Whenever we come to Istanbul, we ensure that our first meal of the day is the balık ekmek sold from the restaurants located on the boats tied up at the quay. These boats, decorated with golden trimmings and intricately detailed figureheads also painted gold, pitch either gently or roughly depending on the weather. The servers who sport jaunty red hats seem to have sea legs and maintain a steady flow of conversation with the customers they serve. The only thing on their menu is the balık ekmek, which is a fish sandwich composed of freshly caught grilled mackerel and vegetables, and a beverage made from the salted and spiced juice of pickled carrots.

We cast an illusion of safety and feast, laughing at Taraana’s delight, the taste of the sea, the hum of the magic, and the freedom, false though it may be, to enjoy all of it.

From the Book of MEMORIES

KAMBOJA

CITY OF ORIGIN: JAKARTA

I was a part-time friend

a full-time girl and a glass

half full. Open-toed stilettos and the whisper

of city pavement. I was that journey

of orange rinds and too-rich chocolate in dark, musky

hotel rooms. I was a five-minute love; scheduled between

the featured program and the sponsored commercials.

Words and trickery; I was a book waiting to be read. I was

midnight and I was the last hour before dawn that stretches into

an insomniac eternity. One heartbeat to culmination and I

was the time back when nights used to be only about the dark.

Looking for the Needle in the Haystack

I.

By the time we get to our apartment on Istiklal Avenue, daylight has slipped away, taking with it the fair weather. The door to what we’ll call home here opens with a ping after Ligaya enters the passcode in the mechanical lock. The air inside is musty, so Talei walks over to the large windows in the central living room and opens them. We are on the third floor in one of the narrow buildings that line the avenue. Fresh air tinged with gentle rain wafts in.

The place is magically enhanced like our home in New Orleans and adjusts itself to meet our needs. Paheli throws herself down on a rug in the living room and stretches.

“I,” she announces, “am exhausted.”

“Here, I will lend you my lap,” Taraana says, in an unexpected moment of generosity.

“What?” Paheli sits up in alarm. “Why?” She doesn’t appear to appreciate it.

“So you can take a nap,” he says, almost as if he is entirely without guile.

Paheli stares at him for a full moment before she turns and looks at us, her face bewildered. Valentina is trying, unsuccessfully, to stifle her giggles at the look on Paheli’s face.

“Is he trying to flirt with me?” Paheli asks sotto voce.

We look at Taraana, who is looking confused.