The Sultan of Byzantium (23 page)

‘Listen, my friend. I liked you from the minute I laid eyes on you. To me you’re like an angel. After we said good-bye, I didn’t sleep well for two days. I decided to go see the lady professor who broke your heart. I went to her office at the university and apologized for intruding and asked for ten minutes of her time. I told her how we’d trailed her for two days and how serious you were about her. I swore that you knew nothing about my visiting her. “Miss Mistral,” I said, “if you think my fellow citizen is not worth his salt because you don’t know him well, that would be making a big mistake. You won’t find another honest man like that anywhere, not even heaven. If I hadn’t come here to tell you this, my conscience would give me trouble every time I pray.” I thought she would be surprised, but it was me that was surprised when she started laughing.’

“You have a nice name,” she said. “What does it mean?”

“It means ‘close friend’ in Arabic,” I said, “And my last name is Araboğlu, ‘son of an Arab’.”

‘She looked at me and said, “Ah, you Turks.” Then she said, “Look, Nedim, I’m a half-fellow citizen of yours by way of both Anatolia and Sweden. I’ll tell you a secret if you keep it to yourself. Back in January I discovered that I’ve got a serious medical condition. While you two were trying to check on me, I was suffering depression because I couldn’t find a way to break the news to my father, even though I’d invited him from Athens for that purpose. It’s the same disease from which my mother died. From here on, I’m afraid, I’m going to be busy fighting for my own life.’’

‘My good friend, I liked this Mistral for the way she broke this shocking news. The poor girl is brave and mature. I told her, “If your illness is something that you can beat, I’m sure you will, by the way you talk about it. I’ll pray for you and if you need a taxi, your fellow citizen Nedim is at your service.”

‘She called me a time or two and I took her places even if I wasn’t on duty. Yesterday we picked up her father at the airport. He broke down when he heard about his daughter’s condition, but pulled himself together when we got to the hospital. Still, he cried all the way there. I could hardly hold back the tears myself. Three days from now Mistral is going to have a complicated operation at the university hospital. She’s got nobody on hand to help keep her hysterical father calm. Costas Efendi doesn’t know Swedish, and his Turkish isn’t good enough for me to be of any use. Besides, in Sweden people avoid asking each other even for a spoonful of salt.

‘If you’re not too busy, would you please pick up and come right away? It will cheer the poor girl up to see you with her father before the operation. Plus, she’ll see that you’re not just a fair-weather friend … ’ I felt worse and worse with each sentence. And I was angry with myself for sending her that message and causing extra pain. I jotted down the details and said, ‘I’ll come immediately. Meet me at the hospital and meanwhile don’t leave them alone.’

For some reason I had the idea to call Askaris. I gave him the particulars about Mistral’s operation. Although I’d never spoken about it, it was clear that he knew all about the ‘Mistral adventure’ – probably more than I did myself.

‘What can Nomo do for a Byzantine historian on her deathbed? I would really like to know,’ I said and hung up.

*

It was the middle of spring and Stockholm was a dreamlike city whose landscape of delicate pastels hues looked as if it might vanish in a cloud of dust if somebody just blew on it a bit. It was nice to think that I could find rest if I walked around the sleep-inducing streets long enough. The inhabitants of Solna had apparently taken an oath to keep silent if only Karolinska University Hospital was put in their suburb. From a distance the complex looked like it was made of Lego blocks. I supposed the interior design would be straight out of an IKEA display room.

Nedim of Kulu and I embraced at the main entrance. ‘You’ve brought good luck, my friend,’ he said. ‘They’ve added the country’s top surgeon to the operating team.’ I had an instant vision of Nomo entering the picture. The team included a nurse named Halime who was, coincidentally, also from Kulu. This
zaftig
woman unaware of recent developments assumed that I was Mistral’s fiancé. According to her account, in mixed Turkish and Swedish, the patient was set to undergo an operation of two and a half hours minimum on her uterus. As she pronounced the dark sentence – ’Even if she survives, she’ll never have children’ – her eyes were touched with pity for me. She repeated my assignment to save Mistral from her hysterical father; she would come in ten minutes to take the patient to the operating room.

