Enlightenment Page 30

  The man in the studio had his back to them. There was something about the way he sat… He got up to leave, and as he did he turned his head just long enough for Jeannie to see his profile.

  The grief welled up inside her again. As she struggled to regain her composure, another man walked into the recording studio carrying a large pile of newspapers. He had close-cropped hair and a broad, open, childish face. He was dressed in jeans and a loose fitting checked shirt that looked expensive, as did the large gold watch on his wrist. When he saw Jeannie, his face lit up. He came out with his arms open wide. ‘Come in! Sit down!’ It was Haluk.

  Otis Redding was coming to the end of the dock of the bay by the time they’d followed him into the studio. As Joni Mitchell began to sing about a parking lot, Haluk smiled and said, ‘Tell me honestly. Are you surprised?’

  But now a fragile, china-faced woman walked in. Jeannie recognised her instantly. They embraced like the old friends they were.

  ‘So,’ said Haluk. ‘How long has it been? Lüset, didn’t you count it?’

  ‘Eighteen years,’ she said.

  ‘Eighteen years,’ said Suna. ‘And just imagine. If we could have foreseen…’

  ‘We would not have believed it,’ said Lüset.

  ‘Ah! More than that!’ Suna cried. ‘We would have rebelled at the thought!’

  ‘Although the point must be made,’ said Lüset. ‘We were not the same people who have gathered here today.’

  ‘In some ways, yes. In others, no. In any event, there are things we need to explain to David. He is looking bewildered!’ She gestured over at the affable young man Jeannie had briefly mistaken for Sinan. She settled into her seat, moving the pile of newspapers to one side: there they were again, stretched across the page. The white-haired man and his granddaughter, advertising mobile phones. ‘So,’ said Suna, propping her elbow on their noses, ‘Where shall we begin?’

  They began with a half-mocking, half-wistful description of the ‘lazy summer of 1970, when we were free but not free, and propelled by simmering boredom.’ They described their first impressions of Jeannie, a ‘fresh-faced American Barbie with no knowledge of the world’ – and of her famous exchange with Suna at the discotheque. Suna describing it as ‘one of those discussions so typical of the era, where the surface is political, but where the true content resides in the confused designs of the heart.’

  They went on to tell the polite young man named David that Jeannie had gone on to become a ‘human rights leader’ – this made her blush with shame. She had, they said, been ‘a dedicated behind-the-scenes ally’ to the cause in Turkey, and that she had paid ‘difficult visits’ here even in the ‘darkest days following the coup of September 12th 1980’. When Jeannie offered to correct the record, they silenced her with dismissive waves, only to exaggerate the help she’d given since the August earthquake. ‘Really,’ she said. ‘I’ve done next to nothing.’

  ‘But now you are here,’ said Haluk. ‘All this stands to change.’

  ‘So what really happened? With the trunk, I mean. In 1971.’ To Jeannie’s horror, the question sent them into peals of laughter. ‘It’s a good question,’ Suna said, ‘But the explanation is even better. Do we have time, my dear Haluk?’

  ‘Of course we have time. And it is time young David knows what sort of mettle his mother is made of.’ He nodded at Lüset. This boy was her son?

  ‘Then suffice it to remind him that we are harking back to the 12th of March, 1971,’ said Suna. ‘Or to be precise, a few months after that, when the mass arrests had begun, and a hysteria was brewing with baseless rumours.’

  The boy David smiled politely. It was clear to Jeannie that he had endured this story many times before. But it did not seem clear to the others.

  ‘According to our accusers,’ said Haluk, ‘we belonged to a cell, and had become convinced that one of our number was an informer. Apparently, we instigated a mock trial and went on to murder him. But there was always something strange about this story. No one could name the victim!’

  ‘In early reports it was Dutch Harding,’ Jeannie said.

  ‘You are right,’ said Haluk. ‘But as you know, his body has never been found.’

  ‘Which means?’

  Something flashed in Haluk’s eyes. ‘What could it mean, except that it is well hidden?’

  ‘But the trunk…’ Jeannie said.

