When I Grow Rich

by Joan Fleming

  ‘A mercy. Tell me, please, Monsieur, since you seem very much at home here, what happened?’

  ‘He shot dead an airline security detective at the airport and he has not been seen since.’

  Madame Bassompierre gave Nuri bey a long steady look. ‘You know the reason?’

  ‘Why should I?’

  ‘Smuggling, Monsieur. He was in trouble before but nothing was proved against him. Last time she was home Valance was very upset indeed about it all. She tried to talk him out of it, to frighten him but he only laughed at her. He took her out for rides in the fine little sports car he had bought, and to meals in expensive restaurants to tease her and when they got home he would say, “Voila, grandmère, how could I do that without a lot of extra money!” and then she would laugh—I can see her now. She would laugh and pat his face and tell him not to get caught! She adored that boy Tony!’

  ‘Under these circumstances, Madame, would it not be better for you to go back home immediately and drop the question of taking the body of your sister?’ Nuri bey said persuasively. ‘It is more than possible that someone, sooner or later, will connect your great-nephew with this house. It can’t be much longer before they do. People in this village have seen him coming here. They are frightened of the police and it is because of that that no one so far has been to them with the information. But sooner or later someone will go.’

  ‘Then the sooner I get Valance’s body away the better,’ she declared, getting up briskly and picking up her handbag and mink necklet. ‘Are you trying to frighten me?’

  ‘Yes, in a way I am. I’m trying to frighten you out of doing something which I know you ought to give up trying to do.’

  ‘Nothing will persuade me, Monsieur. It is my duty. Please take me at once to your imam.’ And to show that she meant what she said she stumped out of the salon. Though never guilty of pushing through a door in front of a lady, Nuri bey now nipped nimbly past her and managed to get one half of the front door open before she had time to study the panel at the back which clearly showed the blackened bullet holes.

  On the top step the telegram bearer rocked itself slowly backwards and forwards, prepared to wait until the end of time. An extremely thin grey arm emerged with the envelope in its hand. Nuri bey took it and opened it, and after a few puzzled moments he handed it to Madame Bassompierre; this was not a suitable time to apologize for his country’s dilatoriness. It read:

  GEVIENS IMEDIATEMENTE APPORTEZ LECORESE DEM

  ASUR APARRIS

  MAR TINBAS SON PPEERREE

  CHAPTER 12

  From time to time Nuri bey made sudden temporary retreats from the world around him into a kind of spiritual communion with himself, and, as it was now clear that for the moment she had lost his attention, Madame Bassompierre gave the coffin a very thorough examination to assure herself that it was undamaged in transit.

  Hereditary Moslems differ from other people in that they are possessed of a kind of inner clock and compass outfit so that wherever and whenever they are, they instinctively know the hour of prayer and the exact angle at which to face Mecca for their prayers. During Nuri bey’s unexpected withdrawal Madame Bassompierre finished her appraisal of the coffin and stood, restlessly tapping her foot and looking expectantly at him, when the air was suddenly full of a metallic hollow sound which might have been the noise of a herd of maddened elephants approaching with trunks raised, honking loudly in mass hysteria. It was the call to prayer from a nearby mosque relayed on a record through the Tannoy; though the same words are used, it is a different sound altogether from that of the cry to prayer of the muezzins from the minarets of the Blue Mosque.

  Madame Bassompierre gave a shuddering shout of terror, signing herself with the Cross and taking some sort of instinctive cover under the rhododendrons.

  Nuri bey came out of his trance to observe a strange phenomenon; Hadji flashed past the gate and Nuri bey could just see through the leaves the garage doors open and the De Dion Bouton being driven out and away towards Uskudar, well before the noise had ceased.

  It was probably the only time in his adult life that Hadji had ignored the hour of prayer. He had overdone the lack of speed with which he had left the salon; once the door had shut behind him he must have carried out Nuri bey’s instructions at the speed of sound.

