by P. J. Hoover
“How about twenty questions?” he says.
“What about it?” My eyes are closed, but sleep has yet to come.
“We can play it,” Ethan says.
“You’re kidding?”
“I’ll go first,” he says. Apparently he’s not kidding.
I let out a deep sigh, and give up the wonderful pipe dream I had about actually sleeping. “Fine,” I say. “Animal, Vegetable, or Mineral?”
Twenty questions turns out to be way more fun than I would have thought. I guess his choice of school bus and manage to stump him on armadillo.
“Armadillos are weird anyway,” Ethan says. “I’m not entirely sure that they really exist. They seem more like a myth, like the Chupacabra or something.”
“Of course they exist,” I say. “They’re descendants of the giant sloth.”
He scratches his head. “Yeah, those giant sloths are a bit sketchy, too. And how could something so little be descended from something so big anyway?”
“Haven’t you studied genetics?” I ask.
“Not much,” Ethan says. “Languages were more my thing.”
“But your parents … they’re geneticists like mine. I’m sure you guys talk about it at home.”
Ethan finishes the last of his Sprite (I insisted he not drink a Coke on the remote chance that he actually does fall asleep), and like magic, the flight attendant brings him a new one. From the way she hovers around him, I’m beginning to think that she has a crush on him. Maybe it’s his eyes. Or his smile. That’s probably it. His smile is pretty sweet, and he’s been flashing it at her every time she’s come over.
“Yeah, I’m not all that close to my parents,” Ethan says. “I mean I’m close to my mom. We talk sometimes. But my dad … we don’t talk much. Actually not like ever.”
“Why not?” I ask, and memories of the conversation I’d overheard with his dad come back to me. I don’t know Ethan very well, but he seemed like a different person while talking to his dad.
“He’s always so disappointed in me,” Ethan says. “It’s like no matter what I do, it’s never good enough. I think that’s what turned me off to genetics in the first place. I’d try to act like I was interested in it, but all it would do is make my dad angry. I always figured he would have preferred if Caden had lived and I was the one who got sick.”
My heart breaks a tiny bit in that moment as I picture Ethan as a young boy, growing up thinking that his dad wished he was dead.
“That can’t possibly be true.”
Ethan gives a small shrug. “It sure feels that way sometimes. But enough about that. I thought we were talking about giant sloths.”
“Right,” I say, not wanting to push him. I think the only reason he’s being so talkative is because he’s sleep deprived. “I can show you how they’re all related sometime. There’s a beautiful pattern that forms when you study animals and link them all together. It’s a work of art that makes you believe in a master plan while still being able to believe in evolution.”
“So you believe in evolution?” Ethan says.
“Of course,” I say.
“But what about this Code of Enoch?” Ethan says, whispering the name. “Don’t you believe in it?”
It’s my turn to pause. “I don’t know. It seems a little farfetched that the DNA code for the entire world is stored on some clay tablet. But my parents actually believed in it, and they’re scientists. Your parents believed in it, too. They believed so much that it changed all of their lives. And I’ll admit that I don’t know what we’re going to find when we get wherever we’re going. I have no clue. But I can’t let that stop me from trying.”
Ethan doesn’t say anything, and I think that maybe I’ve rambled on too much.
“Do you believe in it?” I ask.
“Maybe,” Ethan says. “Maybe not. But I do believe that if I look for it—if there’s a chance that I find it—my dad will never think I’m a loser again.”
“He doesn’t think you’re a loser,” I say.
“Yeah, he does,” Ethan says. “But it’s okay. I’ll show him that I’m not.”
I hate the dividing line this places between me and Ethan. I hate that I can never let him bring back the Code of Enoch if it does exist. But there’s nothing I can say right now that will change his mind, so I don’t say anything at all.
Ethan pulls a notebook from his backpack and begins to write letters. Symbols. The kind of thing Uncle Randall would do. I recognize some of them. Greek. Aramaic. Russian. Others look familiar, but I can’t quite place them. But I don’t interrupt Ethan to ask because based on the way he’s not talking, I’m guessing that our conversation is over. So instead, after watching him for another five minutes, I close my eyes and finally drift off to sleep.
