The Miracle of Yousef: Historical and political thriller

by Gonçalo Coelho

  “Forgive me, Nefise. A thousand pardons. I know you’ve every reason to be furious at me,” he interrupts, so as not to hear any more abuse. Although he has prepared himself in advance to hear such words, now that it is happening, they wound him much more deeply than he could have ever imagined, like steel arrows shot straight into his heart.

  “Don’t speak, don’t say another word! Wherever it was you came from, go back there, because you don’t belong here! Not here or any other place I happen to be! For the last time I’m telling you, Get out of my life!” Nefise raises her voice, prompting the hotel guests in the dining area to look at them with distaste.

  How well Yousef remembers her strong personality. Even now as she mortally wounds him, he remembers her with passion. But Nefise has no more time to waste. She gets up from the table and marches swiftly across the space between herself and the door. All eyes are locked on them. For a few seconds Yousef is lost in useless reflection, but the conviction takes hold firmly within him that he cannot give up now. Not now. He lets himself be taken by the same unshakeable faith that at other times he has devoted to political causes and crazy, dramatic assaults in the name of a medieval Sharia and the ideal of struggling for a single Muslim nation united and guided by the return to the purest and most primitive Islamic state, closest to Allah, and this powerful faith, combined with the madness of desperation, sends him running after Nefise. He leaps from his chair and bolts across the room as though his life depended on it, colliding as he goes with a busboy who, startled, overturns a tray with a teapot and several tea cups that shatter in pieces on the floor. Yousef then reaches the elevator only to find the door has just closed irrevocably. He lunges down the stairs, flying down from landing to landing at dizzying speed, but despite this remarkable effort leaving him soaked in sweat, when he reaches the entrance hall, Nefise has already gone out. Just then, he sees a black car pull up beside her, and two armed men get out and force her into the vehicle. He curses the fact that he is not carrying a gun as he runs after her as fast as his legs can move, but the black car takes off with Yousef just two steps behind. Through the car window Nefise casts a look back and, in a final second, their eyes meet —for a second that might be their last – a second encompassing nearly everything. Steadfast gazes, intense. Yousef sees reciprocity in her eyes and glimpses a magic ray of sunlight that warms his heart forever. But the second passes and with it, Nefise vanishes, abducted in the morning sun.

  4

  Former boxing champion Luiz Gonzalez, better known as the “Caribbean Hurricane,” lets loose a series of punches against a punching bag with the speed and power of a reigning champ. Sweat streams from his face and his ebon skin. He is wearing carmine gloves and gilded trunks. His bare torso displays his rock-solid muscles. The gym where he works out is a large hall with a variety of spaces and equipment specially conceived for fight training. In the center there are two rings where some fighters face off against each other, and to the sides, others are practicing, honing their punches on various sorts of equipment. Affixed to the walls of the hall at several points are a number of similar passages from the Koran and the Bible, intended to show the equivalence of the fundamental principles among religions, particularly since the owner of the gym is a Christian, and most of the fighters here are Muslim. The sayings read as follows:

  Koran 22:77

  O you who believe! bow down and prostrate yourselves and serve your Lord, and do good that you may succeed

  Koran 11:118

  And if your Lord had willed, He could have made mankind one community;

  Koran 22:12

  He invokes instead of Allah that which neither harms him nor benefits him. That is what is the extreme error.

  Koran 2:42

  And do not mix the truth with falsehood or conceal the truth while you know [it].

  Koran 4:32

  And do not wish for that by which Allah has made some of you exceed others. For men is a share of what they have earned, and for women is a share of what they have earned. And ask Allah of his bounty. Indeed Allah is ever, of all things, Knowing.

  Koran 17:23

  And your Lord has decreed that you not worship except Him, and to parents, good treatment. Whether one or both of them reach old age [while] with you, say not to them [so much as], "uff," and do not repel them but speak to them a noble word.

  Exodus 20:7

  Thou shalt not take the name of the Lord thy God in vain: for the Lord will not hold him guiltless that taketh his name in vain.

