A Summer Lie on Cunda

The sun was directly overhead as the ferry drew in to Cunda, the smell of the sea heavy with salt. Deniz gripped her canvas bag and stepped onto the pier; the gulls wheeled above her head as if they were welcoming her exactly as she had left them a year ago. The stone streets, the whitewashed walls, the strings of tomatoes drying in doorways: everything was in its place. But when she walked into the house, Zehra's face was not.

Her grandmother was sitting at the head of the kitchen table, an open envelope in front of her. Deniz asked before she had even sat down.

“What's happened, Gran?”

“Sit down, my girl,” said Zehra, her voice wearier than ever. “We couldn't pay the debt to Mr. Sansal. They've come about the house. They want the deed.”

Something inside Deniz emptied out all at once. This house had been built from stones her grandfather had carried with his own hands; every room held a memory of some summer. At the name Necati Sansal, her fists clenched of their own accord; she remembered the man's gold watch, his rigid bearing, the way he weighed everyone like a piece of property.

The news had already reached the market. The women gathered in the square, the old men sitting outside the shops, all of them were looking at her, with pity, with curiosity. Deniz could not bear those looks a moment longer. Without thinking how enormous the words were, she said them.

“I'm engaged to Mr. Sansal's son, Kerem.”

The square fell silent at once, and then one of the women cried out with joy. The news spread like a spark; no one had ever seen Kerem, but now everyone knew his name. Pelin came running through the crowd, her eyes shining.

“You? And Kerem Sansal? Deniz, you never told me a thing!”

Deniz tried to smile, but she was trembling inside. The words had left her mouth, and there was no taking them back now. But what would happen when this man, whose name was going around the village on everyone's tongue, actually set foot on Cunda?

The next day, toward noon, a small tour boat pulled up to the pier. Deniz stood in front of Pelin's café, forgetting the glass in her hand, studying the passengers as they came off, one by one. Then a man stepped out, his hair tousled by the salt air, a camera strap over his arm, his forearms sun-browned. The moment he set foot on the pier, Rıza the village head ran up, shook his hand, clapped him on the back.

“Welcome, son! The blessing of your family has come!”

The man looked around, bewildered.

“What blessing? I've only come to see my father's house.”

“Come now, haven't you heard about your engagement? May you and Deniz Ege be happy, God willing!”

Deniz's heart felt ready to leap out of her chest. She set the glass down on Pelin's counter, ran over, caught the man by the arm and, before anyone could see, pulled him behind the olive oil factory. They stood in the shade of the old stone press. The man had drawn his brows together and was staring at her.

“Who are you, and what's going on here?”

Deniz drew a deep breath. Then she told him everything: the house, the debt, her grandmother, the words that had slipped out of her in the square. Her voice shook as she spoke, but she did not look away from his eyes.

“So you don't even know me,” said the man. There was no anger in his voice; it sounded more like amusement.

“I don't. But two days. Just two days, and then we'll find some excuse and part ways, and no one will be hurt.”

The man was silent for a while, his eyes moving over her face. Then he laughed softly, with a laugh she had never seen before.

“My name's Kerem,” he said. “I know my father wants to sell this house. Maybe your lie will suit me fine.”

Something inside Deniz eased, but at the same moment something else tightened: the look in the man's eyes, as though he had known her for a long time.

As they walked toward the village, neither of them spoke. Their feet kept the same rhythm on the stone street, their arms side by side without touching. The shadows of the olive trees slid across them.

This man doesn't know me at all, Deniz thought. So why do I feel so at peace beside him?

Tables had been set up all along the quay, laden with olive-oil greens, charred aubergine, hot bread from Pelin's oven. Lanterns swayed above the sea, and voices blended into one another. Sitting beside Kerem, Deniz did not know where to put her hand; under the table, for a moment, her fingers brushed his, and she pulled them away at once.

Kerem smiled and leaned in, lowering his voice.

“Don't be so tense,” he said. “It's only a dinner.”

“For you, maybe,” said Deniz. “For me it's my home.”

Kerem's eyes lit up as if he wanted to say something, but just then he could not finish his sentence. It had been that way between them for days: sentences begun and never finished, glances left half-made.

As the clinking of glasses rose, a car stopped at the end of the pier. Necati Sansal got out; even his white shirt looked too immaculate for this scene. By the time he reached them, the laughter at the tables had died away.

“When does this theater end?” he said, his voice calm, every word a threat. “Son, you met this girl three days ago. And you—” he turned to Deniz “you're playing games to save your house.”

The villagers glanced at one another. Zehra's hands gripped the table tightly.

“Let me say it in front of everyone, so you can all rest easy,” Necati went on. “This engagement is a sham. And that house will be sold tomorrow.”

Kerem stood up. His voice did not shake.

“It was a sham, Dad,” he said. “Not anymore.”

As everyone watched him, he continued.

“You look at a house, a signature. I look at her.” He gestured toward Deniz, then turned to his father. “You've spent your whole life writing people into a ledger of debts. I don't want to be that kind of man.”

Necati's jaw tightened, but not a single word came out of his mouth.

On the quay, for the first time, he was the one who fell silent.

Without understanding how her heart could beat so fast, Deniz reached out and took Kerem's hand, and this time not under the table, but in front of everyone.

In the morning, before the sun had fully settled on the stones, Necati came to the house. He held a white folder in his hand; his shirt was pressed as always, but his face looked different, as if he had not slept at all that night and had spent it in long conversation with himself.

When Zehra opened the door, he handed over the folder without a word. Then, before anyone could expect it, he took the papers in both hands and tore them in two. The sound was strangely loud in the stillness of the morning.

“Let the house stay with you,” he said. His voice was hoarse, with a gentleness in it he was not used to. “The debt is finished. Let this matter never be opened again.”

Deniz's eyes filled, but she did not cry. Zehra only nodded, then held out her hand to Necati, a handshake the villagers witnessed but that no one was surprised by. Kerem stood a little way back, watching his father; in his gaze there was no anger, only the relief of someone who sees that something he has long waited for has finally come.

Toward noon the ferry's bell rang, the same sounds rose from the pier, the fishermen gathered their nets in the same spot, Pelin left the door of her café open as always. The island returned to itself as if it had never lived through last night's storm.

Toward evening, Deniz and Kerem sat down on the old stone steps of the house. Deniz's head rested on Kerem's shoulder as naturally as breathing, the first time not because no one was watching, but because she wanted them to see.

When the sun touched the water, Kerem did not even take the camera out of his pocket. He only reached out and took Deniz's hand; this time it was neither part of a lie nor a performance.

“It's real now,” said Deniz, her voice low.

“It was always going to be real,” said Kerem, smiling. “We just said it a little early.”

Deniz laughed and lifted her head to look at the sea. The fear inside her had melted away, with nowhere left to settle.

The sun went down, the island darkened, the lights came on. The house was still there, and this time it needed no lie at all.