When the boy feels that she is losing balance, he grabs her by the elbow, and with his steady grip she manages to hold her feet. They swing down a quiet side street, which apart from a few shuttered kiosks, has little to recommend it. The apartment building they come to is not much wider than the door.
After pressing the buzzer, a window opens several floors above. A man knocks his head down into a stiffening night and cries down to them with a loud but powerful voice, like air through a steel hole. Then he blows them an invisible kiss and shoots it with an open palm. William's mother raises her face to that kiss and then blows back.
The street smells bitterly of scents that the boy does not yet recognize, and it is filled with glasses of fluorescent lights and suspicious patches of moisture on the curb and even the blocking walls. The summer goes off and William's shoulders open the door.
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Inside, someone hammered a plank over the elevator. It has been there long enough for the nail heads to rest. They climb several floors where the brown paint scales from the brick. The empty apartment building meets them with a stir of scattered rats and the staircase smells as bitter as the street.
A kiss with detachable locks receives her mother knocking on the apartment door, and then the same man who had appeared in the window faces the garbage. His gaze is level with the attached chain, and his eyes are beautiful and spacious, as if there were hidden, well-spaced rooms in them. The honey-colored light from inside the apartment shines on his skin. His eyebrows are like two black spots. William notices the plucked bridge between them, and also his rectangular smile with the brilliant white teeth.
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The man is unusually handsome, and William feels drawn to him, as if he can't completely resolve himself to ignore. The chain then loosens half a dozen men and women with broad shoulder spills over the apartment's threshold, pushes against William's mother, kisses her on the cheek and welcomes her. When they kiss William on the cheek, the hard, glancing trace of the men's stubble scratches against his fresh skin. The women begin to refrain from "Great to see you, cat," and as they escort her in, they constantly say "amazing" over and over in their guttural voices as if that superlative is the last word in a spell that will transform them into the people they want to be.
A blue haze of cigarette smoke squeezes the ceiling.
A poster advertising this exhibit is attached to the living room, next to a white hard hat that appears as a trophy. It's a portrait Peter shot of one of the women.
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She was photographed shirtless from the shoulders up, her mascara running down her cheeks, her lip split, a little zig-zag bag over her forehead, and her wig — a tight bob symmetrical like a rocket helmet — missing a few hairs. That summer, protests had shaken the city and closed it for weeks. Hundreds of thousands had squared with the authorities. Williams' dominant memories of these incidents are not the television images of the rebel police lobbing environmental activists who thwarted a new mall at Taksim Square Gezi Park — 74 acres of neglected lawns with a cross of dusty concrete roads shaded by dying trees — or even the way so many everyday people surprised sign up to the ranks of the protesters, but instead, William remembers his father once at their apartment on his cellphone, without being able to drive into the office because of the many blocked streets when he negotiated a building agreement at another mall above the whole city.
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By the time the protests were complete, the city's long-persecuted queer community had assumed its vanguard. This caused a columnist, a friend of Peter's, to observe, "Among those who fought for their rights at the police barricades in Gezi Park, were the toughest 'men' and the transgender women.
On the poster, even though she is beaten, the subject's eyes hold a certain, jarring trace, as if she can read the words beneath her: The men from Gezi, an exhibition. When William's mother wanders into the apartment, she is not separated from the others and blends perfectly into this crowd. Catherine and William have arrived at Peter's exhibition just in time, that is, they have arrived early. The apartment belongs to Deniz, the one who had appeared in the window to let them in. His date, who takes their coats, is a college-aged girl with a pageboy haircut.
She is as beautiful as Deniz is handsome. Her mouth is lipstick gently, and with it she offers Catherine and William a thin smile before retreating to the couch, where she stares absorbed at her phone. Soon others arrive, and Deniz comes and goes from a small galley kitchen outside the living room, where his guests pick up the food he is elegantly laid out on the thinnest budgets. Their assigned names confirm their identity, but in this political climate also serves the dual purpose of noms de guerre. Why so many of them had chosen the same names, he couldn't say.
What seemed most important was that they had chosen. The mother makes him a small plate and puts him in a chair by the window.
As William picks for dinner, the fragrant and beautiful crowd swarms around her and says Cat it and Cat this. Taking her son here, without her father's permission, so she can be called a cat instead of Catherine, which is what everyone else calls her, allows her to Gezi's men. She has made a choice, just as they have done.
After losing his mother from sight, William removes the game Simon from his pocket. He sits at the window and plays. Soon everyone has arrived and the apartment is getting too hot. Deniz goes where William sits and opens the window. William looks up from his game. His eyes are drawn to Deniz's muscular arms, rounded shoulders, how strong he is. A hint of breeze passes. Deniz bursts a door in a corner of the window and whispers inside, "Our guests are here. Then a man's voice answers, "Yes, okay," and Deniz closes the door and returns to meddle in the crowd, where William has lost his mother.
Whatever this night is about, just outside the door exists, so William stands from the chair by the window. Carefully he turns the knob. The hinges open evenly, with no trace of noise. Inside it is light: white walls, white floor and ceiling. The room has been transformed into a shiny cube. The smell of fresh paint hangs heavily around Peter, who stands in the center of the room, the back of the door, surrounded by the portraits.
William steps behind him and looks at. Photo: Huger Foote Peter has almost hung the exhibition. A couple of pictures lean against each leg. They are printed in the same dimensions as the other portraits, by, and the finishes are a monochromatic black and white matte. In front of him a single empty nail protrudes from the wall.
He combs his fingers through the long brown curls, which he often teases in a globe as he concentrates. He cranes his neck forward, as if trying to bend to a normal height, which bends him in the form of a question mark. He has pulled his glasses on the bridge of the nose and his alternating eyes are sinking into their lenses and changing over them.
None of this seems to help Peter resolve the decision he is breaking.