Istanbul Express (11 page)

“No, no, but this is as far as a taxi will bring you, and you could never find your way alone the first time. Please come.” He led Jake through what at first appeared to be a side entrance to the half-ruined structure but in fact proved to be a long, narrow passage. “I regret to inform you, Mr. Burnes, that my father has decided to join us tonight.”

“It will be nice to meet him.”

Daniel Levy cast a doubtful glance back over his shoulder. “I am afraid that might not be true. My father has strong feelings against, well, against foreigners.”

“You mean,” Jake interpreted, “he doesn't much care for non-Jews. Given what he's recently gone through, I can't say I blame him.”

“He is old, and he has been sick. For some time he has lived for little more than the synagogue, the Torah, and we his family.” Daniel turned down another lane, the balconies overhead almost touching across the passage. “Age requires that we grant allowances that otherwise would not be permitted.”

“He wishes you were working for a Jewish company,” Jake guessed. “He wants to size up the opposition, see if he can scare them off.”

Daniel sighed to a stop at a tiny intersection. “You are a most observant man, Mr. Burnes.”

“Don't worry,” Jake assured him. “I've been given lots of practice recently at keeping hold of my temper.”

“This is not,” Daniel said quietly, “how I had hoped the evening would proceed.”

“Then we'll just have to make it the first of many,” Jake said, and glanced down the side passages. Both led off in winding mystery. “What is this place?”

“One of the ancient Christian quarters,” he explained, glanced at his watch, and hurried on through the winding maze with easy familiarity. “The Muslims did not seek to cast out all their forebears. Quite the contrary. They needed them and invited many to stay. But as second-class citizens, never to rule again.”

Jake looked up at the statue of a praying angel guarding a corner, so worn by time and sun and rain that the face was almost gone. This weathering granted the statue an even greater sense of gentle peace, of endless repose. “And the Jews?”

“There were a few here before, of course. The Diaspora sent Jews to settle almost everywhere they were welcome, and some places they were not.” He turned into a lane more narrow than the others. None bore markings or street signs or indications of where they might lead. “But a great number fled here from Spain. You have heard of the great battles against the Moors?”

“Yes.”

“The Spanish should not be condemned too harshly for their persecutions afterward.” He cast a rapid smile over his shoulder. “A strange thing to hear a Jew say, but true nonetheless. The Spanish had fought for two centuries to cast out the Muslim invaders who had swept up from Africa. Many Jews followed along in the Arabs' wake, my family among them. When the Muslims were finally cast out, Spain continued in what they saw as a natural part of this same war and ordered all who remained in the country to either become Christian, or leave, or die.”

“And your family came here?”

The dark beard nodded. “Once the Ottomans had conquered Constantinople and changed its name to Istanbul, the sultans wanted to see it continue as a great trading center. But the Islamic code forbade the charging of interest, which is a necessary part of international trade. The great Ottoman families saw only two professions as fitting and proper, so their offspring either became landowners or members of the royal court. Thus the Jews and those Christians willing to remain and work under Muslim rule were invited to work as traders. More Jews than Christians accepted the invitation, for the simple reason that my ancestors had nowhere else to go.”

“Your story is like a bit of living history.”

“More than you might imagine. When we are alone, my family still speak the language called Ladino, the Spanish we brought with us four hundred years ago. From what we understand, this is the only place on earth where it is found today. Yet for us it still lives and breathes, a vibrant language. We have numerous books published each year, only available in our Ladino tongue.” He pointed through an ancient portico. “Through here, please.”

Suddenly they were enveloped by birdsong and the sweet scents of flowers and water and grass. The garden was walled and tiny, not twenty paces to a side, but coming as it did in the middle of the high-walled lanes, it was a delight. “Beautiful.”

“This garden is entrance to the Jewish quarter.” Daniel pointed to an ancient structure rising from one corner. “This is one of the oldest synagogues in Istanbul. My family has worshiped here for over four hundred years.” They slowed their pace to enjoy the garden's radiance. “My family prospered under the Ottomans. Istanbul of the Middle Ages was both bank and warehouse for East-West trade. Letters and goods arrived from all over the world, destined for the merchant families.”

