Joana
By
Behcet Kaya 

          For three days Joana Miller remained quiet and attentive to her chores. She completed her grocery list with efficiency, dusted the house, swept the floors, finished countless loads of laundry; carefully folding her clothes and her husbands. She paid her bills on-line, went over telephone bills, balanced her checkbook and rechecked bank statements. She brushed Foo Foo, cleaned out his cat litter and disinfected it with her favorite air freshener. She rearranged all the books on the bookshelves and dusted again. She arranged her plants and flowers on the balcony, trimmed the rose bush and bougainvillea, swept the dirt that had spilled over from the pots and only then did she sit down and start one of her Sudoku puzzles. But soon she was back up again to do other chores, rearranging her closets and kitchen cabinets. Her husband, Metehun, thought this sudden proficiency quite unusual, but didn’t say anything.

          The loud sound of water running in the bathtub woke Metehun. Groggily he opened his eyes and noticed his wife busily arranging her uniform, carefully hung in the closet. She gathered her matching dark blue shoes, her belt and scarf and her pressed white blouse. Joana undressed, flipped the shower head on, lessening the roaring sound of water. She stepped in, letting the hot, steamy water pour over her. Metehun, now wide awake, laid in bed trying to figure out why Joana was taking a shower at four in the morning.

          As she stepped out of the bathtub, warm vapors of steam filled the bathroom and seeped out into the bedroom. Metehun watched her bare back through the crack in the open door. Joana wiped steam off the mirror and saw the reflection of her husband watching her. She came out of the bathroom and stood in front of him, combing her hair, hurried to the closet and back to the bathroom, standing again in front of the mirror. Metehun got up and entered the bathroom.

          “Honey, can I use the bathroom for a second?”

          “Sure. I didn’t know you were up.”

          She left the room and shouted, “Honey! If you are going to be long, can you use the other bathroom? I have to get dressed. I don’t want to be late for work!”

          Metehun walked out of the bathroom, staring at his wife.

          “Where is it?” Joana cried. “I must find it! Where is it?” She stood, clad only in her underwear, looking through her jewelry box. “Where is my ID card? I always keep it with my wedding rings, but it’s not here! I have been looking everywhere and I can’t find it! I’m going to be late for work and I am behind with my flights! I must find it!”

          She turned and looked into her husband’s eyes.

          “Come now…,” she said in a whimpering miserable tone. “Let me get to work. Please help me find my ID card.”

          Receiving no answer, she raked her hair with her fingers, disheveling her neat hairdo. She walked into the other bedroom and returned to find her husband sitting on the bed, speechless.

          “The least you can do is help me find it!” she implored with a dreadful cry. “Help me find my ID card. I can’t enter the building without my ID card. What is to become of us if I can’t get to my work? Who is going to pay our car insurance and health insurance?”

          Lost! Completely lost!

          “Honey, you are retired. You don’t have to go to work,” Metehun said in a soothing voice.

          But Joana did not hear him. She continued looking through her jewelry box.

          It was no use to reason with her, or try to restore her to her senses. Metehun came close and hugged her, taking her hand and leading her into the living room. Switching on the gas fireplace he led her over to the sofa, gently sitting her down by the fire with the promise that she would have her ID card soon, hoping the fire would somehow calm her. She sank back into the sofa, brooding over the flames and shed her tears. Joana had been retired for six weeks and all the travel, seeing places of interest, enjoying life and the golden years, all seemed like a momentary fancy,
a dream.

          In her professional life, Joana had been a very talented women, and had enjoyed her job working for a major airline, had enjoyed working with her colleagues. They all had one thing in common. They all loved what they did. They worked and lived their lives for their company, so much so, that one year all the employees got together on their own and collected enough funds to buy their airline a new jet. Joana had been with the company for over thirty-two years when the company decided to retire her against her wishes. Her husband and friends had persuaded her to accept the retirement and enjoy her life. Until now she had tried.

          For inspired artists and talented people like Joana, working was not just working, it was their entire life. During WWII, when the Germans dropped their bombs over London, the Royal Air force had talented engineers who would approach the live bombs and try to diffuse them before they exploded. Of course many lost their lives, but there were those who were persevered and continued to carry out their dangerous work. Those who survived and grew older were retired by the Royal Air force, but these engineers continued to show up at bomb sites perform their specialized tasks. They refused to retire, even though the stress wore them down.

