Belshazzar's Daughter (53 page)

Old eyes gleamed mischievously at him. ‘That she was one of the prisoners! That she was shot at too and that somehow Meyer managed to save her.’

Cetin groaned. ‘And her real name was Anastasia, right?’

‘No, Maria like you said, as in the photograph.’ He leant forward and rested one shoulder against his son’s side. ‘It’s not that crazy, Cetin. I was reading the English newspaper The Times not so long ago and a report in there said that although most of the royal remains have now been found in a wood near Ekaterinburg, two bodies are still missing. The Tsarevich and one of the girls, they think.’

‘But Maria Gulcu and the Grand Duchess looked nothing like each other - really. We’ve established that, I thought.’

‘In your and Alto’s opinion, yes. But what about getting some expert advice?’

Cetin was really too tired for all this. ‘I don’t know. What about it?’

‘Well, isn’t it worth pursuing it?’

‘Look, they all died, Timur. It was just a delusion, a dangerous one, but a delusion and—’

‘Ah, but what if it wasn’t!’ The old man’s eyes were shining now as slowly he leant forward and picked up the picture of the Grand Duchess Maria from the table. ‘What if this Gulcu woman was Belshazzar’s Daughter?’

Cetin smiled. He had to under the circumstances. ‘You’re a bit of a secret royalist beneath all your republicanism, aren’t you, Timiir?’

‘No, no.’ But as he looked down at the picture, his usual scowling expression changed. ‘But I do come from that era, Cetin, and even I have to admit that it was a more gracious time. Sultan Vahideddin still ruled over what was left of our Empire when I was born.’ He sighed, ‘We were Ottomans then as we had been for hundreds of years. What are we now?’

‘We’re Turks,’ said his son, yawning as he spoke, ‘and we’re a great deal better for it.’

The old man smiled. ‘Yes. Yes, you are right. No more veiled women, no more wars fought on the whim of one man.’

‘That’s just about right.’ Cetin stood up and stretched, only suddenly and quite unexpectedly to be grabbed from behind.

‘What if I were to be right about Belshazzar’s Daughter, what if…’

Gently, but firmly, Cetin removed his father’s hand from his waist and smiled. ‘I’ve got to get to bed. I am a dead man.’

‘Oh, but Cetin, if it were true! If Maria Gulcu had been the Tsar’s daughter! The miracle of it! Think!’

‘But she’s dead now anyway, Dad.’ It wasn’t often that Cetin called Timur ‘Dad’, but here it seemed appropriate somehow.

The old man persisted. ‘But if she was then you met history, my son. You touched a great mystery. You know that?’

Cetin humoured the old man as he knew he should. ‘Yes, I know that, Dad. Don’t stay up too long. Goodnight.’

The old man didn’t answer until he heard his son enter his bedroom. Then, looking at the two photographs laid together once again, he said, ‘Goodnight, my son. My poor blind soul.’

30 September 1992, Side, a popular resort on the Southern Mediterranean Coast

Even though it was the end of the season it was still hot. The beach was quite crowded too, although mostly with locals now. The foreigners had gone, which was good in one way because so many of them were irritating and ignorant. Their passing did leave her feeling somewhat exposed though.

She chewed thoughtfully on the vegetable, relishing its sweetness, and then picked up the newspaper yet again. It was, even now that she’d read about it three times over, almost impossible to believe. That Turkey’s latest millionaire, the one time English butler, John Wilkinson, could have done such a thing was both amazing and really quite despicable. To tell the world about the depraved proclivities of a man who had bequeathed one so much money smacked of base lower-class ingratitude. Not, of course, that she didn’t have other, more personal concerns on her mind …

She drank deeply from her blue water bottle and scanned the beach for Anwar. He’d said he wouldn’t be long. He’d only gone to the garage to make sure that the car was ready.

She hoped that it was because that meant they could leave immediately if they wanted to. She wanted to.

She pushed her hair behind her ears and put on herj sunglasses. Touching her hair wasn’t nice as the dye had made it very dry and brittle. Anwar loved the colour, but she sometimes wondered how he felt about its texture, especially when they were making love. He liked to hold her hair when he rode her, he used it as a handle when he thrust himself inside her body. Anwar was very rough, which was good, especially in view of the fact that she might have to be with him for some time. She put the paper down again, taking care to avoid reading the very good description of herself on page five. Someone had taken great care to identify all those poor bodies very accurately. Someone, she felt, she didn’t much like.

‘The car’s fixed.’ He’d come up behind her which was why she hadn’t seen him. His Turkish was so perfect, but then so many of the big Egyptian families were originally Turkish.

The old Ottoman civil-service class. It reminded her of the flawless way in which her grandmother had spoken English.

But that was for another reason.

He sat behind her, spreading his legs on either side of her body, pressing his groin into her plump, rounded bottom.

‘We can go whenever you like, Maria,’ he said, winding his arms around her shoulders and touching her breasts with his fingers.

She smiled. She was so used to the name now it was almost second nature. The way she had adapted in such a short space of time pleased her. It also meant that at least something lived on, even though she was the only one who could ever appreciate it.

‘I’d like to go today.’ She didn’t turn to look at him. She knew he was there, she knew how handsome he was too. Not that his looks had ever been a consideration. The Rolls-Royce, the Sudanese manservant and the finest hotel suite in town were the things that had persuaded her to give him everything on that first date. Times were hard and a girl had to live. If the man was handsome it was a bonus, but not essential.

‘Then we should go and pack now,’ he replied.

Yes, she thought, I will pack all the things you’ve bought for me. I’ve little else.

She put one of her hands on his arm. ‘You go first. I’d like just a few more minutes here.’ She turned and looked into his young, innocent face. ‘I’ll join you soon.’

He kissed her. ‘Promise?’

‘I promise.’

Oh, he was so keen to keep her! How much he reminded her of that other man. But Anwar would keep her, of course. The wedding was scheduled for December, after her conversion to Islam. She knew his parents weren’t happy, but then what could they do? She knew about powerful families.

He disengaged himself from her and ran up the beach towards the hotel. Twenty-four and fit as an athlete!

She thought about her hair again and wondered whether she should soak it in olive oil again before they started the journey.

Not that it made much difference. Her hair wasn’t supposed to be the colour of sand, it was rebelling.

even.

She looked along the beach to where a group of young Turkish boys were playing football on the waterline. For just a moment an old evil thought crossed her mind. She knew that was impossible now. The things a person had to do to survive! But then wasn’t that what it was all about? Wasn’t that the reason why she had despised those sainted dead so much? No woman had to die at the hands of a man

Quite the reverse. And one day, perhaps when Anwar was not quite so young and she had grown tired of playing consort to a member of the nouveau riche, he might have to learn what that reverse meant.

Natalia popped another plump bottled beetroot into her mouth and smiled again. When your family have ruled the world you can do what you like.

The End.