by Marc Levy
“I am a guide and translator. The best in Istanbul. When I turn my back, the bartender will say no, but this is because he makes a little business saying that. He is getting baksheesh from the other guides. With me, no bribe. I have a standard. In Istanbul it is impossible if you are a tourist or in business affairs with no guide. And, like I tell you, I am—”
“The best in Istanbul. I haven’t forgotten.”
“Yes, my repetition precedes me,” said Can, brimming with pride.
“Well, I may be in need of your services.”
“You should choose carefully. Finding a good guide is very important in Istanbul. I don’t want you regretting this. I have only satisfied customers.”
“Why would I choose somebody else?”
“Because later this bartender will be saying very bad things on my back, and maybe you will want to believe in him. But you have not told me what you are researching.”
Daldry saw Alice come out of the lift and walk across the lobby toward the bar.
“We’ll talk about it tomorrow,” said Daldry as he stood. “You’re right. I need to think carefully about this. Meet me here tomorrow at breakfast. Let’s say eight o’clock. No—eight’s a little early with the time change. Let’s say nine. And if you don’t mind, let’s meet somewhere else. Perhaps in a café.”
Can noticed that Daldry spoke with increasing speed as Alice approached, and he smiled knowingly. “I have had many foreign clients in my past. There is a tearoom, very nice, very pleasurable, Rue Istiklal, number 461. Tell the taxi driver ‘Markiz.’ It is a big classic. Everybody knows it. I will wait for you there.”
“Perfect. I’m sorry but I have to leave now. See you tomorrow.” He hurried over to meet Alice as she came into the bar.
Can stayed planted on the barstool and watched Daldry take Alice into the hotel dining room.
“I thought you might prefer to eat here this evening. You seemed a bit worn out after our trip,” said Daldry as they took their seats.
“Oh, not really,” said Alice. “I slept on the plane, and it’s only two hours later here than in London. I just can’t believe it’s already dark outside.”
“The sudden change in time is one of the exhausting things about traveling in aeroplanes, I’ve been told. I understand if you feel like sleeping in tomorrow morning.”
“That’s kind of you, but the evening hasn’t even begun. I probably won’t need to.”
The headwaiter brought them the menu. It featured woodcock and local seafood from the Bosporus. Alice didn’t like game and decided upon a fish called a lüfer, but Daldry insisted that they try the local langoustines, which he had heard were exceptional. The waiter enthusiastically agreed.
“To whom were you speaking just now?”
“The waiter?” asked Daldry, reading the wine menu with unusual concentration.
“No, I meant the man at the bar. When I came down, the two of you seemed to be having a conversation.”
“Him? Some tourist guide who drums up clientele by hanging around here. He told me he was the best in Istanbul, but his English is rather odd.”
“Do we even need a guide?”
“It might be useful for the first few days. It could save us some hassles down the line. A good guide would know where to find the plants or essential oils you’re looking for and might be able to take us to lesser-known areas in the countryside as well.”
“You haven’t hired him already, have you?”
“We hardly spoke to one another . . .”
“Daldry, the lift is made of glass, I could see the two of you before I’d even arrived on the ground floor.”
“He was trying to convince me to hire him and I was listening to his pitch. But if you don’t like him I can always ask the concierge to find us somebody else.”
“I just don’t want to waste your money on something we don’t need. I’m sure that if we go about things systematically we’ll be fine on our own. We should just try to find a Baedeker’s. We may get lost from time to time, but at least we won’t be forced to make conversation with a perfect stranger.”
The langoustines were everything the waiter had promised they would be. Daldry was now toying with the idea of ordering a second dessert.
“Carol would be green with envy if she saw me in this gorgeous dining room,” said Alice as she sipped her first Turkish coffee. “To a certain extent, it’s thanks to her that I’ve come all this way. She was the one who insisted that I talk to that fortune-teller.”
“To Carol, then,” said Daldry, improvising a toast.
“To Carol.”
They clinked glasses.
“And to your mystery man,” said Daldry, lifting his glass a second time.
“To the perfume that will make you a rich man,” countered Alice, taking a second sip of her wine.
Daldry glanced at the couple seated at the table next to theirs. The woman wore a stunning black evening gown. Daldry thought she looked a bit like Alice.
“Who knows, maybe you have some distant relatives in the region.”
“What on earth are you talking about?”
“Weren’t we talking about the fortune-teller? She told you that your family was from Turkey, didn’t she?”
“Would you drop that? That part of her story made no sense. My parents were both English and my grandparents were as well.”
“Sometimes there are a few forgotten branches on the old family tree. Most of my family is from Kent, but I have a Greek uncle and a distant cousin from Venice.”
“Well, there’s nothing more plain and British than my family. Apart from Aunt Daisy, who lives on the exotic Isle of Wight.”
“To be fair, you did say that Istanbul felt familiar to you when we arrived earlier today.”
“It was my subconscious taking over. Ever since we first started talking about this trip, I’ve been poring over the brochure and imagining what Istanbul would be like.”
“I looked at the brochure a fair amount myself and I can’t say that the photographs of the Hagia Sophia and the Bosporus reminded me much of the neighborhoods we were driving through on our way from the airport.”
