe, he said the thing that he\u2019d been avoiding for months: \u201cIt\u2019s because I\u2019m Jewish, isn\u2019t it? That\u2019s why your mother doesn\u2019t want to meet me.\u201d He spoke in Turkish, their common language.<\/p>\n \u201cNo,\u201d said Chloe.<\/p>\n He nuzzled his face in her hair, which always smelled of sweet printing ink due to her habit of falling asleep with her head on an open book. \u201cRums fear assimilation, just like Jews. It\u2019s understandable that your mother doesn\u2019t want you to marry outside your community. She\u2019s afraid you\u2019ll lose your identity, your history.\u201d<\/p>\n Chloe\u2019s eyes half closed. \u201cIt\u2019s because of numbers. My mother evaluates mathematically.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m 180cm,\u201d said Benyamin, frustrated that Chloe was falling asleep. \u201cAnd at least 17cm \u2014\u201d<\/p>\n Chloe\u2019s eyes flashed open. \u201cSalary, not size, Benya!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cBut if she met me, then maybe . . .\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI love you because you\u2019re a normal man. She doesn\u2019t get that. It\u2019s not personal.\u201d<\/p>\n Benyamin rolled onto his back. Staring at the ceiling\u2019s elaborate woodwork, he said, \u201cCircumstances aren\u2019t in our favor. One day you\u2019ll leave me.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cGive me your hand,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n He did. She sat up and jabbed her nails into his skin. Her middle, ring, and pinky nails left red marks. Her index nail left a half moon of blood. \u201cThat wound will remain,\u201d she said, \u201creminding you of what you said. If we\u2019re together, I\u2019ll remind you myself.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n <\/p>\n Benyamin eventually did meet Madame Eva by accident \u2014 or at least that\u2019s what it was meant to look like \u2014 after he and Chloe had been dating for a full year. Eva returned to Tarabya unexpectedly on a Sunday morning in early October 2016, while Chloe was playing the B\u00f6sendorfer in preparation for a teaching interview. Benyamin was sitting beside Chloe, watching her pale hands dance over the yellowing keys: just from looking at them you could tell that she was a book and music person. Nobody who spent any time outdoors could have hands that white.<\/p>\n A warm breeze rushed into the yal\u0131\u2019s piano room. Because no furniture blocked their path, the curtains billowed like sails. That, he realized, was what it meant to be wealthy: one had enough space to dedicate an entire room to a piano. In Benyamin\u2019s dim family flat in Kurtulu\u015f, they pulled desks and sofas and tables as close as possible to the high windows with views of cement walls and satellite dishes. In Chloe\u2019s piano room, one had windows to waste: three facing the water, one side-window looking up toward the Black Sea, another looking down toward the Sea of Marmara. Benyamin had even spotted dolphins \u2014 a whole school of them \u2014 from that window. Perhaps they\u2019d come to listen to Chloe.<\/p>\n A shadow obscured the sunlight flooding the room. Red fingernails tapped the piano\u2019s round shoulder. Benyamin\u2019s eyes travelled up the thick forearm, over the loose tricep, exposed shoulder and leathery neck to an expressionless face that he recognized from the photos in the living room \u2014 Madame Eva. She carried a folding chair, wooden and inlaid with mother-of-pearl.<\/p>\n Chloe stopped playing mid-piece. She never did that. Benyamin called her his pit bull because she couldn\u2019t let go of her music until she reached the proper end. \u201cIn summer,\u201d said Madame Eva, her voice as melodious and clear as the B\u00f6sendorfer\u2019s, \u201cthe Black Sea dolphins come all the way to Tarabya, but no further. They\u2019re afraid of the lower Bosporus.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ve seen them,\u201d said Benyamin, standing.<\/p>\n Eva set up her chair by the window. \u201cI\u2019ve counted three just this year.\u201d<\/p>\n He approached her and extended his hand. \u201cBenyamin Alhadeff. Pleased to\u2014\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI know.\u201d Eva dropped his hand as quickly as she took it. \u201cHave you gone swimming here?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cNo.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cYou should. The salt doesn\u2019t burn your eyes, as it does in the Aegean. But the currents can be dangerous. Sometimes up to four knots.