  Exodus 20:12

  Honor thy father and thy mother: that thy days may be long upon the land which the Lord thy God giveth thee.

  Exodus 20:16

  Thou shalt not bear false witness against thy neighbor.

  Exodus 20:17

  Thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's house, thou shalt not covet thy neighbor's wife, nor his manservant, nor his maidservant, nor his ox, nor his ass, nor any thing that is thy neighbor's.

  Exodus 20:15

  Thou shalt not steal.

  Exodus 20:13

  Thou shalt not kill.

  This is the gym that Luiz Gonzalez has created in Istanbul, and where he has always gone to train since he moved to this city, yielding to the wishes of his wife. Here he is also able to train young fighters nurturing the dream to become successful champions someday like the living legend from Colombia, Luiz Gonzalez, the Caribbean Hurricane. Next to the champ seated on a long wooden bench is his trainer and old friend from way back, Juan Alvarez, in his training outfit with a towel over his shoulder. He is a man with a well-preserved look, in his sixties, mulatto, with close-cropped hair to disguise his baldness, sporting a carefully groomed moustache that makes him look something like a 60 year-old Eddie Murphy. Standing there in his training outfit, he looks at his pupil with keen thoughtfulness.

  “Luiz, Luiz!” a man shouts suddenly, brandishing a cell phone in his hands.

  The Hurricane is concentrating too much, now hurling a succession of rapid punches at head level so that the small red bag begins to shimmer, moving so fast that its shape can only be glimpsed in certain fixed positions. Meanwhile his mind runs free like a wild buffalo on a prairie. He is contending with an adversary that has no body or shape and that, sooner or later, all athletes must confront: his retirement. There is always a right moment to retire, or, just as one can make a timely withdrawal from a great career, one can also risk humiliation and the ruin of an image built up with arduous effort over many years. The only problem is how Luiz is to face his future once he is out of the ring. He has never learned to do anything else. He never had any reason to. Since childhood he has been obliged to fight back against the harshness of life, and so he has, putting up a fight no one could match. His trainer always told him that rivers run faster when they get narrower, pressed between their banks, and Luiz has also had to be like a river, building off adversity to make himself stronger and run faster. Being like a river, moreover, had always been the foundation of his brilliant career.

  “Luiz!” It’s Juan Alvarez who pulls him back down to Earth in his Colombian Spanish, approaching his pupil and touching him. “They’re calling from up there in the office. Telephone.”

  “What is it? I told you I didn’t want to be disturbed!”

  “What’s up with you? It’s that bug about retirement, isn’t it?

  Luiz unfastens the gloves encasing his hands using his teeth and runs upstairs to the office. Juan Alvarez raises his eyes to heaven and whispers to God:

  “Lord if he keeps on like this he’ll get all his bones broken in the fight tonight, one by one.”

  Luiz, meanwhile, bounds up the stairs to the office taking the cell phone from the hands of the young man holding it. On the other end of the line a police inspector introduces himself, a bearer of bad news.

  “Mr. Luiz Gonzalez, I am sorry to tell you that your wife has just been kidnapped.”

  “Kidnapped? Where? When?”

  “In Taksim Square, at the entranc
e to the Taksim Square Hotel, about a quarter of an hour ago. We still don’t have many details, we just know that a black car stopped in front of the hotel and...”

  The face of the Colombian clenches. All he is thinking is: is it possible that my opponent would go so far to throw me off balance on the day of the fight? If so, that would make Luiz the indirect cause of the entire situation, and of everything that Nefise is suffering. The words of the policeman fade away in the sea of worries crowding his mind. But one stray sentence catches his notice.

  “It’s possible they’ll ask for a ransom. Is this your personal number? Can you check to see whether you’ve received any calls?”

  Luiz takes a moment to respond. The ransom is, despite everything, a lesser evil. He will pay the ransom as fast as possible and everything will be all right. He presses some buttons on his cell phone.

  “Mister Gonzalez?” the inspector persists.

  “Yes, this is my personal number. I have just checked. I have not received any calls. I’m on my way.”

