Letter From a Stranger

by Barbara Taylor Bradford

  Now she settled on Justine. She was well aware her granddaughter’s inquisitiveness was based on nothing more than a need to know about her younger days because of Justine’s love and pride in her. The child she had helped to bring up had always tried to emulate her, and had worked hard at school to please her, and there was a special bond between them.

  Tony, Justine’s father, had often laughed and said, ‘Justine wants to know the backend of everything,’ and she knew this was true. There had never been any hidden reason for the girl’s constant questions, just that enormous curiosity about everything.

  Gabriele sat for a long time staring into space, letting her thoughts drift, remembering things about Trent, her auntie Beryl and uncle Jock, and their times together. Beryl had been a conduit to her past; her mother had been Beryl’s sister, and she loved to talk about her beloved Stella. And uncle Jock had been like a father to her.

  Her mind went on turning and turning. Then quite unexpectedly the solution to her problem came to her. It made her sit up straighter in the chair with a jolt. She experienced a sudden clarity of vision so acute she knew exactly what she must do. She had the solution. Excitement swept through her.

  Pushing herself to her feet, she hurried down the stairs, intent on talking to Anita. Almost running through the small sheltered courtyard to the other yali, she felt as if a great weight had been lifted from her shoulders.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Anita was sitting on Gabriele’s terrace, studying a floor plan, when Justine returned an hour later. She looked up when she saw her approaching, smiling, displaying her happiness.

  ‘There you are, darling. Michael get off all right, did he?’

  ‘Yes, Anita.’ Justine hurried over, and gave her a hug, then sat down in the chair next to her. In a rush of words, she went on, ‘Once we arrived at the Çiragan Palace, we went to find the car and driver Kuri had booked, and within minutes Michael was off to the airport. He wouldn’t let me go with him.’

  ‘No, he wouldn’t. He’s never liked goodbyes. I suspect he was very nonchalant when he left, wasn’t he?’

  ‘He was. He said, “So long, see ya,” and gave me a quick kiss and was gone.’

  ‘That’s the way he is, and you’ll get used to it.’

  ‘I’m used to it now, I think. I understand him, and I do love him, Anita.’

  ‘It’s apparent, and I can see that he feels the same way about you.’

  Justine settled back in the chair, looking reflective. After a second or two, she said, ‘Michael told me that my grandmother saved your life when you were both young girls. He said you would tell me the whole story.’

  After her chat with Gabriele only a short while ago, Anita was now well prepared. ‘So he explained to me, before he left. But Gabriele would prefer to tell you about it herself, and she plans to do that tomorrow morning. This afternoon she has a meeting about her Tulipmania fabric line, and I thought you and I could do the interview for your film. You know, chat about my life here, and my thoughts about the city. That would be a good moment, Justine, because tomorrow afternoon your grandmother and I have to go to Bodrum. We’re decorating a beach house there for clients. Would you like to come with us?’

  ‘I’d love to see Bodrum, but I can’t do it, Anita. I made a tentative date with Iffet to go over the newspaper advertisement with her, so that I can finish my rough draft. You’re not upset that I can’t go, are you?’

  ‘Of course not, and Gabri won’t be either. We know you’re staying until Richard comes, so we’re relaxed. When is he going to arrive, by the way?’

  ‘He’s almost finished the hotel installation, and I hope he’ll give me a proper date when we speak later today.’ Standing up, Justine said, ‘I’ll just go and get my recorder and notebook. Perhaps we could start now, before lunch?’

  ‘That’s a good idea.’

  ‘Where’s Gran?’

  ‘She went to her studio to find some fabric samples.’ Anita patted the floor plan, and added, ‘For this part of the villa in Bodrum.’

  Justine nodded. ‘See you in a minute,’ she said and dashed away.

  Anita looked after her retreating figure, thinking how wonderful it was to be young. Anita was old now. Nonetheless, she didn’t feel it, and that was all that mattered.

  Justine returned within a few minutes, and settled herself in a chair opposite Anita. ‘I know you must have been interviewed a zillion times, but I just need to explain that I don’t do the regular kind of interview for my documentaries. I’m a little bit …well, let’s say different, innovative. I like to get impressions from people, how they really feel about things on that level. Is that all right with you, Anita?’

