Dancing for the General

by Sue Star

  The two men sucked on their pipes, producing clouds of smoke to accompany the heavy silence that weighed on their heads.

  Murat finally spit out his mouthpiece and shrugged. “Mine was nothing special.” Then he resumed his smoke.

  Yaziz regretted his choice of words, even though it was his duty to praise a friend. Turks would not praise themselves. But Yaziz had evoked a memory that threatened to dampen the warmth of their company.

  Murat had started his career in a lower court of Istanbul in the early days of the Republic, but he soon moved to Ankara, following Atatürk to the seat of his new government. After a life’s service interpreting the Eternal Leader’s laws, Murat had been rewarded only the year before with a forced retirement imposed by the Democrats. The Democrat Party had won control from Atatürk’s Republican People’s Party.

  “It is always necessary,” Yaziz said, trying to explain his poor judgment, “for a policeman to stay informed of troubles on the streets.”

  “What you need,” Murat said, “is a wife to keep you off the streets.”

  Allah had favored Murat with an industrious wife, three sons and two daughters.

  “Are you offering me one of your daughters?” Yaziz grinned. Even if the pleasing, younger one were offered, he wasn’t interested.

  Murat jerked his head back and ticked his tongue. “My daughters will have someone worthier than you. Already I am negotiating with Ahmet Aydenli for one of their hands.”

  “The assistant minister of the Interior? But efendim...” In spite of the light-hearted tone of banter, Yaziz felt wounded. He was destined for the top one day, perhaps as high as the minister of the Interior, who headed the entire police force.

  But not if he failed Bulayir in this assignment.

  Yaziz sucked again on his pipe, and the mix of tobaccos relaxed the knots that riddled his clouded mind. How could Murat consider such a match after the way he himself had lost his job? “I will consider myself a lucky man if I do my job as honorably as you have done yours.”

  Murat sighed. “What is it that you are asking of me, Veli?”

  Yaziz frowned. “The Americans are somehow involved in this business of the gypsy.”

  “Ah. That’s why you come to me. You want to know if their involvement means some responsibility. But your chief does not wish to upset our American friends—my American friends—by including them in a messy investigation.”

  Perhaps Murat was right, Yaziz thought. Bulayir was not a stupid man. He would’ve seen the connection for himself in the report before tossing it aside. Umit Alekci had fled from Romania—part of the larger Balkan area, where Miss Anna Riddle claimed her young lieutenant had been working undercover. Whether or not the lieutenant existed beyond Miss Riddle’s imagination, geography alone tied her to the murdered gypsy.

  Yes, that must be it. Bulayir wished not to pursue the gypsy’s murder because he only wanted to steer Yaziz away from involving the Americans. But Yaziz could not help but wonder what the Americans were up to. Why Burkhardt had given his suit to Umit Alekci.

  “This murder is another example of the increasing spread of discontent throughout the city,” Yaziz said, certain at least of this one thing.

  “Really? And how is a gypsy important to such issues as the trade-gap? Or rising inflation?”

  Yaziz shrugged, implying that the question of relevance was an unimportant matter. He would never admit that he did not know. He did not know yet.

  “It is all part of the national unrest,” Yaziz said. “Demonstrations are no secret.”

  Murat spit out his mouthpiece. “They protest the Press Law, Veli, you know that.”

  “No. There is more to it than that. Besides, Menderes promises to reform the law.”

  “The prime minister’s promise is as good as the newspapers’ reporting of the news.”

  “Shhh,” Yaziz said, glancing around, almost expecting Erkmen to have come up the stairs from the streets below and to now lurk on the next sofa within hearing distance. Not seeing Bulayir’s lieutenant, Yaziz turned back to Murat. “It is troubling, the stories that are suppressed by the newspapers.” He studied the wrinkled face of his friend for a flicker of recognition.

  Instead of complying with the suggestion of a lead, Murat went back to puffing on his pipe.

  “Your eldest son works at the Republic News, does he not?” Yaziz asked.