  ‘Ah!’ said Suna. ‘Here we come to the twist in the tale. There was no one in the trunk. There was nothing but literature. Or to be more precise, the contents comprised of 754 copies of a contraband periodical. I know because I wrote and mimeographed them all.’

  ‘Ah, that mimeograph machine,’ said Haluk. ‘How well I remember it.’

  Suna cleared her throat. ‘I am speaking now of that infamous day in June of 1971 – we argued, yes?’

  Yes.

  ‘I said terrible things, didn’t I?’

  We all said terrible things.

  ‘But we all had our reasons.’

  Of course.

  ‘So let me tell you ours. When you turned up at the garçonniere, spouting such ugly lies about a certain valued mentor…’

  ‘I had no idea – no proof – it was a stab in the dark. Suna, you don’t know how deeply I’ve regretted…’

  A wave of the hand. ‘It does not matter what you said, my dear. It never has! No! We had other fish to fry that day. The news had come to us that we were soon to be raided. Naturally we were beside ourselves. If a certain valued mentor had not been there to help us…’

  ‘Though his first suggestion proved disastrous!’ Lüset recalled.

  ‘This is an understatement. We tried to burn the literature in our bathtub.’

  ‘But the tub was plastic.’

  ‘Our only achievement was to create a large and ugly hole.’

  ‘We put out the fire with the shower,’ Lüset said.

  ‘However, this only added weight to the telltale documents.’

  ‘But the clock was ticking,’ said Suna. ‘So we piled them up into a trunk, and we called a taxi. After a short but unpleasant journey Haluk met us on the shore and took us out into Bebek Bay in Kitten II.’

  ‘You have forgotten to mention the trail of red,’ said Lüset.

  ‘Ah yes, the trail of red,’ said Suna. ‘This is perhaps the most exquisite irony. Our contraband literature included our rough notes and early drafts.’

  ‘And a large number of these had been executed in red ink.’

  ‘And now they had become wet.’

  ‘And the excess fluid leaked. Ink was spilled.’

  ‘And this is how we left behind us a path of red which alerted a suspicious janitor who had come out early to buy a loaf of bread. He alerted the police station, thus setting into motion the chain of events that resulted in our arrests.’

  ‘But you are jumping ahead of your story,’ said Lüset.

  ‘This is true. As was my intention. I save the best for last!’ Her laugh was not reflected in her eyes. ‘What we did was this. Having travelled out into Bebek Bay to join the swirling currents, we took the string bags out one by one to drop them in. Alas, they did not sink. Instead they spread over the surface. As far as the eye could see, there was a telltale carpet of damp and disintegrating revolutionary literature.’ She swept her arms, as if to conjure it up again. And to Jeannie’s horror, she burst out laughing.

  ‘Can this be true?’ Jeannie asked.

  ‘Of course it’s true!’

  ‘Then I hope you’re going to tell me that you were never taken in for questioning? Never jumped out of a fourth floor window?’

  ‘Ah!’ Suna said. ‘This is another story altogether! Though perhaps now is not the time. For we are late. Are we not?’

  Minutes later, they were bundling into another of the yellow cabs that had replaced the 1958 Chevrolets of Jeannie’s memory and heading for Taksim. This square, too, had changed, though not beyond recognition: there was a massive new hotel on the eastern side but
the traffic was still chaotic and the pavements clogged, and there, on the vast billboard behind the war memorial, was the sleek, white-haired man conversing on his mobile with the innocent twelve-year-old, in triplicate.

  They walked down İstiklâl Caddesi, now a paved walkway open only to pedestrians and trams, turning right into a narrow street, and into a bar called Kaktüs. They had been there ten minutes when a sulky, pouting, doe-eyed woman came in. She was wearing jeans and highheeled boots and a black leather jacket over a skimpy lace top. Across her chest were half a dozen golden chains.

  It was Chloe. She ambled over to our table to offer Jeannie her beautifully manicured, ring-laden hand. ‘Well, who would have thought?’ she said. ‘How many years has it been? You look just the same, though.’

  ‘You look even younger,’ Jeannie said.

  She laughed, rather tragically. ‘Well, I sort of have to, don’t I?’

  As she opened up her Prada bag and got herself a cigarette from a golden case, Suna said, ‘Chloe’s husband was a plastic surgeon.’