  ‘It’s fine. Let’s start, shall we?’

  ‘Okay, I’m all set. I want to get some impressions of Istanbul from you. For instance, when you’re away, not here, and you think of Istanbul, what comes into your mind?’

  Anita didn’t really have to think about this. Immediately, she said, ‘Sounds and smells.’

  ‘I’m assuming you mean the sounds and smells of the city, not your home?’

  ‘That’s right. The most striking sounds for me are the hooting of the ferries crossing the Bosphorus, and the squawking of the seagulls in the very early morning… they make a lot of noise, those birds.’ Anita shook her head, amusement suddenly flickering in her dark eyes. ‘And then there are the cats, caterwauling. They seem to become very vocal in March, on the prowl, meowing and crying from dawn until dusk. Nonstop. We’ve also got a lot of barking dogs, and they usually start their racket the instant the calls to prayer begin. I’m talking about the calls of the muezzins from the balconies of the mosques. And here’s another thought, a memory that often comes back when I’m out of town. When I walk along Istiklal Street there’s the sound of music. That’s because there are music shops on that street. I hear all kinds of music – Kurdish and Armenian songs, Turkish pop and folk music… I have always enjoyed being on that street.’

  ‘So it’s not all cats and dogs kicking up a fuss,’ Justine said, smiling at her.

  ‘No, not at all. And as far as smells are concerned, there are so many. My goodness, how can I explain them all? The gardens here at the yalis, obviously. The fragrance of the flowers mingled with the fresh salty air suffuses the atmosphere, as you know. Sometimes I smell the fish in my head, and instantly I think of how much I love the sea. And my mouth waters because I immediately associate the sea and fish with the liquorice taste of raki which, as you’ve learned, we usually drink with fish dishes.’

  ‘What do you feel about the cigarette smoke? I’ve noticed that Istanbul is a city full of smokers. Does it bother you?’

  ‘A little bit,’ Anita replied. ‘But there’s nothing I can do about that. And there’re worse smells. Exhaust from trucks, buses and age-old cars for example. And the garbage when it’s a hot day. You really have to follow your nose to get the good smells of the city, Justine. Turkish coffee sending big whiffs of caffeine, the tempting smells of fresh food from bakeries and “home”-style restaurants. If you walk into any good bakery you’ll notice hints of almond, pistachios, fresh baklava and bread. Such delicious smells. Then, when I go to the Grand Bazaar, I always head to the shop where the fragrant oils are sold. I get dizzy when I’m there, but it’s a nice kind of dizziness, darling. I must take you next week. I will buy you Bulgarian rose oil – nothing like it in the world. And it’s to put on your body, not in the bath.’

  ‘What do you mean?’ Justine asked, frowning, her eyes puzzled. ‘Do you mean you rub it on your body?’

  ‘Exactly that.’ Anita smiled. ‘Just a few dabs here and there, though, not gallons of it, or you’ll smell like a Chinese whorehouse.’

  Justine burst out laughing. She loved some of the outrageous things Anita came out with, so bluntly, and without really caring what people thought. ‘I’ll remember to do that, just a drop, Anita. Now, to move in a different direction, when did you come to live in the city?’


  ‘Oh my goodness, I’ve lived here most of my life, except for the times I spent in England with Maxwell, my first husband as you’re aware. And the love of my life. And he was English, as no doubt you know.’

  ‘So how old were you when you came to live in Istanbul?’

  ‘Fourteen, almost fifteen. I came with my brother Mark. My mother was already living here,’ Anita responded. ‘She was widowed, and came to stay with her sister Leonie, who was also a widow, and who had fallen ill. My mother couldn’t really leave her so she brought us here to be with her. Then war broke out, and it was impossible to travel, so we remained in Istanbul after Aunt Leonie died. I went to school and college here.’

  ‘Did you live on this side of the Bosphorus or the European side?’

