It was because I’d pushed him into it. Because I’d pointed the finger. Because he’d believed me. It was me, it was me, it was me.’
So ends the letter Jeannie left for me in her computer. The garbled, scribbled pages of her last journal are in the same mode. The first entry is dated August 16th 2005 – the day after Sinan’s arrest at JFK airport. It is a masterpiece of masochism, a step-by-step account of how this, too, was all her doing. She’d panicked, when she should have remained calm. She’d convinced herself that the sky would cave in unless they packed their bags and fled. If they stayed, İsmet would be back the next morning to charge Sinan with murder. If they stayed, İsmet would be back in the middle of the night to kidnap Emre.
Sinan had tried to reason with her. Had tried to convince her that they should sit there, surrounded by gaping holes. Sit there calmly. Conceal their fear.
He had tried to convince her that this crisis was of his making, that he had deliberately provoked it. To lure the snake out of the shadows, he said. To bring the truth out into the light. But she said she was no longer interested in the truth. All she wanted was to be sure their child was safe.
‘I never thought I’d live to hear you say such a thing.’
‘Well, now you’ve heard it, and I’m not backing down,’ she said.
It was only when he’d relented, when she’d gone upstairs to pack, that she’d remembered her passport. Which should have been here by now. Which was seriously delayed. But she’d not stopped, not for a moment, to ask herself what that might mean.
It was her fault Sinan had been arrested. Her fault she’d lost her son. Her fault, and no one else’s. No matter what anyone said.
50
October 15th 2005
‘At night the demons take over – I hear Emre’s terror as monsters in uniform rip him away from his father, I see his arms stretching out, struggling to catch hold of his father’s sleeve, and his eyes, his innocent, pleading, uncomprehending eyes.
But in the morning, I am sometimes strong enough to force my imagination elsewhere. The uniform who comes into the interrogation room to take him home with her is a woman with a kind face. She’s brought a few toys with her. A few action figures. A truck with an interesting crane. She has another bigger one in her office. Would Emre like to come and see it? Maybe he’d like to take his teddy and his blanket with him, because his dad is going to be talking to the men in the room until way past his bedtime. Is he hungry? What’s his favourite food? Has he ever been to a Chuckie Cheese? I see the woman opening the door and Emre following, his face lit up with promises.
I imagine him now – midnight our time, 5 pm where he must be. He’s perched on a big blue sofa, watching Sesame Street. In a house in a quiet suburb, with nice, ordinary foster parents who love him dearly. Who never forget to tell him that we do, too. “They just had to go away for a while,” I hear them say. “Don’t worry. They’ll be back for you as soon as they can.”
And then, the finale. A knock on the door. My passport! The phone rings. Sinan has been released! Apologies pour in, each more abject than the last. I wave them off and board the plane. I come through customs at JFK and there is Sinan and there in his arms is Emre – and off we go on this tour as scheduled. Our little misadventure becomes a talking point – a tiny cautionary tale about modern Islamophobia.
But then, the picture fades and I am back in this room, in front of this screen, reading the preposterous charges. While filming in the Southeast of Turkey, Sinan Sinanoğlu has been aiding and abetting terrorists. They claim to have found names and addresses in his laptop that linked him with people known to be linked with groups known to harbour terrorist sympathies…
He’s been framed, that’s what my father thinks. He is sure it was İsmet and Co. who “tipped off” Homeland Security. But only to cover their own tracks. Now all we have to do is prove it.’
It was on October 16th – the day after she wrote these words – that her father was pronounced dead and removed from his apartment before a family member could verify his identity.
She complained, of course. She hollered! She pounded her fist! But the nice man who claimed to be calling her from the Consulate was unable to help her, beyond confirming that they’d dispatched the body to Kansas City.
Why the hell had they done that? she screeched. Clearing his throat again, the man said, ‘My understanding is that they dispatched the body to Kansas City at the request of his wife.’
His wife? The personable man who claimed to be calling from the consulate was only too eager to make up for his faux pas. He was so sorry, what a horrible way to find out, if he’d only known… He gave Jeannie her father’s wife’s name – Angwo – and contact details. ‘I’m sure she’ll tell you where he’s buried.’ Perhaps she could, if she ever answered her phone.
October 17th 2005
‘At first I doubted her very existence. But now that I know to my cost just how secretive my father could be – it’s entirely possible. He could well have been married and not told me. My guess is that this wife of his has been history for many years and would not have been on hand to meet his body at the airport.
At night, I imagine what they must have done to him. At dawn, I imagine Sinan reminding me never to believe what I can’t see with my own eyes. He knows I know he’s innocent. He knows I’ll wait. It’s his handwriting – I know it is – on the postcard I reread every morning, the moment I sit down at this desk.
It arrived in an envelope postmarked Chicago, and since there was no return address I am not to know who sent it, or how that person came to have it in his or her possession. But it was most certainly a friend. It has been a consolation to know how many friends we have, humbling to see how hard they’ve fought for us since Sinan’s plight became public knowledge.
