They moved on to the jeweled throne and Jessica’s mind drifted off again. How many hours, days, weeks of her professional life had been spent listening with eager eyes and wandering mind to tour guides around the world? She wondered if the guides were able to switch off their minds as they gave the same spiel day after day. She hoped so. It was amazing that out of reams of material, she remembered only the trivia. She knew, for instance, why there were grandfather clocks in all the mosques in Istanbul. During Victoria’s reign, it had been thought that the perfect gift for the sultan was a grandfather clock. So many of them had poured in, the sultan had finally parceled them out to the various mosques around the city, where they stood, stern British sentinels amid the exuberant writings and whorls of the mosque decoration.
Having served on committees to buy gifts for visiting dignitaries, she felt an amused empathy for Queen Victoria’s foreign office which obviously felt it had solved the problem once and for all. She also felt a certain sympathy for the poor sultan who had probably overdone his thanks for the first clock only to find himself in a chiming forest. Time was not quite as important to the sultan as it was in Whitehall. She loved the story. It seemed so typical of cross-cultural diplomatic relations.
The guide was pushing them gently along, answering questions fully but quickly and keeping her charges moving toward the exit. Finally the stragglers were rounded up and they moved out to wait for the bus to come up to the entrance.
Hurry to wait must be the slogan embossed on the shields of all tour directors, she mused idly as they stood chatting in the chill wind. The sky was lightening, but it was still cool. Finally, the bus drove up and they boarded. The bus driver had provided heat for himself as he waited for them, but as soon as he pulled away from the museum, he switched on the air-conditioning. Ah well, a promise was a promise.
“I have told you,” said the guide as they sped toward the Blue Mosque, scattering the faithful as they flew, “that the Golden Horn is very polluted.” She seemed about to elaborate, then changed her mind.
“While we are traveling, I will tell you something about the famous Blue Mosque. The windows of the Blue Mosque are of stained glass, very old, set in plaster of paris. This allows for a much more delicate design than the lead used in European churches. If you look straight up you will see that some panes are missing. They were damaged during the war and replaced. But the dyes kept fading so they were taken out again and replaced. The original windows are several hundred years old and the colors remain bright. Natural dyes were used and, although they try, they cannot duplicate them. The windows made today will only hold their colors for five to six years, then they must be replaced.”
“So much for progress,” Jessica thought grumpily. She didn’t want to visit the Blue Mosque again. She was cold and hungry and her tolerance for trivia, generally boundless, was lowering dangerously. The guide got her full attention as they drew up to the mosque, however. She stood up in the door of the bus and said, “I have a surprise for you.” Jessica waited; the other women who had risen from their seats settled back expectantly. They loved surprises. Jessica did not. Not when she was working. Especially in a friendly country. No one, in her experience, could be stickier about your getting into trouble on their turf than allies. With the possible exception of your own State Department.
“Instead of having lunch at the hotel, we are going to take a short boat trip up the Bosphorus to a very special restaurant, specializing in delicious seafood.” She gazed at them brightly as she dropped this bombshell.
The Bulgarian women looked at each other in dismay. They had paid their dues. They had trudged through the museum, they were about to trudge through a mosque, although it could not compare with their own beautiful churches, and they had done it all with one goal in mind—lunch at one of the large tourist hotels. Not that the lunch itself was anything special. But the hotel was surrounded by boutiques run by designers from around the world. Gucci, Mary Quant, Valentino, Ralph Lauren, the area was a treasure trove for the fashion starved Bulgarians. They didn’t buy; the prices were prohibitive, shocking even. But they loved to browse, and it was for this two-hour orgy that they made their annual pilgrimage and endured the museums, the mosques, and the Turks themselves.
Before they could rally, the guide nodded to the driver, opened the door, and got out of the bus. They followed slowly, stunned by the swiftness of their deprivation. It was a solemn group that straggled into the mosque. Eventually they found themselves standing before a grandfather clock. No one smiled as the guide regaled them with the story of Queen Victoria and the gifts to the sultan. No one smiled at any of the amusing anecdotes she sprinkled through her patter.
She took no notice, moving them briskly through the points of interest (“You remember I told you about the missing stained glass.” Heads swiveled obediently upward), and out the door.
“Now,” she said, bustling them back into the bus, “We must hurry. Our boat is waiting.”
The bus driver zoomed away toward the riverside quays, pausing only between rapid gear changes to turn up the air-conditioning. He pulled up to the dock with a flourish and the guide whipped open the door and strode down the steps to the landing, leaving the women little choice but to follow.
The boat was a squat unappetizing looking craft sitting low in the water, rolling rhythmically as the waves bumped it against the tires attached to the dock. There were folding chairs set up on the open deck. A small, enclosed area offered little hope of sheltering the group from the elements. The boat badly needed painting, but at some time in its life someone had strung bright colored flags on the four corners of the deck house. These had faded to a grey which matched the river and the sky, but as they lifted in the breeze, streaks of their original colors could be seen. Somehow it made the dinky little tub look even more forlorn, like a seaside resort in November.
The guide was talking in low tones to the boatman and both of them turned and beamed as the women approached.
