The Healer's Daughters

by Jay Amberg

  Elif Boroğlu looks up from her work when there is a knocking at the studio’s door. She takes out her earbuds, rises from her stool, and cocks her head. As the door opens, she sees a man about her age, lean and handsome in a conventional way. He has carefully combed black hair, green eyes, and two days’ growth of beard.

  “May I come in?” he asks. His tone is polite, but she’s not sure it’s a question.

  “You already are,” she answers, her voice even, neither gracious nor sarcastic. The man’s clothing is tailored, his wristwatch Swiss, and his shoes handmade. He wears no socks.

  Shutting the door behind him, he glances about the studio. “I’ve heard you’re talented,” he says, “and I was just driving by.”

  Given that her studio, at the outskirts of Bergama near the military base and the Aesklepion, has no exterior sign and no listed address, his statement, though perhaps meant to be ingratiating, sounds absurd. Without answering, she takes a towel and covers the wax model she has been carving. Her black-and-white cat leaps down from the table to her right, stretches, sniffs the air, and sidles over to her.

  “I’m Mustafa,” he says. As he steps toward her, he extends his hand in a Westernized way.

  She picks up her cat, tosses back her long braid that has fallen across her right shoulder, and then shakes the man’s hand. He smells like he has just showered and put on cologne. He is good looking, but in a too carefully groomed, worked-out and worked-on way that doesn’t attract her. Her boyfriend, an elite commando deployed somewhere near or beyond the Syrian border, has a jagged, seven-centimeter scar on the back of his left hand that she finds far more intriguing than this man’s manicured fingernails. “I’m Elif Boroğlu,” she says, her voice still noncommital. “But you must already know that.” She continues to hold the cat against her chest.

  He strolls around the studio looking at the terra-cotta statues in various stages of completion. As he picks up a svelte, naked nymph that has been glazed and fired, he says, “You’re from around here?”

  It has the inflection of a question, but she thinks he’s again inquiring about something he already knows. “Yes,” she answers. “I’ve lived in Bergama since I was eleven.”

  He glances at the centrifuge she has borrowed from a friend but has not yet plugged in, nods, puts down the nymph, and smiles at her. “It looks like you’ve found your medium.”

  “For now.” She leans over and slips her cat onto the floor. Purring, the cat rubs against her leg.

  “So, what’s for sale?” he asks as he selects another nymph, naked to the waist, and turns it slowly.

  “The finished pieces. Most of them. Basically.”

  “Most?” He puts the figurine down.

  “Most.”

  “But not all?” As the cat crosses the floor, the man reaches down to pet it, but the cat keeps moving away from him. It suddenly leaps to a high shelf near the kiln.

  “What’s his name?” the man asks.

  “Her name is Sekhmet.”

  “Ah,” he says, his smile genuine. “The Egyptian warrior goddess, the lioness. Fiercest hunter. Her breath created the desert.”

  Not returning his smile, Elif says, “Also the god of healing and arbiter of justice and order.”

  His smile twists. “And plagues. Don’t forget plagues.” Looking over at the cat again, he adds, “Your Sekhmet doesn’t look all that ferocious.”

  She nods but does not continue the conversation.

  He stares at her not-yet-fired rendering of the stout goddess holding the single-edged sword and the severed head. “This one’s interesting,” he says, pointing to it.

  “Thank you.”

  “How much is it?

  “It’s not for sale.”

  He reaches toward it but doesn’t touch it. “But when it’s finished?”

  “It’s not for sale,” she repeats.

  His bright eyes fix on her. “Really?”

  “Yes.” She sells her terra-cotta figurines here in Bergama for fifty to eighty Turkish lira. Serkan peddles them to artsy boutiques in Istanbul for eighty to a hundred. The shops resell them for two hundred to two-fifty. Some of the more upscale places charge even more. Occasionally, as he did with the older American couple, Serkan arranges a special order for his tourism customers.

  Still looking into her face, he waves his hand expansively around the studio. “What’s the price of these?”

