by Joan Fleming
What a woman! Nuri bey thought; she would out-mother-of-the-Sultan any Validé Sultan; what a terrible waste that a woman of such immense power and drive should be simply a French housewife; the pity of it! What, Nuri bey thought, what, in the name of Allah, would she be doing now? Here, surely, was a situation which would defeat even a Bassompierre.
For one fleeting spindrift second he thought of spending all the money in his wallet and flying to Paris for the pleasure and satisfaction of watching her deal with the situation. The main lesson to be learned from her, he told himself, was economy of action. She swooped, fully equipped, into the particular set of circumstances from which she wished to obtain something; obtained it by impressing those concerned of the impossibility of not obtaining it and withdrew in triumph.
There was much to be learned, he brooded darkly, from her example. Much. And slowly, slowly, the Winged Lion came to life, a mode of action was evolved and, whilst he thought, Nuri bey turned the wallet over and over in his hands: the first money he had ever earned, and earned by his own cunning.
Cunning equals earning power.
Here was his chance to squeeze from the lemon the juice which he had for a short time, five days ago, believed would send him to Oxford. And as he thought, the light came back into his eyes; not quite so pure and so guilelessly grand as before but a bright light, seasoned by dexterity.
After studying the menu, he lifted the telephone receiver: ‘Please wake Miss Jenny Bolton in Room 701. And please serve breakfast for two in Room 94.’ He read out: ‘Oven-hot rolls, ice-cold Jaffa juice, fragrant hot coffee, honey from Mount Hymettus and …’ thus striking down an ancient shibboleth … ‘sizzling pork sausages and frizzled tomatoes.’
Believing that it is better to be shocked on a full stomach than whilst fasting, Nuri bey urged Jenny on to eat. And whilst they ate, he felt the need for some kind of conversation and could think of nothing to say. Instead, in an endeavour to entertain, he quoted from memory from an English book of what he believed to be philosophy:
‘Yes,’ said Sir Thomas, speaking of the modern novel, ‘it certainly does seem strange; but the novelist was right. Such things do happen.’ ‘But, my dear Sir,’ I burst out, in the rudest manner, ‘think what life is—just think what really happens! Why! people suddenly swell up and turn dark purple; they hang themselves on meat-hooks; they are drowned in horse-ponds, are run over by butcher’s carts, and are burnt alive—cooked like mutton chops.’
but even as he spoke he was struck by the ineptness of the quotation.
‘What on earth are you talking about?’ she asked, in mild surprise.
‘A thought from a great English penseur,’ he said apologetically.
She said: ‘Today I am going to see about teaching English. If I could get about five lessons a day at the equivalent of a guinea a time I could afford to go on living here! Or I could keep us both in some more ordinary hotel.’
Discouraged by his lack of conversational success and determined to tell her nothing until she had eaten a good meal, Nuri bey stared out of the window and automatically ate his own breakfast, for which he had no appetite.
From time to time, she threw small rhetorical remarks into the silence: ‘You’re very quiet this morning, Nuri bey,’ and ‘What shall we do after I’ve fixed up about the lessons?’ and ‘Couldn’t we go and explore those islands in the sea of Marmora?’ and ‘When I get back home I’m going to the RSPCA to tell them about all the kittens here.’
When they had both quite finished eating, Nuri bey said gently: ‘And now I must tell you that your Tony Grand is truly dead.’
‘Do you know that for sure?’
He nodded, watching her face crumple in sorrow and the tears burst from beneath her creamy lids in great drops. Then she really cried with the overall wetness of a severe summer shower. Such uninhibited weeping, he mused, was healthy and excellent. He waited. He wanted to go into the bathroom and fetch one of the many luxurious fluffy towels which the hotel lavishly supplied to each customer but was afraid of striking the wrong note. Like all really good, drenching summer showers, it passed quickly. With gasps and shudders and lids no longer creamy but pink and swollen, she recovered quickly.
