The Silver Bears

by Paul E. Erdman

  “You got gas in this jalopy?”

  “Full tank. By the way, you’d better check the oil now and then. She ain’t as young as she used to be.”

  “Thanks, Frank. If you’re ever in Lugano, look us up.” Sure.

  The Bosphorus turned out to be exactly where Frank said it was. Getting onto the ferry was another thing. Cars of many types and vintages were haphazardly assembled like a group of unruly and battle-scarred greyhounds, waiting for the rabbit to appear. In this case, the rabbit took the form of a small man who blew a whistle. With an explosion of engine noise, everybody tried to drive onto the ramp and into the ship at the same time. Doc got aced out completely, until he caught the spirit of the game, and by almost faking a Renault Dauphin into the water, got the second last place.

  “Phew,” he exclaimed, “this is going to be fun.”

  They disembarked at Yalova, and headed southwest. The road was broad, and in relatively good shape. Soon after they left the Bosphorus, the traffic thinned out to just an occasional truck. The country was a series of low rolling hills which the Chevy barely took notice of. There were no road signs or directions, but neither man worried. There was obviously just one main road in these parts and they were on it. The sun was starting to sink as they approached the first big city since Istanbul— Bursa. One could see it from a great distance, since it was situated on a series of hills. On top of the highest was a spectacular mosque, its dome a gleaming green, its minarets a pure contrasting white. In the main square there was a large crowd of men standing outside yet another mosque, one of huge proportions.

  “Say, Doc,” said the prince, “maybe we should stop and take a look. That mosque looks interesting.”

  “We stop, yes. But for gas.”

  The man at the Shell station, incongruously situated vis-à-vis the mosque, spoke English of a sort. He strongly advised against their proceeding to Izmir. There were no hotels on the route, and no gas stations open after dark. He was sure they could not make it on one tank. In Bursa? The Anatole Palace. The most luxurious hotel in all of Asia. It turned out to be a large, rambling place, but its luxury was that of a nineteenth century English seaside resort.

  The next morning shortly after dawn they took to the road again. Now the landscape changed into a series of huge mounded hills, covered by endless brown grass. Don Quixote country, ex-windmills. During hundreds of miles they met perhaps a dozen trucks, three mini camel caravans plodding alongside the road, and passed through no more than a half dozen villages, all extremely primitive. It was midmorning before they spotted the first gas station at Balikesir. The Shell man in Bursa had been right. By noon they were already in the outskirts of Izmir. What a contrast! It looked like Liverpool. A dirty, crowded, rundown, port city. The main drag led directly to the port itself, where they were greeted by a scene of turbulent confusion. Cargo lay haphazardly about; trucks pushed their way aggressively through crowds of talking men. At pierside, there were rusty old tramp steamers, stained oil tankers, evil-smelling fishing boats. But not a sign of anything even remotely resembling a cruise ship. Yet in the middle of all this lay salvation: Italian Lines! Spelled out in foot-high letters in front of the only respectable building in sight.

  “Benissimo,” exclaimed the prince, “exactly what we want.”

  “I agree,” said Doc. “Why don’t you go in, John. You speak the lingo. I’ll stay out here and guard the goodies.”

  After just fifteen minutes, the prince returned, followed by a man with a huge moustache clad in impeccable white. Gianfranco leaned down to Doc through the car’s open window.

  “Well?”

  “The news is not perfect, but also not too bad.”

  “Go on.”

  “First, there are no cruise ships calling in Izmir this week.”

  “That’s not bad news?”

  “Wait a minute, Doc. There is an Italian ship, bound for Venice, that will be leaving Rhodes the day after tomorrow.”

  “And where’s Rhodes?”

  “It’s an island.”

  “Where?”

  “In the Mediterranean.”

  “Now that much I guessed,” replied Doc in disgust. “I mean where in relation to where you are now standing?”

  “It’s off the Turkish coast, about another two hundred miles south.”

  “And how do we get there?”

