Bone Box

by Jay Amberg

  Travers stops that line of thought. It’s unreasonable, and, in any case, his irritation is now directed more inward. The mugging wasn’t his fault, but he did, unnecessarily, take the flash drive to the internet café. Whenever anything fell apart in his life, he invariably felt he contributed to it, even when he was not the primary cause. His parents became estranged only after his adoption. Mary’s bipolar disorder worsened during their marriage, and Jason’s congenital depression deepened after Travers moved out of the house. Christine needed children at a time when he was unwilling to become a father again. Motorola’s downsizing necessitated the workforce reduction, and he was adept at doing the job until the moment he fired himself. Rightly or wrongly, he harbors blame, always has since he was a boy.

  The doctor’s head is cocked as though she has said something he hasn’t heard. Her bright, dark eyes are wide, and her smile is forced. “Are you all right?” she asks again.

  The van’s tires are humming on the pavement. His breathing is shallow, and sweat is breaking on his forehead. His palms are clammy. “What?” he asks. “Yeah. Yes.” He takes a breath and exhales as slowly as he can. “Thanks. It’ll pass.” He leans back in his seat, takes another breath, and focuses on the physical pain in his leg.

  The setting sun floods the land. Deeper into Cappadocia, the fairy chimneys appear. The cone-shaped tufa pillars capped with basalt cluster in valleys. Wind and water have eroded them for millennia. People have hollowed the rock and carved out the caves for centuries. This woman sitting next to him in the minibus exudes life, and the world outside becomes more vibrant by the minute. He’s heading into territory that is at once unfamiliar and familiar. And there’s something important he has to do, though what exactly it is certainly isn’t clear to him.

  34

  Charles Lee and Leopold Kirchburg sit across from each other at the table in the corner of the Kalehan Restaurant. Afternoon is falling toward evening, and the smell of roses and lemon trees from the adjoining garden fills the air. Old ceramic plates hang on the walls just below the dark wooden ceiling. The waiter, thin as a blade in black pants and a white shirt, stands a safe distance from the table. No one else is sitting near the two men, but they still speak in low voices.

  Both men are neatly dressed, Lee in a yellow sportshirt with a Regent University Law emblem and Kirchburg in a blue shirt with burgundy tie. Kirchburg set up a command center in Sophia Altay’s house the night before, but both then and today all of the public information was disseminated from a makeshift podium in the work area outside the restoration house. Media attention on the bone box’s discovery has been intensifying, and the citadel standing on the hill in the background and the ancient pillar segments lying nearby have provided the necessary cover shots of an archeological dig.

  “We must display a unified front,” Kirchburg says as he raises his tea cup. They agreed on this meeting to exchange information about the situation as events unfold. It’s a dance they’ve done before—never much fun for Lee but, given the current circumstances, absolutely necessary. And he got Kirchburg to speak only in English simply by flattering the Kraut’s use of the language. Kirchburg sips the steaming tea and returns the cup to the saucer. “I am the one the reporters expect to speak for the Aegean Association.” As he smears grape jam across a roll, he continues with his self-aggrandizing bullshit. “Your work is essential, but I am the one they want to see.”

  “Y’all are,” Lee says, drawing out the words with his accent. Though Lee is the money, Kirchburg persists in an Old World condescension toward anyone and anything American. “But,” he adds, “as I keep saying, you’re barking up the wrong tree. That bone box is not the real deal.”

  Kirchburg chews his bread and then dabs the corner of his mouth with the cloth napkin. “My evaluation,” he says, “should be more than enough to persuade you that the ossuary is authentic.”

  Lee drinks his coffee. Strong and dark, it’s one thing the Turks do well. And, because it’s percolated, it’s safe to drink. “Even if it is, which it isn’t, you’ve got an empty box,” he says. “And even if it does, by some miracle, turn out to be real, my guys back home are still seriously put out that the bones and anything else that might’ve been in that box have gone missing.” In fact, during his calls in the last thirty hours, a couple of his most eminent clients have gone ballistic—absolutely bat-shit.

