Last Train to Istanbul (8 page)

He had not been able to go to his family, nor had he had time to have a haircut before leaving! As soon as he was notified about his posting, he managed to duck out of the office, buy a suitcase, and book his ticket to Istanbul on the overnight train. His friends had advised him to do his shopping in Istanbul, and Macit gave him the names of several stores, insisting that he at least buy himself a good coat.

Tarık meticulously packed his gray suit and three white shirts. Between the shirts, he placed the letter and the small gift Sabiha had given him. He hoped that she hadn’t put any money in her letter, but he hadn’t the heart to open it and check. Yet friends who had been abroad had warned him that the Germans regularly rummaged through suitcases.

Tarık got everything ready for the overnight train to Istanbul next evening. He hung his new, freshly pressed, dark-blue suit in the wardrobe; he placed his passport, wallet, and train ticket on his bureau, beside the pocket watch he kept as a reminder of his father. From the frame of the mirror, he removed a photograph and looked at it for a moment. It was a picture taken of a group at the races. The half dozen or so faces were tiny. Yet Sabiha, with her long blonde hair, stood out distinctly. He put the photograph in his wallet.

He was about to embark on an adventure he could never have dreamed of back in the lycée in Sivas, and a cold shiver went down his spine. He switched off the bare overhead light and turned on his bedside lamp, holding his French book in his hand.

“
Moi, je m’appelle Tarık Arıca
,” he said to himself. “My name is Tarık Arıca.
Je viens d’Ankara. Je suis le consul général de Turquie
…I come from Ankara. I am the consul general of Turkey…My God, surely not!”

No, that wasn’t right at all. He would merely be the second secretary; there was a long way to go before he became the consul or even the deputy consul!

“Mr. Consul,” he murmured, closing his eyes tightly, “or how about Mr. Ambassador? Yes, Mr. Ambassador, His Excellency, Tarık.”

He tried to picture himself in a top hat and tails, with a white scarf around his neck, holding a silver-topped cane, but the only vision that came to mind was that of a blonde woman. She was bent over a desk covered with books, sweeping back her blonde hair
with her long fingers as it fell across her face. He only imagined it, but her green eyes were so clear. Perhaps her daughter was called Hülya (meaning “illusion”) after her mother’s dreamy eyes. Still in his dream, the same slender woman approached him and spoke to him in French, asking a question and then looking directly into his eyes. Tarık’s hands began to sweat; what would this beautiful woman think of him if he was to answer in his funny accent? Such a vision…such a beauty…he tried to clear his throat before speaking.

Oui, je voudrais beaucoup
…er…
avoir
…er…“Yes, I would very much like…to have…”

“Please don’t be nervous, Tarık,” said the vision. “Keep calm, think of what you want to say first.”

“My accent is dreadful. I feel embarrassed.”

“Nonsense, you shouldn’t worry about your accent. Everyone speaking a foreign language has an accent. French isn’t your mother tongue. Macit has an accent; so do I.”

“No, not you. You don’t.”

“Perhaps it’s because we had a French nanny when we were young, but rest assured, no foreigner can speak a new language without an accent. Don’t feel embarrassed, Tarık. Repeat what you said, and I will correct you if you make a mistake.”

Tarık felt the agony in his dream. He was deliriously happy, yet his palms were sweating and his heart fluttering like a bird’s wings. He was scared not only of making a mistake but also, and more importantly, that he was falling in love.

Tarık got out of bed and paced the room. No, this wasn’t love; perhaps it was a kind of idealization, he thought. Did he simply desire what was unattainable? To an Anatolian from the east of Turkey, Sabiha was the ideal woman—blonde, beautiful, well educated, and with all the social graces. She could speak several languages and was able to mix with all sorts of people, from all walks of life. He had never met such a woman before. On top of all this,
she was his boss’s wife, his friend’s wife. Wasn’t it Macit who had written that excellent report about him, who was so instrumental in his promotion? Should he eventually marry, Tarık knew that Sabiha was everything he wanted in a wife. That’s it! This wasn’t love; it was admiration!