  After Suna had explained how Chloe’s husband had been ‘struck down in the prime of life by leukaemia’ and how Chloe had been running his clinic single-handed ever since, Jeannie offered her lame apologies.

  Chloe took a drag of her cigarette and said, ‘Oh well, what can I say? These things happen. I don’t know about you, but I’m in the mood for a Martini. You want one, Jeannie? They know how to make them now. They use real gin.’

  So they had their Martinis and then Chloe glanced at her watch and realised how late she was for a function where she’d be bored to tears. ‘I’ll see you anon,’ she said, and soon the others, too, were putting on their coats. Minutes later, she was sitting in the front row of a large theatre.

  And there was Haluk in front of the curtains. He made a short speech that was received with loud applause. The curtains parted to show an orchestra. There were four singers – two men in tuxedos and two women in bright red gowns. The songs they sang were all in Greek. Jeannie thought she recognised the music, and when the stage darkened and a familiar face filled the screen behind the orchestra, she realised why. The woman in the film clip was Sibel, Sinan’s mother, circa 1967, standing in pool of light at Montreux. She was wearing the same low-cut dress Jeannie recalled seeing in a photograph, singing a gorgeously sad song, first in French, then in Greek, then in English.

  When the lights went up, Haluk was standing with the singers. With him was an older man. It took Jeannie a few moments to realise he was Chloe’s father.

  But he was not the slow, kindly, ponderous Hector Cabot she remembered. Someone had replaced his batteries. His movements were electric. His laugh was animated, almost wild. His brief remarks in Turkish were followed by even briefer remarks in fluent Greek. He then switched into English. ‘I hope no one minds,’ he said, ‘if I use this third language to thank our international sponsors, who have travelled thousands of miles to be here tonight. This is a historical occasion, one that would have been beyond our wildest dreams as recently as last summer. I hope it proves what we at the Institute think of as our founding motto. Good things can come out of tragedy. Enemies can put down their arms and recognise each other as friends. Our encore this evening is to be Sto Periyali To Krifo.’ He paused here to bow to the thunderous applause. ‘As most of you will already know, the lyrics are by the great Greek poet Seferis. During the junta years, its political resonances led the colonels to ban it. The resonances may have changed now, but the central meanings must remain the same here as they do across the border. “In the hidden bay, we wrote her name, and then we watched, as the beautiful wave came in and washed the name away…” Do I need to explain that the name they wrote and saw washed away was freedom?

  So the song is sad. It’s about people who’ve spent their lives fighting for something they keep losing, who’ve lost their way. But if we can still gather together to sing this song, then it must mean…’ He raised his eyes and swallowed, ‘It must mean we can still live in hope. So I hope you don’t mind if I add my croaky voice to the chorus.’ Looking into the front row he said, ‘Darling? Are you still there?’

  A thin elegant woman with golden hair climbed onto the stage. He gave her a bearlike embrace that nearly toppled her. Retrieving her balance, she smiled at Hector with adulation. Amy Cabot. How could she? It was clear that Hector, who had drunk his way out of their marriage all those years ago, was drunk again. Yet here she was, standing at his side, erasing the past with a song about the perils of writing in the sand.

  Later on, when they were sitting at a long table at Yakup II, Suna tried to explain. Amy and Hector, ‘who now number amongst my dearest friends’ were ‘not precisely remarried’ but ‘in a sense even closer.’ Hector still divided his time between Istanbul and Connecticut. His work as head of IPEM (the Institute for Peace in the Eastern Mediterranean) meant that he also spent time in Greece. The cultural links forged so tentatively before the earthquake had strengthened since the ‘rapprochement’. The concert they had just attended was a case in point.

  Now, as if on cue, Hector and Amy were entering the restaurant. Both rushed over to welcome Jeannie back. Could it be that she had a clean slate, too, along with everyone else? Hector pulled up a chair and engaged Jeannie in a long, intense, very personal discussion. He had, as Jeannie had guessed, been drinking, but he could drink, he claimed, without going over the edge. Taking a measured sip of wine, he said, ‘How about your father?’

