Many and Many a Year Ago (8 page)

I felt compelled to read it twice:

Next morning I woke abruptly from a restless sleep. My head felt as if it was encased in a ball of thick fog. I found myself before the stereo with an urgent need to purge my soul of that story of shattered love. I sought solace in
Tristan und Isolde
…

The professor and I began meeting every other day. Did this fact escape the sharp eyes of Sami, who surely noticed that I'd been drawn into Ali's melancholy orbit? Ali's invitations were actually a source of relief to me. I felt relaxed and reassured in his apartment. He would sometimes criticize my idleness while giving me cooking lessons, but I was honored even by this. And I wasn't at all curious about whether he knew Suat. And when his eyes became fixed on a faraway point I knew it was time for him to be alone with Esther.

I'd done my weekly shopping at the Balıkpazarı gourmet grocers like a jolly retiree. My good mood was ruined when I got home to find a gray-suited man with a briefcase at the front door. This small middle-aged man appeared annoyed at being kept waiting. He was obviously foreign. When he told me he was a lawyer from New York, I invited him in. I was excited, thinking he would have news of Suat.

“I want to tell you why I'm here,” he said, stirring the warm milk he'd requested into his tea. “When the Red Army took over Russia, among the first refugees to seek asylum in the Ottoman Empire were First Lieutenant Vladimir—Vlad—Nadolsky and his brother, Lieutenant Maxim Nadolsky. We have to assume that they had with them a bag full of English pounds and precious jewelry. Their father, after all, was a wealthy count. The brothers' aim was to settle in America as soon as possible. Maxim never imagined that he would have to go to the States alone when their visas finally came through after two and a half years. But Vlad had taken a job teaching French at a private school and had fallen in love with the married vice-principal. Zoe, as she was called, was unwilling to go with him to New York since it would mean leaving her paralyzed husband behind, so Vlad had to stay too. To be close to her, he rented the apartment that is now yours. Maxim was an ambitious but honest man; he made his brother a fifty percent partner in the import-export business he founded in his adopted country and, when the business flourished, sent Vlad enough money to live on comfortably. During the Second World War Vlad became foster father to an orphan named Haluk Batumlu. He loved him as a son, yet when the boy was expelled from university as a communist sympathizer, Vlad was quick to disown him. Meanwhile he continued to wait for Zoe's husband to die so that he could marry her. But his beloved preceded him in death. So on his seventy-fifth birthday Vlad flew to New York to be near his brother. Maxim died in 1984 and his son Alex took over the company. Vlad died in his bed in 1999, aged 105. Except for the day on which the collapse of communism was announced, nobody had ever seen him smile.

“Vlad left his entire inheritance, apart from his $1.3 million savings, to his nephew Alex. Other than an old telegram Vlad carried with him, we had no clue at all as to the whereabouts of Haluk, who had inherited that $1.3 million. I ran ads in two popular Turkish newspapers. We waited six months but heard nothing. At that point Alex founded an investment fund in his uncle Vlad's name. For the last seven years the profits on the money that never found its way into the luckless Haluk's hands have been donated to Vlad's favorite church. Last month, when his uncle showed up in Alex's dream scolding him for not trying hard enough to find Haluk, I was dispatched immediately to Istanbul.

“I knew that an ordinary interpreter would get me nowhere. So when one of the locals mentioned a brave English-speaking pilot who'd just moved in, I wanted to meet you. Firstly, Lieutenant Kuray, I have a proposition for you: use this telegram Haluk sent to Vlad fifty years ago to trace him. I'll give you $10,000 in advance. If you find him or his heirs in ten days I'll give you $20,000 more. Here's a card with a phone number. I'm available twenty-four hours a day. If I don't hear from you in ten days I'll assume that Alex's dreams will no longer be disturbed by his uncle …”

I thought this would be foolish to turn down. I was curious about what the half-century-old telegram said, more than about where it came from. And even if the whole thing ended up being a fruitless Anatolian goose chase, it might at least be a good opportunity for me to adapt to civilian life. The lawyer was already taking a yellowing envelope out of his briefcase. It pleased me to see the anxious look that fell across his face when I ignored his card and failed to open the envelope, but I said “Okay” anyway.

He whistled as he left the apartment.

Then I remembered Professor Ali, to whom I had promised some specially wrapped fish and a bottle of hot pepper sauce. I went down to him and told him what I'd just learned. From the way he drew in his lower lip and arched his eyebrows, I gathered that he had no reservations about my trying to track down this Haluk Batumlu.

I counted the dollars—I don't know why—that poured out of the A4 envelope, and read the telegram twice through its protective plastic. It was dated 5 June 1956:

Vlad Baba
,

I have one last favor to ask of you. If you could send 400 liras to me, care of my friend below, you could change my life. The address:

c/o Hasan Gezgin
,

Ziraat Bank
,

Mahmudiye
,

Eskişehir

I kiss your hand
,

Haluk Batumlu

I went to the Internet to find out about this town whose name was probably bigger than itself. I liked what I saw, mainly because it had a population of less than 5,000. The reason why this tiny spot on the map had been named after Mahmut the Second was that the sultan, for some reason, had set up a stud farm there in 1815 to breed Arabian horses.

I caught the Başkent Express to Eskişehir the next morning. I was agitated throughout that four-hour journey, reliving those days I spent in the hospital after my plane crash. My hand started shaking as we approached Eskişehir station. I hid it behind my back, hoping the anxiety would pass.