\u201d Eva crossed one bare ankle over the other. Benyamin thought he could see sand on her tennis shoes. Chloe, who, just minutes ago, had been inhaling hypnotically at the music rests and exhaling just after the onsets, now seemed to be holding her breath. Eva opened her arms. \u201cCome, yavri<\/em>.\u201d Chloe was twenty-four, but her mother still used the Turkish pet name yavri, baby.<\/p>\n Chloe crossed the room and sat on her mother\u2019s lap. Eva sang the slow, tender beginning of a Rum folk song about a vest sewn with bitterness and trouble. She widened her eyes and then, with a strength that Benyamin did not expect from her chubby legs, bounced her daughter to the playful refrain about scolding the vest\u2019s wearer \u2014 either a child or a lover \u2014 and afterward repenting. Chloe laughed like a toddler. Benyamin hadn\u2019t suspected that she would be just as tender with her mother as she was with him.<\/p>\n Eva planted her lips on her daughter\u2019s head and inhaled. Benyamin wondered what Chloe\u2019s hair smelled like to her. Did she identify the printing ink? Or only the lavender shampoo with which she herself stocked Chloe\u2019s shower?<\/p>\n \u201cI need to get your lunch ready for tomorrow, yavri. And pick out your dress for tonight.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cTonight?\u201d said Chloe.<\/p>\n \u201cI didn\u2019t tell you?\u201d said Eva, switching from Turkish to Greek.<\/p>\n Having spent hundreds of hours playing ball with his Rum friends, as well as endless afternoons sitting at their cramped kitchen tables beneath Blessed Mother icons, ever-burning oil lamps, photographs of dead forebearers, and bunches of dried flowers tied to gas pipes, Benyamin understood the language even though he didn\u2019t speak it.<\/p>\n Eva continued: \u201cThe Athenian banker is taking you out.\u201d She set Chloe on her feet and proceeded to the door without inviting Benyamin to tea, without saying that she was pleased to meet him, without even looking him in the eye.<\/p>\n Staring at the empty folding chair, he whispered to Chloe, \u201cAre you going?\u201d<\/p>\n She ran her fingertips over her name, which had been engraved into the gold-painted music stand. \u201cIt\u2019s just to placate mama. Nothing more.\u201d<\/p>\n The following February, after an intense altercation with her mother over her \u201csuperficiality\u201d (that is, her attachment to Benyamin), Chloe called and asked him to meet her on the quay. He immediately turned off his laptop, hopped on his motorcycle, and sped to their favorite seaside bench in Tarabya; after all, it was a chilly, overcast day, and he didn\u2019t want Chloe catching cold. As soon as he arrived, he tried to calm her, but she didn\u2019t want comforting. They went for a walk along the Bosporus instead. When Chloe tired, they perched themselves on the edge of the quay. Across the strait were some of the last rolling green hills of the Asian side. In ten years, they, too, would probably be built up and covered with concrete.<\/p>\n \u201cThe B\u00f6sendorfer was made for a wealthy Jewish family in Budapest,\u201d Chloe said.<\/p>\n Benyamin felt a sharp pain in his throat, as if he\u2019d swallowed a fishhook. Was the announcement her way of forcing him to end things? Did she want him to reject the unacceptable and thereby spare her further confrontation with Madame Eva?<\/p>\n \u201cSo the B\u00f6sendorfer is Holocaust spoils?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cAbsolutely not. My grandmother\u2019s family bought it for her in 1931, when she was a baby. I just wanted you to know its history . . . my<\/em> history. The B\u00f6sendorfer is a part of me.\u201d<\/p>\n Benyamin exhaled. The piano had nothing to do with the Shoah. Furthermore, Chloe wasn\u2019t trying to cast him off. \u201cThat\u2019s a relief, because I wouldn\u2019t have been able to…\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWhat?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019m glad it was never mixed up in anything.\u201d A passing ship blew its low horn. The seagulls screeched in reply. Chloe said nothing. Realizing it would be best to steer the conversation elsewhere, Benyamin said, \u201cWasn\u2019t it presumptuous of your grandmother\u2019s family to buy her a piano when she was just a baby? What if she didn\u2019t want to play?\u201d<\/p>\n Chloe stared at him as if he were speaking Chinese. \u201cAll girls learned piano.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMy grandmothers didn\u2019t.