  Before she could answer, the conductor and his singers came in. Suddenly everyone but Jeannie was speaking Greek. Then it was Turkish for a sentence and a half. Then English. It went on like that, with the conversation spilling back and forth between languages like water in a boat.

  It was during this strange to and fro that Jeannie discovered Haluk and Lüset were now husband and wife. Once again they met her surprise with laughter. ‘It is strange how things work out, no?’ said Lüset. ‘It is as Suna said: had either of us read the future when we were merely teenagers, we would have been most perplexed.’

  Here Suna interceded. ‘You must tell them the story. It is very romantic.’

  And so was the way that Haluk and Lüset shared the telling of it. They had been married for six years but were still finishing each other’s sentences: In 1992, when she was ‘recently divorced’, and on a flying visit to London, Lüset had caught a glimpse of Haluk in the café of the Arcola Theatre. ‘Though identification was difficult,’ Haluk added, ‘for I had become very fat.’

  ‘But so much else, as well,’ said Lüset.

  ‘Yes, I had been enjoying my own life. I was free! I forged my own destiny! But now, before I knew it, I was back in Istanbul – all forgiven, all forgotten – in the embrace of my family.’

  ‘And mine,’ Lüset added.

  ‘My darling, why repeat the obvious?’

  Everyone laughed. At what? Then all eyes went to the window. In the street outside, the television crew that had followed the Greek performers to the restaurant had now surrounded a dapper, crisply smiling white-haired man. Though Jeannie did not recognise him, a wave of nausea passed through her. He had an entourage; even as he spoke they were clearing his way to the door. Haluk and several members of their party jumped to their feet. Each embraced the man with respectful warmth. The man now moved over to Jeannie’s end of the table. ‘Welcome back,’ he said. ‘Long time no see!’

  It was İsmet.

  She was too shocked, too horrified to speak. This seemed to amuse him.

  ‘He’s aged quite gracefully, don’t you think?’ said Suna as Haluk walked him back to the door. Her tone was arch, contemptuous, detached.

  İsmet, she went on to explain, had done ‘rather well’ for himself. A ‘judicious third marriage’ had equipped him to take full advantage of the telecommunications boom. ‘Though of course he has continued to interest himself in other, more significant channels of communication also. Yes, we must all be in his debt! When it comes to alerting the nation to th
e great new menace in our midst, no one has done more than İsmet Şen! And what an invaluable help he has been to his old friends across the ocean, now that they, too, have decided that the evil empire is no longer espoused to Communism but to political Islam! But only behind the scenes – of course. In public he is simply known as the Pocket King.’ She went on to explain that mobiles were known as pocket phones in Turkey. ‘The nickname remains ironically insulting. It is well known that he deals in arms.’

  ‘This man is an arms dealer and you talk to him?’

  ‘You are speaking as if by talking to him, we are expressing our fear!’

  ‘What else am I to think?’

  ‘We are not afraid, Jeannie. I assure you. If anything, he is afraid of us! Times have changed. To succeed in his new ambition, to be the Voice of the Secular and Islam-hating Republic – it is not enough to pull the strings behind the scenes. He must be seen with the great and the good. He must smile with Haluk at his side! And if Haluk does not quite play his part… Look – look for yourself,’ she said, gesturing lazily towards the door. But Jeannie saw nothing but respect in Haluk’s smile and nothing in İsmet’s demeanour to suggest fear.

  When she said as much, Suna said, ‘Ah! Perhaps you have been gone too long to pick up on the nuances.’ But how could Haluk even pretend politeness in front of this man, how could Suna speak in such level tones of his ignominious career? İsmet was the enemy, the man who’d tried to cancel them out. The man who had pushed Suna out of that window! It felt wrong, unjust – a multiplying of the injuries he’d caused.

  Her unease stayed with her when the conversation turned back to the grim details of the earthquake relief effort. Whenever Suna, Haluk or Lüset touched upon something truly horrible – a fundamentalist group preventing members of a secular relief group from passing out essential supplies, a construction czar who was not going to trial, the closing of all earthquake camps to non-governmental organisations, the failure of the Red Cross to get the homeless into winter housing, the continued flouting of building regulations, the likely death toll if the next earthquake had its epicentre in Istanbul – they would burst out laughing.