Back in bed, Tarık wanted to fall asleep, but this time his excitement for the day ahead kept him awake. He was returning to Istanbul for the first time since his university days, and he was looking forward to being back in the city of domes and plane trees. He thought of the days when just walking down Pera Street in Beyoğlu was considered an adventure! And now he was returning to that enchanted city as a diplomat. A busy time lay ahead. Macit had recommended shopping at Karlman Arcade followed by dinner at Rejans, the Russian restaurant, where he should have chicken kiev washed down with yellow vodka to the strains of the balalaika orchestra. Another of Macit’s “musts” was a visit to the Garden Bar at Tepebaşı or to the Park Hotel for a nightcap. Tarık wasn’t one for drinking on his own, but he thought that he should make the most of his couple of days in Istanbul. They might be a sampler of the sophisticated times ahead for him. He didn’t really care for the company of the boring snobs who frequented the bars and restaurants of Istanbul, but at least they spoke his language.

And then what?

What would become of him once he boarded that train and mixed with the other passengers? They probably wouldn’t be speaking Turkish. He was headed for an occupied country. Europe was in the grip of war, and what if that war spread to Turkey? What if he never returned to his country again? He had only enough money to last him a couple of weeks, and he spoke a little bit of French. What if he got stuck in that turmoil? The few French words he’d uttered a short while ago came back to him. With fear in his voice, he said
to himself,
Je suis le deuxième secrétaire à l’ambassade de Turquie.
He repeated this in his head, and then another sentence came to mind: “Please, God, help me!”

It was almost five in the morning before he fell asleep.

That year spring had arrived in Istanbul hand in hand with sorrow. The dark lines of anxiety under everyone’s eyes didn’t go unnoticed by Tarık. The fear of war burdened everyone, young and old, men and women, rich and poor—no one was spared. By radio and newspaper, the government had issued the instructions for everyone to build bunkers or shelters. If an apartment building was more than three floors high, its ground floor had to be converted to a shelter with windows covered by sandbags. As a result, the city looked like one giant construction site. In spite of all this, Beyoğlu was still as buzzing, as colorful and joyful as Tarık remembered.

When Tarık left the Haydar Paşa Station on the Asian side of Istanbul, he could smell the salty sea air. He took the ferry over to Karaköy on the European side. Even though he was cold, he deliberately sat on the outside deck so he could watch the white, frothy waves on the sea. Once at Karaköy, he hailed a taxi and sat next to the driver, giving him the slip of paper with the address of his hotel.

The taxi driver drove through Yüksek Kaldırım to Pera and stopped in front of the Londra Hotel. There were sandbags piled in front of it, just as Tarık had seen in front of other buildings on the short drive.

“Look at all this,” the driver said, pointing to the sacks. “It gets on people’s nerves. We are not at war, but just look at this mess. We can hardly drive through the streets.”

“It is always better to be cautious,” said Tarık. “God forbid there should be a sudden air raid. Where would people find shelter?”

“It’s fate, sir,” said the driver. “Who knows when their number’s up?”

The driver’s words sent a chill down Tarık’s spine, and yet, how typically fatalistic of a Turk. Tarık had thought that abandoning oneself to fate was a trait of people from the East, but here this Istanbul driver thought along the same lines. He got out of the taxi, and even before paying his fare he stood gazing at the view spread out before him. The silhouettes of the mosques, the domed cupolas, the plane trees on the hills, and the minarets pointing into the sky—it was indeed a breathtaking view. On the hillside, the red buds of Judas trees were just beginning to bloom. Istanbul looked like a watercolor: bright purple, blue, and green all mixed together with dashes of black India ink. In three days he would be leaving this extraordinary city to go to a war zone.