I took a taxi to Mahmudiye. The slant-eyed driver asked me enthusiastically whether I was a horse dealer. I don't know with what tone of “No” I answered, but he seemed a little peeved.

“Sorry, sir,” he said. “It's just that I've never seen anyone come to Mahmudiye who's not a horse dealer or owner.”

Long before we reached our destination I grew weary of the bleak thirty-mile stretch of road. I disembarked at a gas station, marvelling at this town which appeared to live in the slow lane. The men I saw wandering the half-deserted main street were all moustache-free, well mannered and slant-eyed. I plunged into side streets where buildings with even two floors stood out like high-rise eyesores. I didn't see a single cigarette butt on the ground; nor could I find a single blind alley with wild dogs and walls disfigured by graffiti. As I roamed about accompanied by a soft breeze, I heard a melody from a distant accordion and stopped to listen.

I headed back out to the main street where I saw a green hearse looking quite at home among the John Deere tractors and farm machinery. I noticed that the shopkeepers had all gone home for lunch. Looking for a coffeehouse where I could pick up some information, I realized that if Haluk Batumlu had been in secondary school at the end of World War II he would be in his seventies by now—assuming he was still alive. I reckoned that Hasan Gezgin, the man in the letter, would be about the same age. And no doubt every old man in town would have his regular table at the Friendship Tea House that stood before me. I approached a bearded old man dozing in the sun outside the door. I must have greeted him rather abruptly because he leapt up and began quickly straightening his clothes. I introduced myself. He gestured to the chair next to him and ordered me a tea. When he heard that I was looking for Hasan Gezgin he closed his eyes to aid his thinking, then spoke as if he were reciting a quiet prayer.

“I moved from Mesudiye to Mahmudiye thirty-four years ago, sir, and I've never heard of a Hasan Gezgin. But before you ask that bunch of old liars in the teahouse, let's call someone here with the same surname—Talat Gezgin. He may be a relative …”

He stood and took a cellphone from his pocket, then went over to a bald man and spoke to him in a foreign language. I expected to be assailed with curious looks from the small knots of students ambling past the teahouse, but I was surprised at their politeness. Watching this quiet parade of children, I felt like I was on the set of a Fellini movie. The man returned looking satisfied with his homework.

“I spoke with Talat, Lieutenant; Hasan Gezgin is his cousin. He's had an accident at work and is staying home. The teahouse boy will take you there.”

Talat Gezgin met me at the door. He had a dramatic patch over his right eye and appeared to be in his sixties. It seemed to me that he wore his beige jockey pants to emphasize his bowed legs. The living room smelled like detergent and was so clean and tidy that I felt bad about keeping my shoes on. His wife offered me tea and pastries. Her face beamed kindly as if she were trying to atone for past misdeeds. I sipped the aromatic tea and thrilled to the horses surrounding us in photographs and mementos. Talat, on disability retirement after thirty years at the Anatolian Agriculture Association's stables, was in a dejected mood, not merely because of losing his right eye but because of being kicked by a puny colt. The old groom leapt out of his chair when he heard that I was looking for Hasan Gezgin in order to find Batumlu, a man unaware of his inheritance in America.

“Is it always the world's way to shower gifts on charlatans?” he thundered. “That Istanbul commie first caused Hasan to be thrown out of university, then came here and took advantage of him as if nothing had happened. By the time he left Mahmudiye he had turned the lives of two families upside-down …”

“Sir, please, calm down,” I began, not knowing how I was going to finish, and went on with something like, “If we can join forces to find this rogue, Batumlu, maybe it will help heal old wounds.”

I paused hopefully.

“Just a second,” said Talat, and left the room. When he came back minutes later he looked more relaxed. Flourishing the old cellphone in his hand, he went on. “You can meet with Hasan tomorrow morning at nine at his shop in Eskişehir. Patience Stone Carvers is in the old
caravanserai
next to the Sefa Hotel.”

The Sefa Hotel's gracious hospitality bored me. I chose a Tartar restaurant for dinner. After that I went to a bar with a trendy name and sat with my iPod in my ears while I watched the men watching a football game on TV. By the time I put on my pajamas I was tired of the hotel. At the last minute I'd thrown
Tales of Detective Dupin
into my travel bag, but it too failed to interest me. I turned an ear to the rhythm of the traffic on the street below. The receptionist, who persisted in mispronouncing the name of the hotel, had said that Patience Stone Carvers was one of the “strangest” meerschaum shops in the city. I nodded off finally while absorbed in what seemed to be a map on the ceiling.

The basement of the Yediveren Caravanserai, which apparently hadn't been painted since its opening, was full of small shops selling forms of meerschaum. The display windows, choked with ornate pipes and gaudy souvenirs, were dazzling. Patience Stone Carvers, however, did not have a window. The apprentice who let me in whispered that his boss was on the phone in the back office. I looked over the items on the shelves while I waited. I'd never seen anything like these human and animal figurines, these grotesque objects and delicate masks, anywhere, not even in the Grand Bazaar of Istanbul. Perhaps the craftsman's intention was to reflect the honor of pain. Even I could grasp the patience required in their execution. They were bursting with details like the lines and cross-hatchings in a bleak graphic novel (though perhaps I was reading too much into them to see regret in the mask-like faces).