‘Well, that’s that!’ she said at last. ‘Poor Tony!’ She went to the bathroom herself and swilled her face and dried her tears and came back, sniffing. ‘It has its good side, really. At least Tony won’t live to become an out-and-out crook, spending most of his life in gaol; that’s something to be thankful for!’ And after a few more minutes during which she sat and thought, sniffing from time to time, she said: ‘And as for me, I suppose I’m lucky. I haven’t had to experience that slow cooling-off that was bound to come, have I? He shed me, just like that and it may have been because of … of events rather than sudden hatred, and much less painful really.’
And after a while the question which was bound to come, came: ‘How did it happen, Nuri bey?’
He was in a schizophrenic state: strangely elated at the news of Tony Grand’s death, yet deeply depressed by the circumstances of the finding of the body.
‘That I cannot tell you, for the present.’
In due course, he said, she would know everything but for the moment her position, apart from Nuri bey’s participation, was extremely delicate, not to say dangerous. Now that Tony’s body had been found, investigations as to how he met his end would be more widespread. The airline who employed him would be obliged to give the police all the information they had about him and there would be inquiries at the hotel in London which, no doubt, he would have given as his permanent address.
‘No, I think a bank was his permanent address.’
‘But he would have to give an address at which the airline could get in touch with him.’
She looked at him thoughtfully, her entrancing baby’s mouth in a pout.
‘The Three Diamonds Hotel, Greek Street, Soho, for instance?’
‘Well … yes.’
‘And at the Three Diamonds Hotel, Miss Jenny Bolton would also be well known?’
Pause. ‘You’re being beastly.’
He shook his head, smiling thinly. ‘I do not intend.’
‘Very well then, I suppose you’d better have it. We had a double room so we had to register as Mr and Mrs Grand.’
Nuri bey sighed heavily. ‘Oh, if anyone ever wanted a good whipping,’ he murmured. The tiny smile she gave was a delicious mixture of agreement and a faint suggestion of conspiracy.
‘I suppose it did not even occur to you that Grand was not his real name!’ he said repressively. ‘It was Anthony Francis LeGrand. And it will not be very difficult for the police to trace Mrs Grand, the widow, to Jenny Bolton. Your ticket from London to the Far East would have to be in your own name, the same name that you have on your passport. They will now have the full information that the young woman who flew on the Zenobia Airways jet, known to be a friend of Anthony Francis LeGrand, was Miss Jenny Bolton. I have no doubt that they are already in touch with your people. It will be known that you did not arrive in Hong Kong, that you did not return to the jet after the shooting incident on Monday night; that you are, in fact, in Istanbul … “at large” … “on the run” … or perhaps in hiding. Though Tony Grand was a murderer, he himself was murdered. There are gunshot wounds in his back, Jenny. Today they will do a post-mortem examination and the bullets which killed him will be found.’
‘Nuri bey, you must tell me what happened to Tony. If I’m going to be mixed up in it all, I’d better know something. It’s ridiculous keeping me in the dark, like a child.’
‘Not at all! It is far better that you should know nothing if and when you are questioned. Yes, you were a friend of Tony Grand, yes, you flew in the aeroplane in which he served, for a holiday with him in the Far East; yes, you went into the transit lounge at the airport simply to stretch your legs after the long flight from London. During the wait you saw a young man, whom you now know to be Tony Grand, shoot another man and run away. Sinc
e that time you have seen or heard nothing whatever. That must be your story. If the Turkish police have anything to do with it, you will have to tell it over and over again. So you must be quite sure to keep as near to the truth as possible, Jenny. Tell me, have you got it all straight in your mind?’
‘Perhaps you’re right,’ she said after some thought, ‘perhaps it would be best for me to know nothing more now.’