He paid the driver and collected his luggage. He couldn’t help imitating the driver’s tone of voice as he mumbled to himself, “It’s fate, sir. Who knows when their number’s up?” Walking up the hotel steps, he came face-to-face with the commissionaire dressed like a palace guard. He put down his suitcase as the commissionaire, full of his own importance, summoned the bellboy.

Just as the bellboy was putting the suitcase on the trolley, there was a frightful bang and Tarık fell flat on his face. Suddenly all hell let loose. There was the crashing of broken windows and people shrieking for help all around. Tarık lifted his head and saw the bellboy lying next to him.

“Are you all right?” he asked.

The boy turned his head and looked with a dazed expression. The mucus on his upper lip looked like a greasy mustache.

“Where the hell are we? Are we dead or alive?”

“We’re not dead, my boy. We’re lying at the entrance to the hotel.”

“I don’t believe it, sir!”

“A bomb exploded nearby,” Tarık explained, struggling to stand up. He had hurt his knees very badly and had difficulty straightening up. The whole area was enveloped in a cloud of smoke and dust. Others around them who had been caught up in the explosion were coming out from under stairs or doorways and stretching. A short period of silence, broken by the agonized howling of a dog, ended with the din of Judgment Day: children started to cry, men and women called for help, police and guards blew their whistles, and cars sounded their horns. Tarık finally stood up; there was glass in his hair and his clothes were filthy. The bellboy was still lying facedown on the ground.

Tarık tried to lift him up. “Come on, my boy, you’d better try to stand up.”

The young boy sat up but was still visibly shaken. When Tarık realized he couldn’t get him up, he knelt down beside him and slapped him across the face. The boy started to cry.

By now people were pouring out through the hotel lobby in panic. Tarık looked around for his suitcase and saw the overturned trolley across the street. Tarık made his way through the panic-stricken crowds toward his suitcase. People were running in all directions trying to find out what had happened; sirens were sounding everywhere.

When Tarık returned with the trolley and his suitcase, the bellboy was on his feet but looking around in shock.

“Are you OK now? Look, I’ve got your trolley. Come on then, back to work.”

“Was it a bomb, sir?”

“Yes, I’m afraid it was.”

“Where?”

“I really don’t know, but we’ll soon find out. It must have been very near.”

“Is anybody dead?”

“I don’t know that either.”

Tarık led the boy into the lobby, both of them trying to avoid stepping on the shattered glass. There they found total chaos and no receptionist. Several guests were attending to their wounds using their pristine white handkerchiefs. Tarık looked around. What was he to do now? It was then that he noticed that his pants were torn at the knees. “Damn it!” he mumbled. His new suit was ruined.

He decided to go upstairs and just find a vacant room. He went along the corridor trying one door after another. The first three were locked; the fourth opened but there were some belongings scattered around and the beds weren’t made up. He tried another door on the opposite side; luckily this one was vacant. The beds were made and the cupboards empty. Tarık closed the door, opened his suitcase on the bed, and took out his old gray suit. In the bathroom, he took all the glass out of his hair and freshened up. A little while later, he went back down to the lobby wearing his gray suit. The receptionist was there, talking in an agitated manner to the guests.

“You weren’t here when I arrived, so I was obliged to find myself a room. Here’s the key,” Tarık said. “I’m Tarık Arıca from Ankara. I believe the foreign ministry has reserved my room.”

The receptionist looked confused. He stared briefly at Tarık and took the key without saying a word; it was obvious that he was still in shock.

“Have you been able to find out what happened?” Tarık asked.

“Apparently a bomb exploded at the Pera Palace Hotel nearby. Six people are dead and there are many wounded,” replied the receptionist.

“Dead?”

“I understand the British ambassador to Sofia is on a visit to Istanbul. They say he has come to see Inönü. I wonder if there is a connection. Maybe it was an attempt to kill him.”

“You mean Mr. Rendel?”

“Oh, you know him, do you?” asked the receptionist in amazement.

“No, I don’t, but I know of him. Is he dead?”