Letter From a Stranger

  ‘Enough said.’ Michael immediately changed the subject, and asked, ‘How long are you staying in Istanbul?’

  ‘Five days, I’m here with my wife and two of our kids, Randolph and Agnes. I think you’ve met them. It’s a nice weekend break for me, and gives me a chance to spend time with the family. I’m glad our trips coincided. How long are you staying?’

  ‘I’m not sure. I’m here to see several top clients, so probably a week, then I have to go back to Paris for a few days. I just took on a new client there, who’s become extremely security conscious of late.’

  ‘A lot of people have since nine/eleven, and I can’t say I blame them. It’s a dangerous world.’ Charlie grimaced, added, ‘Why am I telling you that? If anyone knows what it’s like out there, it’s you.’

  ‘A powder keg.’ Michael shook his head. ‘The world will never be the same again. And it’s changing every day. And so fast it’s hard for the average person to keep up. We just have to live life as normally as we possibly can.’

  Charles Gordon made no comment, and the two men walked on in silence for a short while, as always at ease with each other. When they reached the old palace they turned around and walked back the way they had come, each lost in his own thoughts.

  At one moment Charles said, ‘I was pleased when I learned you were staying in the same hotel, Michael. It turned out to be convenient.’

  ‘Yes, it did. And I’ll be in and out, around, if you need me for anything.’

  ‘I hope to God I won’t,’ Charles exclaimed.

  ‘So do I,’ Michael answered.

  Once he was back in his suite, Michael took the cigarettes out of the packet, then shook it until a small slip of paper finally fell out. When he read the names Charles had written on it he was truly startled, and instantly understood why Charles Gordon had preferred to pass these names to him in this way, rather than say them out loud.

  He tore the paper into small pieces, did the same with the packet and the cigarettes, and went and flushed everything down the toilet.

  Returning to the sitting room, he opened the French doors and stepped out onto the terrace. How beautiful the Bosphorus looked at this hour. The sun was setting and the deep blue waters of the straits rippled with rafts of crimson, pink and gold, and the sky was aflame along the rim of the far horizon. He loved it here at this time of day. They had a name for it in the movie business. The Magic Hour they called it, and indeed it was exactly that. The world was a beautiful place. What a pity it was full of madness.

  Taking off his blazer, he put it on the back of the chair and sat down, thinking about the clients he had to see here. But soon his thoughts drifted, and he focused on the words he had said to Charles a short while before. He had called the world a powder keg, and it was the truth. Anything could happen, anywhere, at any time.

  As a historian he knew that the history of the world was actually a history of wars. Endless wars since the beginning of time. He was convinced that fighting was genetic, a compulsion man could not resist. There would always be wars because man had no choice. Making war was hardwired into the human mind. And whatever reason was given, it was to gain one thing, and one thing only. Power. He sighed under his breath. All he could do was what he was doing, and hope that sanity would prevail.

  That expression immediately reminded him of Vanessa, his former fiancée, and the last conversation they had had four months ago. She had told him she hoped sanity would prevail and that he would sell his company, take the money he was being offered and run. With her by his side. He had known at this particular moment that she could not, would not change. She loathed what he did for a living, and wanted him to lead an entirely different life. In fact, she wanted to change him completely. Remake him into someone else.

  And so he had run. Not with the money he got for his company, because he had turned down the deal, had declined to sell. He had run from her because the doubts he had had about her had suddenly become certainties. He understood she was not the woman he wanted to spend the rest of his life with. That woman was one he had not yet met but hoped he would. What he wanted was to be loved for who and what he was, for the man he had become. He did not want to be turned into an entirely different person, or be some woman’s puppet.

  The ringing phone brought him to his feet. He strode into the room and over to the desk. ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s me, darling. What time shall I expect you?’

  ‘In about an hour, sweetheart. Is that all right?’

  ‘Of course it is, and I can’t wait to see you.’

  ‘I feel the same way.’

