(For Part VIII click here)

Somewhere around one in the morning, Karga decided that Madison’s attentive young man was getting a little too attentive and sent him home.  After that, people began switching from raki to coffee and, with it, bowls of Turkish Dondurma ice cream, made from wild orchids.  The party was winding down.  There was no more dancing and the music was slower, sadder — like the stories, tinged with politics and tragedy.  A little later, Taavi came back and Karga and several of the older men went out onto the balcony.  Too shy to approach Sahin in person, most of the young people stayed at their own table, and Madison and Sylvia were pretty much left alone.

“I’ve never seen you dance before,” Madison said. “That was like totally hot.”

It was clear that Madison had been drinking.

“Not bad for an old lady, huh?”

“Did you really have a boat?”

“Umhum, it was a beautiful old sailing ship.  I lived on it for a while.”

“Until the Russians blew it up.”

“Yeah, until the Russians blew it up,” Sylvia laughed.

“Weren’t you scared?  Like, I’d be totally petrified if somebody tried to blow me up.”

“I don’t really remember.  I guess I didn’t think about it at the time.  There were just too many things happening for us to worry about being scared.”

“How come nobody knows about all this, like, in the family?”

“Well, dear, it’s not something you bring up around the dinner table.  ‘Pass the pepper and, oh, by the way, I used to smuggle cigarettes and whiskey into the Soviet Union.’  Come on, Maddy!  Can you imagine your mother?”

Madison laughed loud enough to ripple the conversation at the other table.

“That’s too good.  She’s always going on about how me and Sara should experience life and get out there and do things and not get saddled with a husband and a bunch of kids.”

“Like she did?”

“Like you did.”

“Oh.”

“No, no! I didn’t mean it like that.  She loves you, like, lots.  It’s just that’s she’s always talkin’ about how you never do anything without Poppa, and if it wasn’t for him, you might as well be in a convent.  I’d love to see the look on her face if she knew what we were doing right now.”

“You can’t breathe a word about this, Maddy.  This has got to be our secret.”

“Yeah, yeah, totally.  But it would be funny.”  Madison stopped laughing, “Does Poppa know?”

Sylvia exhaled and reached for her glass.  She took a small sip.

“No-o-ot really.  I always meant to tell him, but it never seemed to be the right time.  And then, over the years, it just got to be embarrassing.  Your Poppa’s a wonderful man, but how many men want to hear that their wives used to run with Turkish gangsters?”

Madison thought about that for a few seconds.   She looked around the room, smelled the hot coffee flavour in the air and heard the music in the background, sweet and melancholy.

“Were you and Karga in a relationship?” she asked.

“You mean were we sleeping together?  No, dear, we never did.  He was married, and I was young and foolish.  And, before you ask, I never slept with Teddy or Freddy either.”

“Oh, I thought they were gay.”

“Hmm, I never thought about it, but from what I remember, they probably had their innings.  But let’s not talk about them right now. Teddy and Freddy aren’t a topic of conversation around here.”

“They stole Karga’s money, didn’t they?  What would he do to them?”

“He’d kill them, dear.”

Madison saw the serious cloud cross Sylvia’s face, and she looked out at the men talking on the balcony.  They might dance and laugh and tell funny stories, but these were dangerous men, and Sylvia had been part of that world.  She looked across the table for some sort of reassurance, and Sylvia seem to read her mind and said, “They’ll be back in a minute.  Let’s get some coffee.  I know you don’t drink it, but try it.  It’ll be a new experience for you.”

Madison relaxed a little bit.

“Tell me about your boat,” Madison said.

And Sylvia told her the story of the Sahin, silently slipping under the Soviet radar, quiet as a deer, her hold full of capitalist plunder.  Then, waiting nervously off the beach, watching the dark horizons for patrol boat silhouettes, while Ukrainian fishermen unloaded their loot.  And then, the last hatch closed, turning into the morning wind and full sail running for home.

“Then the bastard Spetsnaz turned her into firewood,” Sylvia said, her words harsh and bitter.

The big glass door opened, and Karga and the men came back into the room.  The men started gathering up their various people and Karga walked over to Sylvia and Madison.

“We have to go Sahinim.  There are many things we have to do.  Do you remember Havuzlu in the Bazaar?

“Yes, I remember it.”

“You need to go there tomorrow, for lunch, at one o’clock.”

Sylvia didn’t speak, but her face was full of questions.

“Someone will meet you there.  You can do this thing.”

(For Part VII click here)

When Sylvia and Karga came back to the party, Madison had already discovered the beauty of raki – talk and food and more talk and more food and … until everyone was either eating or speaking.  Plates of melon and feta, fava beans with garlic, Kofte meatballs laced with pistachios, chestnuts, tangerines, Pide bread with olive oil, and paper-thin pastry filled with meat and onions.  These were the tastes of the exotic Ottoman east since the days of the caravans.  The sights and smells and touch of sun-bright courtyards, mosaic-blue corridors, canopied pavilions and the beaded, curtained harem.  And the music wove through the air like erotic threads, searching for a tapestry that was just beyond hearing.  Sylvia remembered this – all of this — as if she’d fallen asleep for a few minutes and dreamed a whole different lifetime.  As if she were an amnesiac coming out of a coma.  As if … and she saw Madison, bright-eyed and oh-so-young, listening to an attentive young man explaining it all to her.  And she smiled, remembering her own young men – persistent and gallant.  She tucked her arm into Karga’s.