  So now all was easy: Nuri bey came down the steps smiling again as though something had been proved. He explained that it was the hour of prayer and it would be quite impossible for anyone, let alone a woman, to talk to the imam. What he would now do would be to take Madame Bassompierre to the grave of her sister. He pointed to the hillside rising steeply on the other side of the road. It was not far, a little walk up through the pines.

  In the village he asked one of the Biblical characters exactly where the new grave was and, watched by many dark, thoughtful eyes, he guided the Frenchwoman up the stony path, past a few hovels, into the cemetery.

  The stone styles which mark the graves are best described as stone posts, each carved at the top with a kind of funny hat, turban or fez which tells the knowledgeable the status of the person so commemorated. When there is no hat, the top foot or so of post is carved with Arabic writing. No attempt is made to keep the conventional shape of the grave; the styles, in the course of time, become loose and lean this way and that, in confusion; sometimes they fall down altogether and low shrubs grow over them. There are dozens of square miles of cemetery near the Bosphorus and up the hills behind Istanbul and along the shores of the Golden Horn. Rarely are people seen walking amongst the graves; relatives do not visit with flowers; once they are covered with earth, the dead are left to Allah, first expiating their sins which, according to the Prophet, will have been noted in a ‘glorious book in which all things are recorded’, and then, with luck, are elevated to Paradise. Many believe that the worst offenders suffer tortures in the grave and it may be for this reason that Moslems avoid cemeteries.

  The sunshine was now hot and the path rough going. Madame Bassompierre began to gasp with heat. She took off her black gloves, her fur tippet and finally her jacket which Nuri bey carried, and presently her face became screwed up momentarily and frequently with the twinges of pain from her feet.

  ‘Not very much farther,’ he repeated from time to time, encouragingly. Once or twice he stopped and pointed out the view which, as they mounted, became magnificent with the Bosphorus as dignified and grand as becomes one of the great waterways of the world, and not merely a deep ditch between two continents.

  ‘C’est incroyable,’ she gasped now and then; Nuri bey did not realize she was referring to the distance and the discomfort rather than the view and assumed an air of placid pride in his country that was not quite justified under the circumstances.

  She took her passport from her handbag and fanned herself with it and Nuri took out his passport, looked at it, wondered whether to fan himself with it or not, decided it would be an unmanly act and replaced it in his breast pocket. It was certainly very hot indeed. The bees hummed amongst the wild lavender, the scent of thyme and other tangy herbs was intoxicating, but for Madame Bassompierre it now became an endurance test.

  ‘Nearly there,’ Nuri encouraged. Finally, they reached the absolute summit and Madame Bassompierre gave a wild cry of distress as they began to descend.

  ‘There it is!’ he cried with joy hardly commensurate with the occasion. The grave was noticeable only because there was a pile of earth beside it. They stumbled over the rough ground and at the graveside Madame Bassompierre burst into tears and fell to her knees whilst Nuri bey with delicacy turned his back.

  And whilst she prayed he had a strange experience, of a kind which he had known several times in his life and which was either a genuine faculty for clairvoyance inherited from his aunt, or a simple attack of déjà vu in which, at a time when it is overtired or overstrained, the mind divides.

  It was as though he himself was drawn clean out of his body and sucked up into the ether some feet above him. Lookin
g down he saw the Miasma’s companion Valance was standing at his side, by the grave. She was dressed in her neat black as he always saw her, her pale silvery hair drawn back smoothly into a small bun. She was pointing down into the grave and looking up into his face as though to prove something.

  And the grave was empty. He looked carefully to make sure he was not mistaken but no, he could see the stones and the clay-like earth at the bottom, a different colour from the heap of topsoil. He saw himself staring down and she stared down, too, and together they stood side by side and looked down into the empty grave. Nothing startling happened but it was more real than reality until Nuri bey was back in his body, feeling extremely ill. His legs gave way under him and he lay down in the sweet smelling herbs, his face was no longer the shade of a hazel nut but the more ordinary colour of a pale-green olive.

  Madame Bassompierre presently finished praying; she also apparently finished weeping and tucked her pocket handkerchief away in her waistbelt.

  ‘Eh bien alors!’ she started briskly and then her tone changed to one of concern. ‘Are you all right, Monsieur?’

