“I’m Dr. Beck. To what do I owe the pleasure of a visit from so lovely a young lady?” He spoke with the lilt of the American South on every vowel. The flattery and touch of sarcasm were unnerving, and it didn’t help to have the heavy door shut behind me, the deadbolt thrown with a clack.
For a brief moment I thought of blurting out, “Please remove your shoes and socks so I can count your toes, and if you have nine or less kindly favor me with a lock of your hair.” This, of course, was out of the question, but it was what ran through my mind.
However, it was in the persona of Violet Williams that I confronted J.T. Beck, and my job was to play out the part.
“My name is Violet Williams,” I said. “I heard that you’re the head of an adoption agency. I’m childless but I want a child very much. My life feels incomplete without my having any children, but it’s so hard to adopt when you’re single. I have Turkish friends back in the States that I admire a lot. I want to adopt a Turkish child, and I’ve come here personally in the hopes that you’ll help me.”
My “acting” had genuine feelings behind it because I had thought more than once about having a child, and had even discussed it with Charles, who was sweetly sympathetic but counseled me—us, really—to wait a little longer.
Beck replied, “I’m sorry, Violet, but you must know that the adoption laws are very, very strict. You must follow them to the letter. I could get into trouble just for talking to you about this. You must go through an accredited agency.”
“I’ve tried the agencies. They’re too, too…difficult. Couldn’t you tell me what agencies you work with? Then if I showed you that I’d be a good parent, maybe you could put in a word for me.”
“I’m sorry, I’m not permitted to even mention the agencies I work with. There’s a great deal of competition for adoption and the protocols are very strict, as you know.”
I opened my mouth to protest but he continued in an oily voice.
“But tell me, you’re young and healthy. I imagine that hundreds of men would like to father your child. Perhaps you haven’t found the right man. I myself would be proud to be your partner except….” He fingered the crucifix as if to say “…except for my religious convictions.”
“Thank you for your kind words. My problem is my own medical condition. The doctors say I can’t ever have a baby. It’s very personal, but I’m telling you so perhaps you’ll help me,” I said, choking back a sob.
“Come, let us talk further.”
We walked through the hall to a pleasantly furnished sitting room with a bay window overlooking the front garden. Beck waved me to a sofa and took the plush chair diagonally opposite to it. He clapped his hands twice, sharply, and within moments a woman came in carrying a tray with two tulip-shaped glasses of tea, a sugar bowl and tongs, and two tiny spoons. She set the tray down on the small, round table beside the sofa. Beck added some lumps to both our glasses, stirred, and invited me to partake, tipping his glass toward mine in a distinctly non-Turkish gesture.
We sipped in silence for a short time. Then he leaned forward, so that his knees touched my legs, and spoke in a low voice.
“I could lose my position here by violating the rules. The children are my life’s work. If I could be sure, I mean, if I really knew you much better, you know….” He tailed off, then restarted. “I’d be taking a big risk.” He placed a hand on my knee.
I patted his hand and allowed it to remain for a moment before removing it with a wan smile.
“I have a résumé that I could send you. It explains that I can afford to raise a child, that I have a good job and live in a nice part of Santa Barbara, California.”
“Oh, anybody can type a résumé. I go by my instincts. If I get to know you and I see that you’re a good person, that would go a long way. Do you see what I mean?”
The hand returned to the knee.
I saw clearly what he meant and was thankful that I didn’t truly need a favor from the swine. I was frantically trying to figure out what my next step should be when he saved me the trouble.
“I have a suggestion. This isn’t a good place to get to know each other. Tomorrow night, when the Muslim Sabbath ends, there’s a grand soirée at Topkapi Palace. It’s by invitation only, but the mayor happens to be a good friend of mine and he’s invited me. Why don’t you accompany me? I’ll have my car pick you up at your hotel.”
“That’s very kind. I’d love to go but I don’t think I should. I sort of have a boyfriend back home.”
