Dr. Belevski and Helen Noverman smiled at each other in an awkward silence.
“Dr. Belevski,” Helen said, “I’m going to be in Istanbul for several more days before I return to Sofia. If you are going to be here too, perhaps if you have some free time, we might visit some of the sights of Istanbul together.”
Like most men, Manol Belevski had fallen prey to Helen Noverman’s charms.
“I would like that very much!” Belevski said. “Very much indeed.”
CHAPTER 20
Dr. Manol Belevski awoke the following morning with the sounds of last night’s party still ringing in his ears. He felt as if he was on top of the world and utterly invincible. Nothing could stand in his way—that is, until he looked at the morning newspaper.
“What has Czar Boris done? ‘Bulgaria Joins German War Machine!’ Oh, for the love of God!”
A sense of shock and disgust filled Belevski as he reread the headline. With Hitler’s armies rolling into Bulgaria, his life, like that of many others, would change course as quickly as a frightened deer desperate to avoid a merciless predator. But even with the terrible turn of events in the Balkans, Belevski’s newfound fame and fortune brought him an opportunity that he had only dreamed about.
For Dr. Belevski, meeting Helen Noverman at the celebration party in Istanbul was a wonderful distraction from the world’s troubles. She was a refined, intelligent woman, but the doctor wondered what really lay beneath her calm facade. He was flattered by the attention of such a lovely lady, but was she offering him something more than just her company? In his fantasies, Manol Belevski certainly hoped so.
History books are filled with women like Helen Noverman. They have inspired poets to write sonnets and jealous men to fight duels. Manol Belevski was neither bard nor soldier, but only a surgeon—albeit the most famous in Europe—who quickly became infatuated with this striking, yet puzzling, woman. She filled his thoughts, and he felt he could gaze at her all day long and dream of her all night.
Over the next few days, between the doctor’s visits to the hospital to check on Murat’s progress, he and Helen strolled through the oriental mixture of Istanbul’s picturesque and chaotic, the old and the new. This mystical city was filled with palaces, castles, monuments, churches, and minarets, where the east had been colliding with the west for more than fifteen hundred years. Proud shoeshine men sat behind their fancy brass stands and polished the footwear of their customers. Aggressive mustachioed merchants sipped black coffee from small cups as they sat on caned stools, hawking jewelry and tin pots to passersby.
Some Muslim women wore the traditional Islamic black burkas that covered them from head to toe, leaving only their eyes visible. Other women wore colorful scarves, kerchiefs, and flowing skirts. Everyone scurried from stall to stall in the bazaar looking for a bargain. Packs of boys and girls darted about, begging and playing among the throngs of people. Blind beggar-musicians sang woeful folk songs from the villages they left long ago with the hope of receiving a lira or two. And, like an ever-flowing river of busy ants, an endless stream of porters and peddlers with precarious stacks of rugs, sesame-flavored rolls, books and other wares strapped to their backs squeezed past each other through the narrow streets.
Everything around them spawned conversations about art, music, literature and religion. As they walked side by side, the towering green cypress trees near the palaces seemed to caress one another. Belevski wanted to wrap his arms around Helen and kiss her, but did nothing of the sort. Cupolas and minarets with graceful curves reminded him of the one time he had seen Helen’s shapely body in his doctor’s office and the sexual fantasies that filled his mind for weeks afterwards.
My fingers are sliding over the curves of her backside. I‘m rubbing and massaging her buttock and thighs… I say, “This will help you relax.” I tell her, “Turn over onto your back, and we shall continue.” I’m running my hands across her soft white stomach and digging my fingers deep into the shallow indentation in her skin where her lower abdomen meets the inner part of her thighs…
“Come Manol, are you daydreaming?” Helen laughed. “Let’s see where this street leads,”
She pulled him into a narrow alleyway with crooked cobblestones and bare earth that looked like an old man’s mouth, full of broken and missing teeth. The dilapidated wooden dwellings built atop rough stone foundations leaned into each other like tired peddlers who carried their heavy loads.
“They look as if a gentle breeze could blow away what was left of them,” he said.
“Nothing is forever, Manol, especially in Istanbul. We must live each day to the fullest, don’t you think?”