\u201d He realized what he\u2019d said as soon as it was out of his mouth. His maternal grandmother had been a seamstress. His paternal grandmother had given birth to her first child at the age of seventeen. Piano playing was a luxury.<\/p>\n \u201cAll girls from houses<\/em>,\u201d Chloe said.<\/p>\n \u201cAnd my grandmothers were from stables?\u201d<\/p>\n Chloe flinched. It felt, for a second, as if a tanker ship with a broken rudder or a drunken captain had crashed straight into a bicentenarian yal\u0131, as too often happened on the Bosporus. \u201cI didn\u2019t mean that<\/em>,\u201d she said.<\/p>\n He put his finger to her lips. \u201cI know you didn\u2019t.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cMy parents will have left by now. Let\u2019s go.\u201d She stood, brushed dried sea weed and dust from her trousers and coat, and led him back toward the yal\u0131. A stray dog \u2014 half Kangal and half Shepherd \u2014 struggled to its feet and followed them. That always happened with Chloe. Even the strays wanted to claim her. At the mansion\u2019s gate she caressed the dog\u2019s ears, called him can\u0131m<\/em>, Turkish for \u201cmy soul,\u201d and passed inside the yard without looking back.<\/p>\n They went straight to the piano room. She retook her seat at the B\u00f6sendorfer and began playing a slow and graceful piece that Benyamin had never heard before. It seemed to him, even before she revealed the name of the piece, that the music expressed not only her desire, but also her power to limit and conceal. He stood in his usual place, behind the B\u00f6sendorfer\u2019s tail, legs spread, arms folded across his chest, declaring with his stance that he was determined to wait her out. \u201cTitle?\u201d he asked.<\/p>\n Chloe played all the way to the end, which finished with a left-hand solo, just as it had begun. Without raising her eyes from the keys, she said, \u201cSecret Engagements<\/em>.\u201d<\/p>\n In April 2017, Benyamin landed a job at Ne\u015fama\u00a0News<\/em>, Istanbul\u2019s Jewish newspaper. The extra money \u2014 combined with what he already earned from pizza delivery, as well as Chloe\u2019s salary as a piano teacher in an upscale conservatory \u2014 made it possible for them to think about living together. He tried to show her a few internet rental advertisements as they sat on the piano bench one Sunday. She looked at the photos on his phone while playing the introduction to one of her favorite pieces. Benyamin had the impression that she was both drawing him near and simultaneously prolonging the pauses, turning them into voids through which he might accidentally slip. Her left hand rose to join the right. Her pupils dilated. The piece\u2019s tone changed from inquisitive to tense. Her hands began running, chasing each other. Her breath shortened. The tiny, chicken-like bones beneath her transparent skin and blue veins rose and fell as if they, too, were part of the instrument. The pads of her fingers slipped along the keys from top to bottom, sputtered between them, played deeply.<\/p>\n He had read that an American anesthesiologist and a British physicist had discovered the location of the soul: the microtubules of our brain cells. The Ancient Egyptians, on the other hand, had thought the soul could be found in the heart, whereas Leonardo da Vinci believed the soul resided in the center of the head. Da Vinci had even dissected a corpse to prove his theory. Watching Chloe play, Benyamin believed that he grasped what had escaped da Vinci, the Egyptians, and modern scientists alike: the soul couldn\u2019t be found in the mind, nor in the heart, nor in some invisible aura or microtubules, but in the hands.<\/p>\n At the most intense moment of the chase, Chloe raised her wrists, bringing the piece to a seemingly premature finish. Her eyes \u2014 owlish green with a brown limbal ring \u2014 were always more beautiful when she sat at the piano. She said, \u201cAnd the B\u00f6sendorfer?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWe\u2019ll take her with us.\u201d<\/p>\n The Bosporus turned a muddy pond color beneath the clouds riding in on the back of the Etesians. The winds also carried pine pollen, which was the cause of the annoying surging in Benyamin\u2019s nose. Chloe reached into her pocket, took a tissue for herself, and handed the packet to him. They said in unison, \u201cThree, two, one.\u201d Then they blew as hard and as noisily as they could.<\/p>\n \u201cWinner!\u201d said Benyamin, holding up his hands in victory.<\/p>\n \u201cI give in,\u201d said Chloe.