“My dear Violet, this is not a date. Surely I’m no threat to your boyfriend? This is an opportunity for you to meet some very important people in Istanbul, and after we’ve gotten better acquainted, I’ll be better able to evaluate your special request. I may even take the liberty of asking you to discuss the matter with a friend of mine who’s an excellent judge of character. So you see, you should take me up on my invitation.”
“I do need your help very much. If I go to this event, could I come on my own? I’d rather not be picked up. My hotel is near the palace and I won’t have any trouble getting there. I’m sure you understand.”
“Ah, I’ll bet you’re here with a ‘friend.’ I don’t want to cause you embarrassment. Let’s meet at eight o’clock tomorrow night. Do you know the ticket booth in the Court of the Janissaries, the park between the Topkapi Palace and the Sofia Mosque?”
“Well, I suppose I could find it. I’ve been to Topkapi as a tourist. Is that where you want to meet?”
“Yes, I’ll need to accompany you inside. The party is in the Third Court, the one beside the Harem Quarters. And by the way, it’s quite formal. I’ll be wearing a tuxedo. Did you bring any dressy clothes?”
“No, not really. I didn’t expect to go anywhere fancy. This will be an excuse to go shopping in the New City.”
“Let me help you, my dear. God has been generous with me, or I should say He’s smiled on my investments.” He stood up and pulled a wad of bills from his pocket. He peeled off ten 10,000,000 lira notes and pressed them into my hand.
“Oh no, Dr. Beck, I couldn’t possibly accept money.”
“Now, Violet,” he said, pressing the money to my palm, “tonight I’ll be doing a bit of schmoozing, looking for donors to help the orphanage. Since you’ll be with me, you’ll be helping me. So please don’t be shy about a small gift to put towards a beautiful dress. I want you to look lovely.”
“Please, Dr. Beck, I’d rather have your help with the adoption.”
“Take the one, and if all goes well, you shall have the other,” he said, forcing my fingers to close around the money.
I winced when he squeezed, for it was the injured hand, barely half-healed.
He looked closely and saw the stitches.
“Oh, heaven forgive me, I’m terribly sorry. I didn’t mean to hurt you, you poor girl. How did you injure yourself? I shall surely include you in my prayers tonight.”
“My hand got caught in an electric car window,” I lied, figuring that if the plastic surgeon bought the story, Beck would. “It’s much better now, but it still hurts to the touch.”
“Well then, I shall hold only the other hand,” he said gallantly, and reached out to give my left hand an affectionate squeeze. His attentions had diverted my effort to return the money, and I stood there holding it. He took my elbow and guided me to the door.
“There, it’s understood. You shall be my helpmeet for one night and we will convince the rich bankers to part with a few billions for the homeless children. It’s fun raising money in Turkish liras. The numbers are so impressively large.”
There was some irony here. Ashley was paying me to find Fatboy and get up close and personal enough to collect a DNA sample. Fatboy was paying me for more or less the same thing, though I don’t think he thought of it in genetic terms. The easiest route was to take the money graciously. I thanked him profusely and gave my word of honor to meet him at the appointed time and place. To his offer of a car to take me back to the city, I poi
nted out my waiting taxi through the bay window.
I asked the driver to take me to the foot of Istiklal Avenue close to where Uncle and I had disembarked the previous night. Beyond that point, traffic rules permitted only pedestrians and the small, rubber-wheeled trolleys that plied the shops for the mile-long outdoor mall. I walked in and out of half a dozen boutiques without finding anything I could wear. Finally, I ran across a women’s clothier I liked, whose name in Turkish, as best I could translate, meant The Elegant Peach.
It was upscale, with prices comparable to those in the U.S. I consulted the proprietress with regard to the social event at Topkapi Palace. She advised a conservative approach. “The arms and legs must be covered, madam. The young men will be disappointed but they will still admire you, and you will deflect criticism and unwanted attention.”