          The air force handled the situation expertly by dropping bombs down into pits and other inaccessible places, then asking an old timer’s help. The engineer would squeeze himself into the tight spaces to locate the bomb. With every bend of his body and even with all his aches and pains, he felt that same mixture of excitement and fear. After successfully diffusing the bomb, he would find a note inside the structure, “Sorry old chap. Try again next time.” Bursting into laughter, the engineer would realize that he was no longer suited for the job, and finally would accept his retirement both mentally and physically.

          Then, there are the well known CEOs of major corporations. Some try to take extended time off for trips to Europe, or the Far East, only to find themselves back at work in two weeks time, commenting to their colleagues, “If you’ve seen one castle, you’ve seen them all.”

          Metehun stayed with his wife, hugging her tight until she finally dozed off. By then it was nearly seven-thirty. He decided to call Joana’s office and by luck connected with her ex-boss. Metehun explained the desperate situation and asked if there was anything that could be done. Joana’s boss came up with an idea to send a program by e-mail with real work, a group of flights that were loosing money and instructed Metehun to tell Joana she needed to work the flights as soon as possible.

          This was an area that suited Joana’s talents perfectly. Although, during her career, she had been offered management positions, she refused, preferring to remain humbly with the work she enjoyed most. She was one of a select few analysts who could successfully turn unprofitable routes into profitable ones. Year after year Joana had watched as the new hires, all with MBAs, came in to the department showing off all their statistical knowledge, and then were off to some other position. Management enticed them to stay, but to no avail. The few older employees who remained, like Joana, had started the department, and had became the most savvy of analysts. Unfortunately it was these most talented that the company decided to retire.

          When Metehun woke Joana and gave her the message from her ex-boss, she immediately returned to her fussing about getting dressed and finding her ID card.

          “Honey, you don’t have to go in to work. Your boss sent you an e-mail with a lot of work for you to do as soon as you can.”

          “Really?”

          “Yes. Really. Go take a look at your inbox.”

          With that, Joana sat down at her computer, read the e-mail and started moving flights here and there, fussing with this and that. She worked until noon then called her ex-boss, asking pertinent questions as if she had never really left her job.

          When Metehun went in to Joana suggesting a break for lunch, she looked up at him for an instant, but then returned to her computer. No amount of persuasion would extract a word from her. She worked on and on and on in silence, Metehun’s words falling on her as if a radio was on somewhere and she heard it without taking the sound in, like an
echoless wall.

          For Joana, the day passed quickly. She stopped only to use the bathroom, or go to the kitchen to fill her coffee mug. For Metehun, the day passed very slowly. He went out for several hours returning only to find Joana still at her computer. As the day wore on, his patience grew thin and he worried what was to become of his wife.

          The next day there was no change in her behavior, or the next day, or the next, or the next. By the end of the week Joana started typing her report, her fingers rushing across the computer keys sounding like an army of ants rushing across brittle cement, making their clacking sounds.

          On Sunday morning, Metehun awoke to find Joana sleeping soundly. He quietly slipped out of bed and left Joana to her sleep. As he was closing the bedroom door, Joana sleepily opened her eyes.

          “I’m so tired.”

          Metehun returned to the bed, sat down and kissed his wife.

          “Yes, I know you must be. You have been working for a week now.”

          They looked into each other’s eyes, but neither spoke.

          Later, Joana joined Metehun in the kitchen. He poured her coffee and prepared an omelet for them both. Metehun thought perhaps it was time to talk to Joana.

          “Dear, I would like to have your opinion on a matter of great concern. A friend of mine is going through a great deal of anxiety because of a situation thrown at her which she was not prepared for. She has had a relapse and it has been more than a week now, but she has begun to come out of it.”

          Joana listened attentively, but said nothing.

          “Dear, you understand things of this nature much better than I do. My concern is that in case this happens again, I would like to be prepared to handle it more effectively.”

          Metehun touched Joana’s arm gently. They looked into each other’s eyes and then Joana turned away.

          “How long?” she asked in a low voice.

          “It has been about eight days now.”

