(For Part V click here)

The car came exactly at eight.  Two square men got out: one stayed with the car, the other went into the hotel lobby.  Sylvia and Madison were ready when the desk telephoned.  Zehra had provided makeup, a hair stylist and jewelry (on loan from somewhere thoroughly expensive.)

“You could be maybe sisters?” Zehra said going for the home run compliment.  Both women were too nervous to notice.  She escorted them to the lobby.

In the car, Madison turned to say something to her grandmother, but Sylvia subtly shook her head.  She wasn’t sure if the men spoke English.

At the restaurant, both men got out of the car, escorted them up the narrow stairs and opened the wide double doors.  Sylvia and Madison stepped through and the doors closed behind them.

The room was molten with the setting sun, thick with honey-yellow light.  There were people noises from the deep shadows and golden auras that fluttered through them like butterflies.  And the air was heavy, sweet with spice that floated on the aroma of music, strummed baglamas, zithers and patted davul drums.  The two women paused to adjust their eyes to the light, but suddenly the music stopped and the people stopped, and there was a deep quiet — as if the whole room had paused to take a breath.  And three long seconds later, a single electric guitar sounded through the speakers — six plucked notes.  And Sylvia instantly remembered.  And there they were again.  And Sylvia understood.  And nothing moved in the room except the voice …

“I’ve got to run to keep from hidin’
And I’m bound to keep on ridin’
And I’ve got one more silver dollar
“But I’m not gonna let ‘em catch me, no
Not gonna let ‘em catch the midnight rider.”

It was a song from long ago, from a time before time, a time before Mrs. Ferguson — when young girls had wind in their hair and laughed and flirted and danced in the rain.  Someone at the long table stood up and began to dance hip to hip towards the door, and Sylvia couldn’t see his face but she knew.

“I don’t own the clothes I’m wearin’
And the road goes on forever
And I’ve got one more silver dollar
“But I’m not gonna let ‘em catch me, no
Not gonna let ‘em catch the midnight rider.”

It was the song they cranked loud, racing for the border in the Romanian backroad darkness, their headlights parting the night like an infinite curtain.  It was the song they sang, drunk with success, back safe in their Bosporus apartment.  And it was the song they sang quietly to each other when it was time to do it again.  The shadow had his arms wide, snapping his fingers and bumping with the rhythm.  And the whole world began to clap to the drums.  Sylvia Harrow put her hand to her mouth.

“And I’ve gone by the point of carin’
Some old bed I’ll soon be sharin’
And I’ve got one more silver dollar
“But I’m not gonna let ‘em catch me, no
Not gonna let ‘em catch the midnight rider.”

And the music boomed and the light slightly darkened, and there was Karga, big in front of her, his arms wide.

“But, I’m not gonna let ‘em catch me, no
Not gonna let ‘em catch the midnight rider.”

And she reached forward for Karga like a desperate child “But they caught me, Kargam!” she gasped, “They caught me!” and burst into tears.

And as Sylvia clung to Karga’s shoulder, sobbing, she remembered the black night and a million stars and the blinding searchlights that wiped them out of the sky — and she saw herself standing alone in the savage glare, with her hands in the air as Teddy and Freddy made a run for the trees.  And for the first time in her life, she regretted it.  For the first time, she wondered what would have happened if she had run with the boys.

 

(Midnight Rider © Warner Chappell Music)

(For Part IV click here)

Istanbul is hot in the summer, and Madison’s Grandma was not as young as she used to be, and Kemal’s personal assistant, Zehra, had clearly started life as an Olympic sprinter.  She’d shown up early (right after the room service breakfast) business cards in hand — with a grim resolve that Ertan Bey’s women were going to enjoy the hell out of the ancient Ottoman capital.  Oddly enough, Sylvia, who’d lived in Istanbul for nearly 10 years, had never been inside many of the places their impromptu guide was dragging them to, and it was kinda fun – at first.  But when there was no end in sight, and then there was shopping … Sylvia called a halt.  To Zehra’s stricken surprise, she found an outdoor table at a café and sat down.

“I can’t go another step without coffee.  You two go buy us something to wear tonight.”  Sylvia looked directly at Zehra, “Ertan Bey is a dear friend.  I’m certain you’ll find something that won’t make me look like a beggar.  I’ll meet you in a couple of hours.”

Daunted but determined, Zehra wrote down an address on the back of yet another business card, navigated Madison through the crowded street and disappeared.

“Oh, thank God.”  Sylvia needed time to think.