  Loathing weakness of any kind in himself, Nuri bey tried to spring lightly to his feet but he pulled himself slowly from the ground like an ancient man.

  ‘You have exhausted yourself, my poor Monsieur. I am an ungrateful creature. You are being so very kind and I am accepting everything without question!’

  He staggered to the graveside and looked down. The rough-hewn planks with which the body is covered were firmly in place, wedged under a ridge of clay shovelled out for the purpose. A few handfuls of earth which the imam had thrown down, lay on the top.

  ‘You see, it will be a simple operation,’ Madame Bassompierre observed, ‘God did not intend her to be covered by the soil of Asia. She can be removed easily, perfectly. I see they cover the body with wood until they can put the earth back,’ she observed with a flash of French realism, ‘so that the wolves cannot get at her.’

  After a rest, during which Nuri bey thought hard, they started to walk slowly back the way they had come.

  It could be done, he said at last, and having considered the question from every point of view, he had decided that it must be done secretly without any reference to the imam. But it would have to be done at night, between sunset and sunrise. There were certain people, he went on, who would, for a consideration (frankly, for money) carry out the work. These people were unhappy about the Christian having been buried for a Moslem; they thought that much bad luck might follow. They could easily be persuaded that the spell of ill luck might be broken if the mistake were put right. He could arrange for the body to be raised during the night, for a mule cart to come up by the path up which hearses would come from the main road, not by the path they had just taken, through the square and past the hovels. The mule cart would bring the coffin, it would be loaded and taken back, down the hill to the next village. There it would be met by a truck which would take it to the airport via the car ferry to Europe. Taking the first early-morning ferry it could be at the airport in time to catch any freight plane leaving tomorrow. It would certainly mean that the arrangements for the funeral would have to be put back a day, but in the matter of transport of the dead the airline officials were always helpfulness itself.

  The wooden boards now over the body would be replaced over earth in such a way that, when the grave-diggers finally came to fill in the grave, they would notice no disturbance. It could be several days before grave-diggers were sent to perform this task and if, by any chance, they were to come today, before sunset, the people who would undertake to do the task for him would be perfectly capable of removing a ton or so of earth, if they were properly equipped.

  And furthermore, Nuri bey could promise that those who would perform the task would be far too afraid to talk about it to anyone.

  She must understand, he said firmly, that what they were about to arrange might not be exactly criminal, but it was a procedure without precedent, against every rule, law, convention, moral standard and, in a word, unique; the people whom Nuri bey intended to employ for the operation would do so only if they approved of it; they could not be bribed into doing what they knew to be wrong.

  Furthermore, a body must be buried after sunrise or before sunset; it was right that the reverse operation should take place in the hours of darkness.

  A Frenchwoman can almost always be relied upon to listen to reason and, after discussion, Madame Bassompierre saw the point absolutely. It would be inconvenient to have to postpone the funeral arrangements at home but, as Valance would lie in the family vault in Père Lachaise and not in a newly-dug grave, it could be done fairly simply. In view of the way telegrams were dealt with in Turkey, Madame would not think of wiring the new arrangement to her brother; it was absolutely necessary for her to return on the plane on which she had a reservation, and make the new arrangements in person.

  ‘And now,’ Nuri bey said, ‘we must hurry a little. I must hire the mule cart at once; the coffin must be removed from the yali courtyard before Miasma sees it.’

  With the practicality of her kind, she opened her handbag and brought out Turkish money with which she had been well supplied in Paris, and gave Nuri bey a stout bundle. ‘You will need this!’

  He thanked her and then broke one of the rules he always tried to keep but was finding increasingly difficult to do so; he asked a direct question. Did she want to see Madame Miasma?

  She answered that she had not left home with that idea in mind, though she wanted to discuss Valance’s possessions and the best way of transporting them back home; her bed being one item about which Valance had been anxious. Her sister had hated travelling by air and every time she did so she was afraid it would be the last. Consequently she had made a list, which Madame had here in her handbag, so there would be no need to see Miasma. And under the circumstances it was very much better not. When she got home she would write all instructions.

