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When the Mirror Cracks

Page 8

by Jan Coffey


  “Why are you doing this to me?” she murmured to herself.

  Elizabeth knew why. She was in Istanbul. She scanned the sidewalks looking for him. She had no trouble remembering his face. But what would he look like now? Years changed people. She’d aged.

  Could that be him, pretending to be talking to a vendor? Or that man at the corner, standing with his hand in his jacket pocket? Would he break into her room and steal her things?

  She pinched the top of her nose, trying to stop the foolish thoughts. As far as she knew, he was long dead. But what if he wasn’t?

  There was nothing worse than the unknown. She wished the traffic would clear up and the cab would go faster.

  To replace a passport, you needed a police report and some kind of documentation or proof that you were who you claimed to be. She guessed those restrictions were much tighter now, considering the state of affairs in the world. And she had neither of those documents.

  But she realized that it wasn’t so much the forms or the temporary ID that had her traveling to the American Consulate this morning. It was fear. She needed help. Perhaps someone at the consulate could help her search for the answers she was after.

  The line of traffic stopped yet again, and people crossed the street, weaving between the cars. She jumped when someone slapped the rear end of the cab with a hand. The driver cursed and gestured out the window.

  A tram went by, carrying a blur of faces. She wished she were on it. Anything to move faster and get out of here.

  A tall man on the sidewalk was taking pictures. Elizabeth automatically recoiled from the window, pushing back into the seat.

  “American?” the driver asked.

  She’d forgotten about him.

  “Amerikalı mısın?” he repeated in Turkish.

  “Evet.”

  “I must ask. How do you know the language? Your Turkish is good.”

  She studied the driver’s short white beard and kufi and stared at the ID mounted on the front dash. She guessed Egyptian or Moroccan. “How do you know English so well?”

  He smiled, showing a mouthful of stained teeth. A smoker, like so many in this part of the world. Coffee and tea and cigarettes. That hadn’t changed.

  “I learned. It is for my job. Tourists pay well when they know I understand. They trust me. I give them my card. They call me when they are in Istanbul. And they give my name to their friend. And you?”

  “I know a number of languages. Turkish is one.”

  With only a cursory glance at the road, he took a sharp turn and raced up a narrow alleyway. At the next corner, he went the wrong way along a one-way street before turning again. In the old days, taking a cab in Istanbul was an adventure. The drivers would normally take the longest route between Point A and Point B and let the meter tick away. Some things hadn’t changed, but she didn’t have much choice today. So long as she arrived at her destination in one piece, she would be happy.

  “Why do you learn Turkish? No one speaks it, except for here.”

  Elizabeth held onto the grab handle as he weaved through an intersection to the sound of shouts and blaring car horns. Why did he have to drive like a maniac?

  “Languages are like puzzles. I like to solve them.”

  “How many you speak?”

  She shrugged. “Bilmiyorum. Çok.” I don’t know. Many.

  Elizabeth had no interest in making this guy her best friend. Or in distracting him with conversation. And considering the way he drove, she wouldn’t be taking his card or recommending him to anyone else.

  The man’s gaze wasn’t on the narrow road. It was fixed on the rearview mirror, staring at her. “CIA?”

  “No,” she snapped. Elizabeth cursed inwardly. That’s all she needed, a cab driver thinking she was something she wasn’t. She could end up in a room in some basement, tied to a chair. Or at the bottom of the Bosphorus.

  “Maybe you answer too fast.”

  “I’m a little old for that kind of work,” she scoffed. “Don’t you think?”

  He turned right around and looked at her. “Maybe yes. Maybe no.”

  “Hey!” she said, putting a hand out and pointing.

  A woman pushing a cart filled with bags was about to cross. He hit the horn and sped past.

  “Watch the road.”

  He was unfazed. “Do they teach all these languages in America?”

  “Anyone can take classes.”

  “Ama aksan yok. No accent.”