“We open doors,
we close doors,
we pass through doors,
and at the end of the one and only journey
there’s no city
no harbour;
the train comes off the rails,
the boat sinks,
the plane crashes.
The map is drawn on ice.
But if I could choose to set out or not
on this journey
I’d do it again.”’
October 22nd 2005
‘I’m not alone. I have my friends. Every Friday, we go out. Almost always, it’s the five of us – Suna, Chloe, Lüset, myself and Haluk. Inevitably, there are jokes about his harem, though in truth, every week it’s that much harder to get him to laugh. The family empire is crumbling. As of this week, the cultural foundation that Haluk’s father founded in his name is no longer. But when we went out last night – to a Bosnian place in a converted factory in Cihangir – none of us mentioned it. He’d come out to forget his troubles, just as we all had.
Only Suna knows about my midnight caller.
I thought he was a prowler. I’d had several by then, though only in the garden. This was the first time I’d heard anyone inside. I’d not been sleeping – I didn’t feel safe, and as it turns out, I was right.
I’d come down with my baseball bat to find him at his desk in the library, fiddling with his mobile. It was, I now recall, the same place he’d been sitting when I first set eyes on him, so many years ago.
He told me a story. A story so preposterous I cannot bring myself to repeat it. He had the gall to suggest that it let us all off the hook. All except for the villain he had appointed to it. Now all we had to do was combine forces and go public.
“You must be joking,” I said.
“Get out of my house,” I said.
“What the hell are you up to, anyway?” I said. “What clown outfit sent you out here in the first place?”
That was when he made his pitch.
We could work together! Expose his villain to the light! Tell the whole story, from 1970 to the present. How it was this other man – not Jordan – who’d come to Robert College to get to know the stu
dents. How he had led them astray, just like he’d been told. How he’d almost been rumbled. Not by me, but by Rıfat. He was, Jordan informed me, the only one of the bunch who took my accusations seriously.
“You remember Rıfat, don’t you? Oh you must, you must. The cute one. The serious customer. The ringleader. The one with the green eyes. You don’t believe me? Then tell me when you last saw him. It was at the garçonniere, wasn’t it? That last day. The day you left. Isn’t it strange how none of them, none of them, ever mention him?”
“You want proof? I have proof.” Sadly, it was in London. But time was short. I just had to trust him. Because time was running out. Our villain had moved up in the world. He had a new mission – to save the West from the East! But as always, our villain wasn’t what he claimed to be. Which was why I had to help Jordan stop him.
“We’re both on the same side, Jeannie. Don’t you see?”
It was exhausting work, spinning those preposterous lies. But he persevered, and it was four in the morning before he asked if he could “flake out” on my couch. As I looked at him sprawled over the cushions, snoring, mouth gaping wide, I understood for the first time how it felt to want someone dead.
In the morning, I made him breakfast. Then he picked up his bag and headed East. Whatever that means. He left thinking we had come to an agreement. I thought it would be dangerous to let him leave thinking anything else.
As soon as my hands stopped trembling, I dialled Suna’s number.
She came straight over.
After I told her what Jordan had said to me, she sat very still.
When she stood up, it was to say she’d be moving into the spare room. “I want to be here, to face this man, when he pays his next visit.”
I cannot remember now if it was that night Suna mentioned the website to me, or if it was a few days later. We were sitting just here, though. We were watching the bridge, just as I am now, and her voice was light.
We’d been going through Sinan’s files, hunting for any shred of evidence that might help the case, and dredging the Internet, looking for anything whatsoever on my father. We’d been in touch with his contacts at CNN, the BBC, and the New York Times, and they’d forwarded us any emails they’d remembered to archive. Most had to do with the mess in Iraq but some drew parallels with 1971. The BBC man had also been kind enough to send several filmed interviews, and we’d spent most of the evening going through these. It would have been close to eleven when we came out to the porch with our herbal teas.
In a casual voice, Suna said, “He was such an interesting man, your father. Say what you will, he had standards. Stand him next to your Jordan…”
“Oh, he’s my Jordan, now, is he?”
“Stand him next to your Jordan, and you see how dismally standards have sunk. On the one side, a renaissance man. On the other, a mere contractor. A smooth-talking cowboy with a gun.”
“What am I going to do, Suna?”
“Perhaps, you could inform yourself. Think of it as armour. He cannot hurt you with what you already know.”
She did not elaborate. It was a good half-hour later – while we were talking about a Mexican film, of all things – that she mentioned this interesting website she’d happened on to – everything you’d ever wanted to know about covert activity in Chile and Guatemala in the late 70s.
It must have been one in the morning when I found myself back at my computer, searching for the site.
It was not quite as interesting as she had made it out to be, but there were links and I followed them. One site led to another, and finally to the archive of non-classified state department documents into which I typed my father’s name.
To read about Sergeyev, and his poisoned rumours.’
October 26th 2005
‘Or is it the truth? If it’s the truth, oh God, please tell me, what to do? What to do?
Memories keep flying back at me, demanding revision.