I pushed the door of Room 527 open a few inches. Mistral looked pale and exhausted, her eyes fixed on a point on the ceiling. Her father was crying at her bedside. It didn’t take long to figure out how to change this tableau: I remembered Costas Sapuntzoglu’s fish mania. I whispered two lines of ‘Istanbul Epic’ in his ear:

When someone says ‘Istanbul,’

I think of an enormous fish net.

He looked at me. His weeping stopped and his lips quivered. I stood and continued reciting lines replete with the Greek names of Istanbul fish:

One section a rusty spider web

Stretched tight at Beykoz

Another one sagging at Fenerbahçe

Forty blue tuna in the net

Turning like forty millstones

When you say blue tuna you mean

The king of fish, blue tuna

Shot in the eye with a hunting rifle

Trees in the sea turn upside down

The fish net a bowl of blood

Clear turquoise water murky now

In the blink of an eye forty blue tuna

The fisherman’s tongue twisted in joy

A seagull lands on the mast to swallow

The chub it caught in mid-air

And flies away without waiting for more

Her name he says is Marika

Like this she always comes and goes.

When I paused Costas threw his arms around me and said, ‘Where did you come from, son of Galata?’

‘Costas Baba, my business here isn’t yet finished. After I met you I met your daughter and we became almost friends. I was told that she needed surgery, so I came to see if there was anything I could do to help.’

Then I took him by the arm and handed him over to Nedim, who was waiting outside the door. I sank down in the chair next to Mistral’s bed. I wiped the sweat from her forehead with my hand. She was too weak to say anything, but her eyelids fluttered.

‘Doctor Sapuntzoglu,’ I said. ‘You’re going to be operated on by the best surgeons in the country. In case you didn’t notice, the number of your room is 527, which, let me remind you, was the year that Justinian the Great assumed the Byzantine throne. I’m not leaving either you or your father alone until you get well. And since I might not have another chance, let me apologize for the wrong message I sent you at the wrong time.’

Trying to smile, she lifted her right hand and closed her eyes. Her face was as glorious as a goddess’s. I couldn’t help myself – I brushed her cheek lightly with the tip of my finger. It would not be easy to remove her from my life. As they rolled her gurney to the elevator, Costas Baba fainted. The doctor revived him and ordered him out of the hospital. I sent him to his daughter’s house with Nedim, and promised that I would stay with Mistral until she recovered.

The operation lasted three hours. Costas Baba called me every hour on the hour. The surgeons removed Mistral’s uterus and ovaries and decided that was enough. They said it would take a day for her to recover consciousness. I told Nedim to explain the situation to Costas when he brought him to the hospital. As they emerged from the elevator everybody rushed toward each other for a round of embraces.

‘I have good and less good news for you, Costas of Edremit,’ I said in Turkish.

He answered in English, almost scolding me, ‘Don’t tell me that my daughter is saved but crippled, Galatian!’

‘Your daughter is saved, yes, but she can’t have children. But you can accept me as your grandson if you like. I’ll be glad to call you Grandpa.’

‘I wish I had a son-in-law like you,’ he said, loudly, and I put my arm around him again.

‘Your daughter deserves a better man than I. But don’t let that stop you from loving me more than your son-in-law.’

I sent Costas Sapuntzoglu home again. It was late afternoon and I was sitting in the hallway, about to start Henrik Nordbrandt’s
Selected Poetry
, when there was a sudden flurry in Mistral’s room. Halime rushed up, saying, ‘There’s a complication – what’s your blood type?’ My type was a match, but they needed more. We called Nedim. ‘The whole Turkish nation has Positive blood,’ mumbled Halime.

For two days I spent half my time guarding Mistral’s door. I loved seeing her gather strength. It was like a gardener watching his plants grow. I adapted to the hospital lifestyle, reading when things were peaceful and greeting patients and their kin in the corridors. On the morning of the third day Halime joined me.

‘Brother, I was unfair to you,’ she said.

‘Why do you say that, Halime?’

‘I thought you would abandon your girl when you heard that she couldn’t have children. One bad side of Turkish men is that they see women as breeding machines. But I see how you treat her. You’d donate an organ if need be. Well, if you’re thinking, “Not without a child,” you can adopt one. It’s a good thing to do; and besides, they’re more grateful.’

