orthodontically perfect white teeth. “God, why am I swearing so much? I don’t swear anymore. It’s your goddamned fault! Kasim says it’s ugly and unfuckinglady-like and blah-blah-blah. But it feels good to say fuck again. FUCK! ”
She shouted this last explicative at the top of her lungs and stepped around the beam and gave Smith an unexpected hug. He hugged her back and caught the flowery scent of her hair—different from the way it used to smell, some new Turkish shampoo, he guessed, but also the same. She pushed him away after a moment, an affectionate shove that nearly sent him crashing into a rack full of expensive copper pots and pans.
“Come on,” she said. “Kasim’s waiting.”
“No way.” Smith shook his head. “I don’t want to see him. Absolutely not.”
“Too bad, fucker.” Jessica smirked. “He wants to see you.” And she finished her wine and went for her jacket.
7.
T hey caught up with Vatran at seven thirty on Nevizade Sokuk. It was just dark, and in Istanbul people eat very late, but tonight, perhaps because of the excellent spring weather, the terraces of the meyhanes were already crowded with diners and a cacophony of live, instrumental fasil —like klezmer, only more so—pumped out of the brightly lit restaurant interiors up and down the narrow street.
Vatran sat talking emphatically on his cell phone at the VIP table outside at Boncuk, the table farthest from the curb, elevated on a narrow platform six inches above everyone else. Clearly, here was a successful man (pin-striped Savile Row shirt, tailored cream sports jacket, neatly pressed dark trousers, Italian crocodile loafers) doing very important business over his cell phone. He saw Jessica and Smith coming toward him out of the crowd and jerked his head away quickly, as if offended by the sight. Jessica stepped up and kissed him on the cheek and sat next to him and put a hand on his thigh. Smith stood by hesitantly, for a moment. Did he really want to break bread with this bastard? But he sat down anyway.
“ Evet ,” Vatran was saying into the cell phone. “ Evet, lazim . . . gitmeliyim . . .” Then Smith heard the phrase “ budala geri zekali ,” which he knew—from the little Turkish phrasebook he kept in his pocket—meant stupid idiot or cretinous moron and which he assumed referred to himself. Meanwhile, the waiter hovered. He wore a white coat with blue epaulets and a blue and white military-style cap like a soldier in some two-bit road production of Carmen .
“ Raki, lutfën ,” Smith said, ordering the booze, a command for which he didn’t need to consult the phrasebook.
“ Hamm? ” the waiter bowed to Jessica.
“ Bardak beyaz sarab. ” She nodded, ordering a glass of white wine, and the waiter went off smartly.
Vatran snapped his cell phone shut. “Hey, I don’t want you getting drunk!” He turned to Jessica.
She rolled her eyes. “Give me a break, Kasim,” she said. “Having a glass of wine and getting drunk is not the same thing. A glass of wine is good for you. All the doctors say that.”
“Drinking is bad, period,” he said. “It adds weight here”—he tapped two fingers against the underside of her chin—“and here”—he pinched her thigh roughly.
“Oww!” Jessica said. “Fucker!”
“And I told you not to swear!” He pinched her again and this time, she pinched him back, and they tussled more or less playfully for a long minute, pinching and tugging at each other until the waiter set down the drinks.
Smith watched this display of rough affection with a jaundiced eye. He mixed his raki slowly with water and the potent stuff turned milky in the glass and he drank off the top half, the sharp, anise-flavored liquor warming his throat on the way down. It was true, he and Jessica looked like brother and sister; they were both from Iowa, of similar Midwestern English-German stock, and perhaps their relationship had been, in some fundamental way, slightly incestuous.
She shouted this last explicative at the top of her lungs and stepped around the beam and gave Smith an unexpected hug. He hugged her back and caught the flowery scent of her hair—different from the way it used to smell, some new Turkish shampoo, he guessed, but also the same. She pushed him away after a moment, an affectionate shove that nearly sent him crashing into a rack full of expensive copper pots and pans.
“Come on,” she said. “Kasim’s waiting.”
“No way.” Smith shook his head. “I don’t want to see him. Absolutely not.”
“Too bad, fucker.” Jessica smirked. “He wants to see you.” And she finished her wine and went for her jacket.
7.
T hey caught up with Vatran at seven thirty on Nevizade Sokuk. It was just dark, and in Istanbul people eat very late, but tonight, perhaps because of the excellent spring weather, the terraces of the meyhanes were already crowded with diners and a cacophony of live, instrumental fasil —like klezmer, only more so—pumped out of the brightly lit restaurant interiors up and down the narrow street.
Vatran sat talking emphatically on his cell phone at the VIP table outside at Boncuk, the table farthest from the curb, elevated on a narrow platform six inches above everyone else. Clearly, here was a successful man (pin-striped Savile Row shirt, tailored cream sports jacket, neatly pressed dark trousers, Italian crocodile loafers) doing very important business over his cell phone. He saw Jessica and Smith coming toward him out of the crowd and jerked his head away quickly, as if offended by the sight. Jessica stepped up and kissed him on the cheek and sat next to him and put a hand on his thigh. Smith stood by hesitantly, for a moment. Did he really want to break bread with this bastard? But he sat down anyway.
“ Evet ,” Vatran was saying into the cell phone. “ Evet, lazim . . . gitmeliyim . . .” Then Smith heard the phrase “ budala geri zekali ,” which he knew—from the little Turkish phrasebook he kept in his pocket—meant stupid idiot or cretinous moron and which he assumed referred to himself. Meanwhile, the waiter hovered. He wore a white coat with blue epaulets and a blue and white military-style cap like a soldier in some two-bit road production of Carmen .
“ Raki, lutfën ,” Smith said, ordering the booze, a command for which he didn’t need to consult the phrasebook.
“ Hamm? ” the waiter bowed to Jessica.
“ Bardak beyaz sarab. ” She nodded, ordering a glass of white wine, and the waiter went off smartly.
Vatran snapped his cell phone shut. “Hey, I don’t want you getting drunk!” He turned to Jessica.
She rolled her eyes. “Give me a break, Kasim,” she said. “Having a glass of wine and getting drunk is not the same thing. A glass of wine is good for you. All the doctors say that.”
“Drinking is bad, period,” he said. “It adds weight here”—he tapped two fingers against the underside of her chin—“and here”—he pinched her thigh roughly.
“Oww!” Jessica said. “Fucker!”
“And I told you not to swear!” He pinched her again and this time, she pinched him back, and they tussled more or less playfully for a long minute, pinching and tugging at each other until the waiter set down the drinks.
Smith watched this display of rough affection with a jaundiced eye. He mixed his raki slowly with water and the potent stuff turned milky in the glass and he drank off the top half, the sharp, anise-flavored liquor warming his throat on the way down. It was true, he and Jessica looked like brother and sister; they were both from Iowa, of similar Midwestern English-German stock, and perhaps their relationship had been, in some fundamental way, slightly incestuous.
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