“Oh, please. Do you really think I look like a Turk?” asked Alice, trying not to laugh.
“Well, you are rather dark for an Englishwoman.”
“You just say that because you’re as pale as they come. You’re positively anemic.”
“That’s a nice way to talk to a hypochondriac. Keep it up and I’ll pass out right here in the restaurant.”
“Come on. Let’s go for a walk. A constitutional would do us some good. You ate like a pig.”
“What are you talking about? I ordered the lightest dessert on the menu.”
They walked for several minutes down the broad avenue that ran past their hotel. It was completely dark, apart from the streetlamps casting their feeble glow on the paving stones and the solitary cyclopean beams of the streetcars raking through the blackness.
“Tomorrow I’ll go to the British Consulate to see about getting us an appointment.”
“What on earth for?”
“To find out if you have family in Turkey, or whether your parents ever came here.”
“I imagine my mother would have told me about a trip to Turkey. In fact, she always complained about having traveled so little. She said she would have liked to visit foreign countries, and I think she really meant it. She never got any farther than the South of France. She and my father went there on a romantic getaway before I was born, and she always talked about walking along the Mediterranean as though it were the most incredible experience of her life.”
“That doesn’t help much.”
“Daldry, I can assure you that the whole Turkish-family story is a dead end. I’m sure I would have been told about even the most distant Turkish relatives, if I had any.”
They had wandered down a side street that was even more dimly lit than the main avenue. Alice looked up at one of the old wooden houses. The fr
agile framework of the second floor jutted out over the street and looked as though it might come crashing down at any moment.
“What a pity these old Ottoman houses aren’t better kept up,” said Daldry. “This street must have been superb a hundred years ago, and now it’s all falling apart. They’re like ghosts of their former selves.”
Through the shadows, Daldry could make out the anguish that crept across Alice’s face as she looked up at the charred remains of a house that had been gutted in a fire.
“Is something the matter? You look as though you’ve just had a vision of the Blessed Virgin.”
“I’ve already seen this house. I know this place,” said Alice. Her voice was hushed.
“Are you sure?”
“Maybe it wasn’t here exactly, but I dreamt about a house very much like it. In my nightmares . . . They always finished with me in a little street that ended with a flight of steps leading down to the city.”
“I’d be happy to go farther to see if there aren’t some stairs, but I think we’d better wait until tomorrow. I can barely see my hand in front of my face, and I have no idea whether it’s safe to be wandering around in this alley in the middle of the night.”
“There was always the sound of footsteps,” Alice continued, still remembering her dreams. “People chasing us.”
“Us? Who were you with?”
“I don’t know. I only remember holding hands. But whoever it was pulled me along.” She shuddered thinking of it. “Yes, let’s get out of here. I don’t like this place.”
Daldry took Alice by the arm and led her to the nearest avenue. He hailed a passing tram and helped Alice to climb aboard. They sat on an empty bench, and Alice snapped out of her haunting vision. The other passengers talked amongst themselves. A dignified old man in a dark suit read his newspaper, and three young men at the back sang together. The conductor put the tram back into gear and they rolled forward. During the ride, Alice said nothing, only stared at the conductor’s back through the violet-tinted pane of glass that separated his compartment from the passengers. Soon the Pera Palas came into view. Daldry placed his hand on Alice’s shoulder and inadvertently startled her.
“This is our stop.”
Alice followed Daldry across the avenue and into the hotel. He accompanied her back to her room. She thanked him for dinner and apologized for her behavior. She couldn’t explain what had come over her.
“It can’t be very pleasant to have the sensation of reentering a nightmare, especially when you know you’re awake,” said Daldry, trying to be understanding. “I know you feel strongly about it, but I’m going to try to set up an appointment at the consulate tomorrow.”
He wished her good night and disappeared into his room.
Alice sat on the edge of her bed and let her body fall backward. She looked at the ceiling for a long while and then sat up and walked over to the window. A few people were still outside, hurrying to return home for the night, and they seemed to pull the darkness in their wake. The evening mist had given way to a cold rain, and the paving stones of Istiklal glistened in the night. Alice pulled the curtains and sat at the desk, where she began writing a letter.
Dear Anton,
Yesterday evening I wrote to Carol from Vienna, but I was thinking about you. I threw the letter away when I was done. I doubt I’ll mail this one either, but I still feel the need to talk to you.
Here I am in Istanbul, in a luxurious hotel. It’s the sort of place that you and I have only dreamed about. You’d love this little mahogany writing desk. Remember when we were kids and we used to fantasize about the exotic strangers staying at the Savoy?
I ought to be overjoyed to be here, but I already miss London, and I miss you as well. As long as I can remember, you have been my best friend, even though I know we’ve both had moments of uncertainty about the nature of our friendship.
Oh, Anton . . . I don’t know what I’m doing here, and I don’t really know why I left home. When we took the second plane in Vienna, I hesitated a moment, because I knew it was taking me even farther away from my regular life.