I was too worn out to explain the real situation to Halime. Or maybe I was afraid she would scold me. Two hours after that the doctor on duty announced that the patient could see visitors. I called Costas, but worried that he might faint again on the way. I drew Nedim aside and said, ‘I don’t want to be here when Mistral wakes up. She might think I have expectations and feel compelled to reciprocate.’

‘What can I say?’ he replied. ‘You do think about everything. May God give you what you deserve – I hope one day you’ll be the president of our country.’

We clapped each other on the shoulders and said goodbye once again. I tucked the equivalent of four days’ wages into his coat pocket. I had leave from Costas to go, having told him I would be back after a rest. I paid the miscellaneous hospital fees and had baskets of flowers sent to Mistral and Halime from the first florist I ran into, then went back to my hotel.

The Serbian taxi driver who took me to the airport the next morning told me that the ideal time to visit Stockholm was July. The locals go south to the warm countries, he said, and leave the streets to world travelers. I was about to crack a joke on the lines of, ‘Nothing would bring me back here but the Nobel Prize for “Inability to Attract the Woman of One’s Life”,’ but thought better of it. In the first place his English wouldn’t be up to it; and secondly I saw that, with his jellied hair, he resembled the bust of Alexander the Great. My unfortunate paternal grandmother was a Serbian, and I didn’t want to start a marathon discussion of the ins and outs of my genealogy. My past was a labyrinth trying to swallow its last turn.

*

From London I flew to Sao Paolo, named for Saint Paul of Tarsus, a town in southern Turkey. Guarulhos was not an attractive name for an airport, which was shaped like a somnolent beehive anyway. The taxi to the Intercontinental Hotel smelled of vanilla; I wondered what it was meant to cover up. I was surprised that the driver, Sandro, didn’t ask where I was from. When he noticed me admiring the huge and lazy marketplace, he tried to introduce the town to me in broken English.

‘Sao Paolo was founded in the sixteenth century … it’s the most modern town in Brazil … its population is over 12 million … ’

He studied me a while in the rear-view mirror, then started briefing me on the town’s sexual offerings. His English improved.

‘Mister, would you like to have a girl even better looking than the ones you see in the Carnaval at Rio?’

‘If they speak English I would like to have two of them, Sandro.’

I did not assume that the mulatto girls would be familiar with their prominent national poet, Machado de Assis. I was pleased that the one with yellow nail polish asked me where I came from.

‘I’m from the country where the saint who gave his name to your country was born.’

The one chewing gum said, ‘You mean you’re from heaven?’

At the Intercontinental I entered a chess tournament composed of four groups. By beating my six rivals I became number one in my group. Together with the three other group champions I flew to Ushuaia by way of Buenos Aires. In earth’s southernmost town – a quiet place – we took on the champions of an equivalent tournament in Lima. I was beaten in the final match by a retired fireman, Vlad Godunov from Saint Petersburg. Too late I saw through the stammering Russian’s strategy, but by that time I remembered where I’d put my father’s list.

It was Selçuk Altun who found for me a signed copy, in Turkish, of chess master Garry Kasparov’s
My Masters
. The document whose turn it was to be decoded lay between the pages of the chapter on Capablanca. Whenever the topic of genius in chess arose, the name of José Raul Capablanca (1882-1942) was sure to come up. He learned chess when he was five and was watching a game when he died. He never practiced intensely nor cheated against other masters, as did his rivals. Instead of entering into a psychological duel with his opponents, he focused on his own attack. I compared his style to a lucid poem with not one extra line. I would take Capablanca as a model for my moves in the Byzantine labyrinth.

I enjoyed myself in South America until May. What did it mean that I received no messages, not even a ‘Thank you’, from Mistral? If Wendy Sade were around, she would no doubt say, ‘She’s remaining silent for the good of future developments.’ My grandmother, on the other hand, would have said, ‘That worthless Greek slut!’

The piece of paper I’d tucked into a book on chess history nine months ago, thinking it was merely one of my grandfather’s idiosyncrasies, lay before me now, but as an idiosyncrasy of my father.