by Parker Bilal
The airy dining room where they served breakfast still had a touch of faded nineteenth-century luxury about it. It wasn’t hard to imagine starched Englishwomen and their travelling companions drinking tea while deciding which sights to visit that day. There was something dated about the staff too, in their threadbare uniforms. The food however – yoghurt and fresh figs, dried fruit, scrambled eggs – was good, and Makana ate more than his fair share. In the broad light of day the previous night’s events seemed hard to believe, had it not been for the aches and pains in his body.
But although the violence lingered, his mind kept returning to the earlier incident at the restaurant with the woman who’d wanted to speak to him. The loss of his passport should have been more of a concern, yet it was that brief episode that stuck in his mind. Was she deranged, or had she really seen something? And if so, what exactly?
When he emerged from the dining room the little receptionist bounded up.
‘Mr Amin Bey, how are you feeling this day, after your terrible ordeal last night?’
‘Much better Haluk, thank you.’ At some stage Makana would have to inform him about the loss of his passport, but it might be wise to speak to Winslow first.
‘I am so happy to hear. Amin Bey, you have a visitor waiting for you.’ He shook his head. ‘This city is plagued by outsiders coming here to seek their fortune by any means. Scoundrels!’
He hurried away, leaving Makana to find his way back to the front lobby, where he was surprised to find Koçak, the taxi driver from the previous day, waiting for him. He jumped to his feet as Makana appeared.
‘Merhaba, I hope you good sleeping.’ A broad grin split his bristly face.
‘Did we have an appointment?’
‘Most definitely, effendim.’ Koçak beamed. ‘I promise to show you best sights in Istanbul.’
Makana was pretty sure that he had not made an agreement to go sightseeing. On the other hand, perhaps it made sense to at least look like a dutiful tourist.
‘I only have a couple of hours free.’
‘No problem, effendim.’
It was a sunny day and Koçak was eager to convince his passenger that he had made the right decision.
‘You are wise man,’ he said, wagging his head as he watched Makana in the mirror. ‘Everybody hurry hurry, but Istanbul has been here thousands of years.’ He chuckled at his own wisdom. ‘I take you Sultanahmet and Hagia Sophia. For a good Muslim is best. Topkapi Palace tomorrow, maybe?’
‘Maybe,’ conceded Makana. If all went according to plan, he hoped to be on his way across the border by then.
At the Hagia Sophia, Koçak re-enacted the actions of Mehmet the Conqueror, when the city first fell before him. Kneeling on the ground, the taxi driver took a handful of dust and threw it over his head, much to the amusement of other onlookers.
‘He is wearing turban on his head, yes? He want to show, I am good man, honest man, so he kneel before this great building. He gives thanks to God for his victory.’
‘An act of humility,’ said Makana, helping the man to his feet. There was something endearing about the hard-working driver.
Crowds milled around the entrance of the famous Sultan Ahmet Mosque. Dazed tourists trailed behind weary guides trying their best to sound excited about a story they had already told a thousand and one times. Makana threaded his way through and up the front steps. Removing his shoes, he placed them on one of the low wooden shelves that flanked the entrance before stepping over the threshold. The interior of the mosque was dominated by impressive vaulted arches that surrounded the central dome. A band of golden letters spelled out phrases from the holy book. The massive pillars were decked with the coloured tiles that gave the building its nickname, the Blue Mosque. A low-hanging halo of lights floated in the dark air as if suspended by a mystic force.
Makana experienced the odd and inexplicable comfort he often felt in such places. He was not an observant man, but he had been brought up as a Muslim. Although familiar with Islamic tradition, he felt more connected to the long history of dissenters, to men like Al-Hallaj, who was hanged in Baghdad in the tenth century and then cut into quarters for good measure. Makana had a suspicion, which came back to him whenever he entered such places, that in another age he too would have been declared an apostate.
He paused, glancing over his shoulder, and ran a swift eye over the other people moving around the mosque. It was a habit now, but after last night he felt he should be even more vigilant. Only one figure stood out – a solitary woman. In itself it seemed unusual to see a lone female visitor in a place like this. There was something about her that did not quite fit. She didn’t look local, but if she was a tourist then it seemed unlikely for her to be alone. He searched for signs of a family somewhere at a distance, a husband or group of friends, but found nobody as far as he could see. He examined her again. She was dressed from head to toe in black, her head covered by a black scarf. She had her back to him and Makana moved cautiously, circling around to try and catch a glimpse of her face.
As if she sensed his attention the woman began moving towards the exit on the far side. Some impulse made Makana follow. A crowd blocked his way. He pushed his way through and finally reached the wide doors that led to the inner yard. By the time he reached them she was already halfway across, moving swiftly away from him.
The marble was cool beneath his feet. He walked quickly, aware that she was raising her pace towards an exit on the far side. By the time he reached it there was no sign of her. Just a black headscarf lying on the steps, abandoned in haste. He picked it up. It told him nothing. It was as if she had vanished into thin air.
Koçak was waiting by the car when Makana came out. Tossing his cigarette aside, he straightened up.