          “Yes. I see.” Joana replied, quite herself again. “You did the right thing, dear. You just leave me be and I’ll be fine. That reminds me, I need to send my report. All this work has worn me down and I think I should do some other things besides work.”

          With that, Metehun smiled and said, “What about that trip to Yosemite Park?”

Timeless Love
By
Behcet Kaya 

          The dream kept repeating. Night after night, the characters were the same; a man and three young women.

          The man was tall, with a big belly, small fat hands, dark hair, bushy eyebrows, double chin and deep set intelligent eyes. I knew who he was; a character I was developing in a novel I was currently writing.

          I recognized two of the young women. One was a secretary in Human Resources at the company where I worked. She was beautiful, tall and slender; any man’s fantasy date. The other was a petite woman who lived in my apartment complex and who always left her garage door open.

          I had not a clue as to the identity of the third young woman, but after so many nights of the dream repeating itself I could describe every detail about her. She was sitting on a bench looking out at me. Her eyes captivated me and I could not stop staring at her. She was a most beautiful young woman with a tiny waist and healthy bosom. Unlike young women of today who flaunt each detail of their bodies, this young woman hid hers and my imagination ran wild.

          She appeared to be around twenty, with rosy cheeks, full lips and a round nose most suited to the shape of her face. I could not distinguish the color of her eyes, but they were happy eyes. She was not smiling, yet she did not appear to be sad. Her hair was pulled back into a bun on the top of her head, but several tendrils had escaped and softly framed her face. She had some kind of ribbon in her hair, but I was sure it was not a bonnet.

          She wore a long white dress with delicate rows of beading sewn down the front from neckline to waist, then diverging down each side. The sleeves of the dress ended at her elbows and her slender hands rested in her lap. A wide white ribbon belt was tied around her waist, knotted on the side, the excess fabric hanging down. She wore a pearl choker around her neck and an ornate pocket watch pinned on the left shoulder of her dress. I have never seen such fashion except in the movie, “The Great Gatsby.” It was definitely early twentieth century and it was if she were frozen in time.

          The dreams started to bother me, but at the same time I did not want them to end. Who was this young woman? I felt as if I had known her for a very long time and sensed my growing attraction for her. I told my wife about the dreams, but left out the part about the mysterious young woman. How could I tell her? I needed to talk to someone, but the only other person I could think of was my friend in Florida and I knew he would only ridicule me. Not only that, he would tell all our other Turkish friends. Perhaps it was time to see a psychiatrist.

          One afternoon I sat out on our balcony ruminating on this dream business. I could hear the big black birds cawing, smaller birds chirping. I kept remembering what the young woman had said to me in the dreams, “You are dating a part of me.” What could she possibly have meant? I wasn’t dating anyone, I was happily married!

          I was searching my mind for clues when, from a distance, I began hearing the soft sounds of many violins, all playing different notes. As I listened the violin sounds seemed closer. I thought it might be coming from one of the houses across the way, perhaps someone practicing. I picked up my book and started to read.

          The sounds continued to grow louder and closer. I set my book aside and looked up to see what I thought must be a mirage; a grayish mist, whirling like a tornado coming towards me. I heard a low pitched noise then the sound of chimes mixed with the violins. I didn’t know what to think. I watched with great curiosity as the mirage came over the roofs of the houses and across the high wall separating our complex, then engulfed our balcony. I couldn’t move out of the way. I knew I was wide awake, but I was unable to move a muscle.

          I was scared. This was no longer funny or amusing. My wife was out shopping for groceries and I did not see anyone else around. The chimes and gentle roaring sound grew louder and louder and louder. I closed my eyes and wanted to put my hands over my ears, but I still could not move. Then the sounds faded and the mist evaporated.

          When I opened my eyes I found myself riding in a buggy. In front of me sat a driver with reins in his hands, clucking to four gray horses. I could clearly hear the creaking of the wooden wheels turning on the dirt road; clumps of hard baked dirt rising from under the horses’ hooves. The driver fidgeted in his seat. Appearing agitated, he picked up the whip and tapped the backs of the horses urging them into a gallop.

          We passed plowed fields, then gentle rolling hills.

          “Who are you? Where are you taking me?”

          The driver did not turn around, but answered loud enough to be heard above the galloping horses, “My mistress, gentle Lady Lindquist, has summoned me to take you safely to her.”