“Welcome, welcome,” the boatman said enthusiastically in English. One or two of the women smiled politely. The others stared at him impassively. He took no notice, helping them aboard with an exaggerated display of courtliness, taking the arm and the hand of each woman and depositing her on deck like a piece of fragile china.
If he tries to kiss their hands he’s going to get a clop in the chops, Jessica thought as she stood at the back of the group waiting to board. As it turned out, it was not the boatman but their host who was the hand kisser.
The women were finally loaded on the boat and they began the trek up the river, past large summer houses which had fallen into disrepair. Occasionally the guide would point out the former home of some public figure, but for the most part the women stood silent, braced against the wind. Jessica moved over to stand beside Karl’s wife, who greeted her with a small smile.
“I am sorry this trip has not gone as planned; we thought you would enjoy the shopping,” she said apologetically.
Light dawned, belatedly. She almost laughed aloud. She had been worrying so about why they had come that she had completely overlooked the most obvious reason. Which should teach her a lesson.
She patted the woman’s hand. “I’m sure we’ll enjoy this excursion.” She was about to add that she could always shop at home, then realized how tactless that would be. She looked around her at the dresses of the women. Bulgarian stores sold very little ready to wear; most stores carried only material. All of the women seemed to sew, but there appeared to be only one pattern available—a modified A-line princess style with cap sleeves. She saw it everywhere, sometimes with a matching jacket, but more often with a sweater or a coat. The material was thin and shapeless and the colors were garish and unappealing, at least to Jessica.
And the shoes! She often wondered if it was something ideological that prevented the Socialist countries from making decent shoes. Russian shoes were a disaster, as a look at the average Russian foot would attest. It was overwhelming proof of Bulg
arian-Russian friendship, overlooked by most diplomatic observers, that Bulgarians would actually buy and wear Russian shoes. Badly made, ill fitting, ugly and awkward. But not cheap. The average monthly salary in Bulgaria was the equivalent of $150 to $200. Shoes like the ones most of the women were wearing cost the equivalent of $30 to $40. The ugly polyester material cost $5 to $7 a yard. No wonder they flew to Istanbul to look in windows.
Jessica was beginning to have guilt feelings about this outing. From the moment Karl had approached her in the cafe, she had known that the invitation was more than fortuitous. She was sure Karl had been an innocent courier, but someone had suggested the idea to him. Someone wanted her in Istanbul. She had accepted, knowing she was chancing its being the Russians who had given the command. But she reasoned, if the Russians wanted her, they could have had her in Sofia. A thought she didn’t care to linger on. No, this had sounded like the master’s voice to her. And now she was ruining Mrs. Karl’s day. She glanced at the stocky little woman standing beside her, looking glumly at the bleak Turkish shoreline. Who glanced down at Jessica’s shoes and said wistfully, “Americans wear such wonderful shoes.” Jessica’s heart sank. She absolutely could not tell this friendly woman that she had 70 pair of wonderful shoes and that even Mrs. Crimmins had 10 pair. Sensible sandals, brogues, gumboots. Mrs. Crimmins was always prepared. She looked down at the Red Cross Cobbies, taken for granted by every American woman, and sighed.
“It is very difficult to find shoes that are comfortable,” she lied gallantly. So let the American shoe manufacturers sue her; she was a guest in Bulgaria! Mrs. Karl’s face brightened a little. “Ah, I am glad to hear that. I imagined that Americans could just walk in anywhere and find whatever they wanted.”
“Absolutely untrue. We spend hours trying on pair after pair.” Well that at least was true. Not of her, but of some women. It was hardly the time to confess that she had come to hate shopping and that Max did most of hers, bringing things home to be tried on, or dragging her in reluctantly to see something he’d found. It had been a measure of her terror at performing again that she was willing to fortify herself with a bout of shopping. Max had seen that immediately.
She was saved from further prevarications by the guide’s voice. “We are nearing our destination,” she said. “Ahead you will see the ferry boat where we will have our lunch.”
The boat which loomed ahead of them was a retired ferry, beached and surrounded by a concrete walkway. They debarked and walked across the sand. At the top of the gangway, their host waited, beaming ecstatically. He was rotund and florid, with huge mustaches wagging in delight. He bounced part way down the plank to greet the first of his guests, kissing her hand and leading her up the plank to deposit her on the deck. He turned to greet the next, and continued his delighted hand kissing until he reached Jessica, who had lingered behind the others.
“Madame, Mam’selle,” he murmured, apparently overcome by her beauty.
“Whatever,” she chuckled. She’d always been a pushover for a good con man. And this looked to be one of the rare ones.
He finally tore himself away and bustled them into the dining room. The walls were plastered with money from every nation, and with autographed pictures of celebrities from around the globe, hugging or being hugged by their host. Tables had replaced the benches of the original ferry; there were flowers at each one. He ushered them in as if they were being presented at court. He clapped his hands, doors opened, and waiters appeared with trays of food.