  There once was a time when she would have taken his comment as a great compliment to her. But no more. She stayed silent.

  “How old are you?”

  He was getting too personal. She didn’t like it. A right turn and a sharp left, and the driver continued along the narrow side streets through increasingly sketchy neighborhoods.

  “When did you live in Turkey?”

  This was turning into an interrogation. “I didn’t say I lived in Turkey.”

  “Did you?”

  “No,” she lied.

  “CIA.”

  “You have a big mouth and a bigger imagination.”

  “You say you’re not expat. Lots of expats here. And CIA always lies. You lie. You say you did not live here. I say you did.”

  Her jaw hurt from grinding her teeth.

  “I didn’t live here.”

  “I think you know the word haram.”

  “I do know the word.”

  Haram. Sinful. Forbidden. For chrissake.

  Elizabeth was an atheist. All those beliefs drilled into her about God and religion faded years ago. They held very little relevance in her life now. Jax was a believer. Not so much a churchgoer, but a believer. When he died, she could have had some priest say a few words at his funeral. She didn’t.

  Maybe she should have done more than just pour his ashes in the Pacific.

  “Lying is haram.”

  “That’s what I hear.”

  “You know Jahannam?”

  “I’ve heard of it.”

  “It is the place you go after you die. The place of punishment for liars.”

  “Okay. That’s enough.” On a day like today—especially on a day like today—she didn’t need to hear about her shortcomings as an infidel. “Stop right here. Dur. İniyorum. Now.”

  He shrugged and yanked the wheel. The cab screeched to a stop. Elizabeth glanced at the meter and threw some liras on the front seat before getting out.

  “You want my card?”

  She said nothing and slammed the door. As he did a U-turn and raced back toward the city, she stared at the gloomy cinderblock apartment buildings looming above her. Clothing and linens hung drying from porch railings.

  “Where in God’s name am I?” she murmured.

  He’d dropped her on a back street in a tough, rundown neighborhood. Dogs eyed her warily from the edges of cracked sidewalks littered with garbage. Walls of buildings were covered with spray-painted graffiti praising the PKK.

  The PKK. The Kurdish resistance. This was a Kurdish neighborhood. Perfect.

  Only a few people were walking on this street, and they stared at her as she hurried by them. She was certain that if she had two heads, she couldn’t have been more obviously a stranger. Half a block ahead, a dozen men were loitering around the open doors of an auto repair shop, smoking and laughing. They’d already spotted her.

  There was no way she was going to walk by them. But she couldn’t very well turn around. God, how did she get herself into this?

  Her steps slowed as she passed a vacant lot filled with piles of brick and trash. A narrow alley on the far side of the lot led to the next street, where Elizabeth could see traffic and shops. To reach it, though, she’d need to pass through the alley.

  She had no choice.

  Elizabeth picked her way through the lot, climbing over piles of rubbish until she found herself on a path, of sorts. Ahead of her, a temporary structure of scarred wood and hard plastic lined one side of the alley. Battered pieces of corrugated metal serv
ed as a roof. A few ratty sheets partly covered the open spaces. A toothless old man sat wrapped in a dirty blanket, muttering out loud to no one.

  Kurdish refugees.

  Elizabeth averted her eyes, feeling her stomach clench. She didn’t want to see these outcasts, a byproduct of the ongoing struggle for power and oil and control. Not now. Not today.

  A little girl was crouched against the shack farther on, lecturing a puppy tethered to a plastic cord by her feet. The dog barked as Elizabeth approached. The child lifted her face to her. The eyes were that startling blue-green color common among the Kurds. But she was pale and thin. Sickly looking.

  Elizabeth tried to pass by the opposite wall. The dog continued barking, trying to protect his charge.

  “Where is Maman?” the girl cried out to her in Kurdish.

  Elizabeth shook her head, pretending she didn’t speak the language.

  “Your fault.”

  There was no way to get through.

  “You are Shaitan.” A child was calling her the devil. “You did it. You sent her away.”