Plan A had been simple.  Fly in as tourists.  Quietly go see Karga.  Play Remember When for a while, and then ask him who was selling Western girls these days.  Get the wherefores and buy the girl back.  Then casually fly off to Rome with an extra granddaughter.  But Plan A was over.  Karga was obviously very well known in the city, and her sudden association with him had poked Canadian tourist Sylvia Harrow’s head above the radar.  She had no idea who was watching Karga — certainly local police and probably security services — but whoever was, might very well be watching her now, too.  Plus, and maybe it was just paranoia, but, given recent events, there was no guarantee Karga wasn’t already part of the plot.  After all, Teddy had stolen a lot of his money, and Turks have a long memory.

“Kahve as sekerli.” She said unconsciously when the waiter came by.  He twigged at the yabancilar’s flawless accent.

Sylvia needed a Plan B, but more than that, she needed a way out.  A bolthole.  She felt terrible about Teddy’s daughter and she’d do the best she could, but if things went bad – well – then, it was every girl for herself.  Besides, she still didn’t have any hard evidence that Jennifer Copeland was even in Istanbul and the cold reality was, if she wasn’t, she was already gone.

But Jennifer Copeland was there.  She and the other girls were locked in the hold of the S.S. Delfini, docked at a warehouse pier in the old harbour.  Ironically, Sylvia’s Plan A wouldn’t have worked anyway because these girls were not for sale.

Fortunately, Sylvia didn’t know that, or she might have just cut her loses, grabbed Madison and got on a plane.  Instead, she sat with her coffee and let the relentless energy of the moving street wash over her.  It had a busy rock beat rhythm, and the air was heavy and spicy and warm to the touch, and it carried you with it and folded you into its arms.  And the more Sylvia tried to plan, the more she realized she liked this place and she wanted it — not just Istanbul, but this place.  This place that dissolved away the Mrs. Ferguson years and left her with the woman she recognized at the airport.  The confident woman with all the possibilities.  And maybe it was the excitement, or the stress or just a lethal dose of caffeine, but she decided that Jennifer Copeland was going to go home and Sylvia Harrow was going to make it happen.  She reached into her purse for the telephone she’d bought at the airport and touched Freddy’s number in Rome.

“Hell-o?”

“Hi, how’s it going?”

“Fine … and you?”

“Fine.  Fine.  I don’t have much time to talk.  I just wanted to let you know it’s very beautiful here and everybody is really friendly.  In fact, we’re having such a wonderful time we’ve decided to change the itinerary.  We’re going to go to Bulgaria.  Apparently, there’s a place on the Black Sea where everybody used to go in the old days.  Our tour guide hopes we’ll meet some old friends there who have a vehicle, so we can drive around for a bit.  Maybe even get to Romania.  It’s going to be quite an adventure.  We’re not sure which day, but it should be soon.  How are things with you?”

“Same old.  But we were thinking of taking a trip ourselves.  It sounds like you’re having fun and staying out of trouble.”

“Yeah, our tour guide is keeping a pretty close eye on us, so you don’t need to worry.  Anyway, I’ve got to go.  See you soon.”

“Okay, thanks for calling.  See you soon.  Bye.”

Sylvia put the phone back in her purse, dropped some money on the table and looked for a taxi.

–

“Grandma, you’ve got to see these clothes.  They’re totally gorgeous.  Let me put this on and show you.”

Madison took the box and practically ran to the fitting room.

“I selected Arzu Kaprol for Miss Madison.  She’s an established designer who uses a lot of colour.  Very vibrant for a young woman.”  Zehra phrased her words as if they were a question.  “And for you, Fatos Yalin, a little more mature but still very youthful.  I guessed at the size but if you will try it on … there are women here who can alter it.”

“I’m sure it will be fine.” Sylvia said and took the box.

Ten minutes later, both women stood in front of a tri-fold mirror.  Madison’s dress was a multi-coloured abstract hourglass design with cap sleeves and a hemline just below the knee, and Sylvia had a gauzy dancing voile in blue and silver.  Zehra had made a good guess: it fit perfectly.

“Fantastic, Zehra!  These are excellent.  Could you hand me my purse and I’ll give them my credit card.”

“No,” Zehra shook her head, “Ertan Bey left strict instructions: all charges must come to him.”

Sylvia stopped and looked at Zehra.  Then she laughed, did a half pirouette and bent her leg at the knee.

“Well, Ertan Bey is certainly going to get what he paid for,” Sylvia said. And then she smiled and crinkled her eyes.  It was a sparkle Madison had seen once before.

(For Part III click here)

On a sultry Sunday afternoon, Madison Yardley and Sylvia Ferguson got off a plane at Atlanta’s Hartsfield-Jackson airport and disappeared.  They had told their friends and family they were driving south to Arizona with Mrs. Ferguson’s church choir, but in actual fact, they vanished.  Several hours later, two Canadian tourists, Sylvia and Madison Harrow, boarded a non-stop Turkish Airlines flight to Istanbul.  Among their various guide books, paper itineraries, pens, markers and printouts, was a third passport.  It wasn’t conspicuous, but it wasn’t hidden.  It might have been an honest mistake (scooped up in a rush by an excited woman) but it wasn’t.  It was in the name of Jennifer Harrow.