  She simply laughed and hung up, and he smiled as he walked back to the terrace to get his blazer. He loved that laugh of hers. It was full of joy. That was what he wanted in his life. Joy. It struck him suddenly that this was something he had not experienced for the longest time, not for the entire year he had been with Vanessa. She was not acquainted with joy. It was an emotion she didn’t understand. Or perhaps didn’t even have.

  Nasty thought, Michael, he chastised himself as he returned to the sitting room, hung his blazer in the closet and picked out a silk tie to wear to dinner. He wanted to look his best tonight. He smiled again at the thought of the evening ahead.

  ELEVEN

  Istanbul. City of contrasts. European. Oriental. Exotic, Justine wrote in her Moleskine notebook, then added, a cosmopolitan city: diverse in every way… and put down the pen as her cell phone began to sing its little tune. Pushing back the chair on the terrace, she ran into the bedroom and picked it up off the bedside table. ‘Hello?’

  ‘It’s me, Justine,’ her brother said, sounding as if he was next door.

  He had taken her by surprise, and she exclaimed, ‘Is something wrong? Why are you calling me now? It’s four o’clock in the morning in New York.’

  ‘I couldn’t sleep; I woke up about half an hour ago. And I felt a compulsion to call you. I suppose you’re on the way out – it’s noon there, isn’t it?’

  ‘That’s right, and oddly enough I’ve been wanting to speak to you too, Rich, but obviously I couldn’t, it was too early.’ She cleared her throat, went on, ‘How’s Daisy? And how’s the installation going?’

  ‘Daisy’s terrific, what with everyone fussing over her and all that jazz, and the installation has gone without a hitch, so far. It’ll be finished on time. I guess you’re down in the dumps?’

  ‘I am, yes, a bit. I arrived here a week ago yesterday and still haven’t found Gran, and it frustrates the hell out of me, Richard.’

  ‘I know… just as I know you’ve done everything you can. Local television interviews, stories in the newspapers: everybody in Istanbul must be aware that you’re there by now.’

  ‘I guess so. I did think of one thing… maybe Anita and Gran do live here but are away somewhere, and haven’t seen all the publicity about me and “Proof of Life”. That’s possible, don’t you think?’

  ‘Yes, it is…’ He paused, then said somewhat hesitantly, ‘Listen, Justine, I did have an idea—’

  ‘What?’ she asked, cutting across him, wondering what she could have missed. ‘What idea?’

  ‘We could call Mom. She must know where Anita Lowe lives, otherwise Anita would have written her address in the letter.’

  ‘I’m not going to call her. You have to do it.’

  ‘No, I can’t, it would be better if you called.’

  ‘No way. Tackling our mother on the phone won’t work. She’ll say that Anita Lowe has dementia or Alzheimer’s. We’ve discussed this before. The only way we’ll ever get the truth is to confront her in person and wrestle it out of her. You know what she’s like – you grew up with her too.’

  ‘Not really, if you think about it. We grew up with Dad, and Gran on the sidelines.’

  ‘True. Honestly, I won’t call her, Richard, and you shouldn’t either. She won’t tell us a single thing, and we’ll only alert her that we’re aware of the truth about her, what a despicable person she is.’


  ‘You’re correct in everything you say, but what are we going to do, Justine? We’ve reached a dead end.’

  ‘That’s the way it looks, and Iffet hasn’t come up with anything either, though she’s tried very hard. She had someone in her office check various organizations and clubs where foreign residents congregate for social evenings, and the British Consulate as well, but nobody seems to know them. As Eddie would say, we’ve come up with zilch.’ Justine paused, fighting back rising anxiety mingled with frustration yet again.

  ‘So, we’re adrift at sea in a leaky boat,’ Richard muttered. ‘About to sink.’

  Justine couldn’t help laughing. ‘That was one of Gran’s favourite sayings.’

  ‘Along with, “There’ll be tears before midnight.” That was another favourite… warning.’

  ‘And “Stop crying, tears won’t get you anywhere.” Gran had a line for almost every situation, all from her auntie Beryl – at least that’s what she told me. Anyway, I did come up with one possibility and it might just work. I was waiting until a bit later to call you, to pass it by you, see whether you agree that I should do it.’

