The Lost Sisterhood

by Anne Fortier

  On paper it was a seven-hour drive; to Rebecca and me, sardining in the backseat while James and Nick had bigger fish to fry up front, it might as well have been a life sentence. Never mind that we’d volunteered to sit in back; our physical squeeze was nothing next to the rumble of foreboding that rolled through me the moment we left Çanakkale, and which continued to echo through my insides as we drove north along the coast. My impulsive plan to accompany James to Reznik’s masquerade had made sense as long as it involved only the two of us. But was it fair of me to keep pulling poor Rebecca along? As for Nick, I was confident he could take care of himself, and yet I worried about him, too. What if Reznik recognized him?

  “And what a tragedy,” I heard Nick saying to James from the passenger seat, an espadrille up on the wooden dashboard, “if all those little schoolchildren, who so love going to museums, will have to start reading books again, to learn about ancient civilizations. Imagine a world where all the artifacts from ancient Egypt were actually in Egypt, and all of ancient Greece was returned to Greece. You mean, we’d actually have to travel to see these things? We can’t just steal them anymore?”

  “But if you go down that road,” said James, as he and his family had evidently done many times before, “where do you stop? When the museums are empty? It’s a dangerous thing, pulling threads out of the big tapestry of civilization. The whole thing might come apart.”

  “You know,” said Nick, “there are a lot of people who have Monet’s water lilies over their couch. But I can safely promise you that not a single one of them is in contortions because he or she does not own the original. Why is that, you may ask? Because—socialists and bank robbers aside—normal, sensible people do not feel entitled to things that aren’t theirs.” He shifted in his seat, clearly aching to put more space between himself and James. “And by the way, we’re not trying to unravel the big tapestry of civilization, just correct the pattern.”

  James shook his head. “Good luck. If only the world was that manageable. Anyone who attempts to determine which country legally owns which artifact has a lifelong headache ahead of him.”

  “Tell that to the National Museum of Denmark,” said Nick, leaning on the window panel. “They have already repatriated thirty-five thousand Inuit artifacts to Greenland. I think they consider it headache prevention.”

  “The Danes. Always the Danes.” James barely looked over his shoulder before pulling out into a busy lane of passing cars. “History doesn’t exist anywhere, except in books. Books that we write. Think about it. Most artifacts have had many legal owners along the way—to whom should we return them? Should a given statue be returned to Greece, where it was originally made, or to Rome, where it was sold by the artist’s agent, or to France, where the Roman buyer went as proconsul, or to Spain, where his heirs moved after his death?” He cast Nick a surprisingly sympathetic glance. “In your rush to justice, you are more likely to open a whole new wormy can of injustice.”

  As I sat there in the backseat next to Rebecca, I wondered yet again why Nick had decided to go to Istanbul with us. While James might be driven by a romantic impulse to be my knight, I doubted Nick’s motives were that benign. Something else was at stake—possibly more complex than a treasure.

  “I was wondering when you would join us,” Nick had said when James met us at Troy. Were those words key to my role in it all? Had my real purpose been to draw the Moselanes out of their shady corner and into the limelight? If that were the case, it was no longer strange that Nick had kept referring to James as my boyfriend. Perhaps that was the word used in the Aqrab Foundation memo on Diana Morgan.

  And if it was not about the Moselanes after all, then … I was right back where I started, struggling to comprehend why Nick was subjecting himself to the torment of spending a whole day in the Aston Martin like this, for no other apparent reason than the dubious opportunity to pose as James’s bodyguard at Reznik’s party later tonight.

  Whenever I closed my eyes, I saw a slide show of contradictions, interspersed with images of Granny, looking at me through a gritty bus window, saying something I couldn’t hear before the driver closed the door between our worlds and took her away into the unknown.

  JAMES DROVE ALL THE way into Istanbul’s historic center and parked right in front of a public bath complex called the Ca?alo?lu Hamam?. “I don’t know about you,” he said, looking at Rebecca and me in the rearview mirror, “but I am ready for a Turkish bath.”