  Kirchburg glowers, places his elbows on the table, and makes a cone of his fingers. “I have received word,” he says, “that the Turk’s death has officially been labeled a homicide.”

  Lee nods. The Kraut always changes the subject when he’s about to be beat. “What, exactly, were you told?” he asks, brushing his hand through his hair.

  “Physical evidence. Something about a mark on the wall and a scrape on the Turk’s leg that make it unlikely that he jumped or fell accidentally.”

  “Booze?” He’s been on the phone most of the day, and fifty laps in the pool would do him good.

  “Ja. High alcohol levels.” Kirchburg pauses, looking into Lee’s eyes. “He had twenty one-hundred euro notes in his pocket.”

  Immune to the infamous Kirchburg glare, Lee asks, “Two thousand euros?”

  “Ja. The reporters know nothing of this yet, but I am told it will be difficult to keep the information from them much longer.”

  Fully aware that in this particular situation Kirchburg will want him to take the media heat, Lee says, “How are y’all going to tackle it?”

  Kirchburg clears his throat. “First, we insist that it is a matter for the local police, not the Association, to discuss.”

  “Of course. But you still have to throw the media some kind of a bone.”

  Kirchburg drums his fingertips together. “It is all Sophia’s fault,” he says.

  “Leopold, whatever your feelings about her…” Lee shakes his head, trying not to smile at the Austrian’s self-destructiveness. Between his obsession with the Femme Frog and his inbred Teutonic arrogance, he’s got himself a pair of Achilles’ heels. “…you can’t pin this on her. She’s about half the size of the Turk, and nobody’s going to buy that she lured him out to that wall and pushed him.”

  “She was the site director. Kenan and Abrahim and the other Turks answered to her.”

  Yeah, Bubba, Lee thinks, and you’re the executive director. “So,” he asks, “what are you doing about this?”

  “I have people working on it.”

  “And?” Lee watches Kirchburg wipe each of his fingers with the cloth napkin.

  Finally, Kirchburg says, “I have nothing to share yet. Have you discovered anything?”

  Their sharing is always interesting. What they really share is a tacit understanding that each has resources that the other doesn’t. But Lee’s own connections haven’t scared up anything yet. They’re supposed to be top shelf, but they’re Krauts and Turks. Lee finishes his coffee. “Nothing yet on your Ms. Altay,” he says. “But I did find out this afternoon that Joe Travers has also bolted. First to Istanbul and then beyond.”

  “Really?” Kirchburg drums his fingers on the sides of his tea cup. “Did he contact you before he left?”

  “No. Not at all since he was mugged last night.”

  “He apparently had something from my site with him. Something he stole.” When Kirchburg picks up the cup, his baby finger trembles.

  “Or something your Ms. Altay gave him.”

  Kirchburg winces, and then his eyes harden. “Ja,” he says, setting the cup hard on its saucer. The waiter looks over at the two men and then steps farther away. “Herr Travers is a…messenger boy.”

  “Maybe. But he’s flown to Kayseri. Wherever that is.”

  Kirchburg drums his fingers on the table and then glances at his Tag Heuer. “Cappadocia,” he says. “Anatolia. Central Turkey. A place of little consequence.”

  �
�Why would he head there?”

  Kirchburg squeezes his napkin, stands, and tosses the napkin onto the table. “Because Sophia is there.”

  Lee hides another smile. It’s got to gall Kirchburg that Travers is in touch with Altay. “Yeah,” he says, “I’ve got it figured that way, too. And I do believe I recall something about her working in the field in Cappadocia as a graduate student.”

  “Ja. Two internships.”

  “She’s got to be there, all right,” Lee says. “And the bone box’s contents…”

  “I will handle it.” Kirchburg’s tone fills with its usual imperiousness.

  Lee stands so that the Austrian isn’t hovering over him. “Actually, Leopold,” he says, “I’m heading there. That’s why you’ve got to handle the situation here alone.”