  ‘Tell me.’

  ‘I’m going to take some newspaper ads and—’

  ‘Ads!’ he cried, his voice rising. ‘That’ll embarrass Gran, not to mention Anita Lowe, whom we don’t even know. You can’t do that.’

  ‘I don’t care about embarrassing anybody right now; I care about finding these two women, in particular our grandmother. Anyway, the ads aren’t about them, but about my new documentary. It’s called “Biography of a City”, and it’s all about the history and peoples of Istanbul.’

  ‘When did you think this up?’ he asked, sounding puzzled.

  Justine could almost see him frowning as he spoke, and she answered, ‘Since I’ve been here. And it’s all started to come together in my head in the last few days – the documentary, I mean.’

  ‘So what are the ads, actually?’

  ‘I will ask foreign, English-speaking residents to come and see me, to talk about their feelings for the city, and their views. I will also invite Istanbulites who have unique stories to tell about their lives to come along also. They will speak to my researcher.’

  ‘You have a researcher already?’ Surprise now echoed in his tone.

  ‘Yes. Iffet Özgönül.’

  ‘She agreed?’

  ‘I haven’t actually asked Iffet yet. I’m going to talk about it with her today. We’re having lunch later and doing a boat trip around the Bosphorus.’

  Richard, far away in New York, remained silent.

  ‘I intend to mention Gran and Anita in the advertisement. And you can be really helpful if you’ll go to my apartment and take the photograph of Gran out of its frame and send it to me by Fedex today. It’s on the chest in my bedroom.’

  ‘Do you want the photograph to use in the ads?’ Richard asked cautiously.

  ‘Correct.’

  ‘I don’t think our grandmother will like seeing her picture in an advertisement in a newspaper, I really don’t, Justine. It’ll go against the grain.’

  ‘I know that as well as you do, but I’m desperate to find her. And you are too, and so I have to use any means I can. I’m hoping she’ll see her photograph and come to see me. Which is what Anita said she wanted in her letter. And if Gran doesn’t see the ad, maybe Anita will, or another friend, and they’ll tell her.’ Taking a deep breath, Justine finished. ‘Please back me up on this, Rich, it’s so important.’

  ‘I do back you, that goes without saying. I’ll get the photograph this morning and send it out immediately. But listen, I hope you know what you’re doing—’

  ‘She won’t be angry, I promise you,’ Justine interrupted.

  ‘I wasn’t referring to Gran. I was referring to the fact that if you publish an advertisement in a newspaper, asking for people to come and talk to you about the city they live in, thousands will show up.’

  Justine laughed. ‘I doubt that: most people are very shy about such things.’

  ‘You’ll see,’ he warned, and then laughed with her. ‘My God, only you could think up something like this.’

  ‘That’s not true, you could. Very easily. You’re my twin.’

  ‘Do you always have to have the last word?’

  ‘Yes, because you had the first when you were born fifteen minutes before me. Dad told me you yelled your lungs out.’

  ‘I can’t remember,’ he answered, the laughter still echoing in his voice. ‘Okay, so it’s a deal. Talk to you later.’

  ‘I’ll send the ads for your approval, once they’re done,’ Justine said. ‘I’ll need your feedback.’

  ‘Keep them simple. Remember, less is more.’

  For the next half-hour Justine made additional notes about Istanbul in her Moleskine, and stopped, suddenly thinking about the advert. She now realized that Richard had been right on two points. Firstly, if she invited people to come and talk to her about Istanbul, hundreds might indeed show up. Secondly, her grandmother would most likely be unhappy to see her photograph in a newspaper. So she must rethink certain things, and carefully word the advert; she must make a decision also about using the photograph of Gabriele. Maybe it was a bad idea, after all.

  As soon as she saw Iffet she would offer her the job as chief researcher on the project. She hoped Iffet would accept; she believed she would. Iffet was proud of her city and would want it to be shown in the best way, in the right light.