Her mischievous grin made him look deep into her eyes. Smoke from hundreds of coal-burning stoves throughout the city settled around them like a warm shroud. And everywhere, the noise, the smells and the pulse of an ancient rhythm evoked charm, fascination, and intrigue. Istanbul had been a bridge between the new ways of Europe and the ancient ways of Asia.
“It’s almost dusk,” Manol said. “Let’s go to the Golden Horn. The sparkling lights remind me of your eyes.”
She kissed him gently on the cheek. He stopped and pulled her closer and kissed her gently on the mouth. Now as they walked arm in arm, another kind of link was forged between Helen Noverman and Manol Belevski.
They held hands and walked along a narrow waterway that separated the old city from the new. Masses of people, animals, and vehicles crossed the Galata Bridge that connected the southern, Islamic side of Istanbul and the northern, Christian part. Floating on the water below, boats of every conceivable size and shape stacked high with cargo plied the waves, as they had for thousands of years. Not far from the shore, the magnificent Dolmabahçe Palace was an orgy of ornate arches, walls, and lush gardens, replete with splendid fountains and blooming flowers.
Manol and Helen kissed often as they sauntered along the old defensive wall that bordered the city when it was known as Constantinople. The ruined stone fortress ran a serpentine path of fourteen miles that encompassed the grim and neglected castle, the Seven Towers. In this bloody place, many sultans and foreign ambassadors had met their deaths or were imprisoned at the hands of mutinous soldiers. If this ancient monument symbolized the destructive path that he was on, Belevski didn’t realize it at the time, because all he could think about was how much he craved Helen’s warm embrace. Every touch of her hand intensified his desire to make her his lover. He hoped that her every laugh and smile meant a growing desire to be with him.
For the next few days and evenings, they dodged hoards of people as they wandered aimlessly through the ancient bazaars, which offered everything from rugs and hairpins to gold jewelry. They explored the serene streets and aristocratic quarters of Pera, where they sipped coffee and the forbidden anise-flavored liquor, Raki, in the cafés and restaurants that lined the Grand Rue. After going into one expensive shop in Galata, Belevski asked Helen to wait outside for a few minutes. When he came out, he said, “I bought this for you.”
She took the gold bracelet and slipped it around her wrist. “Oh Manol,” she said, “It’s beautiful! I’ll always treasure it, and the time we’ve spent together.”
When the doctor heard those words, he could have ravished her then and there. Helen filled him with a passion that he had not felt in many years. Of course, Belevski still loved Spasia, but now his wife’s prophetic words of warning the day he left for Istanbul were all but forgotten. Even after the boy’s operation, Spasia, like the Greek oracle Cassandra, told him to beware and begged him to come home soon, but still he refused to listen.
All Manol could think about were Helen’s kisses, the soft skin of her palm as she squeezed his arm when they gazed out over the Old City across the Bosphorus to Asia, and her secretive smiles and coy glances, which promised erotic bliss. In Belevski’s mind, there was no doubt that they were to be lovers. He was certain that the dam holding back all of her passions would break at any mo
ment.
CHAPTER 21
To everyone’s joy, the Vice President’s son showed remarkable improvement in the seven days since the operation. Of course, Dr. Belevski was happy to see that the boy had regained his health, but his rapid recovery also meant that the doctor’s duties in Istanbul were swiftly coming to a close.
From the moment Helen invited Belevski to dinner that evening, he knew that this was the night he had been waiting for. Over the past week, between hospital visits to check on Murat, the doctor had been the one who initiated their get-togethers, and she gladly accepted. As they sat at a quiet table in a dark corner of the Oriental Dance Restaurant, she twisted her napkin and fidgeted in her chair. She lit another cigarette and exhaled a strong stream of smoke.
“Helen, what’s wrong?” he asked.
“Well, it’s just that …”
Helen took another drag from her cigarette and began again.
“We need to talk, Manol. Tonight means a great deal to me. But first, my pet, please order our dinner.”
The waiter stood patiently while Belevski surveyed the menu. Yet he was so distracted he had hardly read a word.
“Excuse me, sir. Are you ready to order?” the waiter asked.
“Ah, yes … We’d like crepes with caviar and smoked sturgeon for appetizers. And two lamb kebabs with stuffed eggplant. Fruit and cheese for dessert.”
