Enlightenment (26 page)

Her father had called her by now, and she had not picked up. In his message, he’d said that as far as he knew, ‘everyone we know’ was ‘safe’. But now came the aftershocks. Some were over five on the Richter Scale, and she dreamt she was standing on a pile of rubble. She was stepping over the broken slabs of concrete, searching for a sign of life. And there it was – a hand. She reached out to touch it. It was Sinan’s.

She screamed, but no sound came out. She woke up and made herself a cup of camomile tea. A wave of drowsiness came over her. She closed her eyes. She was walking along the Bosphorus. The pavement was shaking, the lampposts swaying, the cars were swerving and falling into the sea. She opened her eyes to chase the scene away. When she closed them again she was in the Pasha’s Library, watching the walls around her expand and contract, expand and crack. Then she was in Amy’s house, then she was standing outside Gould Hall, watching the columns crumble. Or on the college terrace, as the fissures snaked their way across the ground. She thought of the houses she’d spent time in. How many were still standing? She thought of all the people. How many were dead?

She was in the bathroom, brushing her teeth, when she heard a very familiar voice coming from the television in her bedroom.

She put down her toothbrush and went out to look. The man from
Newsnight
was talking to a woman on a satellite link-up. She still thought she was seeing things. All along she’d been catching glimpses of faces in the crowd and thinking she recognised someone. But now they flashed her name across the bottom of the screen. Professor Suna Safran. Boğaziçi University, Istanbul.

She had aged well. The edge of outrage was still there, but she spoke with the containment of a judge. She was putting into perspective the racist remarks made earlier that day by the Turkish Minister for Health. He had said he did not want blood donations from Greeks or Armenians, or indeed anyone who was not a pureblooded Turk. She was explaining that this man was a member of an ultra rightwing
nationalist party, and part of the coalition government that was not expected to last much longer. She claimed that most people in the country deplored his statements, and that there was massive gratitude for all the aid that had been coming in from abroad, most especially from countries that were traditionally thought of as enemies. The new perceived enemies, she said, were the military.

But this, too, was an oversimplification, she said, her
gravitas
growing with every word. The army had itself been hard hit by the earthquake. Its fatal error had been to lack a contingency plan. There had, however, been an impressive coalition of civil societies. ‘The Turkish people have learned at last that they cannot wait to be saved but must learn to take matters into their own hands.’ It was the people who had been co-ordinating whatever rescue efforts had succeeded. It was they who had set up the ad hoc voluntary associations that had introduced food and shelter and rudimentary order for the tens of thousands who had been made homeless. She recited the number of a London-based charity account for anyone who wished to make direct donations. Jeannie wrote it down.

Along with the donation she sent to the designated bank, she included a letter to Suna in which she offered to help with any
longer-term
relief Suna and her colleagues might organise. She outlined her areas of expertise. She ended with an awkward sentence about how she would understand if Suna preferred not to take her up on her offer. But whenever she remembered she’d not heard from her in such a long time, she felt sad.

In the meantime, she followed other leads. Her father was still in touch with Amy, and when Jeannie called, Amy gave her Chloe’s email. Chloe had been living in Istanbul since the late 80s and was, among other things, on the board of the international school. The pupils were collecting money to help build a school in Gölçük, a town in the area worst affected by the earthquake. When Jeannie sent a donation, she got an instant response. The only good thing about the earthquake, Chloe wrote, was to have ‘reconnected’ with so many long-lost friends. She wanted to write back and ask for news of Sinan but could not bring herself to type his name. So instead she asked if ‘everyone’ was ‘okay’. To this she got no reply other than a round
robin about the progress of the charity project.

It was in late October that she picked up the phone and heard Suna’s voice again. As serious as ever, but also arch. ‘So,’ she said, ‘You wish to help.’

‘If you think I can,’ Jeannie said. Her voice was hoarse.

Suna’s was like a bell. ‘Let us try and see.’

‘If you can send me a few details about the projects you’re involved in, I’m sure I can raise more funds,’ Jeannie said.

‘That would be most generous,’ Suna replied. ‘But there is a more pressing concern. To help us you would need to come to Istanbul.’

‘Istanbul. Are you sure they’d let me in?’

‘Why should they stop you, of all people? So tell me. Can you come?’

‘When?’ Jeannie asked.

‘We were hoping for tomorrow.’

She paused. Her heart was pounding. Now was the time to ask. But she still couldn’t say his name. Instead she asked, ‘Who is we?’

‘Ah!’ said Suna. ‘No, there are only the two of us. Myself and Lüset.’