I wake with my head on Ethan’s shoulder. God, I hope I wasn’t drooling. I sit up the second I realize what I’m doing.
“Sorry,” I say.
“For?”
“For falling asleep on you.”
“What about for the snoring? Are you sorry for that?” Ethan asks.
I roll my eyes. “I don’t snore.”
“How would you know? You’re the one sleeping.”
“Did you sleep at all?” I ask, hoping that he’s lying about the snoring. He’s gotten through half the blank pages in the journal and still seems to be going strong. In addition, there are a bunch of papers in front of him that I’m sure Uncle Randall gave him. Symbols and words that make my head hurt.
“No,” Ethan says. “But your uncle gave me some stuff to study. It’s actually really cool. Like all the symbols on the Deluge Segment are so close to others that I already know and yet different. It’s got to be the most amazing archaeological find ever.”
Genetics may not be his thing, but linguistics certainly is. I bet he and Uncle Randall could talk endlessly for days about it. Maybe he should have sat next to Uncle Randall during the flight.
The flight attendant is going around opening window screens, letting in the light. We’ve flown through the evening and into a brand new day.
Once we’re off the plane and through customs, Uncle Randall hires a driver named Mert, and though Mert speaks English about as well as Sonic, my hedgehog, does, Uncle Randall speaks fifteen different languages fluently and has no problem communicating with him. They spend about ten minutes in an animated discussion while Ethan and I stand there looking stupid. What I really want is a cup of coffee, and like magic, the airport has a Starbucks.
Ethan takes his credit card out to pay for his coffee, but I pull his hand back. “Won’t your parents know where you are if you charge something?”
He continues to hand it over to the barista. “It’s not like they’re going to check my charges.”
I pull his hand back again. “I don’t care. You can’t use it.”
“I’m not letting you pay for everything for me,” Ethan says.
“Yeah, you are.” I attempt to confiscate the credit card, but Ethan pulls it out of my reach.
“Fine. I won’t use it.” He shoves it back in his wallet. “But my parents aren’t going to be checking up on me. I told my mom I’d call if I could but that cell service might suck.”
“You have to let me know if you call home,” I say.
“Why?”
Okay, fine. I’m not his babysitter. But still …
“Knowing will just make me feel better,” I say.
“No promises,” Ethan says.
I don’t push it.
By the time we get back from coffee, Uncle Randall and the driver, Mert, have come to some kind of agreement. I’m guessing much cash was passed to Mert because he has a giant smile on his face and nods incessantly. He grabs all three of our duffle bags and leads us outside and to a black van where he throws our bags into the back and opens the door. Once we’re all set, Mert pulls out onto the streets of downtown Istanbul.
CHAPTER 15
OF ALL THE PLACES I’VE TRAVELED, I’VE NEVER BEEN TO I
STANBUL. THE city is the perfect mix of ancient and modern, with skyscrapers next to neighborhood cafés. I take a picture of the Hagia Sophia as we pass it and text it to Lucas. He’d go crazy in a place like this with all the art.
“The city was founded in 660 BCE,” I tell Ethan because I stayed up a lot of the night before reading about it. He sits in the far back while Uncle Randall and I are in the middle seats.
“Maybe the official city of Byzantium,” Ethan says. “But did you know they found relics here dating back to the seventh millennium BCE?”
I guess I wasn’t the only one who stayed up reading about it.
“Wait, really?” I turn to Uncle Randall. “Is he right?”
Uncle Randall nods. “Deluge period artifacts. That’s why we’re here.”
“You think the starting point could be right here in Istanbul?” I say. Uncle Randall had been kind of vague about why exactly we were coming to Turkey, only that it was to consult with an expert. I have no clue who that expert might be. As far as I know, no one else in the world knows about the Deluge Segment.