  “There’s a ferry from a place called Marmaris.”

  “None from Izmir?”

  “Not at this time of year.”

  “Great.”

  “But listen. My friend here said he can work it all out. He will book us and our car on the San Christofer, and will telephone a friend of his in Marmaris to make the ferry arrangements. His friend runs a hotel down there. We can stay with him tonight, cross over to Rhodes tomorrow, and sail for Europe the next day.”

  Doc nodded, and then spoke softly. “Did you, uh, somehow figure out how we will get around our little problem?”

  “Little problem?”

  “In the trunk, stupid. And not so loud!”

  “Don’t worry. He doesn’t speak English. Momento.”

  The prince and the man from Italian Lines entered into a spirited exchange.

  “He says that our man in Marmaris can take care of anything. He is an important man, and Marmaris only has about a thousand inhabitants.”

  “Sounds all right.”

  When all was done, both Italians appeared again. Success demanded that everyone have an apéritif. A clerk would guard the car. So campari and soda it was outside a small café right around the corner. Doc made no attempt to communicate with his host. But the prince more than made up for this with his usual non-stop patter. He only paused once to announce in English that they had decided that next on the agenda was lunch. That idea Doc vetoed. He did not want to miss any ferries or ships, and Marmaris was still a long way off.

  As it turned out, he was right. After passing Ephesus about thirty miles south of Izmir, the road narrowed and became rougher and rougher. They could have been back in Iran. The farther south they went, the higher the mountains became. The last one must have been well over a thousand meters. From what seemed to be the top of it, they began a hair-raising descent along a dirt road, barely wide enough for one car. No guard rail, no nothing, stood between them and the precipice that fell off to the deep valley below. By six in the evening they were on its floor: flat, well watered, and covered with thick green vegetation. Suddenly the valley swung to the west, the river in its middle widened, and there it was! A marvelous blue sea, perfectly calm, and invitingly cool. Next came the first main intersection for hours; this time there was a sign: Marmaris Lido Hotel 100 meters. The building was really nothing more than a large bungalow, completely surrounded by a wooden-railed porch. Doc braked the Chevrolet to a halt, and honked the horn. It produced a gaily dressed man, with arms waving high in the air. When they stepped out of the car, it was to the Italian that the hotelkeeper rushed in a direct beeline, proving once again that it takes one to know one.

  “Principe!” he exclaimed, “we have been awaiting your arrival eagerly. Come. We will take care of everything. Just leave the keys in the car. I have drinks ready. No, no,” to Doc, as he started to open the trunk, “let us do that.”

  He left no option. The gin and tonic, with real Schweppes, not the local non-fizzy imitation, disappeared promptly. It had been hot and dusty in those Turkish hills. It was just as promptly replaced by a second. Then a third. Loud Italian filled the air, especially after the hotelkeeper was joined by his dark, well-rounded, shrill-voiced wife, and their thickset teenage daughter. She hesitantly tried out her school English on Doc, looking painfully embarrassed at the fuss her parents were making over the visiting royalty. The dinner that followed was sumptuous and excellent. The pasta was perfect; the fish was fresh from the sea. The wine, a Frascati, was cool and delicious. Three bottles disappeared before the cognac was brought out. It was Italian cognac, and thus a bit on the sweet side. Everytime Do
c started to talk about schedule, ferries, ships, and the like, he was silenced with the waving of many arms. All was taken care of. And so all retired to bed shortly before midnight satisfied with themselves: the Principe, the Americano, and the Italian expatriates of Marmaris.

  The dawn of the next day, April 7, 1967, was glorious. The Asiatic coast of the Mediterranean glistened in the warm sun. There was not even the hint of a breeze. Breakfast was taken just after nine on the terrace behind the hotel. It bordered directly on what could only be described as a lagoon, a large pool of crystal-clear water, almost completely protected from the sea beyond by a series of upcropping rocks. Even from the terrace the myriad of small fish which had come to feed in its lush waters was visible. At ten, they loaded the car and headed for the port. The prince had already settled all money matters, discreetly.