  “It varies.”

  “But what? On average?”

  She looks at his wristwatch and his clothes. “Perhaps, a hundred.”

  He points again at the stocky goddess with the snakes emerging from her hair. “What if I offered you a thousand for this one?”

  Her eyes lock on his. “I’d tell you it’s not for sale.”

  “Ten thousand?” His smile seems less friendly.

  “Still my answer.”

  “One hundred thousand?”

  She laughs but doesn’t hesitate before saying, “I’d tell you that anyone stupid enough to pay me a hundred thousand for one of my figurines should never own one.”

  His eyes flash. He nods slowly. “I see,” he says. He nods a second and a third time. “Well,” he adds, rubbing the palms of his hands together, “it’s very nice to meet you, Elif Boroğlu.” His tone, though still polite, is no longer at all amicable.

  “Likewise,” she says. “I don’t often get customers at my studio.” Sekhmet leaps from the shelf to the floor.

  “Do you have a card?”

  “No.” She laughs again, but not in an unfriendly way. “Of course not.”

  “Well,” he says, “I know quality. And, I’ll be back.”

  He does not look over his shoulder as he leaves the studio. She stands there for a moment, her head again cocked, wondering who sent Mustafa—and why. As she realizes he came of his own accord, she shivers. He wants something…something that isn’t healthy for her or others in Bergama. And that look she saw in his eyes suggests he’s used to getting what he wants.

  22

  KAIKOS VALLEY

  The three men, the Hamit patriarch, his only son, and his nephew, stand in the shade of an olive grove seven kilometers outside of Bergama near the road that leads to Dikili and the sea. Although it is only an hour after sunrise, it’s already hot. The cousins look enough alike to be brothers, but the son is more refined and, at this moment, far more tired. The patriarch, a trim, carefully groomed sixty-five-year-old with a receding hairline gone gray, takes a white cloth from his younger sister’s oldest son. As he unwraps the cloth to reveal a small, exquisite gold amulet, Bora, his nephew, brushes his hand through his short black hair and beams like the father of a newborn.

  Gazing at the amulet, the patriarch says, “Athena. Hellenistic.” He glances up. “Site B-113?”

  Bora nods.

  “What else?” It’s more a command than a question.

  “That’s the only gold. So far. I knew not to say anything on the phone.” Bora nods at the amulet and scratches his chin. “But amethyst, carnelion beads, silver coins, a dagger…”

  “Bones?” Mustafa, the patriarch’s son, asks.

  “Not yet. No skeleton.” Bora turns to the patriarch. “We’re close. You told me to be careful. Go slow. Not rush.” Although Bora scratches at his throat, both father and son believe him. He is not holding anything out on them because he is blood but also because he knows that if he did his remains would be fed to the family cats.

  “Careful. Yes, of course,” Mustafa says. He is no older than his cousin, but he is much better educated and, he believes, exponentially more knowledgeable when it comes to Hellenistic gravesites. “The real treasure will be with the bones.” His mouth is dry, and his head pounds. His father woke him at 5:30, only an hour after he got home. After arriving in Berga
ma, he checked out the old bitch’s artsy daughter at her studio, then stopped by the apartment he has rented for Damla. She had a bottle of raki chilled and was more than willing to demonstrate how happy she was to see him again. He likes to have at least one woman in each city, and the family has a villa along the sea in Dikili so that they can keep tabs on their landholdings in the area. “May I see it, Father?” he asks, his tone ever respectful in front of his cousin.

  His father gazes at the amulet, brushes an imagined spec of dirt from it, and hands the cloth to his son.

  Mustafa smiles as he inspects it. His hand shakes only a little even though he has never before held a recently unearthed gold artifact. Athena is wearing a helmet and carries a spear and a shield fringed with snakes. Medusa’s head hangs from her body armor. “Yes,” he says. His headache doesn’t vanish, but it slackens. “This is okay. It’ll do.” It’s actually museum quality, perfect for his purposes, but he doesn’t want his cousin to see his enthusiasm.