‘It is very unfortunate,’ Nuri bey went on, ‘that we had to register your name when we came here the night before last. But it was inevitable. It was on your passport, which they always take from foreigners when they arrive at the reception desk. And by the way, Jenny, you should get the passport back from them this morning, and hold on to it carefully. You must not lose it because I do not think it would be wise for you to stay in this country much longer, for all the reasons I have just given you.’
‘Go on, then. Say: “Go back home.” Say it!’
Because she ordered him to say it he said nothing, staring at her, wondering.
‘I can’t go back home yet, Nuri bey.’
‘Why not?’
‘Because …’ There was a long pause.
‘Why not?’
‘I must … that is … I’ve got to … I mean, it would be rather crawling back, wouldn’t it? I’ve got to march back, with my head up, as it were.’
‘I see.’
‘If I’ve got to go from here, maybe I’ll go to the family I lived with in Touraine.’
Nuri bey brought out a note-book: ‘Give me their address, please.’
And whilst he wrote it down, Jenny watched him, then said: ‘But why all this? Do you think I really will have to go? I’m just beginning to like it here.’
Nuri bey brought out his pregnant wallet and his passport. He also wrote down the address of the agent who collected the rents for him and the address of his sister in Trebizond.
‘What on earth is this? Last rites, or what?’
‘Will you keep these till you next see me?’
‘Oh, Nuri bey! What on earth is it?’
‘If I am not back here tomorrow at this time I want you to do several things, Jenny. You will pay the hotel bill with this money. You will send a note to my sister …’
‘Saying what?’
‘Saying that my house is burnt down and that I am probably dead.’
‘Oh, my lord!’
‘And another note to my agent, telling him the same.’
‘What on earth are they going to think?’
‘They will think I am in the Bosphorus, where so much that is redundant goes …’
‘Don’t talk like that, you’re frightening me, Nuri bey!’
‘And lastly. I want you to promise me something.’
‘That depends. What?’
‘Jenny … have I been kind to you?’
‘Of course. You’ve more or less saved my life.’
‘Well, then. Can you now give me a blind promise?’
‘Oh … all right then.’
‘That you will not leave your room all day?’
‘What if the police come for me, as you seem to think?’
‘I don’t think they will come for you quite so quickly. You’ll have to be tracked down to the Hilton; it will take them some little time. Come now, your promise.’
‘All right … I promise.’
‘And one more. If I am not back here tomorrow at this time, you will go to the station and buy yourself a ticket and leave this city to go to your friends in France?’
‘Oh, Nuri bey, that’s all very well. We were going to have another lovely day together. Is all this mystery and “Famous Last Words” necessary?’
‘I think so.’
‘But you’re only looking at it from one side, Nuri bey.’
‘How?’
‘You’re not seeing this thing from my point of view at all.’
‘I thought I was seeing it only from your point of view,’ he said, a trifle grimly.
‘I’m sorry. Of course you are. If you hadn’t met me by the merest chance, on Monday evening, you would be living in your fairly nice house, perfectly contentedly, surrounded by all your books and the things you have known all your life. Quietly and peacefully leading your life. On Monday evening you met me and helped me and what happens? Five days later you are more or less a pauper, homeless and without a possession in the world. It’s a wonder you have any clothes! And all because of me! Do you really think it likely that I am going meekly to carry out all your careful instructions and get myself off by train until the excitement has died down?’ She waited for an answer which did not come. ‘If you did, you’ve got another think coming, old dear.’
‘It is not altogether quite like that.’
‘It is.’
‘No. I needed the wind of change to blow through my life, I can see that now. If it had not been so, I would have jumped on to that airport bus and watched you struggling into a taxi without giving you another thought. I see now that I was on an island, but that I was beginning to shade my eyes and look along the horizon for the sight of a sail.’
‘Oh?’
‘And I understand, too, that people are not just something to collect like you would collect birds’ eggs or incunabula. People is life, or do I mean are life? Anyway, I could not put it better in my own language.’