  Then the trouble began.

  First, the ferry. There was none. That must have been a misunderstanding. Yes, there was a ferry. But no, the ferry could not take cars. It only took people. And it only ran on Sunday. How was such a misunderstanding possible? The phones in Turkey are very bad. So what now? No problem. Everything was being arranged. Just pull the car onto the pier. Pier? That narrow concrete slab over there, about fifty meters long. And then what? Just wait. So they waited.

  The waterfront was deserted. Until 10:30 when the uniforms appeared, three of them. Customs and immigration. Not to worry. But why then all the talk? First in Turkish, then in Italian, then in both. Doc deliberately moved away from the group, calculating correctly that all this was beyond him. He still stood there, silently smoking, when the five other men moved off, and disappeared down an alley beside a building which must have been the center of local government if the huge Turkish flag which hung from a rather bent pole outside its entrance was any indication of function. When the group reemerged, it had grown to six men, a donkey, and a cart. The cart was laden with long two-by-four planks. All this was paraded to the end of the pier. The agitation among the men was, if anything, increasing. Doc and the car were ignored. But that also changed. As if by signal, the whole shouting clan moved at him, and surrounded the car. Two of the uniformed men even kneeled down in front of the Chevy, and took measure of the car’s underside and wheels.

  “Christ!” thought Doc, “he’s blown it!”

  But then came a shout, and a renewed mass movement back to the end of the pier. Because it was arriving. Their ship. Their ferry. Except that it resembled neither. It was a very old boat, and a very small one. The chugging of an ancient diesel engine and the smoke that rose from a pipe above the solitary superstructure—a cabin about the size of an outhouse—at least attested to the fact that it could move without sails. Slowly it approached the pier, and a dark, heavy-set man threw a line to the waiting men. They scrambled like children for the honor of assisting in the docking procedures. Doc slowly moved out to join them. The boat was even more disappointing at near distance. It did not have a deck; just a huge gaping hole obviously designed to be filled with some unknown type of bulk cargo. In the front was a small platform, perhaps three meters square, one at the back upon which the outhouse was mounted, and narrow ledges along the sides connecting them. The boat rode high in the water. Its sides were at least three feet above the level of the concrete pier.

  “Well,” said the prince, having caught sight of Doc staring at this creature of the sea, “here is our ferry.”

  “Of course,” replied Doc, calmly, “what else?”

  “Now we must prepare it to take our automobile.”

  “Sure,” replied Doc, “go right ahead. What, exactly, will that involve?”

  “We just run a few planks across the boat from side to side, to match the width of the car’s wheels. You know, like those hydraulic lifts they have in garages when they change the oil. You just drive on!”

  “Onto a couple of planks?”

  “Why more?”

  “Because, you meathead, if the car doesn’t hit those planks exactly, it’s going to go right down into that hold, and then right down through the bottom of that hold. With me! Anyway, it’s impossible. Look. The sides of that boat are at least a yard higher than the surface of this pier. What do you expect that Chevy to do—jump on?”

  The logic of these last words struck home. The prince turned and launched into a violent tirade directed at his Italian compatriot. The latter repeated the performance in Turkish. The crowd of Turks on the receiving end was steadily growing. The three customs men and the donkey driver had been joined by the crew of the ship, both of them. Before the shouting had begun to even reach peak volume, the man who appeared to be the captain jumped nimbly back onto his boat, and then swung down into the hold. His number two followed. Soon came a new sound, one that more aptly should have come from a quarry than a boat.

  “What the hell’s going on?” asked Doc.

  “They have found a solution,” answered his partner. “It is actually quite simple. All they must do is shift the ballast from one side to the other. That will tip the ship. This side will gradually sink to the level of the pier. Then you just drive on.”

  “Uphill?”

