(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.”

(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.