<\/p>\n \u201cI was obviously louder. Way more snot.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI mean I\u2019ll move out of the house.\u201d<\/p>\n It was the best thing he\u2019d ever heard. Better, even, than I love you. It meant that Chloe\u2019s mother\u2019s efforts to arrange a match with a wealthy Athenian, or the son of a Rum council president, or the nephew of an archbishop were to come to an end. It meant that Chloe had finally decided not just to love him, but to claim him.<\/p>\n Benyamin picked up her hand and held it to his nose: the sandalwood oil that she wore had merged with the B\u00f6sendorfer\u2019s spruce. Benyamin recalled the Orthodox rabbi who had arrived from Toronto a decade before. Istanbul\u2019s liberal Jewish community \u2014 Benyamin included \u2014 had trouble digesting the rabbi\u2019s hands-at-sides bow to women. But every time Benyamin touched Chloe\u2019s hands, his understanding of the rabbi grew: handshaking could be an almost amatory act.<\/p>\n Chloe tried to pull her hand away. \u201cWe just blew our noses.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019d dry my face with a towel you\u2019d used on dirty feet,\u201d said Benyamin. He put her fingers into his mouth one by one, sucking from base to knuckle to fingernail. She shivered. He lifted her off the piano bench and set her down beside one of the massive hexagonal legs, on the Ushak carpet, which was surely worth more than he would make in five years as a newspaper columnist.<\/p>\n Standing outside the yal\u0131 on moving day, Benyamin took a deep breath: the Bosporus smelled more sharply than usual, probably because of the Emiliania huxleyi<\/em>. He\u2019d read that the plankton was a coccolithopore: a seed that bore rock. Apparently, the mosaic cages of microscopic calcium carbonate plates enclosing the single-celled organism were not only responsible for the Bosporus\u2019s unusual color, but, as the plankton lived and died in millions, the same plates would settle on the strait\u2019s floor and form rocks above the shipwrecks, rubbish, and bits of yal\u0131 mansions destroyed by renegade cargo vessels.<\/p>\n The crane\u2019s hoist line tightened and began to reel in, pulling the piano up. Benyamin would have liked to be with Chloe, comforting her while she watched Old Lady B\u00f6sendorfer dancing on corde lisse. But Chloe would be down soon enough. He\u2019d take her into his arms. The piano would be placed safely in the truck, and they would start their life together.<\/p>\n The yellow straps rose above the balcony railing, followed by the piano\u2019s tail, covered in padded blankets. The crane hoisted higher and higher, first to clear the railings, then the gutters. The main hoist rotated again, ever so slowly, flying the B\u00f6sendorfer between Chloe\u2019s mansion and the neighbor\u2019s to reduce damages in case of accident. Finally, the telescope retracted. The piano had made half its exodus.<\/p>\n The movers, each carrying a swaddled piano leg, descended the mansion\u2019s front steps. Chloe pushed past them to Benyamin. She wrapped her arms around his neck, planted her wet cheek against his. He kissed her tears. They were saltier than the Bosporus. If he and Chloe were to have a snot-blowing competition now, she would win.<\/p>\n \u201cThe hardest part is done,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n \u201cIt\u2019s not that.\u201d She pushed out her lips. Her expression was childish, imploring. He knew that look. She was asking for a solution. Benyamin pulled away. Chloe turned toward the mansion. Sandwiched between the sheer curtains and the window above the main door stood Madame Eva. Perhaps she was counting dolphins. Or deciding where to throw her poison.<\/p>\n \u201cYou can visit her whenever you want,\u201d said Benyamin.<\/p>\n Chloe covered her eyes with her hands. \u201cShe won\u2019t let me.\u201d<\/p>\n He again looked up at the window. Now Madame Eva was staring straight at him. He thought he could make out a sneer, an expression that said, I win<\/em>.<\/p>\n \u201cShe threatened you,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n Chloe remained silent. He could have solved any problem but this one. Why was she telling him now? Couldn\u2019t she have waited until they had moved the piano into the new flat? If she was telling him now<\/em>, then … he embraced Chloe as tightly as he could without hurting her.<\/p>\n She said, her voice muffled in his chest, \u201cEvery romance has an expiration date.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cWho would dare put an expiration date on love?