  As we stood on the pavement, discussing what to wear for Reznik’s party and where to buy it, Nick slung his duffel bag over one shoulder and said, “Well, thanks for the ride. Here”—he threw me a small, compact bankroll—”I thought you might like your tip in Turkish lira. Have fun tonight.”

  “But … wait!” I stepped toward him, nearly tripping over the curb. “Are you not coming with us?”

  Nick checked his wristwatch. “Not sure I can make it.”

  Only then did I realize I had spent the last little while in a peculiarly weightless state; suddenly gravity returned with a vengeance. “So, that’s it?”

  He shot me a completely carefree smile and shook my hand with professional curtness. “Good luck with your future work. And remember.” He nodded at my jackal bracelet. “Don’t let Reznik see that.”

  James laughed, clearly relieved at this development. “I thought you were my bodyguard! Does this mean you’re not going to take a bullet for me?”

  Nick took a step backward, then another. “I already did.”

  DESPITE ITS DISCREET, IF not downright humble, street entrance, the Turkish bath turned out to be a place of rare magic. Located at the end of a long corridor, deep inside a complex of contemporary buildings, this magnificent old hamam was like crystal embedded in rock—a cavern of timeless beauty, perfectly protected from the world outside.

  Not until we were sprawled on a marble platform in the otherwise empty women’s steam room, dressed in nearly nothing, did Rebecca finally mutter, already sluggish from the heat, “What did he mean by that bullet comment?”

  “No idea.” I looked at the dome above us, where a pattern of tiny round holes created a mesmerizing starburst of daylight. “Come, thou night in day … or is it day in night?”

  “That’s the spirit,” said Rebecca, looking surprisingly comfortable on the wet marble, an arm over her eyes. “I was worried about you, you know. I was sure Nick was going to be the fourth horseman.”

  “Well, sheathe your worry.” I sat up abruptly, in no mood to discuss the subject. “As you saw, he galloped right over me.” Before Rebecca could say more, I walked across the floor to one of the marble washbasins on the wall and used the copper ladle to douse myself with cold water.

  It was no use. Rather than soothing my throbbing head, the frigid drizzle merely washed away my hastily applied coat of pretense. It was not the water that made me gasp as much as the sharpened image of Nick sauntering away from the Ca?alo?lu Hamam? and out of my life.

  Had Mr. Telemakhos been there with us—and it was not hard to imagine him at ease on the bath’s marble platform, sporting a Homeric loincloth around his ample middle and eating grapes by the cluster—he would undoubtedly have informed me that Nick was bound to show up again sooner or later, in the manner of lost handbags. But so far he had been wrong about my handbag, and I rather feared he would be wrong about Nick, too.

  The man who had shaken my hand and walked away from me an hour earlier, casually checking messages on his cellphone, had not struck me as someone likely to show up at Reznik’s party or anywhere. After spending the day with three Brits, relentlessly pummeled by James’s easy wit, Nick had looked as if he was prepared to swim across the Hellespont to escape us.

  Obviously, I would be able to reach him via the Aqrab Foundation; it was not as if he had disappeared without a trace. All it took was a phone call to Dubai. But what would I say? Why was it so terribly important that I got ahold of Nicholas Barrán?

  I sighed and filled the ladle once more. As I l
eaned over, Granny’s bracelet scraped against the marble washbasin, and I was overcome by irrational anger toward the coiled bronze for not letting go of me, even here. It was absurd, of course, but I almost felt as if the jackal had played a part in repelling Nick … as if it had sensed that, over the past twenty-four hours, he had been steadily outstripping James in a secret race for my heart.

  IT TOOK AN ENTERPRISING fashion store owner at the Kanyon shopping mall to finally muzzle the little blighter. In the interest of covering up my bracelet without compromising the necessary look of glamour, the saleslady insisted I wear ruffled satin gloves and a floor-length dress with bare shoulders. And to make absolutely sure no one saw it as more than a fashion statement, Rebecca had to wear the same. With matching shoes, of course.

