Luiz Gonzalez is immersed in these thoughts en route to Taksim Square when his driver, a cheerful Turk by the name of Akbar, surprises him with an astonishing nostalgia trap that snatches him abruptly from his musings. Pressing a button on the dashboard, Akbar turns on the radio thinking his boss will enjoy this unique surprise. The radio is tuned to a song of Mustafa Sandal which Luiz recognizes easily from having lived so long in Turkey. But the song is just ending and is followed by a woman’s melodious voice lending a full-bodied tone to a song with Latin rhythm. Luiz’s ear fastens onto the voice instantly. At first nothing more than a sweet nostalgia takes hold of him. The volume and rhythm are reduced slightly and the radio announcer’s voice emerges, saying, Mercedes Soler, the great Latin American singer, will be appearing for a Turkish audience in a memorable show that’s not to be missed at Istanbul’s Kurucesme Arena on September 28th at 10:00 p.m. Come dance and feel the heat of the tropics with the sensual music of Mercedes Soler!
That’s today! thinks Luiz. Mercedes Soler is in Istanbul! How could he have failed to notice? The Colombian woman who fills the whole world with her voice and sensuality, and whom he knows so well. An announcer’s voice cuts in displacing Mercedes, recounting some typical truck disaster, interrupting the train of Luiz’ thoughts. It is Akbar who has tuned in to another station, figuring his boss would rather hear the news.
“What are you doing, Akbar?” Luiz scolds from the back seat. “Put it back where it was this instant!.”
“Sure, boss. I thought you’d rather hear the news.” …
Once again her voice assumes command of the radio and the car, as well as Luiz’ feelings, as she seems to him to be stealing out of the clouds of an eternal sky. He closes his eyes and feels her voice so close to him, as though she had the power suddenly to materialize right there beside him. And yet this looming phantom of a former love that never ended, crossing his path now, seizes him with a chill that slices through his nostalgia like a razor-sharp blade. He feels an urgent desire to call out to Akbar to change direction. He even feels the words rising in his throat but does not utter them. He can’t do it. He feels himself getting weak.
What is happening to you, Luiz? he asks himself. Are you losing your mind? Nefise has been abducted and you’re thinking of Mercedes whom you haven’t seen in years? Get your head straight, man! Your Nefise has been abducted. Your green-eyed goddess. You’ve got to do something for her, and fast. You’re getting weak ... this is not good at all on the day of a big fight! It’s too much: your retirement, Nefise's kidnapping, the title fight and now Mercedes. This day is off to a great start…
Indeed, the day promises to be a long and harrowing one for the great Caribbean Hurricane.
7
10:15 a.m.
The taxi flies over the asphalt as though it were skating on ice, sweeping past the other vehicles on the highway with the agility of a snake lunging through the tiniest gaps in the traffic. It drives onto the Galata bridge across the Bosporus and zooms into the Fatih district, with Ahmet, the driver, keeping a steady eye on the car holding Nefise captive.
“So you’re a Saudi who was reborn in Turkey? How is that possible?” asks Ahmet when forced to stop in traffic.
“Turkey had that power over me. And it gave me a great love.”
“For the woman who's in that car we’re following?”
“Precisely.”
The cab driver’s face is grave as he hears these words.
“I know what you’re thinking. I know what you think of Saudis here in Turkey. We’re always trapped in the stereotype.”
“Well, if in fact you are half Turkish, as you say, there’s no point in hiding it. We evolved according to a model that is radically different from the Saudi one, we want to be free. Not European, as they say over there, incorrectly, but simply free and just. Did you hear about the recent case of a Turkish barber who lived in Saudi Arabia? The Saudi government thought he said something bad concerning God and now wants to execute him. And the way they treat women there... it’s nowhere near the top of my list of preferences for my daughter to marry a Saudi.”
“I know all about that,” Yousef acknowledges without for a moment taking his eyes from the road and the car they are pursuing. “As I told you, we are always trapped in the stereotypes. It happens in every country in the world. And yet, I’m a Saudi, I never hit a woman and I truly love Nefise. I want to make her happy. Even so, I’m far from having been a model of virtue all my life. Look, they're stopping.”
“So I see.”
“Stop back here.”