“Possibly,” Uncle Randall says. “The fact that so many of the flood theories stem from this region can’t be a coincidence. But that’s what we’re here to find out.”
When I actually think about how long ago the Deluge really was, it blows my mind. They suspect that hundreds more species of mammals alone used to be alive back then. That over the last twelve thousand years, we’ve lost them. We’ve lost too many. And every day, new species are being threatened. I wonder, just wonder, if we do find this Code of Enoch, if I could use it to bring some of those species back. It would be an amazing leap forward for endangered species.
No, we can’t do that, even though it would fall in line with everything I believe in. But that’s not what this trip is about. The Code itself is not important. My parents are what’s important. And yet the more I think about this Code of Enoch, the more I think about its possibilities, I’m tempted at everything that it could do. And if I’m having thoughts about the potential the Code could offer, so is Ethan. So is Uncle Randall. And so is anyone else who might be looking for it, like Amino Corp. We can’t let them find it first.
Mert drives us to a hotel near the outskirts of town. With our money, I have no clue why Uncle Randall would pick this place. Unlike the modern awesomeness of so much of Istanbul, there are rat droppings near the front door, half the windows are missing at least one shutter, and graffiti has been sprayed on the sidewalk out front.
“What’s it say?” I ask.
“‘The ground has ears?’” Ethan translates, but he sounds unsure of himself and looks to Uncle Randall for confirmation.
“It’s a way of warning caution,” Uncle Randall says. “Be careful what you say. Anyone could be listening. It’s an idiom.”
“I didn’t know you spoke Turkish,” I say to Ethan.
“I’m learning,” Ethan says. “Mostly self-taught online. But I didn’t get to idioms yet.”
Uncle Randall says something to him slowly, I’m guessing in Turkish, that I don’t understand, and Ethan answers, and then the two of them laugh. I almost ask what they said, but I decide not to give them the satisfaction of knowing I want to know.
We check in to the hotel, and Uncle Randall says he wants to get some sleep. I don’t buy it for a second. The minute I close the door to my hotel room, I crack it back open and peek out. Sure enough, he goes into his hotel room, drops his bag off, and leaves. I give it enough space so that he won’t see me, and then I tiptoe out of my room and follow him.
Uncle Randall goes down to the lobby where he talks with the guy behind the desk who points toward the side of the hotel lobby opposite the stairs. Uncle Randall nods and then heads in that direction, walks into the hotel restaurant, and sits at the second table from the back on the right.
My phone buzzes. I curse under my breath and silence it. It’s a response text from Lucas from the pictures I sent him. He also asks what’s going on. But I can’t answer because just then someone walks over and sits down at the table with Uncle Randall.
It’s hard to see the person’s face because they have a wide scarf covering most of their head, but it is abundantly clear from the way the person walks and the shape of their hips that it’s a woman. They don’t do the familiar Turkish greeting of kisses on the sides of the cheeks or even a handshake. Uncle Randall doesn’t even stand up. The woman wears jeans, a long sleeved black shirt that looks like it might be made of leather, and tall black boots.
I’m not close enough to hear what they’re saying, but I don’t want to move closer and risk Uncle Randall seeing me. For all I know, they could be speaking Turkish. They talk for a bit, back and forth. The woman acts upset for a moment, but then Uncle Randall says something that seems to calm her down. What calms her down even more is when Uncle Randall pulls out an envelope that he opens just enough for her to see what’s inside. Based on the size and thickness, and the fact that this completely looks like some kind of black-market trade, I’m guessing it’s a wad of money. The woman doesn’t pull the contents out, but she does feel the thickness between her fingers. She nods and tucks the envelope away in her bag, pulling out instead a wrapped package.
She slides it over to Uncle Randall who lifts back the covering just a small amount, so he can see what’s inside. If only I’d thought to position myself behind him where I could see, too.