  5

  09:50 a.m.

  On an impulse, Yousef runs after the kidnappers’ car, though inevitably, his sprint proves to be in vain. In that instant, Taksim Square, in all its constant ferment, seems to him the loneliest place in the world. Looking around he glimpses the yellow taxis of Istanbul standing out in this urban landscape, and instantly moves towards one. The cab driver he approaches is clearly a young man, though with baldness in the front that is already far along. Yousef gets in the passenger seat, removing from his wallet in the same motion a wad of bills, and pointing ahead urgently, orders the driver to take off for Siraselviler Caddesi, pointing towards the street where the black car has vanished. He clearly repeats the word fast in Turkish.

  “Are we in a hurry? All right, here we go.” The driver dons the sunglasses in his shirt pocket and hits the gas.

  His ID on the dashboard gives the name Ahmet Sepetcioglu next to the respective photo. His cab has a clean, well-ordered feel to it. Hanging from the rear-view mirror is a fragrant substance dispersing a nauseating sweet smell in the car.

  By the end of just a few blocks, in which the driver has established a frantic driving pace typical of Istanbul taxis, seizing upon the tiniest openings to weave through the rest of the traffic, Yousef and the driver catch sight of the target, the black car spiriting Nefise away. He himself has actually carried out kidnappings like this one and knows that, from the point of view of the kidnappers, depending on what purpose lies behind their act, and the degree of imminence of their getting caught, the easiest way to escape without incurring more dire consequences always consists of eliminating the weakest link, the victim, and dumping the body somewhere, so they can then vanish without a trace. Or, if more radical ideas lie behind the abduction (as had been the case in the kidnappings Yousef himself had perpetrated), the craziest solution was always in mind: to blow up everyone in a suicide blast that places everyone above the laws of the Earth and on the road to eternity. Yousef is not willing to risk so much as a single hair on Nefise’s head.

  “Slow down now, Ahmet.”

  “How do you know my name? Oh, right, there it is on the dashboard.”

  “We have to follow that black car without getting too close. We must not be seen. Can you do that?”

  “In Istanbul traffic at this hour, I seriously doubt anyone could tell whether or not they’re being followed. Besides, we cab drivers own these streets,” and as he says this, another taxi looms in front of them coming from the other direction. Ahmet hits the horn, sticks his head out the window and waves genially to his colleague: Merhaba! Ne var ne yok? The other driver replies, but the cars behind them, forced to brake, begin honking, openly showing their displeasure. The two cabbies say goodbye and Ahmet resumes the chase as though nothing has happened, a smile on his lips. The speakers in the car blare Turkish pop music in the voice of Mustafa Sandal.

  “Do you like Mustafa Sandal?” the cabbie asks, pointing upwards as though inquiring about the quality of the air.

  “The idea is to follow that car without our being seen! What part of the phrase without our being seen didn’t you understand?” Yousef inquires, visibly annoyed.

  The smile evaporates from Ahmet’s lips.

  “I’m not playing around, Ahmet. The most important person in my life is in that car and if they know I’m following her, they’ll kill her. And if that happens to her because of you, imagine what I will do to you! Now, do you think you might be able to not honk the horn at all for the rest of this ride I’m paying you for?”

  “Ok, ok,” Ahmet replies, chastened but serious. “I was just trying to make conversation,” and adds, after a short pause, “I see by your accent that you’re not Turkish.”

  “Don’t make small talk, concentrate. No. I’m from Saudi Arabia, but I was reborn here in Turkey, so I also consider myself a little bit Turkish.”

  Ahmet frowns.

  “So then you’re a Saudi?”

  “Yes, but concentrate now on what you’re doing.”

  “You speak Turkish very well.”

  “Look out. They’re turning up ahead.”

  “They’re going into the old city. They’re heading towards Fatih over the Galata bridge. I’m on top of the situation, don’t worry.”