Dark colors with reddish ocher aspects were apparently in season. I tried on an ankle-length, full-sleeved cocktail dress, the color of which would be called chestnut if it were on a horse. It had a slit up one side just high enough to suggest provocativeness without actually being provocative. It was a bit large on me but I bought it anyway. I could have it taken in back home if I continued to like it. My purchase so pleased the owner that she took me to a nearby shoe store managed by her friend, to ensure that I bought the right shoes for the dress. Once I had the “right” shoes—I’d stressed comfort over style, to the chagrin of my fashion advisors—the two of them accompanied me to a shop where I could purchase a matching bag.
I now had three counselors of couture, and they were considering the best type of hat for me to wear when I drew the line. Each of them hugged me and kissed me on both cheeks. I returned the hugs, and with many a “God go with you” I made my escape.
I returned to the Old City by taxi. The vast quantity of pollution from the day’s traffic hung low to the ground, creating a cancerous-looking haze. The steady breezes of yesterday, which had cleansed the air for jogging, hadn’t yet begun to blow. What might have been an ozone alert in an American city, however, didn’t deter the Turks from coming out. Everywhere were last minute shoppers making purchases for observing Friday, the holy day of the Islamic religion. Workers were scouring the grounds of the city’s mosques to prepare for the next day’s onslaught of worshippers.
Back in my room, I showered and lay down naked on the bed for a short rest. The seven-hour time difference wreaks havoc with the body’s clock. My “interview” with Beck had effectively taken place in the wee hours of the morning. Now, though it was dinnertime, I felt like a noontime nap. That, I knew, would worsen the situation, so I forced myself out of bed and got dressed.
The sun had slipped below the Sea of Marmara, and with its departure the breezes finally came, making the air more breathable. It was cool enough for jeans and a sweater, and that was my attire when I walked to the Medusa’s Head Café, a favorite of mine, with both indoor and outdoor seating. I took an outside table near the sidewalk where I could watch passersby, and ordered a beer.
I perused with fondness a menu unchanged since my last visit several years ago. Although I was feeling slightly nauseated and out of sorts, the stomach-settling effect of the carbonated pilsner, and the thought of a good solid Turkish meal, revived my appetite. I ordered the “tas kebap,” lamb stew. It was as delicious as I remembered and it bolstered my flagging spirits.
Mary, the cat, sat by my leg as I ate dinner. She was the only living being at the Medusa’s Head that I recognized from past years. This was her territory and she was tolerated by customers and staff alike. I used to eat there with a group of American friends. When the cat had scored a morsel of meat, we’d sing “Mary had a little lamb.” This produced hilarity at our table, and baffled looks from other patrons. One time a Turkish lady at a nearby table, who obviously knew quite a bit of English, asked us, “Do you have white fleas in America?” It was our turn to be baffled until we realized that “whose fleece was white as snow,” sounded pretty much like, “whose fleas were white as snow.” We set the record straight, though not without a nauseating digression into the color of lice.
I shared some bits of lamb with Mary and silently sang the song to myself, causing tears to well up in my eyes. I was stressed and lonely—blue, as my mom would say. I thought of the thousands of homeless dogs and cats throughout Istanbul. Many live among the ruins of the city, hiding in the depths by day and foraging at night. The dogs, wretched and starving, are taken away and dispatched when caught. The cats are not so easily disposed of. Many of them are adept at working the outdoor cafés for scraps. Some will sit politely by your table waiting for a handout. The more aggressive ones will paw your pant cuff or mew pathetically with a wide-eyed, hungry look. Mary included all these tricks in her repertoire, and she appraised her mark carefully before deciding which one to use.
On my way back to the hotel, I took the street that passed by the public entrance to the Cistern Basilica to see if it was open. On the occasional evening, there would be chamber music or singing in the underground cavern. It was as unlikely a place for a concert as you can imagine, yet it was effective. The brightness of the music contrasted with the gloomy menace of the dark recesses, creating a tension that accentuated both the music’s beauty and the cavern’s mystery.