  “Granny wouldn’t like it,” was the only thing I could think of saying when we stood side by side in front of the gilded store mirror—Rebecca in green to complement her red hair while I wore blue to match my eyes.

  “I have to disagree,” said Rebecca, whose mood had improved considerably when—during our taxi ride to the mall—I had split my ten thousand dollars plus tip with her. “Your grandmother always said a woman’s greatest power lies in her ability to fool the enemy into thinking she is weak and simpleminded, correct?”

  A beeping sound interrupted our conversation. It was Rebecca’s cellphone, announcing the arrival of a text. “Somehow,” she said, frowning at the screen before handing the phone to me, “I suspect this one is for you.”

  I didn’t recognize the number, but knew right away the text was from Nick. “Your laptop is in Istanbul,” it said. “Stay away from GR.”

  “It looks like Reznik did steal my computer,” I told Rebecca, doing my best to sound amused. “What do you say, should we turn back now?”

  “Hell no!” Rebecca glared at our mirror images, arms akimbo. “It’s not as if we’re planning to steal it back from him. Reznik won’t even know it’s you.”

  I studied my own reflection in the mirror. Rebecca was probably right; it would never occur to Reznik that I had come to him freely, driven by nothing but a humble hope of seeing the Historia Amazonum with my own eyes and maybe, if the party was really hopping, quickly leafing through it….

  “Too late,” I wrote to Nick in response. “But thanks.”

  Later, over a stand-up kebab in the food court, I took out the note Mr. Telemakhos had slipped into my hand when we said good-bye. “Here,” he had whispered, with uncharacteristic discretion. “There is another jackal bracelet out there. I thought it might interest you.”

  The note read simply “Museum und Park Kalkriese. Dr. Jäger.”

  “Germany?” I had said, not quite sure what he wanted me to do.

  Mr. Telemakhos nodded. “Near Osnabrück. That woman, Dr. Jäger, knows a lot more than she lets on. She could have the answers you are looking for.”

  “What is that?” Rebecca pointed her kebab at the note. “A love letter?”

  “In a manner of speaking.” I showed her the note. “The Oracle wants me to do some legwork for him. Apparently, he’s managed to become persona non grata in the German museum world, and if I ever go there I’m not supposed to mention his name.”

  “Really?” Rebecca looked oddly hurt, and I realized she was bothered by the fact that Mr. Telemakhos had confided in me like this, without saying a word to her.

  “Don’t worry.” For lack of a handbag, I put the note into my new blue satin evening purse. “I am obviously not going to Germany.”

  “No.” Rebecca busied herself with the dripping kebab. “You’re going on a romantic weekend with James. Finally!”

  I winced at the image. “Definitely not. As soon as I get that passport, I’m out of here.”

  Rebecca gave me a long look, but thankfully put no words to her annoyance. For years I had pestered her with my reflections on James; now that he was within reach, I wouldn’t touch him.

  Although James was still James, he was no longer the man I had known in Oxford. From being the gentlemanly friend he had suddenly catapulted himself into an unspoken engagement with me, completely skipping all the traditional overtures. It was as if, in his mind, there was no need to even inquire about my feelings … as if he was so convinced of my devotion that he needn’t even bother to attempt earning it anymore. And so he treated me as though it was all a done deal. Every look he gave me, every word he spoke to me, had a tone of ownership. It all felt oddly hollow.

  GRIGOR REZNIK LIVED IN a grandiose modern monstrosity in the exclusive Ulus neighborhood. We entered the property on foot, through a tall gate crowded with security guards. As we proceeded toward the house along a garden path lined with torches, we had a sweeping view below of the dark Bosphorus Strait, the illuminated bridges, and the crisscrossing lines of streetlamps on the eastern banks.

  “I thought he was supposed to be in love with all things antique,” muttered Rebecca, her blue and green peacock face paint contracting at the sight of the angular, completely unadorned house rising ahead. Light poured out at us from three floors of panoramic windows, but it had a cool, fluorescent tint to it—a calculated shine that was more warning than welcome.