  ‘Oh, the European side, Justine! I’ll take you there next week and show you where I grew up. It’s called Beyoglu. It’s on a steep hill north of the Golden Horn, and it has been home to the city’s foreign residents forever… at least for centuries, anyway, and believe me it hasn’t changed much. From about the sixteenth century, the great European countries opened embassies in this area, and there are also many historic buildings: mosques, churches, synagogues. Oh, and the very famous Pera Palas Hotel. Now that was a place, and then some, I can tell you.’ Anita threw her a knowing look and rolled her eyes.

  ‘What kind of place?’ Justine asked. ‘Come on, tell me, you’ve got such a naughty look on your face.’

  Anita chuckled, and shook her head. ‘I’m not suggesting it was a naughty hotel. It was a superb hotel, and everyone stayed there, from film stars to foreign dignitaries, and even Agatha Christie, the English writer, was a resident at times. It was chic, and during the war the hotel was full of spies, gigolos, crooks, lotharios, diplomats, prostitutes and refugees. The world and his wife were there. In the bar, the lobby, the restaurant.’

  Sitting back in her chair, Anita paused for a moment, and then said, ‘Istanbul was a city of intrigue during the Second World War. Turkey was a neutral country, and the likes of dispossessed royalty and riff-raff from every country gathered here…’ She cut herself off, and was thoughtful for a moment before asking, ‘Did you ever see that old movie, Casablanca?’

  ‘Of course! It’s famous, and one of my all-time favourites. Very romantic, and oh boy, Ingrid Bergman was gorgeous,’ Justine replied. ‘Are you trying to tell me that Istanbul was like Casablanca in those days?’

  ‘Exactly. It was intriguing, dangerous, fascinating.’

  ‘I can just imagine.’

  ‘Mind you, Justine, I wasn’t old enough to enjoy all that.’

  ‘All that what?’ Gabriele asked, walking onto the terrace, and coming to join them.

  ‘The excitement of going to the Pera Palace, having cocktails there and mingling with all the dangerous people,’ Anita answered with a twinkle in her eye. ‘My brother sometimes went with his male friends, but I wasn’t old enough. And when I was the right age, in my early twenties, the war was over and everything changed.’

  Gabriele looked amused as she sat down next to Justine. She said to her granddaughter, ‘Suna is making one of your favourite things for lunch: goujons of sole.’

  ‘Oh Gran, how wonderful! Pearl tries to make it, and so do I, but neither of us cook it exactly like you do, and it’s never right.’

  ‘Very hot fat in the pan,’ Gabriele said. ‘That’s the secret. I’m glad Pearl and Tita are well, and incidentally, I spent part of this morning looking at the photographs of Indian Ridge. I noticed my old gazebo is still standing! Also, the green-slate roof on the gallery is stunning. It links all the buildings together so well. Richard is very talented. I can’t wait to see him and meet Daisy.’

  TWENTY-NINE

  The three women walked across the terrace and into Gabriele’s dining room. It was of medium size, with white-painted walls and a blue-and-white tiled floor, and this colour scheme was repeated throughout.

  As they seated themselves at the round table, with a starched white linen cloth and blue-and-white china, Justine said, ‘When I was wondering how I was going to find you, Gran, I remembered all the blue-and-white tiles you used at your apartment in New York, and I decided I’d go to all the tile makers here to ask if they knew you.’

  Anita laughed, and so did Gabriele, and it was Anita who said, ‘And most of them know us. But we have our own ceramic company, you know. My great-nephew Ken runs it.’

  At this moment Ayce came in carrying a tray of plates which she placed on a sideboard. She took a plate of salad to each of them, returned with a sauceboat of vinaigrette dressing, and put it on the table. With a smile she disappeared.

  Gabriele said, ‘This is another of your favourites, darling. Endive with orange segments, chopped apple and walnuts.’

  ‘I know it is,’ Justine replied. ‘You used to say it was your version of the famous Waldorf salad.’

  ‘My goodness, you do remember a lot.’ Gabriele sounded surprised.

  ‘I remember everything,’ she answered.

  Justine sat back in the chair, gazing at her grandmother, her face filled with love. ‘You used to say I had a photographic memory, and it’s true, I do. And there isn’t anything I don’t remember about my childhood with you, Gran – you made it so special when you came to stay with us.’