To my surprise the entrance was barricaded with an iron grill. A sign in both Turkish and English announced that the Cistern Basilica was closed for repairs. This was a disappointment. I always looked forward to escaping the noisy bustle of the Old City for the eerie, echoing ambience of the underground reservoir. I’d hoped to spend a meditative hour or two down there, but the best laid plans…
As I was caught up in this contemplation, three young men and a young woman came unsteadily toward me. They were speaking and singing in what I took to be Scottish-accented English, since the song exalted the heathery hills of bonny Scotland. They had almost undoubtedly discovered raki. When they reached me, they stopped and asked if I spoke English. I said that I did.
“We’re lost,” said the girl, a petite brunette who was half the size of her largest companion, who looked every bit the rugby player.
“Yeah, we lost our sodding map, bugger it!” said one of the guys.
“Chill it, Clyde, you’ll scare the lady,” exclaimed the girl. “I’m Dotty,” she said, holding out a hand. “I mean,” she giggled, “my name is Dotty. I must be crazy to drink with these savages. You don’t by any chance have a map we could look at, do you?”
“I don’t,” I replied, “but I know this area fairly well. Where are you staying?”
They named a pension I knew; it was tucked away in a quiet corner behind the Sofia Mosque. It was difficult to give precise directions, so I volunteered to walk with them. They were, as I had guessed, from Scotland, here on holiday. I aimed them up the right street toward their hotel. Dotty invited me to join them the next night. She said she needed another female “to keep these brutes in line.” Regretfully, I had to decline. Their company would have been far preferable to Fatboy’s.
I watched them walk unsteadily up the cobble-pebbled road, stumbling occasionally on the uneven surface. As they receded into the gloom a feeling of desolation came over me. I had an urge to follow them, a desire for companionship. The Sofia Mosque loomed darkly, its shadow smothering what little light came from the feeble street lamps. Two cats—was it a mother and her kitten?—sat on a low wall of stone and mortar, pupils wide open, mewing hungrily. I had nothing for them.
CHAPTER 18
The next morning, Uncle Husnu joined me for breakfast. “Dagny, darling, you look as fresh as a daisy. How was your meeting with Dr. Beck?”
“Fine. I thought it went well,” I said noncommittally. “He asked me to a party at the Topkapi Palace.”
Uncle looked both impressed and disapproving.
“Is there something wrong?” I asked
“These parties are for the elite and powerful of Istanbul. Perhaps my little she-wolf will meet her Turkish, how did you call it, ‘Adoni
s.’ I don’t think I know that word.”
“It means ‘a very handsome man.’ In mythology, Adonis was the lover of Venus.”
“Ah, so my precious honeybee is comparing herself with the goddess of love?”
“Hardly that, Uncle. Anyway, why the frown when I mentioned the party?”
“Rich men take beautiful women to such parties with the intention of seducing them. You will be careful, no?”
“Uncle, you’re holding something back. You know perfectly well that men take women everywhere with the intention of seducing them. What’s special?”
“My innocent little heifer, what do you know about Dr. Beck?”
This was not a question to which I could reply candidly.
“Dear Uncle, I cannot answer you except to say that I have a professional interest. I know he directs the orphanage and helps disadvantaged children get adopted. He was polite to me and I believe he found me attractive, so he asked me out.”
“And you will accompany him because of this ‘professional interest’?”
“Yes, Uncle. Please don’t worry about me.”
“Do you wonder, my lamb, how such a man as your Dr. Beck is invited to the palace where great Sultans once lived? Especially so controversial a man, a man accused of stealing children from Islam? I will tell you. He’s very, very rich. And how does this American become so rich?”
“I can’t say.”
“The rumor is that he accepts large payments for, how do you say, ‘greasing the skids,’ for wealthy Americans who want a fast adoption with niminal red tape. Is that what you’re here to investigate?”
“That’s ‘minimal,’ Uncle, and no, it has nothing to do with that. If everyone knows that he’s breaking the law, why isn’t he arrested or deported?”
“For two reasons. One, he’s rich and can afford to be generous to those in power. Two, from our point of view, from Turkey’s point of view, he’s saving poor street children, and rescuing orphans, and finding them homes with good families. Some think it’s bad that they won’t be raised Muslims. But Turkey is a secular country and many are happy for them to be removed from poverty.”
Where Evil Lurks Page 14