“Come dance with me.” She said.

At first, nobody noticed.  The music was low and slow, and Sylvia and Karga were alone by the windows.  Then a couple of people saw them and caught the attention of a few others, and there was a drum beat rhythm, and soon conversations began to fade.  And then there was a singer, a single female voice that swayed into the music like a thread of silver.  Sylvia moved her hips as if she was born to be there, her palms low and open and inviting, and Karga matched her movement, following her with his shoulders, his arms out so she could not escape.  And the lights of the city night behind them were shivering neon stars that surrounded them until they became lost celestial beings, alone in the heavens – dancing their eternities – but unable to touch.

It was the most sexual, sensual thing Madison had ever seen.  She could feel the deep, desperate ache of love.  The need of it, the want of it, the satin tightness in her stomach, the whisper hairs on the back of her neck and the humid velvet ….

“Oh.  My.  God!  That’s grandma!” Madison said out loud.

“Sahin,” replied Madison’s attentive young man, helpfully.

“It’s the song.”

Madison looked blank.

“The song,” he gestured to the music.

“They wrote it for her.  I’ll tell you.  It’s the story of a great Sultan who had a beautiful falcon, and they would hunt together in the summer mountains.  And he would feed her from his fist, and no other bird was as fearless as she was.  But one day, the falcon was taken from him, and his anger flared so fiercely it burned the clouds and scorched the sky.  But nothing he could do would bring her back to him.  So, over the years, his sadness grew, his tears filled the sea and no one ever saw him smile again.  Finally, he went back to the summer mountains to sit in the evening sun and wait for his falcon to return — because he knew, if she could, she would come back to him.”

And as Cenk (the attentive young man) told Madison the story, the music stopped and there were cheers and clapping, and then someone said “Tarkan!” and before Madison knew it, Cenk had pulled her out on the dance floor.  And she looked across and saw Sylvia, holding her dress up with one hand, her knees bent, her hips moving and her other hand waving in the air.

And they danced, and they drank, and they ate, and they talked.  Madison heard the story of the time Mehmet fell off the East Wall, running from the police …

“Two broken legs, and six months on crutches, but I can still dance.”

And he jumped up to prove it.

And the one about Sahin’s sailing ship that the Russians blew up in the harbour because they couldn’t catch it on the high seas.

And they ate some more and …

“Don’t eat that one, Maddy: it’s liver.”

… drank.

“No.  More water, or I won’t be able to walk out of here.”

And then there was the night they dressed up in stolen uniforms and raided the American airbase.  Three truckloads of Johnny Walker whiskey, sold to the Soviet’s 14^th Guards Army of the Ukraine – for American dollars – and they all laughed and laughed.

At some point, Karga took his son Taavi aside and talked to him earnestly for several minutes.  Taavi left the party, and Karga came back to the table.  He leaned close to Sylvia’s ear and whispered.

“Sahinim, we can do this thing.”

Sylvia smiled and crinkled her eyes.  It was a sparkle that Madison was getting used to.

(For Part VI click here)

It seemed like forever, but it only took a couple of seconds for Sylvia to realize her mistake and straighten up to apologise.  But before she could speak, Madison stepped protectively between them.

“We don’t have to stay here, grandma.  We can go.”

“No, no, it’s fine.  It’s just the excitement, the music, I …” Sylvia touched her little finger to her eyes, “Do I look like a raccoon?”

“No, it’s good.  But seriously, we don’t have to do this.”  Madison studied her grandmother’s face.

“No.  I’m fine.” Sylvia turned Madison’s shoulders forward to face Karga.

“This is my granddaughter, Madison.  Madison, this is my dear, dear friend, Ertan Bey.”

Karga dipped his right shoulder gallantly, paused and reached out to stiffly hug the young woman.  Then he turned to the room, threw his arms in the air and said, “Sahinim eve geldi.”

There were cheers and clapping and then utter chaos.

Names and faces, and everyone talking at once.  And the music started again.  And more faces and some names Sylvia remembered and some she didn’t know.  Some people came forward and some sat waiting.  Smiles and gestures from the older men and shy deference from the younger men and women.  And Madison trailed behind, watching everybody closely until they finally sat down.

“Do you know all these people, Grandma?”

“Most of them.  The older ones.  I can’t place a few of the faces, but …”

“Why do they all call you Sahin Hamin?”

Sylvia laughed.

“There is no Sylvia in Turkish, but they have a name Selva which is kind of a bird, and over the years it just got changed to Sahin.  Hamin is – uh — like Mrs.”