\u201d he said.<\/p>\n Chloe didn\u2019t reply. This had to be the reason her father was always \u201cworking.\u201d Eva\u2019s maternal devotion left no place for him. No place for anyone.<\/p>\n \u201cStop!\u201d Benyamin yelled to the crane operator. He jogged to the hoist, waving both hands overhead like malfunctioning windshield wipers.<\/p>\n The machine paused. The operator poked his head out of the window. \u201cWhat happened?\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cStop,\u201d he said.<\/p>\n \u201cBut it\u2019s going well.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cI need a minute.\u201d<\/p>\n Benyamin sat on the slate stones surrounding Nurbanu Han\u0131m\u2019s plane tree. He\u2019d faced Chloe\u2019s hesitation before. The first time they\u2019d been intimate: it had taken all night because she had been so afraid of the pain. He didn\u2019t want to force her. They had held each other, cried together, grasped at each other, slipped away, returned, until finally, exhausted, he decided to spare them both the frustration of defeat. Benyamin remembered his father\u2019s words. \u201cIf it\u2019s really love, you shouldn\u2019t be asking. You should be announcing<\/em>.\u201d He saw the calcium carbonate cages of the Emiliania huxleyi<\/em> falling to the Bosporus floor, the anchovies devouring as many as they could.<\/p>\n Chloe sat beside him. He sensed that she was looking into his eyes, but he avoided her gaze. She reached for his hand. He pulled it away, stood, and called out, \u201cPut it back!\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cExcuse me?\u201d returned the crane operator.<\/p>\n \u201cI\u2019ll pay what we agreed. Have them set it up exactly as it was.\u201d<\/p>\n \u201cShe changed her idea?\u201d<\/p>\n Benyamin held his right hand to the sunlight peeking through the plane tree\u2019s leaves. The pink half-moon scar was still there, a year after she\u2019d carved it into his hand. In his head, he heard his father say haberes buenos<\/em>. Out loud, Benyamin said to the crane operator, \u201cNo. I <\/em>changed my mind.\u201d<\/p>\n <\/p>\n","protected":false},"excerpt":{"rendered":" Nektaria Anastasiadou weaves a rich tale of thwarted love between Sephardic and Rum residents of Istanbul.<\/p>\n","protected":false},"author":135,"featured_media":4668,"comment_status":"open","ping_status":"open","sticky":false,"template":"","format":"standard","meta":{"_acf_changed":false,"site-sidebar-layout":"default","site-content-layout":"","ast-site-content-layout":"default","site-content-style":"default","site-sidebar-style":"default","ast-global-header-display":"","ast-banner-title-visibility":"","ast-main-header-display":"","ast-hfb-above-header-display":"","ast-hfb-below-header-display":"","ast-hfb-mobile-header-display":"","site-post-title":"","ast-breadcrumbs-content":"","ast-featured-img":"","footer-sml-layout":"","theme-transparent-header-meta":"","adv-header-id-meta":"","stick-header-meta":"","header-above-stick-meta":"","header-main-stick-meta":"","header-below-stick-meta":"","astra-migrate-meta-layouts":"default","ast-page-background-enabled":"default","ast-page-background-meta":{"desktop":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-5)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"tablet":{"background-color":"","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"mobile":{"background-color":"","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""}},"ast-content-background-meta":{"desktop":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-4)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"tablet":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-4)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""},"mobile":{"background-color":"var(--ast-global-color-4)","background-image":"","background-repeat":"repeat","background-position":"center center","background-size":"auto","background-attachment":"scroll","background-type":"","background-media":"","overlay-type":"","overlay-color":"","overlay-opacity":"","overlay-gradient":""}},"footnotes":""},"categories":[16,24,62,50],"tags":[410,758,920,946,1539],"article-category":[],"article-type":[],"coauthors":[2075],"class_list":["post-4666","post","type-post","status-publish","format-standard","has-post-thumbnail","hentry","category-fiction","category-review","category-tmr-13-origins","category-tmr-issues","tag-christian","tag-greek-orthodox","tag-istanbul","tag-jewish","tag-sephardim"],"acf":[],"yoast_head":"\n
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