  Elizabeth stumbled against the wall, trying to find a way around the child.

  The girl jumped up, blocking her path. “Bring her back. I want my maman.”

  “I don’t know where your mother has gone,” she answered in Turkish.

  “There is no food. Everyone is gone.”

  The dog was barking nonstop, competing fiercely with the child who was practically shrieking now. “You left me. You want me to die. We will all die, and then you will be happy.”

  The words stabbed her. Elizabeth tried to get by her, but the Kurdish girl reached out and grabbed her sleeve.

  “Don’t leave me. Don’t go.” Tears ran down dirty cheeks. This close, Elizabeth could see she was clearly feverish. Hallucinating. “Hungry. I want Maman.”

  Elizabeth jerked her arm free and pulled a few liras from the envelope Christina gave her. Backing away, she threw the money on the ground, turned in panic, and ran blindly toward the end of the alley.

  When she reached the busy street, she nearly collided with an older woman in a headscarf. Stepping in the line of traffic, she threw herself at a passing cab.

  Once inside, she locked the door and tried to calm herself enough to give the driver directions.

  “American Consulate,” she said in English.

  The cab pulled away from the curb, and Elizabeth looked back. The child was standing at the entrance to the alley, sobbing and staring after her, the puppy at her feet.

  Elizabeth touched her wet cheeks. She didn’t even know she was crying.

  She was still shaken when she arrived at the US Consulate forty minutes later. The Turkish policemen guarding the outer gate watched her as she entered. Hearing her business, they waved her to another window by an entrance building. On the hill beyond, the white consulate building gleamed in the morning sun.

  A young man in his mid-twenties smiled placidly and listened to Elizabeth before producing forms to fill out. Placing them in a drawer beneath the window, he slid the papers to her.

  “I need to see someone inside.”

  “You can make an appointment and come back.”

  “No. I have to speak to them today.”

  “Yes, ma’am. Is this a life-and-death emergency?”

  Elizabeth paused, trying to retain her composure. “Not exactly. But I’d still like to speak to one of the officer’s inside.”

  “But it isn’t a life-and-death emergency?” he repeated.

  She leaned closer to the thick glass separating them. “Yes. It is.”

  The young man sent out another paper. “Here is a telephone number to call. And instructions.”

  “I don’t have a phone. It was stolen.”

  “You’re welcome to use one of those.” He pointed to three phones on a wall to the right of the security window.

  Elizabeth stalked to the phones and yanked the headset off the hook. A woman’s voice greeted her.

  “Good morning, ma’am. I understand this is a life-and-death emergency?”

  “No, but maybe. It could be. I need to talk to the head security officer on duty.”

  Lowering her voice, Elizabeth rattled off several names, a series of numbers, and some dates.

  “Input these items into your system. Then inform your superior that I’m waiting.”

  12

  Christina

  Now

  The pharmacy isn’t on the map on my phone. The instructions I was given brought me to this neighborhood around the Grand Bazaar. Along the street, steel doors on rollers are sliding up as shops open for business. The front desk at the hotel told me the merchants in the bazaar itself open anywhere between eight thirty and ten.

  Not that I’m in any mood for shopping.

  Now that I’ve had a little time to think things through, I’m worried about my mother. She’s a staunch believer in keeping a stiff upper lip. The fact that she came searching for me, the anxious way she acted and looked, makes me think she’s in worse shape than she’s letting on.

  I should have gone with her to the police station. It’s true, I don’t speak the language, but I could have been there to provide moral support. She would have done the same thing for me. More, actually. She’d have taken over.

  I check my phone. I’ve been getting a bunch of calls from random numbers I don’t recognize. I try Elizabeth’s number. Her cell rings and rings and then kicks over to her voicemail. I remember what she said about her phone being stolen too.

  The robbery complicates things. On top of everything, she’ll need some kind of identification for the acquisition meetings. It’s not the end of the world, but the notary will require it when she signs the papers and sells the company. I hope the passport replacement goes through fast.