He pushed through a heavy wooden gate, walked up a passage lined by a profusion of flowers, and entered an apartment building. The inner corridor was old but spotless, and smelled of cooking and disinfectant. They climbed two floors, past the sounds of children and adults and music and laughter, and stopped before a massive, age-stained door.

Daniel paused to kiss his fingers and press them against a small metal box nailed to the doorpost. He tapped lightly, opened the door, and called, “Miriam?” He then gestured to Jake. “Please, Mr. Burnes, you are welcome.”

A dark-haired beauty entered the hallway, wiping her hands upon an apron. Her smile was as warm as her voice. “It is indeed an honor, Mr. Burnes.”

Before Jake could respond, Daniel said quietly, “And this is my father.”

Miriam's eyes dropped with her smile as an old man shuffled past her, peering at Jake with rheumy eyes. Gray curls poked from about his skullcap. When no hand was offered him, Jake gave a stiff bow and said, “An honor, Mr. Levy.”

The man inspected him from head to foot, then turned to his son and demanded, “You are certain this is necessary, permitting entry to a goy?”

“Papa,” Miriam said tiredly.

The old man went on to Jake, “I say this in English so that you can hear and understand,
Colonel
Burnes. Yes, yes, I know, you now hold a civilian position, but an officer is an officer is an officer. A goy and an officer of a foreign army. Here. In my house.”

“Papa, please,” Daniel's voice implored quietly. “You shame me.”

“No, it is you who shames this house. Such an invitation, never have I heard of such a thing.”

Jake kept his tone as steady as his gaze. “It is true I remain an officer in my country's army,” he agreed quietly. “This is something I remain very proud of. I was called, and I served.”

“America has long been friend to the Jews,” Miriam said, her tone downcast.

“Yes, yes, I know of your family's sentiments,” the old man snapped. “And how even now they wish for this man to come and visit them, so that they might press him for visas.” He stared balefully up at Jake. “But my place is here, I tell you. This has been home to my family for almost five hundred years. Twice again as long as America has been a nation.”

“He has been ill,” Daniel said apologetically.

“I am not ill,” the old man retorted. “I am confident in the face of my adversaries.”

“Papa, shame. He is a friend.”

“ ‘Though an host should encamp against me,' ” Jake quoted, wanting only peace with the old man, admiring him and his stubborn strength, “ ‘my heart shall not fear: though war should rise against me, in this will I be confident.' ”

“What is this?” The old man backed up a pace in astonishment. “You are quoting the Psalms to me?”

“Did I not say?” Daniel spoke quietly. “An exceptional man, Papa.”

“Please, please, you must enter,” Miriam urged, ushering Jake down the hall and into the living room. “Take this seat here. It is the most comfortable. Daniel, come help me in the kitchen, please. Papa, you must behave, do you hear?”

Jake remained standing, looking around the room. It was cluttered with the possessions of ages—chairs etched with ancient floral patterns, a high-backed wooden bench scrolled with Hebraic writing, a copper-topped central table, aged carpets upon the floor. Jake found himself drawn to a series of framed prints upon the walls. Most were in Hebrew, but one was in a different, almost cuneiform-shaped script.

“My ancestor received that letter some two hundred years ago. It is curious that you would choose it to inspect.” The old man watched Jake from his chair. “You see, Colonel, that letter is from a Christian, one you would probably call a soldier, but we would prefer to think of as a pirate. Of course, what are we but ignorant Jews?”

“I would never have thought of you in such a way,” Jake said, taking the chair Miriam had shown him.

But the old man did not let up. “That letter, Colonel Burnes, was written by this Christian
pirate
, who had captured an ancestor of mine and was allowing him to send one letter begging for ransom money. The Christian, you see, was willing to sell this innocent trader and his family for the price of one sack of gold per family member. The trader was begging for his life.” The old man's gaze was bright and keen and watchful. “My family has kept that letter upon our wall ever since as both reminder and warning to watch out against the treachery of outsiders.”