  Gabriele blinked back sudden tears, lowered her head and pushed her fork into the salad. For a moment she couldn’t speak, so moved was she by Justine’s words. Again she thought of the long estrangement created by Deborah… all the years she had missed out on sharing her grandchildren’s lives. It had been so unnecessary, a cruel act on her daughter’s part. She pushed away the sad thoughts. Justine was here now, and Richard would come shortly, and that was all that mattered. They were reunited at last.

  The three of them concentrated on their food, and once they had finished their first course, Ayce served the fried fish, which came with green peas and French fries. ‘Just the way I like them!’ Justine looked across at her grandmother. ‘And it seems you remember everything, too.’

  ‘I do. That’s what’s kept me going all these years. My memories of you and Richard, and of your father. And Trent, of course.’

  It was over coffee that Justine suddenly said, ‘It doesn’t seem possible that I’m madly in love with Michael. It’s Monday today, and I met him only last Friday. That’s about seventy-two hours ago. It’s all been so fast, it’s mind boggling.’

  Gabriele did not respond. A thoughtful look crossed her face, and after a moment she said slowly, in the softest of voices, ‘Some people might think it fast, but Anita and I know that a coup de foudre always is fast – a flash of lightning striking. That’s exactly what happened to you and Michael.’

  Anita nodded her agreement. ‘That’s right, it is.’ She gave Justine a loving smile, and murmured, ‘Remember, I told you that it was the same for me. Maxwell and I took one look at each other, and we were goners.’

  Justine nodded, liking Anita for being such a good sport, so accessible and outgoing, and truly genuine. Her absolute honesty was refreshing.

  Gabriele turned to her granddaughter, reached out and touched her arm lightly. ‘Other things can happen much faster, Justine. A much-wanted baby can be born and then die in an instant. A volcano can erupt and bury a city in minutes. So can a tsunami, a tornado, a hurricane. They destroy everything before them, and terrifyingly so, before people even have time to catch their breath.’

  Gabriele paused, shaking her head, and after a moment continued, ‘A person can have a stroke and die before hitting the floor, get knocked down and killed instantly by a car or catch a stray bullet. All in the passing of a moment in time. Disasters happen inexplicably, move fast and strike without rhyme or reason. Never forget that the world is catastrophic. In the blink of an eye a life can change. As yours has this weekend. It will never be the same again. You met the right man in the right place at the right time. You’ve been one of the lucky ones, Justine. You’ve been blessed…’

&
nbsp; Later that afternoon Gabriele went off to her meeting and Anita and Justine returned to the terrace, to talk about Istanbul for the documentary.

  ‘How did you meet your first husband? I’d love to hear about that,’ Justine said, turning on her recorder.

  ‘Ah yes, the love of my life. My marvellous Maxwell, and the father of my only child, Cornelia.’ Anita seemed to ruminate for a few moments, and then she began to speak.

  ‘As I told you, I came here in 1938. My brother Mark was twenty-two. Although we came because our mother was living here, nursing her sister, there was another reason. Aunt Leonie’s husband had just died and left her his company. This had been in his family for fifty years or so, and because of his death it was being run by a cousin of his. But this man was getting on in years, and although he ran it well, he wanted and needed help. The idea was that Mark should enter the business. There was no one else really, and they wanted to keep it in the family. Mark was clever, and he learned fast. He really enjoyed his work. He had studied accountancy, was business-oriented, and so he ran the company for the rest of his life.’

  ‘And this is the ceramic business you referred to at lunch?’ Justine asked.

  ‘That’s correct. I did most of the designing when I was young. We used these designs, as well as the copies of the Iznik tiles. Because I was so involved with the company, and worked full time, Mark made me his partner, and I worked alongside him for years. Anyway, getting back to Maxwell, I met him through my brother.’

  ‘In Istanbul or in London?’

  ‘Oh not London, no. Maxwell was living here. Mark dealt with an English import-export company called Lowe’s of London. It was world famous and, in 1948, the second son of the family that owned the company, Maxwell Lowe, came to live and work in Turkey. He took over the Istanbul branch of Lowe’s of London so that his elder brother Sam could return to London, once Maxwell had the hang of things. This switch was made so that their father Ben could retire, and Sam would run the head office.’