On one such Sunday morning, a couple of weeks after her most recent lunch with Catherine at Kafe 6 in Cihangir, Kristin was hunched over the handlebars of the stationary bike. Twenty-three kilometers into the forty-kilometer bike leg, her cadence held strong but lagged enough to take her off pace for any personal record. Throughout the preceding swim, her mind had looped over the end of that meal, specifically Catherine’s disconcerting insistence on paying her half of the bill. The gesture was no small refusal. Kristin understood that Catherine was beyond her control. How to solve this liability was the problem she focused on as she pedaled.
Her legs pumped, holding at slightly above one hundred rotations per minute, and the entire bike had begun to purr. Steady, single droplets of sweat migrated from her forehead and then gathered on the tip of her nose. She counted them as they fell to the floor and concentrated on her breath, which punctuated her thoughts. Inhale. She suspected that she had, perhaps, played herself to a standstill. Exhale. That if Catherine was dead set on leaving her husband, there was nothing Kristin could do. Inhale. Except for manage the fallout. Exhale. She glanced down at the odometer, 120 rotations per minute. She needed to slow down, or risk burning out her legs.
Her breathing evened out. The task set before her became clear. If Murat remained in his job and continued his work for her, then everything would be fine. This much was obvious. This was all that mattered. To achieve this result, Kristin needed Peter to stay in Istanbul so that Catherine wouldn’t have anyone to run off with. That meant giving Peter something. The grant Kristin had arranged from the consulate had been insufficient. It had allowed him to stay in the city, but it had afforded him none of the recognition he craved. Kristin knew she would have to make a more active intervention in Peter’s career if she was to convince him not to decamp to the U.S. She would have to facilitate the success that had eluded him. Catherine had spoken to Deniz about arranging a show for Peter at the Istanbul Modern, but she had been refused. And now Deniz had been fired from his post at the museum after his arrest at Gezi Park. This offered Kristin an opportunity, because all of this could be fixed, at least she could fix matters for Deniz. Kristin could simply instruct Murat to rehire him. And then, owing his job to Murat, Deniz would be more than willing to show Peter’s work at the Modern.
A sense of contentment took hold of Kristin. By giving Peter what he wanted, both she and Murat would receive what they wanted. Kristin glanced down at the odometer. The glimmering red digital display hovered above one hundred rotations. Kristin felt satisfied that she was on pace, maybe not for a personal record but for a respectable time. She allowed her mind to go blank. For the next half an hour or so she continued to pedal, head down, oblivious to anything except the three digits an arm’s length from her face, which, without too much struggle, she managed to keep above one hundred.
After forty kilometers, she leapt off the bike. Her running shoes were staged next to a treadmill in the opposite corner of the gym, which was still empty. She slid them on. More than the swim or the bike, the run was the portion of the race where she lost herself. On the treadmill there was no odometer she was trying to rev to a certain level, no number of laps she was counting and struggling to complete in a certain time. On the treadmill, she set the pace into the computer and then she ran. The motor on the machine would take over. She would try not to fall off the back. The swim and the bike set her up for this final struggle, one where all of her efforts concentrated on just holding on.
She inputted her pace and then pressed start. The belt on the treadmill engaged, lurching forward. The motor accelerated, releasing a high-pitched whine. Her steps landed in quick succession, sounding wild as native drums, the rhythm of which ferried her away into a pain-induced trance. Her thoughts returned to Catherine and the solution she believed she had found. Deniz was the linchpin that would hold both Peter and Murat in place, but what satisfaction existed for Catherine in this arrangement? Would she be content to carry on as Peter’s mistress?
Kristin could feel herself slipping toward the back of the treadmill. A stitch clawed into her side, slightly beneath the ribs. She rolled her shoulders. She breathed deeply, attempting to relax.
For Peter and Murat—and even for Deniz—she had come up with a solution that would maintain the status quo, in effect suspending them in a construct created by her. Kristin could see how each of their interests might balance the others’. Murat would return Deniz’s job. Deniz would exhibit Peter’s photographs. Peter would secure Murat’s personal life by not running off with Catherine.
What about Catherine?
The stitch in Kristin’s side threatened to spread. Her muscles cramped in a form of contagious hysteria. Instead of focusing on her breathing, or rolling her shoulders again, Kristin turned her energies to the unsolved problem before her. How would she convince Catherine to stay? Her love for Peter—if that’s what it was—wouldn’t be enough. It would quickly erode in a construct where Peter remained in Istanbul for his best interests as opposed to hers.
Kristin made the mistake of glancing down at the treadmill’s screen. The remaining time seemed like an impossibility. She could no longer hang on. Her hand reflexively wanted to lift from her side and dial down the speed. But whatever short-term relief this might have provided would be far less than the frustration she would feel at quitting. She refocused and, once again, turned her attention to the problem of Catherine, not only so she might solve it but also so she might lose track of time through its contemplation.
If Catherine’s love for Peter was conditional, Kristin knew that Catherine’s love of William was not. And if this was so, it was William who could keep Catherine in place. He was the key. Kristin recalled a piece of paper on her desk: the name and address listed for William’s birth mother. The Central Authority had registered this information. A single claim made by William’s birth mother to the local authorities not only would be enough to forestall the boy’s departure from the country but could go as far as threatening the legitimacy of his adoption. Catherine was, after all, a foreigner. Would the threat of William’s birth mother be enough to hold Catherine in place? Kristin suspected so, and as she came to this conclusion, she felt the stitch in her side dissipate. She had been running as though guarding a wound. Without that liability, she straightened up. Her gait lengthened. Her movements became fluid. For moments at a time she had the sensation of hovering as she ran.
When she again glanced at the display, she noticed more time had passed than she had expected. If she dialed up the speed slightly, she would be on track for a personal best. She hazarded to do so. The new pace didn’t challenge her as she thought it might. The sensation of hovering endured. She heard the door open behind her. Glancing over her shoulder, she saw a young man, still in his twenties, a gym towel, which he clutched at both ends, slung behind his neck. He was a new consular officer who had arrived only a few weeks before. He wished Kristen a good morning. She replied with little more than a nod and a grunt, not wanting to waste her breath as she closed in on the finish.