“It was not Christians who imprisoned you and your son in the camp,” Jake pointed out.

“No, indeed not.” The dark eyes remained steady and accusing. “Not this time.”

“Enough of this, enough.” Daniel entered the room bearing a platter of sweets. “We did not invite this man into our home to insult him.”

But Jake kept his eye upon the old man, held by a sudden thought so strong he knew it was a gift, an invitation. “I wonder,” he said calmly, “if there might not be a point where we can know a meeting of the minds.”

“Impossible,” the old man expostulated.

“Perhaps a meeting of the hearts as well,” Jake went on, feeling the gentle guiding force. “Perhaps even, in time, become friends.”

The old man's eyes narrowed, but something held him silent. Daniel stood over the pair of them, his questioning gaze shifting back and forth.

Jake leaned forward. “I would consider it an honor,” he said quietly, “if you would teach me of the Torah.”

Chapter Eight

Jake sighed his way into the office building's ancient elevator. He watched as Mrs. Ecevit slid the brass accordion doors shut and pressed the top-floor button. He waited as the floors clanked by, his mind far too slack for what lay ahead. But he could not help it. His world was out of kilter. His heart thudded miserably in his chest. He sighed again.

Mrs. Ecevit glanced his way. “There is something wrong?”

He started to deny it but did not have the strength. “I argued with my wife. Last night. And again this morning.”

“Ah.” She nodded. “Men are such bad quarrelers.”

“
I
sure am.” Jake watched her ratchet the inner door back and push the outer one open, then followed her out. “I can't win a debate. She's much more intelligent than I am. So I lose my temper and end up ordering her to do what I want her to do.”

For the very first time a hint of something human, something warm and compassionate, showed through Mrs. Ecevit's brittle shell. She slowed her pace. “I do not know American women, but if they are anything like intelligent Turkish women, they would not like such an order very much.”

“No,” Jake agreed. “Sally sure doesn't.”

He tried to compose himself as they entered a large outer office, but the weight of his heart pulled his face back into the same slack lines. Jake watched from the doorway as she walked over and gave their names to an attractive receptionist.

Mrs. Ecevit returned to where he stood and said, “We are early, and the man we are scheduled to meet has other people with him.”

“No problem.” Jake sank down into the corner seat, as removed as possible from the cheerful bustle filling the large chamber. Mrs. Ecevit took the seat beside him, her eyes darkly
humorous. He said, “I'd give anything never to have to argue with her, not ever again.”

The humor broke through then, and Mrs. Ecevit dropped ten years as she flashed white teeth and chuckled. “Ah, Mr. Burnes, you Americans are so wonderful at times.”

“Call me Jake. I can't be talking about something this personal and hear you call me by my last name.”

“All right.” Another flashing smile, and he realized that beneath that diamond-hard exterior dwelled a truly striking woman. “You may call me Anya. There is an expression we use very often, ‘Tomorrow, tomorrow the apricots.' It is very Turkish. The story goes, once there was a handsome young man, just like yourself, I imagine. He was pressing his favors upon a lovely young maiden. As he grew more impatient for her answer, she replied, yes, all right, but tomorrow, tomorrow when the apricots appear on that tree. Only the tree she was pointing to was a pear tree.”

“Meaning I'm asking for the impossible.”

“Yes,” she agreed, trying to recover her accustomed solemnness, but the light in her eyes giving her away. “But it is very nice that you would even wish for such a thing. It is very romantic. Would it be impertinent of me to ask what happened?”

Jake sighed his way into the tale, the situation he faced becoming impossibly entangled with his worry—Sally's meeting the two women on the train, the Russian's appearance, the confrontation with Fernwhistle, Sally and Jasmyn's talk with Mrs. Hollamby, his own meeting yesterday afternoon with the consul general and the time limit placed on him. “Then when I came home last night,” he went on, “Sally had just arrived back from some clandestine meeting at a place called Topeppy.”