‘You aren’t making out a case for me going and leaving you.’
‘No.’
‘And anyway, it wouldn’t be very hard for me to guess where you are going today. Why not take me with you?’
Nuri bey got up and came over. ‘Please turn up your sleeve.’ He unwrapped the bandage and examined her wounded arm. ‘Quite nice. You will have to have the stitches out soon.’
‘Listen, Nuri bey,’ she went on impatiently, ‘why can’t I come?’
‘Because I should be worried for your safety and should not, therefore, feel myself free.’
‘I’d be a nuisance?’
‘Yes.’
‘I see. Well, listen. Why go and do anything? Why not come away with me? If you really think the police will find me here within twenty-four hours, then you must know that they will find you, if they want to. Why not let us both go? You have plenty of money here to get you to England and keep you for a bit, probably. I would come back to England with you and I could take you to Oxford and introduce you to my brother, who will know someone doing modern languages. And he could put you in touch with the people who would soon find you a job teaching … Turkish,’ she said doubtfully, ‘or any of the Middle-Eastern languages you know …’
With a strange rapt look on his face, Nuri bey was looking at the ceiling as though, in its glossy paint, he could see himself walking over Magdalen Bridge with Professor Toynbee, and they were deep in discussion. Only five days ago he had believed: when she dies I shall go to Oxford. Miasma was not dead, and evidently far from it, and yet the possibility of going to Oxford was nearer than it had ever been.
‘I cannot get myself to Oxford with five pounds left over, so that I am an indigent foreigner, hanging by my teeth on to the fringe of that precinct. No, if I go to Oxford I must go as a representative, not as a beggar.’
‘A sales rep? What of? Turkish Delight? Oh, I’m sorry, Nuri bey!’
And once again, warmly and impulsively, Jenny kissed him.
CHAPTER 20
It would seem that Turkish people of a certain class sleep naked and put on their night attire when they get up. Thus when you surprise a Turkish family unannounced, the women are wearing elaborate nightdresses and the men striped pyjamas more often than not. When you arrive, they hurry away with flustered cries of apology and reappear in a marvellously short time, fully dressed and bearing small fragments of a loofah-like eatable, deliciously soaked in golden syrup, as an act of reparation.
Miasma had actually assisted in the childish game of lighting the fire at the back of Nuri bey’s house. Crouching low, her old knees cracking loudly, to fan the flames with a discarded
tin lid. The primitive actions came to her across an enormous span of years with great familiarity; her first ten years of life had been spent in such absorbed squatting, lighting the fire for the family meal, sometimes in the bitter wind and at other times in the burning heat of the Anatolian plain. No troop of Boy Scouts could equal the speed and efficiency of Miasma and Hadji when getting a fire going. There was no anxious moment when they stood back: would it or would it not go? From the first flicker, the fire knew where it was going, it was up and away, and so were Hadji and Miasma, a slow elderly couple, hobbling away in the dusk, round the corner to the waiting taxi. And the taxi was down at the ferry-station before there was any fire visible to passers by the house of Nuri bey.
But home at the yali there was no comfort; no Valance to hurry her to bed, bring her a tray of supper, draw her curtains against the chill wind from the water, stand gossiping with folded arms at the foot of the bed until such time as Miasma felt sleepy. It was a dank, comfortless place and Miasma took more than usual of the sleeping pills given her by Dr Macpherson.
The shock of Hadji’s news, his extreme agitation, indeed—panic, kept sleep from her until the small hours of the morning. The result was that she awoke late, feeling ill and quite unable to do any clear thinking.
She was awakened by Hadji rushing into her room, crying out the news he had heard on the radio. It had been a continuation of the ghoulish night she had spent and, in order to make life tolerable at all, she had dismissed Hadji and taken out her syringe and given herself a shot of heroin of the same mildness as the one she had given Jenny. It was only after this began to have effect that she felt able to go downstairs and have a cup of coffee.