  “Thank you, Bora,” the patriarch says by way of complimenting his nephew. “And thank you for contacting us so quickly. Keep in touch.”

  “Of course,” Bora says to him. “I’ll use the code.”

  “And only that one phone,” the patriarch adds.

  As the cousin ambles away toward his white pick-up truck, the patriarch says to his son, “He’s a good boy. Does exactly what I tell him to do.”

  Dropping their amiable expressions, father and son move a couple steps farther into the shade of the olive grove. The meeting was held out here at this hour because the patriarch’s sources have informed him that yet another government investigation of the family’s finances and business practices has begun; his calls are being monitored, and surveillance has started anew. He will be able to fix the problem, of course, but it is not yet clear who should be contacted and how they should be leveraged.

  No one can eavesdrop here. The Hamits own all of the land surrounding the grove and a number of nearby plots. For years now, they have been, mostly through shell companies, buying up any arable land available around Bergama. Neither father nor son gives a fig about farming, but the land, leased back to farmers, turns a small profit and allows the family to launder a lot of money. And far more importantly, much of the wealth of ancient Pergamon remains in undiscovered tombs in the area. With advanced technology, including seismic and geophysic prospecting, they can systematically check sites like B-113 without any interference from the government or competitors. They can even work in broad daylight. Mustafa particularly likes the concept of an extra-legal, vertical monopoly on priceless Hellenistic artifacts.

  “I’d like that back,” the patriarch says, nodding to the amulet resting in the cloth.

  “Of course,” Mustafa says as he scrapes his loafers in the dust. “It’s not like I was going to give it to Damla.”

  They rode here in silence, partly because Mustafa could not quite form words after so much raki and sex and so little sleep and partly because the patriarch was angry yet again at his son’s lack of self-discipline. He has invested a lot personally and financially, and the boy is bright, very bright, a brilliant student. And as well educated as anyone in Istanbul and better than anyone down here in the hinterlands. But the boy definitely developed some bad habits in the U.S. “You’ve got to focus more on work,” the patriarch says, “and less on your dick.”

  “I do.” He folds the cloth over and, bowing slightly, presents it to his father. “I’ve already got a buyer for that in Istanbul.”

  “The American?”

  “Yes.”

  The patriarch gazes again at the amulet. “What have you done about that bastard who’s demanding a commission?”

  “I’ve got it all working out.” Mustafa smiles again. “He’s Özlem Boroğlu’s son. And I’m making him an offer he can’t refuse.”

  His father looks alarmed for a moment, then surprised, and finally pleased with his son.

  When his father doesn’t pick up on the movie line, Mustafa adds, “I’ll get whatever information she has before we finish with her.”

  “She’s found the Galatian,” his father says, a spark of anger in his voice.

  “Not yet, she hasn’t.” Mustafa’s voice rises. “She wouldn’t be trying to get onto site C-174. She knows we’re close.”

  “She seemed too interested.” The patriarch refolds the cloth and slips it into his pants pocket. His son is incredibly well educated, but he still needs to learn a thing or two about people.

  “Our tech’s telling us we’re onto something.” There’s almost no breeze here, and cocks are crowing somewhere nearby. Mustafa’s head is pounding again, but he left his water bottle in the Range Rover.

  “Boroğlu is clever. If she really thought we’d find the Galen cache at C-174, she wouldn’t have been so obvious.”

  Sweat beads on Mustafa’s forehead.

  “And, anyway,” his father adds, “your tech’s not the only thing.”

  “Whatever information the old bitch has, I’ll get.”

  “Is that another promise you can’t keep?” the patriarch asks, the edge in his voice sharper. When his son doesn’t answer, he adds, “We need something concrete. Yesterday!”

  “Look, I told you I’m on it.” Sweat runs down Mustafa’s spine. “I’ve doubled the tech teams’ shifts.”

  “You and your tech!” the patriarch says with disdain in his voice. “Do I have to—”

  “I’ve got it all under control!” Mustafa’s mouth is pasty.