‘I had plans,’ Jeannie said slowly. ‘But I’m sure I could change them.’

‘Good. That means you can come. I shall forward your name to our friend in the Turkish Airlines office. Another friend will come out to the airport to give you the items you will be kind enough to carry for us.’

Twenty-three hours later, she was en route to Istanbul. Clouds covered most of Europe that morning but cleared just before they began their descent over the Sea of Marmara. Jeannie could see the jagged, yellow coastline and the highway that traced it. She looked inland, and where there had been empty brown hills, there were now houses as far as the horizon. Since her last visit, the city had grown from two to twelve million – eighteen if you counted the suburbs. They were flying into the wind and the landing was bumpy. But when the engines stopped roaring, a man began to clap. Now the whole plane was clapping, laughing, chatting. But she could not find it in herself to join in.

It was while she was waiting for her bags that she saw the first poster – a sleek-looking white-haired man in profile, smiling at a bright-eyed girl of about twelve. Both were holding mobile phones to their ears, and it was, Jeannie thought, the loud red background that made her chest feel so tight.

Suna was waiting outside customs. She was alone, of course. And so was Jeannie. How old she felt. Did Suna notice? She embraced Jeannie warmly, assuring her, with a broad smile, that she hadn’t aged at all.

‘Neither have you,’ Jeannie lied.

And Suna said, ‘Ah! The object is not to nurture false youth, but to mature!’ The pretence lasted as far as the car. As she lifted the aluminium suitcase that Jeannie had brought for them, Suna asked if they’d given her any trouble over it. Jeannie said no, though they’d sent it off for a special inspection.

‘Ah! Then let us see how special this inspection proved to be.’ She opened the suitcase. ‘Ah! It was very special indeed! Yes, they have even taken it out of its box for us! How kind! Would you like to see what you have brought?’

She reached inside. When her hand came out, it was holding a foot.

Jeannie screamed and jumped back. Suna whooped with laughter.

‘You silly girl, it is only plastic. It is a prosthetic limb for a
ten-year
-old girl in Yalova whose leg had to be amputated following three days under the rubble. Also her kidneys have failed. The things you’ve brought will keep her alive.’ She gave Jeannie a sharp and searching look. ‘Surely you are pleased! As you know, we have a fascist xenophobe for a health minister. It’s been difficult getting supplies. But still. Jeannie, think. Who could have imagined, that in 1999 we two would be standing here, looking at this?’ Having tried but failed to close the suitcase, she took the prosthetic limb out of the suitcase and threw it into the back seat.

During their trip into the city, down new highways that flew them over hill after hill of mud and raw concrete and half-built mosques, Jeannie saw no obvious signs of earthquake damage. ‘Don’t worry,’
said Suna. ‘You will soon enough.’ She mapped out their programme. They would drop Jeannie’s things off at her apartment. ‘You don’t mind, do you? Of course, if you prefer a faceless hotel…’

Suna’s apartment was at the top floor of a tall, narrow building in Cihangir. Jeannie went straight to the window to look at the Bosphorus. From here the sea looked the same as she remembered it. But there were no longer empty hills behind Üsküdar. Just concrete apartment buildings as far as the eye could see.

As she stood there, lost in the view, she wondered about Sinan. How to ask, and when? Best to wait until they were on their way to Yalova. That way Suna wouldn’t see her face. She didn’t want the details. She couldn’t bear too much about his wife or his children or the happy life they had together. She just wanted to know if he was safe. She was brought back to herself when the building shook. The chandelier above her head seemed to be swinging, but not enough for her to be sure she was not imagining it.

She opened her suitcase and tried to figure out what you wore to an earthquake zone. When Suna saw what she’d chosen, she burst out laughing. ‘Did I say anything about a funeral in Antarctica?’ She hummed to herself as went through Jeannie’s things, pulling out her long black cashmere dress and high-heeled boots. ‘For an earthquake zone? Suna, are you sure?’ Suna puffed out her lips. ‘Even in an earthquake zone, there are standards.’

There was a taxi waiting outside. It took them to a terrace of handsome mustard coloured buildings – these Jeannie recognised, though in her time they’d been derelict. They alighted in front of a café whose entrance was flanked by potted trees. Suna marched over to the next door along and punched in a security code. They walked up two flights to a large, bright pop art sign featuring a traffic light – and in large neon letters, the Turkish words for ‘Enlightenment Radio.’ Inside, it was all polished oak and leather and dark green carpet. Lou Reed was singing about the wild side. The receptionist ushered them to a waiting room that was separated from a recording studio by a plate glass wall.

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.’