Ahmet stopped the car on a busy street about ten meters behind the car they have been following.
“Good luck, Saudi. You’ll need it. Looks like they’re going into the Grand Bazaar.”
“If you don’t mind, my name is Yousef, not ‘Saudi.’ Wait here for me. I’ll make it worth your while.” Yousef removed a wad of banknotes from his pocket letting Ahmet get a good look, handed him several bills and put the rest back in his pocket.
“That’s the good thing about Arabs! You’ve got oil,” Ahmet declared, smiling as he tucked away his generous payment.
Yousef jumped out of the car and headed off towards the Bazaar.
Watching him from the car, Ahmet murmured softly, “Good luck, Saudi.”
8
Luiz got out of the car still under the spell of Mercedes Soler’s Latin voice. His mind was borne back to his native Colombia as he felt a sudden stab of homesickness. Come on, Luiz! This isn’t the day for such things. Powell is going to tear you to pieces. He’s crazy to beat you. Remember, this is the third time he’s gone after your title. Get a hold of yourself!
A tall, heavy man in civilian attire, wearing a suit and tie, stepped forward to meet him.
“Good morning, Mr. Luiz Gonzalez. I’m Inspector Serkan Turkoglu.”
“Good morning, Inspector” Luiz replied. “Any news on my wife’s kidnapping?”
“I’m afraid that…”
“Inspector! Inspector!” interrupted a uniformed policeman, handing him a cell phone. “I think you’d better hear this.”
“I beg your pardon,” the inspector said formally to Luiz, taking the phone and holding it to his ear. “Inspector Serkan Turkoglu here. Who is this?”
“This is the cab driver Ahmet Sepetcioglu. I’m going to repeat what I said to your colleague. I’m in front of the Grand Bazaar and I’ve just been chasing a woman who was kidnapped in a black car, at the request of a Saudi passenger. I’ve already given the license plate number to your colleague.” The inspector exchanged glances with his assistant. “They’ve just taken her into the Bazaar and the Saudi has gone in after them.”
“What route did you take with this passenger?”
“He hailed me in Taksim Square. It seems that’s where the kidnapping took place. That’s what I just told your colleague.”
“Ahmet, don’t do anything. I repeat, don’t do anything, and stay put. We’re on our way.”
9
10:32 a.m.
Nefise is now completely covered by an Afghan-style burqa and she is obviously walking slowly, in a weakened state. She is accompanied by three men dressed in white tunics with the accompanying keffiyeh covering their heads. The burqa is of fine silk in shades of sky blue, and it covers her body from her head to her ankles. Burqas have the distinctive characteristic of being the most controversial item of Arabic apparel. Associated with Islamic obscurantism, as asserted by its fiercest critics, this garment completely covers the face and eyes with a fine net through which a woman sees the outlines of the world. It is worth bearing in mind at this particular moment in history that there are a number of accounts by western women who have said that they feel free under these Arabic women’s tunics (even the burqa that hides the eyes), asserting that, in their opinion, this garment frees them from the endless male judgment of their beauty which in the West, they say, is never absent from the work place, from the simplest meetings to job interviews. It frees
them from being judged for the size of their breasts or their derrière, or for how fat they are. However, the discussion in Europe, and in Turkey in particular, is much less peaceful, and the current trend seems to be towards prohibiting the wearing of any veil at all in this geographic region. In 1998, a Turkish woman student was banned from the University of Istanbul for wearing the veil at that educational institution. In 2000, Nuray Bezirgan, another student, was sentenced to six months in prison for allegedly "obstructing the education of others." Her crime was to wear a veil to her exams. Recently, in February 2008, the Turkish parliament passed an amendment to the constitution allowing the wearing of veils in universities, on the grounds that many women were fleeing from a university education because of the prohibition, but a few months later, in June, Turkey’s Constitutional Court gave voice to the immense protests of the secularists, withdrawing the parliamentary amendment on the basis of the need for greater secularization of the State.
Three kidnappers are escorting Nefise towards the entrance of the Bazaar: one at her side holding her, while two others walk behind her as a rear guard. Yousef surmises that all three men are armed, although their weapons are not visible. As for Nefise, he imagines her under the garment that covers her from head to food, with the body and appearance that he knows, but feeling distraught, anxious and angry.