That time I walked into the radio station to find Suna and my father sitting in a low lit studio. Suna reprovingly silent, my father bent over, grimacing, as if in pain. Neither can see me, neither can know that the intercom is on. A painful sigh as my father shakes his head. In a defeated voice never before used in my presence, he says, “Okay, I’ll say it. My conscience is not clear.”
I had thought Suna was extracting some sort of spook’s confession. But perhaps not. Perhaps it was this.
The things my father said, the last time we spoke:
“Listen. I want you to stop beating yourself up. This was not your fault. It was a set-up. A classic set-up.”
“Listen. There’s something I’ve never told you.”
“Listen. I know you think of me as a person who deals in secrets.”
“Listen. I have plenty of skeletons in my closet – all old skeletons. But I have nothing to lose. You ask me to do it and I’ll sit right down and list them. What I can’t list are the lies.”
“So listen. If you ever want to know which is which, you’ll come and ask, won’t you?”
How can I bear Emre knowing? How will I ever face him? How can I even be contemplating this?
I’ve written to M, asking her to fly down.
It’s been four hours since I wrote to M, but still nothing.
Has she lost faith in me, too?
Five days now since Jordan the Great set out for parts East.
I’ve changed the locks.
My phone is tapped, I’m almost sure of it. When I pick it up, there’s a click and then a whir. The floorboards seem to creak louder every night. I’ve trained myself not to imagine footsteps, but nothing prepared me for this morning, when I woke up to the sound of a child running down the corridor. Oh, the stupid joy!
But it was Handan Hanım’s little boy – she’d sent him upstairs to play with Emre’s toys while she did the floors.
I mustn’t give in to hope. I must not yield. If they see I’m scared, it’s over.
Last night I thought it over and this much is clear: either I make a clean breast of this, tell the truth in my own words. Or I keep it to myself and risk Jordan using it against us. Think of the effect it would have. Sinan – the persecuted innocent, the cause célèbre – married to his sister.
No, I have to do this.
Did Suna know or did she guess?’
October 28th 2005
‘Tonight I asked her, and she prevaricated.’
October 29th 2005
‘Today I went to see İsmet.
His office is on the 24th floor of the skyscraper everyone says was built by the Mafia, in blatant contravention of the building code, just to prove that it could.
He was all condolences. He expressed his deep regret, too, about this court case. “To tell you frankly,” he said. “In the present climate of hysteria, what happened to poor Sinan could happen to anyone. Only yesterday, I was asking myself if I might be wise to cancel my own impending visit to your country’s fine capital.”
“Naturally,” he continued. “I chose not to let fear win. As the fault-lines between East and West deepen, it is essential to keep all lines of communication open. And there are urgent questions.
Why has Turkey failed its old ally, refused to join hands to bring democracy to Iraq? Why is it no longer mindful of its secular heritage? Why has it allowed itself to be ruled by smiling Islamists?
These people may pretend today to be bringing us to Europe, but tomorrow, mark my word, they will be covering our daughters’ heads with headscarves. No, we cannot stand idly by when danger looms. The Patriot Act notwithstanding, I shall continue to press forward.”
Leaning forward, he said, “Of course – while I’m there. I shall express my extreme concern and displeasure about their inhumane, and, I suspect, illegal and unconstitutional detention of your husband. But – of course – your main concern must be your son.”
“Please,” I said. “I’ll do anything. Tell me what I have to do to get him back. Look, take me back with you. Let me talk to these
people myself. Listen, if you can talk them into giving me immunity…”
This raised an eyebrow. “Do you really think that’s wise? No – of course you don’t. On reflection, you must agree: there are some things that should never see the light of day. Shall we call them transgressions? Here is my view: if they cannot be undone, they must at least not be known. For a bridge to stand between East and West, we must at least believe ourselves pure. What people believe themselves to be matters more than what they truly are. This has always been my view.”
I had come here in craven desperation, to win him over, do whatever it took. But I couldn’t stop myself. “You’re wrong!” I cried. “You’re evil!”
Every time I go back over this argument I should never have started I see another slimy insult slithering between the lines. The expressions of concern for Emre – his health, his welfare, his “special needs”. Was İsmet implying that he’s defective? To use his own word – impure?
The protestations of innocence: “Referring to my earlier point,” he said, “it is evident that what you have come to believe about me has a far greater impact on your mind that anything I could provide in the way of facts. In fact, most of what you know of me, you know from people who have used me for years as their punching bag. To believe them, I am the source of all Turkey’s ills. One would think I’d been running the government, the economy, the secret service and the Mafia single-handed for forty years.”
The glib summary of Sinan: “Of course I’ve always felt responsible for him. As you know, I was originally watching over him by explicit invitation from his father. What I have observed to be the constant is his burning anger. That this comes from his confusion about his origins is – I’m sure you will agree – self-evident. It is not easy to be an Easterner with a Western education. The mind is never in harmony with the heart. This becomes a more painful dilemma if the Easterner cannot even be sure that he is truly an Easterner. If his mother is Greek and his father…undefined.”
Enlightenment Page 40