  Nuri bey agreed emphatically, much relieved.

  ‘My sister was on strange terms with Madame Miasma,’ she volunteered. ‘I was never able to understand their relationship. At the same time she loved … and she hated. I have never decided what kind of person Miasma was or is. And now it is too late, it is of no interest to me.’

  ‘She is a woman who has had a hard life. She has never ceased, even in her old age, to strive; she cannot sit in peace with folded hands, counting back along the years as the Faithful finger their beads, each bead one precious year of a happy and contented life.’

  ‘I must pray for her,’ Madame Bassompierre murmured absently. ‘I am badly in need of some refreshment, Monsieur. I would like a glass of very cold water, many glasses of cold water.’

  The walk back was easier and much quicker; they were soon in the village. Watched by many bright black eyes, they walked across the dusty square to the café under the trees, within a yard of the Bosphorus. He saw she was comfortably seated at a tin-topped table, ordered yoghourt and many glasses of water, then he bent forward and asked another direct question.

  ‘If you please, Madame, would you kindly remove your hat and veil?’

  ‘Exactly what I wanted to do!’ she cried, and pulling out skewer-like pins, she took off her hat and bunched out her mauve, smartly cut, short hair. ‘That’s much better!’

  Nuri bey stared. ‘You are not a bit like your sister.’

  ‘No, we are not at all alike.’

  Turning away, Nuri bey hurried with great strides across the square to make his arrangements.

  CHAPTER 13

  To enter a Turkish ‘Turkish bath’ is to suspend voluntarily, for the duration of the visit, all connection with reality. Steam, warm marble, intricately carved fountains spouting hot and cold water and dim light filtering through tiny star-shaped windows in the domed roofs, combine to create a beatitude which extinguishes individuality and absorbs the spirit into a mindless elation. No wonder Mohammed disapproved of them and said that the whole world was suitable for pray
er except the graveyard and the bath.

  After being par-boiled in scalding water, drenched with icy water, rubbed with rough towels and prodded violently in a curious kind of massage, Jenny lay in naked abandon, as though tossed carelessly down, on a huge marble platform, about a foot high and warm. The marble had not returned to its native cold since it was first constructed and had been warm with the warmth of a charcoal fire below it for more than three hundred years.

  All round her, women screeched and shouted platitudes at one another and the sound differed from that in the parrot-house at the Zoo only in that it was softened as it struck the marble walls and was muffled by steam. All tension, bewilderment, determination, anxiety, doubt, sorrow, uncertainty, indignation and regret had left her and she was as peaceful and mindless as a maggot.

  Entry to the hamam was through the cool hall. This was a vast domed chamber with two tiers of marble benches arranged round the walls on which the women who had finished their baths lay resting, cooling off, gossiping and eating. When they had had enough, those who wished could return to the steam chamber and start the whole operation all over again. The female in charge was a lusty-looking woman who appeared to have a bit too much of everything. She had naked feet and legs and wore a thin blouse and a towel wrapped firmly round her middle, brought forward between her legs and secured over her stomach in a manner dating back through history to the days when the Romans brought their luxurious baths to their outlying bastion of Byzantium.

  This splendid woman moved, in spite of her bulk, with grace and beauty inherited from her race of magnificent dagger-carrying Caucasian women who were as good on the field of battle as their husbands; she ruled her tiny world of the hamam with a quite superfluous amount of zeal, enthusiasm and sense of leadership which probably acted as a safety-valve and prevented her from eating her husband when off duty.

  Miasma did not always visit the same hamam but over the years she had attended this particular one some hundreds of times and always Valance had been with her, carrying the towels and the basket of provisions. Valance had paid the entrance fee with money given her previously by Miasma; it was she who helped Miasma to undress, who went with her into the baths, who returned to lay out the food, who combed her hair, who, in short, performed the duties of the slave. The services of the superintendent were not, therefore, required and Miasma, in the manner of her kind, had treated this zealot with blatant contempt, never addressing her, or paying her any attention or, worst of all, tipping her.