‘Merhaba,’ he beamed. ‘Most beautiful mosque in world, yes?’
‘Sure,’ said Makana, accepting the offer of a cigarette. It was his first taste of local tobacco, and it wasn’t bad. He made a note of the brand, Samsun, and decided it was a decent alternative to his usual Cleopatras, which were fast running out. The two of them smoked in silence, Koçak seeming to guess that he had something on his mind. Makana tried to make sense of what had just happened. Had the woman been watching him in the mosque, or had she simply panicked when he came after her? It could all have been a product of his imagination, after his experience last night. The scarf was the kind that could be picked up from a box by the door for female visitors. It could easily have been dropped by a careless tourist. There were enough of them about. Coincidence, then, or something more? Either way, he was no longer in the mood for sightseeing. He looked at his watch. It was still early. Koçak interpreted the gesture as eagerness.
‘Maybe you want see Basilica water cistern, very famous, built by Romans.’
‘How about some çay?’
Koçak’s face lit up. ‘Tea? But of course. Please.’ He opened the taxi door and Makana climbed in. The faces of the people in the square gave way to those on the streets leading away from the tourist attractions. Makana watched them all, not knowing really what he was looking for, or who. They drank tea by a railing overlooking the Golden Horn.
‘Effendim. You are very worry man. Always thinking, thinking!’ Koçak threw up his arms. ‘Allah! Life is not for thinking, but for life itself.’
‘You may have a point,’ agreed Makana.
‘What is problem?’ Koçak twisted his hand in the air as if trying to depict a strange creature that defied description.
‘I came here to do a job, and now I’m not sure if I know what I’m doing.’
‘Ah, I understand. Nothing is more worry than work.’ Koçak shook his head, trying to look stern, but failed and broke into another smile.
On the drive back up to the hotel he caught Makana’s eye in the mirror.
‘You have family, effendim? Wifes, childrens?’
‘A long time ago. One wife, one daughter.’
‘Only one?’ Koçak’s face lit up. ‘There is your problem. You
must have more children. A man needs children.’
Makana was reminded of Sindbad. Was there some law of the universe whereby ancient sages were reborn as taxi drivers? He decided to remain silent. He tipped Koçak well and consented to another attempt at seeing the city’s sights the following morning. If anyone was watching him it would give him the appearance of a tourist with time to kill. And if all went well he would already be on his way out of here.
Chapter Nine
The mood at the Iskander Grillroom had not improved overnight. Nor had the décor, which somehow looked even more gloomy.
The waiter had the same dour look on his face. He hadn’t shaved, although his stubble didn’t seem to have grown either, which was something of a mystery. Makana chose a table against the wall where he had a clear view of the door and the street through the window. Deciding that words were not the currency in this place, he pointed at one of the photographs above the counter. The waiter spun on his heels, calling out the order as he went. He appeared to remember Makana, as he brought him tea without being asked. After that he returned to his stool at the bar where a cigarette smouldered and a newspaper was folded over to the page that he now resumed reading.
As before, the place was almost empty. Makana studied all of the customers in turn. He saw nothing too alarming in the couple holding hands over by the wall. An intellectual type wearing a tweed jacket and thick-rimmed glasses was using a pencil to underline passages in the book he was reading. Elsewhere, two young men in leather jackets looked like pickpockets taking a break. Nobody bore any resemblance to the images he had seen of Ayman Nizari.
The food, when it arrived, was a disappointment – a heap of döner kebab meat and bread swimming in tomato sauce. Makana ate a couple of bites before pushing it aside. At the table next to him a grey-haired man gazed so mournfully at the plate that Makana was tempted to offer it to him, but didn’t want to cause offence. Instead, he sipped his tea and smoked another cigarette. A tall European man entered and settled himself at a table in the corner before producing a guidebook from his rucksack and ordering a beer.
A crumpled local English-language newspaper had been left behind on the next table, and Makana spent some time reading through it with one eye on the door. The front page was dominated by stories about a new shopping mall, recently inaugurated by a government minister. Museum visits had broken new records this year, ran another item, alongside pictures of tourists, waving and smiling. A visiting trade delegation from China was in town, hoping to improve links between the two countries. Bored-looking men wearing headphones sat in a vast hall. Nobody looked too happy, but maybe that was the nature of delegations.
The bad news was buried halfway through the paper: a grainy photograph of an object being lifted out of the sea on a crane proved to be the body of a young woman. It had been spotted by a passenger on one of the ferries that shuttled between the European and Asian sides of the city. The woman was believed to be the latest victim in a series of murders that was currently ‘mystifying’ police. The journalist claimed that the whole city was living in fear, obsessed with the idea that a madman was on the loose. Nobody would sleep peacefully until the killer was caught.
Makana shoved the paper aside and resisted looking at his watch. As time went by the clientele slowly changed. A middle-aged couple entered, clearly Turkish, the woman berating her husband as he stared at the illuminated menu like a man seeking salvation. The woman snapped orders at the waiter as the husband arranged the shopping bags around a table.