  The Galata bridge looms dramatically, with the splendid thousand year-old mosques interspersed in the skyline rising towards heaven on the far bank of the Bosporus. On the far shore is the original Istanbul, as Turks like to refer to the small peninsula where the historic zone of the city is situated with its most famous mosques, such as the Hagia Sophia, considered the eighth wonder of the world, queen of an architecture that was very advanced for its time, or the Blue Mosque, another attraction to millions of tourists all year long in a city with more than two thousand mosques nestled in its historic precincts.

  On the taxi radio the song by Mustafa Sandal has ended and a woman’s voice has taken over the airwaves, singing a song in English with a distinctly Latin American rhythm. Both the cabbie and Yousef have heard this voice before, for it is known all over the world. Cutting in on the song, the announcer says:

  Mercedes Soler, the great Latin American singer, will be appearing for a Turkish audience in a memorable show that’s not to be missed at Istanbul’s Kurucesme Arena on September 28th at 10:00 p.m. Come dance and feel the heat of the tropics with the sensual music of Mercedes Soler!

  6

  He may be a hurricane in the ring, but on this day, when he awoke, it seemed as though he himself were being swept away by a hurricane. Literally. It was all a dream. He was walking in a beautiful park, very green, down a pathway with leafy trees on either side. He and Nefise walked hand in hand. The birds were singing what seemed a soft romantic song. He was holding her hand affectionately and at a certain point, raised it to his lips for a tender kiss. She looked at him and smiled, then they resumed their walk. He did not take his eyes from her. Suddenly he was seized with dread, the certainty that a catastrophe was coming that would not leave anything standing. He wanted to tell her but, as often happens in dreams, he could not even move his lips to speak. Nefise proceeded happily along the path. Luiz tried to send her a signal, grabbing her hand forcefully. She looked at him with alarm but it was too late. A wind coming from the sky (or beyond) began to sweep countless leaves from the trees and walkways that flew like swarms of bats cutting through the air. The birds in the vicinity tried to flee but, though they flapped their fragile wings insistently, they could not prevail against the storm. Within seconds it was plain that they were in the presence of a merciless hurricane that was going to swallow everything. Luiz hugged Nefise with all his strength, almost suffocating her. He could not let her go. He preferred to fly and hurtle along with her on the wings of that other one who, unlike him, was not a hurricane in name only, but really was invested with the great force of nature. Before the unbreakable power of the hurricane, Luiz was unavoidably forced apart from Nefise, he had to let go of her hand and fel
t the agonizing certainty that he was losing her forever, then entering into a vast spiral of darkness.

  He woke from the dream in anguish, soaked in sweat and calling out Nefise’s name in a muffled, feverish shout. She, beside him, passed her hand over his head seeking to comfort him: just a nightmare, I’m here by your side, everything is all right, Luiz. There was still an hour before the alarm was set to go off, but he did not close his eyes again, caught in the tattered web of his dream. At the set time, as always happened on fight days, he woke to the sound of Rock you like a Hurricane by the Scorpions, the song that also accompanied him as he made his way into rings all over the world, in a ritual to be repeated one more time tonight in Istanbul.

  Seated in the back of his car on the way to the Taksim Square Hotel, Luiz looks out the window but sees nothing of reality. In his mind he is revisiting the tumultuous dream landscape of the night before. He glimpses a link between the dream and the kidnapping. Regardless, generally what kidnappers demand is a hefty ransom, which he is willing to pay immediately without further ado. He wants everything settled before the fight tonight. How can he defend his title with Nefise a captive in the hands of God only knows who, from God only knows where? No. He will pay the ransom immediately. This is the only strategy he will allow the police to consider. This line of reasoning makes him pause over a couple of words drifting in his mind: “defending his title.” He recalls the other big issue that has turned up in his life: whether or not he should retire after the fight. Obviously the only possibility he sees is victory tonight. A fighter of world stature like him cannot believe anything else. He’s going to give it everything he’s got. The moment the first doubts arise, the fight is lost. From the first fight in his life he had never accepted defeat under any circumstances, and today, winning is even more important so he can retire afterwards at the height of his career.