  The ballast was in the form of large smooth rocks, which explained the strange noise. It lasted for about twenty minutes, and, miraculously, produced the predicted result. Quickly all of the assembled Turks pitched in with the planks. After much ado, they decided that two sets of two were enough: one pair for the left wheels and another for the right. One set led from the pier to the edge of the boat; the second straddled the vessel from side to side. Simple. All that was required now was a bit of reasonably precise driving.

  That was up to Doc. He walked back to the car, started it, and in one unhesitating go, drove off the pier and onto the frail scaffolding spanning the hold of that ancient sloop. With almost scornful bravado he jerked the car to an abrupt halt just a split second before it seemed doomed to plunge over the side of the now violently rocking craft. Circus act completed, he squeezed out of the car through the halfopened door, inched his way back along the edge of the planks, stepped back onto the pier, lit a cigarette, and said:

  “Let’s get the hell out of here.”

  The car was quickly lashed to the boat, the diesel started, passports stamped, hands shaken, and within ten minutes the Pride of Marmaris, with its strange cargo, moved off into the waters of the Aegean Sea.

  The Turks kept to themselves at the aft. Doc and the prince settled down at the opposite end of the boat, saying little, watching the world go by. The coast itself was a series of tiny coves—jagged and for the most part rocky. They stayed perhaps three hundred meters offshore as they chugged their way north. Both land and sea remained totally devoid of any human presence. Almost exactly on schedule, after three and a half hours, the boat swung west, out into the open sea separating Turkey from the island of Rhodes.

  At first, the rising swell of the sea seemed logical. After all, they had lost the protection of the mainland. But then came the first hint of a wind from the north, bringing with it streaks of white vapor high in the sky. The slow chug of the engine increased in tempo. The wind picked up in velocity. The white wisps became black scudding clouds. The inevitability of a storm became apparent.

  “Maltempe!” shouted the prince, between gusts of wind.

  “What?”

  “Maltempe. The evil wind.”

  The bow of the ship rose and fell with increasing violence. But it was the roll that became worrisome. For they were passengers on a vehicle which was, by any standards, inherently unstable. Both the front and rear bumpers of the two-ton automobile extended well over the railings of the boat. In fact, the trunk of the car was awash with disturbing regularity as the forces of both wind and water, coming from the northwest, bashed the boat over on its side. The whole motion topside began to resemble that of a monstrous seesaw, one which had somehow begun to gradually defy the laws of gravity. After the assault of what must have been the seventh wave, the threat of capsizing even signaled itself
to the Turkish crew. Number two emerged from the cover of the wheelhouse and descended once again into the hold, down a makeshift type of ladder. Accompanied by the renewed sound of crashing stones, audible even above the wind and water, he went to work readjusting the ballast, trying to bring the ship back into balance. Within less than five minutes it started to work. The oscillations became less acute; the entire boat seemed to regain a new sense of stability. But for its passengers up front, this improvement meant little more than moving from worse to bad.

  Then it was Doc’s turn to sense a need for action.

  “Hey,” he yelled to Gianfranco, “Our rials are in that trunk!”

  The prince appeared to neither hear nor understand what Doc was saying, as he crouched in a huddle. So the American moved closer and shouted directly in his ear.

  “Listen,” he screamed, “I’m going to get those two suitcases full of money out of the trunk. Understand?”

  This time the prince nodded.

  “Right,” Doc continued, “when I’ve got them, I’ll hand them to you. Then you stow them. Here.” He pointed repeatedly to the space under the ledge at the bow of the boat.

  Again the prince indicated his understanding.

  “So come on!”

  Both grappled their way along the side of the plunging vessel. What Doc then proceeded to attempt was not an easy task. Tenuously propped, with both feet on the outside rail, left hand gripping the underside edge of the steel frame above the rear wheel, stomach braced against the tailfin, he blindly searched with his right hand for the keyhole of the trunk. Three times he was drenched as the boat, and the rear end of the Chevrolet, dipped into the foaming crests of the waves.

  Then he succeeded. With a lurch, the lid sprang open. Doc scrambled up and over, until he was half in, half out, of the car’s trunk.