a thick clear plastic embedded with yellow flowers that squeaked as I moved. Various trinkets – a small golf ball, a crescent moon, a miniature plastic queen-of-hearts card and a tiny metal horse – swung from the rear-view mirror. Tobacco-coloured carpet covered the dashboard and instruments. A couple of purple velvet cushions trimmed with gold tassels sat on the rear deck. The guy was driving around in his living room.
‘The US Consulate-General. You know where it is?’ I said, hoping I wasn’t going to have to get my mouth around the address on the card Burnbaum had given me.
‘Yes, yes . . . I know it. US Consulate – Kaplicalar Mevkii Sokak, Istinye.’
‘If you say so,’ I replied. Whatever he’d just said looked like it mightline up with the words on the card. Close enough, anyway. ‘No rug shops, no stop-offs, okay?’
‘Sure. Okay.’
I glanced out the window. The hill off to my right was dominated by a building with a large dome surrounded by spires – minarets.
‘The Blue Mosque,’ announced the driver, his eyes darting back and forth in the rear-view mirror from me to the road ahead. ‘Most beautiful building in all of the world.’
It was imposing, I had to give it that.
‘Where you from?’ he enquired.
‘Depends on who you ask.’
‘Not Amerikali ?’ he asked, puzzled.
‘Yeah, American.’
‘You like Istanbul?’
‘Like it . . . ?’ I said, leaving the options open.
‘How long you stay?’
‘Long enough.’
‘It is never long enough if you must one day leave,’ he ventured. ‘You need a driver while you are here. My name is Emir. I take you everywhere you want to go. You come to Istanbul alone?’
‘No,’ I replied.
‘That’s good. Istanbul is city for lovers.’
I glanced out the Renault’s window. So I’d been told.
‘I stop talking. You enjoy Istanbul,’ said Emir, reading the mood of his passenger like I was a street sign, one that said: ‘Shut the fuck up.’
I felt like sightseeing as much as I felt like talking. I wanted to say to Masters that her fiancé had come to embody the blind obstinacy of a government policy that was cold, heartless and plain unfair. I thought about my buddy back home who’d be spending the rest of his shortened life bouncing in and out of medical centres, reduced to eating what he could suck through a straw. Outside, the high-voltage electricity towers and tenements drifted by beneath a chill blue sky. Away in the distance a low grey line of cloud hung like sludge above the horizon, threatening.
‘Okay,’ said Emir, pulling over. ‘We are here.’
It had been a quick drive. I read the fare off the meter and pulled out my wallet.
‘So, how about it? You want driver for your stay in Istanbul, sir?’
‘Can you give me a receipt for that?’ I asked, as I handed over the cash.
‘Yes, my cell number is on the receipt.’ He scribbled the fare paid onto a pad, tore off the sheet and handed it to me. Then he began fishing around for change.
‘Keep it,’ I said. I climbed out of his living room and strolled over to the boom gate. In the reflection of the security glass beyond, I saw Emir waving me goodbye like I was headed off on a long trip and he was going to miss me.
Masters didn’t look up when I walked in. She was on the phone saying ‘Uh-huh’ and doodling stars on the pad in front of her. I took a seat behind the mother-of-pearl desk, beneath the painting of the guy striding over a trash heap of body parts stewing in blood. The painting gave me the creeps.
The desk was sparsely populated with a flat computer screen and keyboard, a phone, a Rolodex business-card holder that appeared to be full, a manila folder, a pen and a pencil. A handwritten note signed by Rodney Cain told me the Rolodex was Portman’s. I swiped my common access card and the computer screen came to life. Apparently, I had mail. I clicked. The mail was from Cain.
I clicked again. Masters had been copied. The email read: Here
‘The US Consulate-General. You know where it is?’ I said, hoping I wasn’t going to have to get my mouth around the address on the card Burnbaum had given me.
‘Yes, yes . . . I know it. US Consulate – Kaplicalar Mevkii Sokak, Istinye.’
‘If you say so,’ I replied. Whatever he’d just said looked like it mightline up with the words on the card. Close enough, anyway. ‘No rug shops, no stop-offs, okay?’
‘Sure. Okay.’
I glanced out the window. The hill off to my right was dominated by a building with a large dome surrounded by spires – minarets.
‘The Blue Mosque,’ announced the driver, his eyes darting back and forth in the rear-view mirror from me to the road ahead. ‘Most beautiful building in all of the world.’
It was imposing, I had to give it that.
‘Where you from?’ he enquired.
‘Depends on who you ask.’
‘Not Amerikali ?’ he asked, puzzled.
‘Yeah, American.’
‘You like Istanbul?’
‘Like it . . . ?’ I said, leaving the options open.
‘How long you stay?’
‘Long enough.’
‘It is never long enough if you must one day leave,’ he ventured. ‘You need a driver while you are here. My name is Emir. I take you everywhere you want to go. You come to Istanbul alone?’
‘No,’ I replied.
‘That’s good. Istanbul is city for lovers.’
I glanced out the Renault’s window. So I’d been told.
‘I stop talking. You enjoy Istanbul,’ said Emir, reading the mood of his passenger like I was a street sign, one that said: ‘Shut the fuck up.’
I felt like sightseeing as much as I felt like talking. I wanted to say to Masters that her fiancé had come to embody the blind obstinacy of a government policy that was cold, heartless and plain unfair. I thought about my buddy back home who’d be spending the rest of his shortened life bouncing in and out of medical centres, reduced to eating what he could suck through a straw. Outside, the high-voltage electricity towers and tenements drifted by beneath a chill blue sky. Away in the distance a low grey line of cloud hung like sludge above the horizon, threatening.
‘Okay,’ said Emir, pulling over. ‘We are here.’
It had been a quick drive. I read the fare off the meter and pulled out my wallet.
‘So, how about it? You want driver for your stay in Istanbul, sir?’
‘Can you give me a receipt for that?’ I asked, as I handed over the cash.
‘Yes, my cell number is on the receipt.’ He scribbled the fare paid onto a pad, tore off the sheet and handed it to me. Then he began fishing around for change.
‘Keep it,’ I said. I climbed out of his living room and strolled over to the boom gate. In the reflection of the security glass beyond, I saw Emir waving me goodbye like I was headed off on a long trip and he was going to miss me.
Masters didn’t look up when I walked in. She was on the phone saying ‘Uh-huh’ and doodling stars on the pad in front of her. I took a seat behind the mother-of-pearl desk, beneath the painting of the guy striding over a trash heap of body parts stewing in blood. The painting gave me the creeps.
The desk was sparsely populated with a flat computer screen and keyboard, a phone, a Rolodex business-card holder that appeared to be full, a manila folder, a pen and a pencil. A handwritten note signed by Rodney Cain told me the Rolodex was Portman’s. I swiped my common access card and the computer screen came to life. Apparently, I had mail. I clicked. The mail was from Cain.
I clicked again. Masters had been copied. The email read: Here
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