          I gazed around seeing only miles of open land with mountains in the distance. “Who is Lady Lindquist?”

          The driver spoke petulantly, “Sir, you will soon see her for yourself. We must hurry.” He applied the whip to the horses again, urging them on as if something or someone was chasing us.

          “This is a dream. Right?”

          “This is no dream, sir.”

          We drove for a while longer then came to a large river. The water was so clear I could see the rainbow of colored stones lying on the bottom. My driver stopped the horses to allow them a drink. Tall grasses grew along the banks and on the other side grew a thick forest with tall, majestic pine trees standing silent and proud, as if belonging to an aristocratic family. Beyond the forest I could see a mountain rising at least three miles high, carved in two by the river. Parts of the mountain were shear rock; other parts were shaded by more trees. I could see folks on the slopes, but they were so far away they looked like insects.

          Further along the river bank I noticed a grouping of small, primitive log houses and people gathered outside. There seemed to be some sort of a party going on with music and dancing, children imitating the adults. I didn’t see any musicians, but I heard the same sounds as when I was sitting on my balcony; the violins, the chimes, but with one difference. Now the sounds were not hurting my ears.

          Then I saw her. The young woman in my dreams was sitting on a bench. I found myself climbing out of the buggy and approaching her.

          “Thank God. It’s only the dreams again.”

          She looked up at me and spoke. “This is not a dream.” She moved over to make room for me to sit with her. “I have been waiting for you.”

          “How can you wait for me if this is only a dream?” I asked.

          She turned and looked into my eyes. “This is no dream. Here. Touch my hands. I am real. Don’t you see? They are looking for you and we must not be seen here together.” She stood up to go.

          “Please. Wait! Who is looking for me? Please, I need to talk to you!”

          “This is no dream,” she repeated. “Look around you.” She pointed her finger off in another direction.

          I looked to see soldiers firing cannons. They wore uniforms and helmets resembling those worn during World War I.

          “They are training to go to war,” she said sadly.

          “No. You are must be mistaken. I am sure they are filming a movie. Soldiers don’t look like that!”

          “If you don’t hurry, they will find you, send you to war and you will be killed. I will not let that happen again. We are to be married.”

          “I am quite flattered, but I am already married. And besides, soldiers use machine guns.”

          “I know all about your wife and your time, but now we must hurry.” She entwined her hand in mine and pulled me up. We crossed the river, then started climbing the slopes of the mountain toward a small cave. “You will be safe here.”

          Before I could think about it, I said, “I must kiss you. I think I am in love with you. To bad it is only a dream.”

          “It is no dream. Please don’t make me repeat myself.” She seemed irritated with me.

          I heard the music start again, grow louder and I could not move my body. “I must, at least, touch you! I feel helpless!”

          “I know,” she said. “That omnipotent music that takes you octillion light years away.” She began speaking in an old Swedish language.

          As the sound of the music came closer, she began fading away. Once again the woolly mist engulfed me. The sound grew louder and louder and louder until my ears hurt, then it too faded away. I opened my eyes, found myself sitting in my chair on the balcony and heard my wife knocking on the sliding door.

          She opened the door and walked out onto the balcony. “I didn’t see you there when I first came in.” She looked puzzled and as she came closer to me her face took on a look of concern. “Honey, you look like you have seen a ghost.”

          I realized I was breathing heavily and I felt a bit of spit on my chin.

          She asked again, “What is the matter?”

          “I don’t know,” I replied. “I think I may have had a stroke or something.”

          She turned to go back into the apartment. “I’m going to call 911!”

          “No!” I said vehemently.

          “Okay, but please don’t yell at me.” I knew she was trying to appease me.

          “No doctor, please. You might want to help me get up and go inside.”

          She held my arm and as we stepped into the living room, I froze. My eyes fixed directly on the picture hanging above our fireplace; a portrait of my wife’s grandmother as a young woman. I wanted to say something but I could not get the words out and I did not have the strength to stand. I collapsed on the sofa, my mouth open, my hand pointing to the picture.

          I must have passed out for moment. When I opened my eyes again, I saw my wife hovering over me, gently tapping my cheeks.

          “Please! Tell me what happened!”

          “If I tell you, you would never believe me,” was all I could say.