  Murat’s head, swathed with white hair as fine as silk, dipped briefly in a nod. Not only did Yaziz know that he was correct, he knew that Murat also knew what Yaziz knew. The question was merely a signal that their business finally drew to the heart of the matter.

  “I have heard it said that Republic News prints lies.” Yaziz waited while Murat slowly withdrew the meerschaum from his mouth.

  “My son, Nizamettin, only writes the truth,” Murat said, shooting puffs of smoke with each word. “It is the government that does not wish to see the truth of our economy printed for all to see. For this, they arrest journalists? Outsiders call us Yokistan, ‘the land of not,’ but is this the fault of those within who wish to convey the news?”

  Yaziz’s gut twisted in sympathy. He inhaled calming smoke, drawing it deep inside.

  Spittle formed on Murat’s lips as he grew more agitated. “God forgive me,” he continued. “As a judge, I could never convict any of them for printing the truth. When I lost my job for that small defiance, it was as Allah wills. But one day the Democrat Party will find that it cannot dictate the truth that newspapers must print, not if we are to keep up with the modern world. Not if we follow Atatürk’s vision.”

  Like Murat, Yaziz also was a man of principle. But could he go as far as Murat had gone? His own job answered to the very government that had retired Murat for acquitting the accused journalists who’d printed the truth. What would they do to Yaziz if he defied Bulayir’s order to drop the gypsy affairs?

  Yaziz glanced out the window. Erkmen was gone. Yaziz turned back to Murat and lowered his voice. “There is much discontent with the Democrats in power. There are rumors of a revolution,” he said. “I am searching for the source of it.” He waited for the offer of help, as it was not Turkish to ask for it himself.

  “You have no farther to go than to the banks,” Murat said, “where there is no money.”

  Western impatience twisted through Yaziz. “Your son must’ve learned something. He’s told you, hasn’t he? I must talk to him.”

  “You wish for him to lose his job, too?”

  “Then, tell me what you know.”

  “I know that we are going bankrupt as a nation and cannot survive much longer without finding another answer. Most of the income we have so far, we owe to the Americans, but where that came from, there is no more. Their courtship of us is already over, and they grow weary of us. Perhaps we will have to listen to the Soviets from now on.”

  “You don’t mean that.”

  Murat lifted his thick eyebrows and sniffed. “It is no longer up to me to pass judgment. We will see what the people have to say in the elections next May. We will see if the DP remains in power that long.”

  “Then you do think a revolution is imminent?”

  “I say nothing.”

  “It’s Atatürk’s generals who plan it, isn’t it?”

  “I know nothing.”

  “Efendim, give me a name, a place where I can start to track them down.”

  Murat remained silent. His head tipped farther back.

  “Don’t you understand?” Yaziz said, foolishly disrespectful. “It’s not up to them to determine the law. No one is above the government when it has been voted in by the people. It is my job to uphold the law. It is your duty to cooperate.”

  “My duty is to Atatürk and his dream, as should be yours.”

  “Atatürk’s dream was to have a democracy.”

  “And so we have one.”

  Yaziz, who had other duties as well, thrust aside his pipe. He jabbed his glasses back in place, and sprang to his feet. “Western d
emocracies don’t have revolutions when the people are displeased with the ruling party.”

  “My boy, your trouble is that you have spent too much time outside our borders. You have forgotten what it is like to be a Turk. Why don’t you ever wear your veteran’s badge and let the world know you for who you are?”

  Murat, his elder, was wrong. That badge earned Yaziz false respect, only for the killing he’d done in Korea. But Murat didn’t deserve that answer any more than Yaziz had deserved such a blow—the suggestion that his Turkish core was tarnished! Yaziz wheeled around and strode away. His step pounded the wood, but his heart felt heavier than usual.

  Chapter Thirteen

  “Priscilla!” Anna called, swaying on her feet as a rising wave of panic threatened to overcome her. She felt light-headed, and her head rang.

  She took a deep breath. It was more likely that Priscilla had gone outside to play, that’s all. If she’d used the basement door, then Anna wouldn’t have heard her leave.