  “Apparently,” said James, brushing peacock glitter from the sleeves of his Aladdin costume, “Reznik believes minimalist architecture provides the optimal framework for art. And torture. Notice the samurai?” He nodded at two austere men in Japanese costumes standing on either side of the door, checking invitations. “Back in the day, Reznik had his own secret police, and these gentlemen—his top officers—followed him into retirement, so to speak.”

  “Remind me again why we are visiting this creep?” muttered Rebecca, shivering in her satin shawl.

  Just then, as James escorted us up the front steps of the house, it finally hit me that he had not come to Turkey to be my knight. He came because of Nick. As with the myth of the beautiful Helen of Troy, the myth of the irresistible Diana Morgan was merely a convenient illusion draped over prosaic facts. The Aqrab Foundation had declared war on the Moselanes by going after their antiques collection, and now, it seemed, they were going after human beings as well. It was all shamefully simple: Whatever his true feelings for me, James was too proud to let Nick carry away as much as a single one of his perceived assets without a fight.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

  TROY

  THE FARMERS WERE BUSY IN THEIR FIELDS, WEEDING AND WATERING, when Myrina and her little entourage finally emerged from the wilderness. Coming out of the woods rather abruptly, they found themselves on the edge of the Scamandrian Plain southwest of Troy, with a sweeping view across the river valley to the capital they had traveled so far to see.

  Glowing in the afternoon sun, the city sat upon the landscape with the grace of a precious crown left in a meadow by a forgetful king. Although fortified with colossal walls and towers—or, perhaps, because of it—there was something bold and unafraid about the place, as if its inhabitants were so confident of their safety they barely even paused to rest their tools and look out over the river delta to the sea beyond.

  “Well,” said Animone, who was one of the five Myrina had chosen to join her journey, “now let us find the man who isn’t here, and turn right around.”

  It was only that same morning, after a long week of riding north from Ephesus, that Myrina had told her traveling companions about Paris’s parting words and the man who would supposedly be posted on the hill called Batieia. “If there is no one there,” she had explained, finally putting words to her worst fear, “then it means Paris is no longer waiting for me, in which case we return home. It would not surprise me. It has, after all, been a month.”

  “What is a month,” said Kara who, for reasons of her own, had begged to come along on the trip, “to a couple united by destiny?” She spoke the words with sincerity and yet Myrina could not help wondering—as she often did—whether it could really be true her former rival was now her friend. Still laboring under the delusion of being pregnant, Kara h
ad chosen to remain in her imaginary world a while longer. Perhaps in that world Myrina was the only one who understood her. At least that was what Kara had kept saying when Myrina had tried to dissuade her from joining them.

  Besides Animone and Kara, Lilli was there, of course, still grudgingly sharing Myrina’s horse. Behind them rode Kyme and Hippolyta, both of whom evidently saw themselves as diplomats of a certain standing—Kyme because of her age and knowledge of writing, and Hippolyta by virtue of being the only one in the group who knew the Trojan language.

  “Just leave it to me,” she had said when the trip was being planned. “I can speak with the locals, and I know the route … all the way into the royal throne room.” She had laughed at everyone’s gaping awe. “I have accompanied Mother Otrera often enough. The queen is her sister, you know, and used to be one of us. But then she was hit by the poisoned arrow, dipped in honey”—Hippolyta clutched her heart in jest—”and from being a doe flying freely across the fields, she cast off her vows to become a cow tied in a bullpen.”

  But apart from Hippolyta’s teasing, and a few bitter comments from others, the news of Myrina’s departure drew far less attention than she had feared it would. Apart from Lady Otrera, the only one who knew what agony and confusion Myrina had suffered before finally deciding to leave was Lilli. No matter how carefully Myrina hid herself from the others in order to think in peace, Lilli always found her. Whether she was in the hayloft, the grain cellar, or the house sanctuary, Myrina could be sure that, sooner or later, she would feel Lilli’s soft hands on her arms and be pulled into a welcome embrace.