  Kirchburg glowers at Lee and then glances over at an elderly couple walking into the restaurant. The waiter goes over to greet them. “You should remain here,” he says. “And I will locate Sophia.”

  “No, Leopold, that’s not how it’s goin’ to play out.” The dance is different now. Too much is at stake to keep waltzing, and the Kraut’s got to get in step. Lee stuffs his hands into his pockets and looks out the window at the light fading in the garden. “Y’all have to get everything under control here. You’ve said that yourself. You’re the one the reporters want to see. And as CEO of the Aegean Association, you’re the one responsible for dealing with everything we’ve been chatting about.” He takes his hands from his pockets and rubs his palms. “Finding Ms. Altay and whatever was in that bone box is real important to the old boys at the Eagle Consortium.” Now he does let his smile spread. “And anyway, Leopold, I’ve already made my reservations.”

  Color rises in Kirchburg’s cheeks. “You have, have you?”

  “I leave for Istanbul in an hour. I’ve got a couple of quick meetings there tonight, and I’ll fly to Kayseri first thing in the morning.”

  Kirchburg’s eyes are bright, but he says nothing. He has no formal control over Lee, and they both know it.

  Lee gazes out the window again. “What really happened to that Turk?” he asks.

  “I don’t know,” Kirchburg says. “Do you?”

  35

  At dusk, Abrahim perches on the boulder in the small box canyon, waiting. He arrived when she instructed him to, but she has not yet come. She looked angry with him when he saw her at the internet café. Afraid that they would meet again by chance before the appointed time, he left the town for the rest of the day, walking in the hills and visiting the cave churches. He climbed directly up one ridge to the Church of Saint John. The carved entrance was hollowed out in such a way that no one would notice it before arriving at it. He was transfixed by the images on the interior walls of angels with red wings and saints with golden halos. On one wall, Saint John sat alone, leaning forward on a rock, lost in thought.

  Abrahim thinks about the people who carved the stone by hand and created the frescoes, mixing the whites of pigeon eggs with colored pigments. They lived their faith. Their lives every day centered on their love of God in a way that is not possible in the modern world. God is in this canyon now—in the bowing sunflowers, in the trickling water, and in Abrahim’s heart. But he cannot always feel God’s presence everywhere in every moment as the Christians who lived in the area must have.

  Doctor Altay finally comes to him, veiled, a shadow approaching from the cleft. She is completely covered, so different from the way she looked in the café. There she was a fashionable woman, a woman he would want were he able to want women. As she approaches, he stands. She takes him in her arms immediately, without lowering her veil. Her touch fills him. He smells dust and jasmine in her scarf.

  “Abrahim,” she whispers, “my beautiful Abrahim.”

  Her Turkish, which always has a slight French lilt, causes his blood to rush. When she lets go of him, he feels it ebb.

  Then, as she sits him back on the rock, she says, “Abrahim, I need your help.”

  He soars.

  She uncovers her head and looks into him with those eyes that enchant men. “An American,” she says, “has arrived in Cappadocia.”

  “Mister Lee?”

  “No. The new American whom you have not met.”

  Abrahim nods. He has liked Americans, though not Lee, who sometimes looked at him as though he were an insect. Some Americans are open and direct without making demands or ordering everyone around.

  “I need you to protect me,” she says. “To…”

  “Will he hurt you?” Abrahim interrupts.

  She sits down beside him on the rock so that their forearms are touching. “No,” she says. “He is harmless. But others who come after him, who are following him, would hurt both of us.”

  He nods again, though he is not sure if by us she means him and her or the American and her.

  “You must meet with him,” she says, “but not in town. You must tell him to go away.” Her voice becomes vehement. “You must inform him that his help is not needed or wanted.”

  Her words sting Abrahim even though they are about someone else. He looks up at the evening’s first faint stars.

  “If you do this for me tomorrow,” she says, patting his thigh, “I will let you read the translations when we meet.”

  He knows that he will do whatever she asks no matter what, but her mentioning the scrolls still causes him to shiver.