But ever since we arrived, I’ve felt tense—the strange, unshakable feeling that I’ve been here before, that I know the streets and recognize the sounds of the city, even certain smells, like that of the tram I rode in this evening. If only you were here, I could try to explain myself better, and I’m sure that just talking to you would make me feel better. But you’re far away, and something inside of me is glad of it. Carol has you all to herself now. She’s crazy about you, and you don’t even notice. Open your eyes! She’s a wonderful person, and even though I’m sure the sight of the two of you together would drive me crazy with jealousy . . . Well, I know what you’re thinking, that I have everything mixed up and I don’t know what I want. That’s just how I am.
I miss my parents. It’s so lonely not having them anymore, and I haven’t managed to patch over the hole that they left behind when they died. I’ll write to you again tomorrow, or maybe at the end of the week. I’ll tell you about my day, and maybe I’ll even end up sending the letters. Maybe you’ll write back to me.
Thinking of you, from a room whose windows overlook the Bosporus (which I’ll finally see in the daylight tomorrow).
Take care,
Alice
Alice folded up the letter and put it in the drawer of the writing desk. Then she turned out the light, undressed, and slipped between the sheets.
A steady hand lifted her from the ground. She could make out the faint odor of jasmine in the skirt into which she pressed her face. She was unable to hold back the tears that flowed down her cheeks. She wanted to stifle her sobs, but she was too afraid to take control of them.
A streetcar’s headlight sprang from the darkness, and she was pulled into the protective shadow of a stable door. She watched the streetcar roll toward another neighborhood. The screech of its wheels faded into the night and silence returned.
“We can’t stay here,” the voice told her.
She hurried, stumbling over the uneven cobblestones. At one point she tripped, but the hand leading her onward pulled her to her feet.
“Run, Alice. Come on, be brave. Don’t turn back.”
She wanted to stop and catch her breath. In the distance she could see a crowd of men and women being led away.
“Not that way. We have to find another route.”
Exhausted, they turned back, retracing their footsteps. The street ended at an immense stretch of water. The moonlight glittered on its agitated surface.
“Don’t get too close, you might fall in. We’re almost there. A little farther and we can rest.”
Alice ran along the water’s edge. The horizon grew dark and a heavy rain began pelting down.
Alice woke up with a guttural shout, the sound of a little girl racked with unspeakable terror. She sat up in panic and groped for the light switch. It was a long time before her heart stopped racing. She slipped on her dressing gown and parted the curtains to look outside. A storm was raging, soaking the roofs of Istanbul in a heavy downpour. The last streetcar of the evening rattled down Tepebaşi Avenue. She closed the curtains. Her mind was made up. Tomorrow she would tell Daldry that she wanted to go back to London.
7
Daldry quietly closed the door and headed down the corridor, tiptoeing past Alice’s room as he went. He took the elevator to the lobby, put on his coat, and asked the porter to hail a taxi. The guide was right. Daldry had only to utter the word “Markiz” and the driver knew where he wanted to go. Traffic was dense, but it wasn’t far, and the trip took ten minutes. Can was waiting at a table inside, reading the previous day’s newspaper.
“I thought you were standing me up,” he said, standing to shake Daldry’s hand. “Are you hungry?”
“I’m famished. I left the hotel without eating breakfast.”
Can ordered, and the waiter brought Daldry a number of saucer-sized plates full of cucumber slices, hard-boiled eggs seasoned with paprika, o
lives, kaşar, feta cheese, and chopped green pepper.
“Would it be possible to get a cup of tea and some toast?” asked Daldry as he warily eyed the Turkish breakfast that now covered most of the table.
“May I conclude this means we’re engaged?”
“Can, there’s something I’d like to ask you—please don’t take it the wrong way. I assume your knowledge of Istanbul is less . . . irregular than your mastery of the English language?”
“I’m the best for both. Why?”
Daldry sighed. “Fine. Let’s see if we can come to an agreement.”
Can took a pack of cigarettes from his jacket pocket and offered one to Daldry.
“Never on an empty stomach,” he said.
“What are you looking for, with exactitude, here in Istanbul?” asked Can, striking a match.
“A husband.”
Can had to stifle a cough before taking his first drag.
“Not for me, idiot, for a woman. We’ve made a deal.”
“What kind of deal?”
“It’s a sort of property venture.”
Can’s eyes lit up.
“If you want to buy a house or an apartment, I can coordinate you very easily. Tell me your budget, and I can present you grand and interesting offers. It is a good idea to invest yourself here. The Turkish economy is going through a difficulty, but Istanbul will soon be back to its former grandness. This is an exceptional city, magnanimous. Its cartographic situation is one of a kind, and the population has talents in all specialties.”
“You’re very kind, but the property I want is back in London. I’m looking to buy my neighbor’s flat.”
“Then why are you not running this affair in England? This seems like a better idea for buying an English apartment.”
“In this case, no. Otherwise I wouldn’t have come all this way. The flat I want is currently occupied by a woman who will probably continue living in it, unless something in her life changes . . .”
Daldry told Can about how he and Alice had come to Istanbul. Can listened attentively, interrupting only to ask Daldry to repeat the fortune-teller’s predictions.