“Pack two bags, Maddy, one light enough to carry — just toothbrush, change of underwear, birth control … “

“Grandma?”

“What?  Grandma doesn’t know where babies come from?” Sylvia laughed, “Anyway, just the essentials.  Put the rest of your clothes in the other bag but nothing you don’t want to lose.  Once we find Jennifer, we’re going to have to move quickly, and we might not be dragging suitcases.”

“Why even take them?”

“Tourists have luggage.  No luggage and alarm bells go off.  Border guards get suspicious.”

Madison set the large suitcase on the bed and stopped.

“What did you smuggle, Grandma?” she asked, not sure she wanted an answer.

“Cigarettes, mostly — perfume, pantyhose, records – um – Levis.  Levis were good — anything people would pay for.

“In Turkey?”

“From Turkey.  To Russia.  In those days, even rich Russians couldn’t get those things.  It wasn’t allowed, so they were willing to pay for them – quite a lot, actually.  We made good money.”

“Why did you stop?”

“We got caught.  Well — I got caught.  Freddy and Teddy could run faster than me.”

“Oh!  That was what you were talking about.  Those assholes!”

“No, honey, it wasn’t like that.  Uh … if the Russians had’ve got the boys, they would have shot them.  And I would have slowed them down.  So Freddy and Teddy took off, and I stayed with the car.  They weren’t going to shoot a woman.”

“Oh, my God!  What happened then?”

“That’s a long story, dear.  For some other time.  Right now, we’ve got things to do.  Come on.”

Like every major city in the world, Istanbul has a distinct smell that burrows into your subconscious and leaves a misty cloud of memory.  Sylvia remembered it.  No one event, no one party, one lover, or broken heart — just a feeling of young and powerful and immortal and happy – God, she was happy in those days.  She still was — seriously happy actually — certainly a lot happier than her aches-and-pains friends, but it was different.  The old days were clear and restless and full of possibilities– like the open water of the Black Sea, sparkling in the light of a silver crescent Muslim moon.  “Was I ever that young?”  Not that Sylvia wanted to be young again.  Oh, God no!  But it was good to remember she was still that girl – inside — a little too romantic for her own good and, when she wasn’t careful, a little reckless.  But today she had to be careful.  There was work to do.

Sylvia had telephoned Karga’s office from the airport.

“Merhaba, yes – uh – my Turkish is not very good.  Do you speak English?

“Yes, madam.”

“I’d like to make an appointment with Mr. Karay, please, for tomorrow.”

“Ertan Bey is a very busy man, madam.  Tomorrow is impossible.  What is this concerning?”

“Just tell him Sylvia Harrow is desperate to see him.  I’m staying at the Crowne Plaza Old City and he can contact me there.  Sylvia Harrow.”

“Yes, madam, I will give him that message.  Thank you.

“Thank you.  Good bye.”

“Let’s hope the old boy remembers me,” Sylvia thought as she hung up the phone.

It took the taxi nearly an hour to get to the hotel, but by the time the two women got there, it was obvious that Karga remembered her.

“Hell-o, my name is Sylvia Harrow.  I have a reservation for two.”

“Yes, one moment please.”

The man behind the counter picked up the phone and spoke rapidly.  Sylvia didn’t understand any of it (her Turkish was old, unused and faded) but she did recognize Ertan Bey.  The man put down the phone and smiled at them and suddenly there were people everywhere.

“Madam Harrow, I am the hotel manager.  My name is Kemal.  It’s a pleasure to meet you.  My card.”

Sylvia took the card with both hands.

“Allow me to escort you to your rooms.  We’ve taken the liberty of upgrading you to a suite.  It will be much more comfortable.  Do you require another room for your – uh – daughter?”

“Granddaughter.  No, we’re fine.”

At a gesture, two younger men hurried over and took the suitcases.

“This is Zehra, my personal assistant.  She will be happy to answer any questions or take care of anything else you might need.  Feel free to call on her anytime.”

Zehra presented her card and Sylvia took it with both hands.  Zehra smiled but didn’t speak.

“Your passports, please.”

Kemal handed them to the man behind the counter.

“Ertan Bey has called to apologize that unfortunately, he won’t be able to see you tonight.  However, if you would allow us, please be our guests for dinner.  Ertan Bey says that tomorrow night would be very good, and he will send a car at eight, if that is acceptable.  But come.  You must be tired after your long journey.”

Kemal directed the entire entourage towards the elevators.

Later, when everyone left.

“Holy crap, grandma!”

Holy crap, indeed.  So much for inconspicuous tourists.

As the two women sat down to catch their breath, the S.S. Delfini sailed quietly through the Dardanelles.