  Now her next task, which had become a daily ritual, was to send her e-mails to Daisy, Joanne and Ellen at the office. All three were done swiftly, and Justine closed down her laptop and went to get ready.

  Iffet had warned her it was going to be a very warm day again, and so after she had done her hair and make-up, she chose a light cotton dress and sandals for lunch and the boat trip around the Bosphorus.

  The fact that they had not found the two women nagged at her unmercifully; on the other hand, Justine now found solace and renewed hope in the idea of the advertisement for the documentary about Istanbul. Also, she was looking forward to the trip on the boat, since it would show her different aspects of this city which she was coming to know and love.

  ‘And if you would become the researcher on the project, I would be thrilled,’ Justine said finally, looking intently at Iffet, having told her about the idea.

  ‘I would be very happy,’ Iffet replied in her lovely quiet way. ‘I am flattered that you would ask me.’

  ‘Thank you, Iffet, thank you so much. What a relief that is; my office will put you on the payroll of the new company I’m forming for the project. You just have to let me know what your fee will be.’

  Iffet simply nodded. Taking a sip of the sparkling water, she then said, ‘I believe Richard is correct. You cannot invite people to visit you here at the hotel. Hordes will come. Might I make a suggestion, Justine?’

  ‘Yes, go ahead.’

  ‘I think you should ask people to write or e-mail to my office, and we will sort them. We can select the right candidates for you to interview.’

  ‘That’s a fabulous idea! And who better than you to choose the people. After all, you’re an Istanbulite.’

  ‘I am, yes, although I was not born here. I come from the country. My family owns a farm – that’s where I grew up.’

  ‘And you left and came to the city, just like I did. I was born and bred in Connecticut, and Richard and I still use the house we grew up in. We go there for weekends. Does your family still have the farm?’

  Iffet nodded. ‘One of my brothers runs it.’

  ‘Do you come from a big family then?’

  ‘I have a sister Nimet and three brothers, Hasan, Ihsan and Ismet. My sister lives in Istanbul.’

  ‘That’s nice that she lives here… I guess the two of you emancipated yourselves, like I did.’

  ‘That’s true. Returning to the advertisement, what exactly are you going to say in it? About the documentary.’

  The two wo
men were sitting in the restaurant on the terrace of the hotel, and now Justine bent over from the waist, picked up her white handbag, rummaged around and found her notebook. After a moment of turning pages, Justine cleared her throat, began to read.

  ‘Emmy Award-winning television producer Justine Nolan plans to make a documentary entitled “Biography of a City: The Life Story of Istanbul”.’ She paused, glanced at Iffet. ‘That’s the headline at the top and the text is quite simple, only a few lines which would run to one side of the ad. This is what I’ve written. Justine Nolan’s latest documentary “Proof of Life” will be shown on the Cable News International network this coming September. It is the life story of the man considered to be the world’s greatest living artist, Jean-Marc Breton, and it will be viewed by millions around the world.’

  After another pause, she then went on, ‘There will be a bit of blank space, and then I want to say something like this… Now Justine Nolan plans to focus her camera on Istanbul, its history, religions, traditions, architecture and historical sites, food, as well as its diverse peoples. Do you have a story to tell about this city? If so please…’ Closing the notebook, Justine finished, ‘That’s as far as I’ve gone with the text, and now of course we can add your office address. What do you think?’

  ‘It’s perfect in length. Concise, to the point. When do you plan to have it in the paper?’

  ‘Hopefully next week. I thought of using your photograph as the chief researcher, my own as the producer, and Gabriele’s as the advisor on the project. She may see it, or a friend might, and she’ll know I’m here. But that aside, I am truly serious about doing the film – the ad is not merely a ploy to find my grandmother. I hope you understand that, Iffet.’

  ‘You are a serious and sincere person, Justine, I know that. And your project is very exciting. I am delighted to be associated with it, and I will be happy to give you my photograph.’

  ‘Thank you, and now perhaps we’d better order our salads. What time is the boat coming to pick us up?’

  ‘It will be at the hotel jetty at two o’clock.’