Beyond the discomfort of her attire, Nefise clearly recognizes the gigantic labyrinth of this enigmatic market. There are four thousand shops and more than sixty inter-weaving passageways that once upon a time were streets but were gradually absorbed by the bazaar. The walls are covered with clothes, carpets, jewelry, crockery, hides, antiques and spices. Here the innumerable merchants are trained by routine and circumstance to analyze the profile of all who pass by: local citizens, tourists, rich, poor, in-between, misers, thieves, and so on ... but above all, customers. At the appearance of any foreigner -- and there are more than a few of them passing by -- they accost them at once with a Come here, my friend. But they are also versed in languages other than English and Turkish, so that words of greeting and commercial enticement are often heard in Spanish, French and other languages as well. Many of them are genuinely friendly, and enjoy swapping impressions with the foreigners almost as much as doing business. Some of them offer a cup of çai – the tea of friendship – to drink in their shop without having their guests buy a thing, or even after a sale has been made, just for the sheer pleasure of prolonging an interesting conversation, and also because the Koran says, “the foreigner is sent by God.”
But let us return to Nefise’s arrival, closely watched by her three abductors, and by Yousef, who is watching them all. The burqa intimidates but, even so, within moments a merchant accosts them and is simply ignored. Then a second merchant approaches as they turn the corner, and a third who, with a beautiful golden necklace in one hand touches Nefise in a bid for her attention. The Arab who is holding her by the arm shoos away the merchant. He does so with a brusque gesture using the same arm that is holding Nefise. Feeling him release her, she glimpses a window of opportunity and hurls herself into the labyrinth.
10
10:34 a.m.
With her heart pounding, Nefise runs through the distracted crowd in the Grand Bazaar, dodging the people in her way. The burqa hampers her progress, she isn’t used to it, but there’s no time, she must run to freedom. She raises her skirts a little gripping the hem in her hands. As she runs, she kicks off her shoes wildly. Her three captors take off after her, catching glimpses of her over the heads of the crowd. One of them takes out a gun and fires several shots into the air, forcing people to stop and crouch or flatten themselves against the walls. Shouts erupt throughout the crowd. Yousef chases after them. Turning a corner, Nefise comes into an area full of porcelain, and in her headlong dash ploughs into a boy with a fine piece in his hands. The result is a loud smashing of porcelain on the pavement. The Arabs hear the noise, turn the corner, see the boy complaining. The fugitive has already fled. They see her making off at a distance with the hem of the burqa clutched in her hands. They fire, miss, and lunge after her again. No sooner are they gone than the boy with the porcelain sees Yousef come rushing past.
Nefise wants to get out of the labyrinth as fast as possible but does not know how. It is all happening too quickly for her to get her bearings. Nor does she consider the possibility of throwing herself on the mercy of some shopkeeper, asking him for protection. She turns another corner to escape the field of view of her pursuers, and comes upon a great profusion of carpets. I have to duck in somewhere, I can’t just keep on running, she thinks. She darts into one of the shops. There is no one inside the shop and she hides behind a mass of carpets. She hears the Arabs stamping on the pavement outside as they run past. She is willing to wait here for an hour if necessary. She tries to subdue her breathless panting. The smell of the carpets is fetid, and she covers her nose with her fingertips. She leans back against the wall but feels no support at her back. In fact it is nothing more than a piece of plastic separating one shop from the next, and she falls on her back, unprotected, into the neighboring shop. A boy and an old man with a long white beard gape in astonishment at this woman who has just fallen into their shop dressed in a mysterious burqa. The boy leaps from his seat to help her up but as he reaches out his hand to her she springs to her feet unaided, and to the even greater surprise and delight of her male audience, she raises the burqa over her body and snatches it off. From beneath this exotic and intimidating tunic, which is difficult even to look at, there emerges a beautiful woman, her long hair loose and uncombed, her green eyes frightened and angry. For a fleeting moment the young man, who stands rooted to the spot reaching out to this mysterious and beautiful woman, and his father, are both entranced at this display of sensuality unfolding before them. Yet it all lasts only an instant, for Nefise, not quite as overjoyed as her two hosts, has more pressing concerns, and races out of the shop. Her three pursuers, sensing they’ve lost her trail, decide to split up, and just now one of them is in front of the cluster of carpet shops where Nefise has been hiding. Yousef stops behind him, worried that he will be seen and lose everything. Suddenly they both see Nefise erupt from one of the shops in front of them. She comes running past them, heading off in the direction she originally came from, trying to get to the precise point where she had come into the Grand Bazaar. As the kidnapper turns to pursue her, he comes face to face with Yousef, who throws a high kick straight into his face and races off after Nefise, calling out to her through the passageways of the Bazaar. She keeps running towards the exit, and is faster now without the burqa. After turning several corners, she reaches the longed for passage to the outside world, precisely the same one she had come in through, and feels her strength reviving as she takes heart. She moves towards the exit, but just as her face encounters the outer daylight, a man seizes her with arms that feel like steel pincers. Unable to resist, she is carried to the same car she arrived in. Yousef appears in the entrance and is struck by a poison dart that sticks into his neck. He manages to yank it out but is instantly immobilized by two men. His strength fails him. He cannot resist. The last thing he sees is hazy, but he is able to comprehend that he is being thrown into the backseat of a car, right on top of a warm body, and it is Nefise, completely inert.