The women soon found it was impossible to remain glum in the face of so much exuberance. The man bustled about, pressing tidbits upon them, telling them the history of some of the dishes, doing everything but spoon feeding them in his enthusiasm. Mussels, blue fish, cheese balls, a cottage cheese like dish, stuffed mussels with raisin rice, tomatoes, cucumbers, and shad roe passed before them in bewildering abundance. Finally, however, they reached a state of satiety that not even his pleading could overcome. “But you must try the dessert,” he said, practically in tears. “It is a specialty of the house, you will love it.”
One by one the women, by this time captives of his charm, reluctantly shook their heads. They couldn’t eat another thing. He looked so woebegone that Jessica finally agreed to accept a small piece. He waited anxiously as she tasted it, making it clear from his expressions that the fate of nations hung on her verdict. It was incredibly sweet; she longed for something besides the Turkish coffee to wash it down. Was she going to be honest and tell him that it made her fillings cry out in agony?
“Wonderful,” she said warmly. “The best I ever tasted.” That at least was true. She’d never tasted anything like it before. A light bulb went on inside the man’s head. That was the only possible explanation for the radiance that suffused his countenance.
“Ah, did I not say so? Would you like to see the way it is made? It is not complex, but,” he raised his fingers and pinched the thumb and forefinger together, “It must be done just so. I will show you and you can tell them in your country where you have learned this miracle.”
He took her hand and led her to the door. He turned and addressed his other guests. “I will return in one moment, and then the show will begin!”
Jessica’s heart sank. It could only be belly-dancers, and somehow she didn’t think the women were going to consider it an even exchange. Dancers they had in Bulgaria, boutiques, no.
She followed her bouncing host across the tiny hall and into a door marked Galley. He turned and took her hands. “I believe I have here a friend of yours?” He moved out of the way and gestured for her to pass him. Before she could speak, he was out the door. She looked at the slim figure in front of her, dapper in spite of the heat of the galley.
“Dr. Livingston, I presume?”
He looked very elegant in a lightweight charcoal linen-wool mixture, a pale blue shirt, and a striped tie she had picked out herself. He eyed her costume with distaste. He had never seen her as Mrs. Crimmins before.
She plunked herself down on the corner of a worktable and grinned. “You should see the wig. Tout ensemble, I’m a symphony.”
He seemed to have been struck dumb.
“If those women out there ever discover I’m the reason they’re not window-shopping right now, I may be drawn and quartered.”
He waved that away. “I hear you’re the toast of Sofia.”
“Melba. Dry and past my prime. I didn’t know Variety covered Eastern Europe. Talk about off-off Broadway.”
“Not Variety, Interpol.”
“Cute, Max. Don’t tell me you have spies everywhere. It’s been a long cold morning. The spy who came in from the cold is beginning to have new meaning for me. He’d obviously been on a bus tour in an emerging nation. Christ, when we were updating Turkey, did we have to give them air-conditioning? Whatever happened to long range missiles and supersonic jets? No nation should be given air-conditioning until they can use it responsibly. Give them nuclear power plants and let them work their way up to air-conditioning.”
“I understand you’re keeping warm in Bulgaria.”
“And what is that supposed to mean,she said innocently, knowing full well what he meant, but playing for time.”
“Well?”
“Max, there is something very wrong about this whole thing.”
“That far I’d gotten by myself.”
She ignored him. “Max, they knew I was there the moment I stepped off the plane. They knew where I was going, before I did, and they’ve been cleaning up after me. God, have they been cleaning up after me.”
“Why didn’t you tell me you knew Christov?”
“Is that why you’re here? News really travels fast, doesn’t it? Ilya has nothing to do with this. He walked in and rescued me, damn it…,” she trailed off as the significance of that encounter sank in. “Max! That man. He was ours.”
“You know the routine,”
“No. I don’t know the routine. Mrs. Crimmins does not get arrested.”
&nbs
p; “Mrs. Crimmins has never come up with a former lover who is head of a communist security force.”
“Ilya was just as much a surprise to me as he was to you.”
“I doubt that.”
“When I knew him, his name wasn’t Christov, he was driving a cab, and he was twenty-two years old.”
“And you didn’t follow his meteoric rise to fame and fortune?”
“Is it national cliché week already? How time flies when you’re having fun. No, I didn’t follow his meteoric rise, which as you should know by now if your apparatus hasn’t failed you, was occasioned by marriage and the production of male heirs, on both of which occasions he had a partner.”
“The daughter of a, high ranking party official.”
“You’re beginning to sound more like the Washington Post every day. You want to watch that. Once you start talking about highly placed sources in private conversations, it’s terminal.”
“The head of the communist party,” he grated.
“Now that didn’t hurt, did it? Well, it wouldn’t be any use producing heirs for just anybody, would it?”
“Is that why you never married?”
She looked at him in astonishment, then burst out laughing. “Christ, you’re a hopeless romantic. You think I’ve been clutching this girlish infatuation to my lonely bosom through the long winter of my discontent?”
“I certainly think it’s possible that you took one look and threw yourself into his all too willing arms.”
She paused in mid quip, this being a little too close to what had actually occurred. God damn, the man knew her too well! She surveyed him coolly and attacked.
“Oh,” she cooed, “In your experience, I can be relied on to throw myself into the arms of any man who enters a room.”
“A jail cell.”
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