  “Just like you told Vlad the family has the Galatian statue!”

  “I…” Mustafa balls his fists, starts to breath hard.

  The patriarch stares into his son’s eyes until his son, still hyperventilating, drops his hands to his sides.

  “You smell like raki farts,” the patriarch says as he turns away.

  23

  BERGAMA

  Tuğçe Iskan knocks a third time on the raspberry-colored front door. While she waits, she slaps a manila envelope against her thigh. Graffiti covers the back wall of the house downhill; pale morning haze obscures the view of the Kaikos Valley beyond. Birdsong is punctuating the constant mumble of traffic down in the town.

  Iskan raps a fourth time, quick and loud, clearly urgent. She has never fully understood the nuances of social interactions, but she has learned to follow them most of the time. This, however, is not the occasion for pleasantries or patience. For more than a day now, she has been trying to contact Özlem Boroğlu by phone, text, and e-mail. Coming here was absolutely necessary. She can’t otherwise get the woman’s attention, except, perhaps through legal channels which are too slow and will only further antagonize both of them. And anyway, she has shared exactly none of what she is doing with her Ministry colleagues or bosses. It’s far too important to risk getting bogged down in the bureaucracy. And the endemic Ministry corruption and inevitable leaks would sabotage her investigation.

  It’s hot today, and the porch provides no shade, but she will stand here forever—or at least until neighbors come out to complain about the racket. She even called ahead this morning to inform Boroğlu that she had returned to Bergama and had in her possession photos Boroğlu needed to see, evidence that would matter to her family. And she is certain that Boroğlu is home. It’s only eight thirty, and Özlem, like herself, tends to be a nocturnal creature.

  The fifth time is harder, even longer, and clearly impatient—a clamor that neighbors must notice. She looks again at the graffiti wall. It is beige, the color of earth in this part of Turkey. There are darker gray spots where messages have been painted over… White slashes like scars where the concrete has been scraped away… A dark metal drain pipe… Chinks in the concrete down near the level of the street…

  “Go away!”

  The shout from inside the house is irate, but Iskan expe
cted as much. “I have photos you need to see!” she calls back.

  “Get the hell away from here!” The response is dark, even more emotional. “You lied to me again!”

  “I’m not leaving till you see—”

  “Rot in hell!”

  Iskan doesn’t answer. She doesn’t know what Boroğlu means by her lying again, but she has Boroğlu’s attention, and she’s not going to hell or anywhere else.

  “I said, go to hell!”

  Boroğlu has no idea what hell would be like for Iskan, but Iskan knows that her knocking on Boroğlu’s front door would be in one of hell’s inner circles for Boroğlu. She looks again at the wall across the street at the names “Burak” and “Mehmet” and at the numbers that don’t mathematically add up. She knocks a sixth time, and then she notices a young woman, seemingly lost in thought, coming up the street.

  “I’ll call the police!” Boroğlu shouts through the door, but Iskan knows she won’t. None of this can ever involve the police.

  The young woman is about Iskan’s age and height, but she’s thinner and prettier, Iskan thinks, with a small nose and long, silky black hair pulled back in a loose braid. The woman hesitates when she sees Iskan, but then she continues on toward the house’s steps. Iskan shifts the manila envelope to her left hand and waits, making no response to Boroğlu’s threat. “Elif?” she asks when the woman reaches the steps.

  Elif stops, switches the small, black plastic bag she is carrying to her left hand, and asks, “Do I know you?” Her question isn’t threatening, but her tone is wary.

  Iskan comes down the steps. “I’m a very big fan of your work, your terra-cottas.”

  “Really?” It’s a genuine question.

  Iskan wipes her right hand on her jeans and then extends it. “Yes. The statues have…life in them.”

  Elif shakes her hand. “Thanks. I put my…” She stops herself. “Why are you here?” Her eyes, bleary, as though she has been up most of the night, fix on Iskan.

  “I have to show your mother…” She taps the envelope against her right palm. “Maybe you can help me…”