  Then she realized it wasn’t her head ringing but the doorbell. She stepped over the doll to glance out the window and across the driveway. A wave of relief rushed through her. Her niece stood on the stoop and pressed her thumb against the ringer. With her was another little girl about her size, although dressed in flowered balloon pants and a scarf wrapped about her head in the same fashion as Fededa. Behind the girls stood a short, sleight man in a western business suit.

  Anna turned and ran back through the playroom. She stumbled up the half-flight of steps and across the central room to answer the front door.

  “Priscilla!” Anna scooped her niece into her arms. “Where have you been?”

  “Playing with Gulsen. You said I could.” Priscilla squirmed free of Anna’s hug.

  “But Gulsen is a doll. I didn’t know you meant to leave the house. Honey, you must never leave without checking with me first.”

  “This is Gulsen.” Priscilla squeezed the hand of her Turkish friend and pulled her forward. “I named my doll after my friend. Gulsen and her dad walked me home.”

  Anna smiled at the little girl, and then at the man who had been standing quietly behind them. “Merhaba,” she said, using the Turkish greeting, one of the few words she knew.

  “Good afternoon,” Gulsen’s father replied in excellent English. His gaze skimmed Anna’s bare legs, exposed beneath her shorts, then flitted back to her face before he smiled in return. “I am Ahmet Aydenli, at your service.”

  He squared his shoulders with a confidence greater than his size. He appeared to be a man accustomed to having his way. His importance reflected in his business suit, which gleamed with a silken sheen and the look of a custom fit.

  “Pleased to meet you. And I’m—”

  “Yes. You’re Anna Riddle.” He did not step forward from his position on the top step. His eyes rolled up toward Anna, who was not a tall woman at five feet five inches but taller than he by a couple of inches. A blood vessel had burst in the white of his eyes, so striking next to the dark iris.

  Anna’s lips moved, but no sound came out. She cleared her throat, then said, “You know my name.” She chided herself silently for the inadequate response.

  “Of course. The Americans are well known in our neighborhood.”

  Mitzi and Henry were well known, perhaps, but not her, Anna thought.

  “Won’t you come in?” she asked.

  “I am sorry. We must return home immediately. We live just around the corner.”

  Priscilla had overstayed her welcome, Anna thought with dismay. Her cheeks flushed. “I’m so sorry. She went to your house without my permission.”

  “Another day both of you must return,” he said, glancing down at the Keds she’d changed into after her trip to the tomb. “And I will serve you some tea. My house is your house.”

  An awkward moment passed between them, and she realized it had something to do with shoes. “Thank you,” she said. He lingered, waiting while the girls chattered in Turkish. Then Priscilla burst past Anna, dragging Gulsen across the threshold with her.

  “I have to show her my game,” Priscilla said as Gulsen removed her shoes.

  Anna bent down to catch her niece by the arm and whisper. “Honey, they’re in a hurry to go home.”

  “You don’t understand,” Priscilla said, pulling away. As she tugged, Rainer’s medallion swung out from under Anna’s shirt collar. Priscilla paused her struggle long enough to glare at Anna. “Why are you wearing the gypsy’s necklace? You said you have to give it to the police.” Then she twisted free of Anna’s grip, and said, “C’mon, Gulsen.”

  The two girls bounded inside, and Anna glanced back at Gulsen’s father with dismay.

  “Never mind,” he said. “They will only be a minute. I can wait that long.”

  “I’m sorry that we’re interrupting your schedule, Mr. uh...” She struggled, trying to remember the various forms of address.

  “Please. Call me Ahmet.”

  She smiled with relief. “Won’t you come in for a moment, then?”

  He ticked his head back, meaning no. “I would’ve asked you to come for tea today, but you see, I’m expecting visitors soon.”

  “We mustn’t keep you.” She glanced over her shoulder, but the girls hadn’t returned yet.

  “Gulsen has enjoyed becoming friends with your niece,” Ahmet said. “Ever since her mother died, she has been very lonely.”

  His personal tragedy no doubt explained some of their social awkwardness, Anna thought. “I’m sorry about your wife.”