  36

  Joseph Travers occupies the back corner seat of the Hiro Cappadocia Tour minibus. He arrived early and took this seat so that he could see the other nine passengers as they entered the minibus. A middle-aged Australian couple is seated next to him, and three French girls in blue jeans and spaghetti-strap tops chat in the row in front of him. In front of them is another couple and the young man from the photograph on Sophia Altay’s desk. He made no eye contact when he climbed into the minibus with his daypack and a notebook, but Travers understands that this is no coincidence. Neither is the presence of the tenth passenger, a larger man with brown hair who sits up front in the seat next to the tour guide. Travers thinks he recognizes the guy, even from behind, and his pulse has been racing since the guy arrived.

  Although Travers’ body is doing its little fight-flight dance in the back of the minibus, his mind is more settled than it was when he arrived in town. After having dinner outdoors at the Sultan, he caught up some on his sleep in his cave room at the Sarihan Hotel on the hill above Göreme. He woke at dawn wondering how he was going to get in touch with Sophia Altay after her email telling him not to make contact, and now he knows. Altay told him to take the tour, and that’s what he’s doing. He looks out the window at the fields of wheat as the minibus approaches the Caravanserai along the Silk Road. He’s still very sore from the beating, and his thigh itches as well as hurts, but he’s doing what he needs to do.

  He is the last to leave the minibus, and the tour guide, a man with a sharp nose and potbelly who looks to him more like a Navajo than a Turk, is already talking in limited but comprehensible English about how these stone forts were built every hundred kilometers or so along the caravan routes that funneled great wealth into the Ottoman Empire. The walls are not as impressive as those of the citadel on Ayasuluk Hill, but they’re substantial—high and thick and at one time impervious to bands of marauders. The ornamentation above the portal is pure stonework, not cement. A mosque dominates the inner courtyard surrounded by the market, the caravan owner’s quarters, and the stable. A pigeon with straw in its beak waddles by; the smell of manure is in the air. As the guide leads the group over to the carpet display, Abrahim wanders off by himself toward the owner’s quarters. Travers watches the other man furtively watching him. His nose is crooked, and his eyebrow scarred. When the guy checks out the postcards at the stand next to the carpets, Travers looks at his hands. The knuckle of the middle finger on his
left hand is scabbed over where it recently split striking something hard. Travers has seen him twice before, in Istanbul and in Selçuk the moment before he blacked out.

  The next stop, the Ihlara Gorge, a long narrow canyon with a creek running through it, reminds Travers of the American Southwest, too. The hundreds of steps down to the Church Under the Tree were not put in until 1980. The eleventh century frescoes of the Wise Men are well preserved except that whoever desecrated the church gouged out the eyes. In each corner of the church’s ceiling is a blue nazar boncuğu similar to the one painted on the tile in his Istanbul hotel room. As the tour exits the church, Travers makes eye contact with the watcher: he is definitely the guy who lurked at Topkapi’s gate and at the steps of the New Mosque—and whose fist snapped Travers into darkness. Abrahim lingers in the church, unable to stop gaping at the blinded Wise Men.

  The group hikes along the path that follows the creek, slowly spreading out, the Australians stopping to take pictures and the French girls talking among themselves. Abrahim does not reappear, and the other guy walks far ahead with the guide—a follower, Travers realizes, arrogant enough to lead. Travers and Abrahim and this guy make one strange and inscrutable trinity bound by the contents of the bone box.

  Birds swirl through the sky and call from the cliffs. Travers lags behind, gradually losing touch with the group. The creek smells like the Southwest, like home—and suddenly, he is finally home, here and now. Completely. Perfectly. He passes under the branches of the poplars and willows and pistachios, listens to the rush of water, and gazes at the light in the riffling creek. The sense he felt coming to Cappadocia deepens. He’s somewhere beyond loss but also here in the dappled sunlight and shade. Above him are more churches carved into the cliffs, but he is taken by the flashing water. Light flows down the creek, slowing time. The immense emptiness he brought to Turkey fills, brims, abounds.