(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.”

(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)