  “Where are you from, my lady?”

  I look up. I’m standing in front of a carpet store. The man stretches out a tulip-shaped glass filled with tea toward me. We haven’t even done business, and he’s being hospitable.

  I shake my head politely about the tea. “Is there a pharmacy on this street?”

  “You must be here to buy a carpet, yes?” He points at the colorful rugs stacked higher than either of us. Various patterns cover every wall, from pillowcases to floor sizes. With the exception of a narrow walkway to get to the cash register, every inch of the small shop is packed with them.

  I shake my head, and the clerk at the lantern shop next door calls out to me. “Eczane?”

  I assume he’s trying to sell me something too. I smile at the hundreds of lamps hanging from the ceiling of his stall. The bright colors glow like magic. Each lamp is a mosaic of color, a kaleidoscope of tinted glass. They each have a unique look. I imagine that they are conveying a secret message. Together, they blend brilliantly.

  “Pharmacy? Eczane.”

  The young man is being helpful. He understood what I was asking.

  “On this street?”

  He says a few things in Turkish and points down the narrow side street. He motions that I must go left and then right. “Osman. Kemal Osman. Eczane.”

  I’m not too sure, but I think he’s giving me the name of someone who works there. Or is it the name of the pharmacy?

  Thanking him, I start to walk away. But before I go, he pushes a card for his shop into my hand. He’s quick to say—in practiced English—that they ship their lamps everywhere. And as we part, he sends a kiss in the direction I’m headed. A kiss. When was the last time a shop owner sent me off with a kiss? If I were in LA, I’d be thinking he was a creep and never go back, but not here. There’s a vast difference between the cultures of East and West. I wonder if I’m supposed to deliver a kiss to someone at the store.

  A left and a right later, I spot a sign displaying the word Eczane. The pharmacy.

  I’m relieved, but my first impression from the outside is that it is very different from home. Definitely different from the pharmacy chains we have on every corner in LA. This one is tucked aw
ay on a lane that is little more than an alley. It’s only wide enough for pedestrians and motorbikes to get through. The storefront is small, the same size as the bakery and the butcher shop on either side of it. A bell rings as I enter. I’m thinking that I’ve been sent to a second-rate eczane, unless it has a massive underground vault filled with inventory.

  The inside doesn’t bolster my confidence. I count a half dozen people. Three aisles, two counters. One cash register. An attractive dark-haired man in a lab coat is explaining something to a customer leaning over the counter. With the shelves of drugs behind him, I decide he’s got to be the pharmacist.

  A teenager approaches me. “Yardımcı olabilir miyim?”

  “English?”

  “How can I help you, miss?” he asks cheerfully. He has a British accent.

  He’s wearing jeans and a navy blue T-shirt. He could easily have walked in ahead of me from the street. But no one inside raises an eyebrow, so I have to assume he works here. Still, I feel like I should be speaking to someone in charge about my prescription. All the Internet searches aside, I’m still doubtful that buying meds can be as easy as they make it sound.

  “I have to speak to him. This is a…”

  The guy in the white coat looks up at me. Immediately, I forget the rest of what I was going to say. Suddenly, I’m eighteen again.

  The dark eyes are gorgeous. His eyelashes are so long that I wonder if Turkish men use extensions. His beard is thick. I think it probably makes him look older than he really is. I’d never thought much about it before, but I realize that I find facial hair masculine and very attractive. Then again, it could just be this man.

  I can only see the back of the woman leaning over the counter. She continues to talk. But I don’t blame her for wanting to extend her visit.

  “You have a prescription?” the young man persists. “I’ll take it to him.”

  The pharmacist nods at me and I get it. He’s encouraging me to trust his employee.

  “Okay. The prescription was written by my doctor in Los Angeles.” I take the paper out of my purse. “I should have filled it before I came on this…”

 

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