“It means something, doesn’t it?”

“Yes, dear.  It means falcon.  Okay, now, listen: this is important, this is raki,” Sylvia said, changing the subject, “Be very careful with it.  It sneaks up on you and it’s got a big bite.”

“Alcohol?  Muslims don’t drink!”

“These ones do.  You have to pour the first toast, Madison.  It’s the custom.  I’ll help you.  Water first, there.  Not too much, three fingers … good.  Now the raki, slowly.  Wait for the smoke.  Yeah, a little more, a little more, okay.  Now water, again.  Not too much, or they’ll laugh”

Madison was careful and nobody laughed.

“Okay, now give it to Ertan Bey.”

Karga took the drink and held it while everyone across the two tables found and filled their glasses.  Then he stood up.  Karga was not a big man, but he occupied space.  And he spoke with the even tones of someone who was accustomed to being listened to.  Madison didn’t understand the words, but she could see the authority they carried.  She picked out “sahinim” several times, her own name once and a long laugh from the crowd after an obscene hand gesture.  Whatever Karga was talking about it clearly involved her grandmother and Madison couldn’t wait to find out what it was all about.  Then Karga turned to Sylvia and said, in English, “Welcome home, my little falcon.  May all of our sons marry women as brave and as beautiful as you.”  And he touched his glass to the very bottom of Sylvia’s, drank and banged the glass on the table.  And everyone else drank and did the same.

Suddenly, the room was full of waiters and food on long trays and pitchers of water and bottles and bottles of raki.  And it seemed as if everyone was talking at once, and the music flowed across the noise like a gossamer blanket.

“What did he say?”

“I’m not sure, Maddy.  My Turkish was never really that good.  But I bet there was …”

“I told them how your grandmother used to fly to the Crimea and swoop down and bite the Russian bear on his bottom.”

“Or something like that,” Sylvia added, laughing.

“Yes, quite so.  Now, I must talk to Sahin.  So, Mad-e-son, I give you the table.  No empty glasses.”

Sylvia stood up, and she and Karga walked through the big glass doors out onto the balcony.

“So, Sahinim has come home.  But not to stay, I think.”

“No, I have my life, a world away from here.”

Karga nodded his head.

“Too many years,” he said. “Is he good to you?  Do you have sons?’

“Yes, we’re good together.  And I have one son, two daughters and …” Sylvia opened her hand, “five grandchildren.”

Karga turned his head back towards the restaurant.

“The eldest,” Sylvia said.

“I have four sons.”

“Yes, I met them.  Mustafa and Taavi” Sylvia put her hand out, palm down, “were little boys the last time I saw them.”

“Now they have sons of their own — and soon, grandsons.”

“Too many years, Kargam.”

They leaned on the balcony, looking out at the city lights reflected in the water – old friends with too much to say, both wondering where to begin.  Finally …

“I went to Kiev,” Karga spoke out into the night.  “And when they wouldn’t give you back, I went to war.  We stopped their blue jeans and cigarettes and flooded the dachas with drugs.  No Russian was safe east of the Bosporus.  There were many widows.”

“Oh, Kargam, no.  I’m so sorry.”

“We were young.  It was foolish, but … Turks have always fought the Russians.  Since the time of the Cossacks.  It was no different.”

“I wasn’t in Kiev very long.  They put me on a train right after the trial.”

“And you jumped.” It was a statement.

“Yes, I jumped,” Sylvia unconsciously rubbed her wrist.  “And ran … and ran and ran and ran.”

“But you didn’t come back?”

“No, I didn’t come back.”

They watched the reflected lights, rippling in the water behind a boat that chugged its way towards them.

“At first, I thought I was going to, but then I just couldn’t.  It took me months to get out of Russia.  I was so scared for so long.  I lost my courage.  And when I got across the border to Finland, I wasn’t brave anymore.  And I knew I never wanted to be frightened again.  So, I just walked away.”

“Are you frightened now, Sahinim?  Is that why you came back?”

“No, I’m trying to help someone else who’s probably just as scared as I was.  I’m looking for an American girl, abducted in Rome two weeks ago.  I think she’s here.  I think she’s going to be sold locally or passed on down to the Gulf.  I need to find her and buy her back — before she disappears.”

Karga thought for a couple of seconds.

“No,” he said finally. “No one wants American girls here.  The brothels are full of Europeans, Poles, Estonians, even Russians.  American girls cause too much trouble.  They have too many friends, too many noisy men from Washington.  They’re not worth the investment — even in the Gulf where they bathe in gold.  There’s only one place for stolen American girls: they go to China.”

Karga turned to face Sylvia.

“And they don’t come back, Sahinim.”

It took a moment for Sylvia to realize what Karga was saying.  But when she did, it did frighten her.

“I need to find her quickly, then.”

“No, you don’t understand.  I know these men: Albanian dogs who bark for their Russian masters.  They won’t give her up.”

“I have money.”

“They won’t give her up.  Not even to me.”

“I have to try.”