That seems to be the end of their deal. The woman starts to stand up, but before she does, Uncle Randall reaches out and takes her hand in a way that looks completely endearing. Words pass between them that I can’t hear, and then she gently pulls her hand away. She adjusts the scarf so even more of her face and head are covered and leaves the restaurant.
What was that all about? My head spins with the possibilities.
Uncle Randall scoops the package off the table, tucks it under his arms and walks out. I press myself behind the dying palm trees so he won’t see me, and only when he’s up the stairs and out of sight, do I dare to return to my room. It’s only then that I return Lucas’s text.
All fine here. Arrived in turkey. Lots of cool architecture. What’s up there?
I have the thing you gave me safe. Thanks for the pics. I’m worried about you, Lucas texts.
Nothing to worry about. And thanks, I text back.
There’s a long pause where Lucas doesn’t type anything. It’s late at night in Boston. I can’t actually believe he’s still awake.
Finally he texts back. Stay safe, Hannah. I don’t trust Ethan.
It’ll be fine. He’s not so bad, I text.
Lucas doesn’t respond. I wait five minutes, then ten, and then the urge to take a nap gets the better of me, and I give in to it.
CHAPTER 16
I WAKE TO THE SOUND OF POUNDING ON MY HOTEL ROOM DOOR. SUN streams through the slotted windows, creating lined shadows across everything in the room. From the angle of the shadows, it seems that I’ve slept late into the morning.
I stumble over and open the door. Uncle Randall and Ethan stand there, fully showered, dressed, and ready for the day. They’re dressed like twins, both in jeans and dark green T-shirts, almost like there is some dress code I am totally unaware of. And in case I thought for a moment that they didn’t make the trip, Ethan’s got his familiar work boots on, laced around his ankles.
“What time is it?” I ask.
“Eleven,” Ethan says. “We already had breakfast.”
“And we have an appointment at noon,” Uncle Randall says. “So you’ll need to hurry.”
I nod and close the door and dig through my bag, pulling out one of the two extra pairs of jeans I’ve brought on the trip. Once we figure out where we’re going, we can find an outfitter to get us everything and anything we might need. I run a hair-brush through my hair and pull it together into my two ponytails, fish out a blue and white striped knit cap, shove my feet in my running shoes, and I’m ready for the day.
I meet Uncle Randall and Ethan
in the lobby. They’re laughing and talking in some other language, but they stop the second I walk up.
“What were you guys talking about?” I ask.
“Ethan thought it would take you an hour to get ready,” Uncle Randall says. “I was trying to explain to him that you never take more than ten minutes.”
It’s so unlike me, but I am hit with the overwhelming urge to smooth my hair and make sure it’s in place. I lick my lips, wishing that I’d thought to bring along lip gloss. Maybe I should give more thought to my appearance. For the first time, I wonder if Ethan has a girlfriend, or possibly someone he’d like to be his girlfriend. I haven’t thought to ask, but then again we haven’t had much opportunity to talk.
I cross my arms, daring Ethan to say something.
“Nice hat,” he says.
“Nice boots,” I say.
“I’m glad you like them.”
“When you weren’t wearing them before, I figured you donated them to some homeless person.”
“There is no way I will ever donate these boots,” Ethan says.
“That’s because no respectable donation place would take them,” I say.
“Hannah …,” Uncle Randall says.
“I’m kidding. Anyway, what’s for breakfast? I’m starving.”
Uncle Randall hands over a plate with a scone that looks like it has bits of cranberries in it. At this point, it could have pickles, and I’d still eat it. With the flight and as much as I’ve slept, I’m going on fifteen hours with no food.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “It’s veggie. I asked.”
I take the scone happily, break off a giant piece, and shove it in my mouth. At this point I don’t care that it looks undignified.
Mert is already waiting out front. We load into the black van, and he floors the gas pedal before I even have time to fasten my seat belt. He weaves through Istanbul, insisting on taking us on the scenic route since neither Ethan nor I have been here before. He points out the Blue Mosque, Topkapi Palace, and the Grand Bazaar, none of which form a straight line so we’re driving everywhere.