Other tables were now occupied by solitary men, the odd couple. Still nobody who looked like Ayman Nizari. The tall European in the corner was marking things in his guidebook and drinking another beer. A young man entered and sat by the window. A red tram clanged its bell as it went by outside, sparks spitting from the overhead cables.
Like yesterday, there was a stream of people from nearby offices who came in, ordered and left with styrofoam packages in plastic bags. Was Nizari out there somewhere trying to make up his mind whether to trust him, or had something happened to prevent him making the rendezvous? Was one of these people a friend of his, a collaborator, a colleague, someone he trusted? Nobody seemed to be paying too much attention to Makana. Nizari could already be dead. If Mossad had caught up with him he could be bound for Tel Aviv, or some black-ops site that could never be traced. A man with his specialist skills could draw interest from some very shady quarters. Not for the first time Makana found himself wishing he was back in Cairo, where life, whatever you might say about it, was at least simpler.
A hand tapped him on the shoulder.
‘Pardon, bakar misiniz?’
‘I don’t speak Turkish,’ replied Makana in English, turning as he spoke. ‘I’m sorry.’
The speaker was the large European man who had been sitting two tables away drinking his beer. Now, instead of returning to his place, he sat down right behind Makana. He held up the book he was holding – not a guidebook after all, but an introduction to the Turkish language.
‘I must admit, it’s quite intimidating trying out a new language, but perhaps I should stop inflicting pain on people.’ The man chuckled at his own joke. Tossing the book onto the table in front of him, he asked, ‘Here on holiday?’
‘Business.’ Makana twisted round in his chair to get a proper look. Scandinavian or German, he decided.
‘What a coincidence.’ The man beamed broadly while signalling to the waiter for another beer. ‘I am also here on business. I come here every couple of months, but I can’t even say thank you. I decided that enough was enough. I had to make an effort. And you?’
He was a big man, tall, with broad shoulders and a head like a watermelon. Lank brown hair that was pushed clumsily away from his pale face. He was chewing a mint. The table he had abandoned was strewn with wrappers. Clearly, he was in the mood for conversation.
‘First time.’ There seemed no point in lying. He would quickly be found out if he tried to pretend he knew the city.
‘Henk Sneefliet.’ The man held out a large hand which Makana was obliged to take. ‘From the Netherlands.’
‘Mustafa Amin, from Cairo.’
‘Ah, then you are practically a neighbour.’ The man again chuckled at his own remark. The waiter appeared with a fresh bottle of beer and a crooked smile on his face that made him look like a Picasso. The smile broadened when the European waved the change away. Clearly, Makana must learn to tip better.
‘I’m sorry to inconvenience you,’ said the Dutchman. ‘Are you waiting for someone?’
‘No, not at all.’ Makana lit a cigarette and threw a casual glance towards the door. Over an hour had passed since the agreed rendezvous time. The chances of Nizari showing now were minimal, yet there was every chance that he, or someone else, was watching Makana.
The Dutchman might be just what he appeared, a lonely businessman in a foreign city, striking up a casual conversation, but there was too much at stake to make such assumptions. There was always the chance that this was some kind of test, in which case it made sense to play along and stick to his alibi.
‘And what brings you to this fair city?’
‘Machinery. I’m here to buy agricultural machinery.’
‘New or used?’
‘Used, mostly.’
The question suggested that the other man had some grasp of the subject. Agricultural machinery was not something most people had much knowledge of. That, at least, must have been the thinking on Winslow’s part.
‘What the industrialised world casts off, the developing world gives new life to.’ The Dutchman again seemed pleased with his own take on the state of things. ‘It tells us so much about the world we live in, don’t you think?’
‘There’s a market in almost everything, if the price is right. Clothes, cars, medical instruments.’ Makana tried to summon the waiter, who solemnly ignored him. The Dutchman nodded understandingly.
‘We pride ourselves on recycling our waste, plastic, paper, gla
ss. Really, it’s about easing our own conscience. But in Africa, yes, that is where true recycling takes place.’
Makana got to his feet, gathering up his cigarettes and lighter.
‘I’m sorry, I really have to be going.’
‘Of course, of course.’ The Dutchman was all smiles. ‘No need to apologise.’
‘Nice to meet you.’
‘Same here, same here.’
The two men shook hands. Makana nodded at the book that lay on the table.
‘Good luck with learning the language.’
‘Ha ha, thank you. Perhaps I am deluding myself into thinking that I can manage to learn a language at my age, but we have to try, don’t we?’ There was a shrewd, observant look in the other man’s eye.
‘I suppose that’s what it’s all about,’ smiled Makana.
He walked slowly back towards the hotel, pausing to look in shop windows, but not making a big effort to shake anyone off his tail. Bored businessman killing time in a foreign city. He thought he was beginning to get the hang of it.
Chapter Ten
Makana had the sense that something waited here, in this city, that connected to him in a way that he couldn’t put his finger on, something dark and unforgiving.
It felt good to be secure in his hotel room, listening to the hum of distant traffic. When he closed his eyes it would revive the same image, the black veil drifting to the ground on the steps of the Blue Mosque. The blurred figure of the woman who had been wearing it floated before him, like a ray of light passing through the falling dusk.