  He sighed. “Thank you. It has been lonely for me, as well. I stay busy with my work, and Bahar, our servant who lives in, takes good care of Gulsen for me. But there is an empty spot in the house now, you know?”

  Oh, yes, Anna knew.

  “It has been three years,” Ahmet continued, “since my wife died. Already they are arranging another marriage for me.”

  “They?”

  “My aunt and uncle. It is tradition for the family to take care of such matters.”

  “But I thought... I mean, with Atatürk’s reforms, and all...”

  “Not everyone wishes to break with tradition.”

  “Oh. I see.”

  “My aunt and uncle will arrive at any moment with the woman of their choice. And with her father, of course, who is a respected judge. Before the final arrangements are made, my aunt and uncle wish to see how Gulsen gets along with her new anne, that is to say, ‘mother’.”

  “Congratulations,” Anna said. “Priscilla and I must not detain you. Shall I go hurry them along?” Anna made a move to follow the girls to the playroom, but Ahmet caught her by the arm.

  “The children enjoy their time together, no?” he said. “While we wait, you must tell me what you have seen so far of my country?”

  “Not much. The airport. The commissary. Atatürk’s Tomb.”

  “Ah! Our latest architectural monument. What do you think of it?”

  “Um, very impressive, but...”

  “But?”

  “Well, unfortunately there was an accident while we were there today.”

  “An accident?” He frowned. “Tell me about it.”

  And so she did, standing there in the open doorway of her house. She told him about how Priscilla had run off from her, and how the gypsy had already been shot by the time Anna caught up to her niece. How easily it could’ve been Priscilla who’d been shot, instead of the—

  “Gypsy?” Ahmet interrupted. “How do you know the man was a gypsy?”

  “I don’t. Priscilla told me. She recognized him. Apparently, he’s one of the hawkers who come up and down these streets regularly.”

  Ahmet drummed his fingertips along his bare upper lip, where most of the Turks she’d seen so far wore mustaches. “And this gypsy’s necklace she said you wear—it belonged to him?”

  Anna felt her heart race as her fingers clumsily re-inserted the necklace beneath her collar. “No, I’m afraid she’s mistaken. It belongs to me.”


  “Ah. Children. They often do not understand.”

  “Yes.”

  They stared in silence at each other, and Anna felt her jaw clamp. She had no intentions of telling him any more, nor about her letter.

  “Well,” he finally said, “we must not allow you to have a bad first impression of Turkey.”

  “Oh, I don’t. I realize that what happened at Atatürk’s Tomb has nothing at all to do with Turkey. It’s a terrible thing, but it might’ve happened anywhere. Now it’s over. Detective Yaziz is handling it.”

  “Yes. Well, we shall see. I’ll have my office check into matters first thing tomorrow.”

  “Your...office?”

  “My office controls all police matters. I am assistant minister to the Interior.”

  “Oh. You mean, the police department reports to you? Then, I’m surprised you didn’t already know of the incident.”

  He made a noise that was a cross between a grunt and a laugh. “My role is administrative. A government appointment. More of a favor than anything else. I really can’t be aware of all the details of what goes on every day on the street. Perhaps I can use my influence to encourage them to speed up their investigative process. What else can I do to be of service?”

  “Letting Priscilla play with other children is probably the best thing for her.” She wondered why he was rewarded with a favor from the Turkish government.

  Ahmet nodded. “Has she talked about her experience?”

  “She’s not very communicative with me.”

  “Then you don’t know to what extent she interacted with the...gypsy, did you say it was who died?”

  He had such an odd way of putting things, Anna thought. Language was still a barrier in spite of his excellent grasp of English. “No, I don’t know entirely. Apparently our maid, Fededa, hired the poor man to repair some of our kitchen pots. Isn’t that a remarkable coincidence?” Not as remarkable as possessing Rainer’s medal and her letter, she thought.

  “Yes, quite. Has Priscilla...shown you anything else?”

  It was all Anna could do to keep her voice steady. Her heart pounded, a drummer gone wild. Surely he could hear it. “I don’t understand what you mean.”