11
Once again Luiz is crossing the Galata bridge in his car. His driver follows the police car bearing Inspector Serkan Turkoglu towards the Grand Bazaar. Looking out the back window, he sees the assortment of buildings crowding the streets on the other shore, standing against a somewhat tarnished morning sky. Along the street that feeds onto the bridge, on the walls of some of the buildings are posters announcing Mercedes Soler’s upcoming show in Istanbul. She is dressed in skimpy clothes, sparkling and seductive, that highlight the contours of her slender body. From up on stage she flashes a sexy ‘come-hither’ smile, announcing tonight’s concert to the Turkish public. The Turkish letters and symbols take care of the rest, announcing the time an
d place for her rendezvous with whoever may wish to come see her on stage. Luiz feels a pang of guilt over the lascivious turn his thoughts take as he gazes at the poster. The car runs into a sizeable pothole that the driver is unable to dodge, and Luiz bangs his head quite hard on the ceiling. Annoyed, he scolds the driver for the second time that morning:
“What the hell is wrong with you today, Akbar? Can’t you see the holes in the street?”
The Hurricane rubs the sore spot on his head to assess the damage, then closes his eyes and takes a deep breath, struggling to overcome his irritation. How jumpy I am, he reflects, I’ve got to get a grip on myself. It’s just anxiety. Must calm down. Guess I was asking for this bump on the head. Maybe it’s a warning from above. Must calm down. Just this last fight, and I’ll accept my fate.
12
12:15 pm
Yousef wakes up. His mouth, hands and legs are bound. His wrists and ankles are sore, but worst of all, they have stuffed a cloth into his mouth that is held in place by a long piece of adhesive tape stuck to his lips and the skin around his mouth. He is still wearing the same white shirt, now more disheveled, and the same trousers of the dark blue suit he selected for his meeting with Nefise at the Hotel, clothes that are now dirty, stained and rumpled, far from their impeccable state just a few hours earlier. His suit jacket has disappeared. The space in which Yousef finds himself appears to be a remote and forgotten storage room whose only function may be perhaps to store unimportant bundles or – what does not seem at all unlikely to Yousef – perhaps its only function is to serve as a prison. Bright light shines in through a tiny round window about six feet above the floor, near the ceiling. A deep disturbance dwells within him, which he easily deciphers: his heart is tight at not seeing Nefise anywhere near him. Where could she be? How is she? Shifting his gaze to get a better look at the boundaries of his surroundings, Yousef gets a jolt of fright. Against the opposite wall, right beside the door, perfectly motionless like a sinister statue, there emerges the tenuous figure of a woman sitting in a chair. She is wearing a black tunic and veil, showing only her face and a few strands of black hair. Evidently she is young, though with dark, deep and weary eyes. She has a closed and profoundly severe aspect. The moment his startled eyes come directly into contact with hers, the maiden rises and leaves the room, carefully closing the door and leaving Yousef immersed in heavy solitude between four walls, where all that can be heard are the muffled noises that he himself emits, stifled by the gag.
The Miracle of Yousef: Historical and political thriller Page 3