“And champagne, please,” Helen added with a smile.
Manol tried to remain calm on the outside, but inside he felt like a schoolboy about to lose his virginity with the prettiest girl in Sofia. He asked her what she wanted to talk about and said that he hoped it was about them and their future together. Helen’s answer was like a knife plunged into his heart.
“Forgive me, my dear Manol, for not telling you sooner, but … I’m getting married soon.”
With the precision of a Luftwaffe pilot, Helen Noverman had dropped this bombshell directly into his lap, shattering the doctor’s mind, heart and male ego into a million broken pieces. Belevski was in shock. His lips quivered, and he couldn’t swallow. Then he felt the chaos well up inside of him.
“Married? To whom?”
Belevski knew he had been obsessed with this woman, but how could he have missed something like this? He did little to hide his embarrassment and confusion.
Helen’s eyes filled with tears that could have melted the heart of Ivan the Terrible. Belevski glanced around the restaurant to see if anyone was watching them, but no one seemed particularly interested. Perhaps he should have become angry, but the doctor only saw what he wanted to see; a beautiful and emotional woman who looked to him for help and comfort.
Belevski leaned across the table and pressed his silk handkerchief into one of Helen’s hands. Then he took her other hand and clasped it in his. Her trembling fingers once again made Belevski’s passion grow.
“Helen, I don’t understand what you’re talking about. Who are you going to marry? Me?”
He smiled, hoping her revelation was nothing more than a test of his sincerity. She only shrugged and lowered her eyes.
“Helen,” he raised his voice, “when did all this happen? For Christ’s sake, please tell me what’s going on!”
Helen looked at him as she delicately dabbed the corners of her eyes with the handkerchief. “He is a very rich American from New York. His name is Boyd Harrington.”
She paused for a moment for Belevski to react, but now he was speechless.
“We met and spent time together last summer in Paris. Boyd was really quite charming and said that he had been alone long enough and was ready to love again. He swore that the moment he met me he knew I was the one for him. He asked me to marry him and come to live in New York. At the time I was lonely, too, so I said yes. Boyd promised he would take care of everything; the wedding ceremony, reception, and honeymoon. All I needed to do was to be there by the end of March.”
She squeezed his hand and sighed.
“Manol, we were having such a good time together. I’m sorry I didn’t tell you sooner.”
Then, as if on cue, her tears overflowed their banks as they both stared silently at the plates of food the waiter had placed before them. Belevski was numb. Without Helen to love, his heart was like a cracked vessel with its contents spilling out. He looked deep into her eyes, seeking some way to get her to change her mind. Was there anything in her voice that suggested he could win her heart from a rich American? Nothing he could see or hear gave him any hope, so he just prayed for a miracle.
“Manol, I knew that my life was going to change very soon, so I wanted to have a bit of fun before I left for America. You have been a wonderful companion for me this past week, but I led you on, my dear, and I’ll never forgive myself for that!”
She stopped to let her words sink in. Then she delivered the coup d’ grace.
“Manol, I didn’t think that I was going to fall in love with you, but I have.” She spoke so softly he could barely hear her words.
“Only nothing can change my plans now. I’m leaving for New York tomorrow.”
Manol couldn’t believe this paradox. How could Helen be in love with him and still say she was leaving to marry someone else? In that one moment Belevski’s entire being filled with joy and then burst apart. He was elated and bitterly disappointed. He was flattered and insulted. He was overjoyed and furious. This woman had fed his desires to the point that he had even considered leaving his wife. Now this angel had shattered the doctor’s ego, leaving him only one thing left to say. He could see that her mind was made up.
“So this is how we are to end it?” Belevski asked.
“No, Manol, my love. I want to make this last night we have together one that neither of us will ever forget.”
Without so much as touching their food, Belevski ordered two unopened bottles of champagne and paid the bill. They left the restaurant immediately. After she hailed a taxi, Helen gave the driver directions to a small hotel along the Bosphorus, where she said she had made reservations for them to spend their first and last night together.
Intoxicated with champagne and lust, they kissed in the back seat of the taxi as it drove along the northern shore until they reached the hotel. They walked silently, arm in arm, into the lobby and up to the clerk behind the desk. When Helen told him their room number, the man handed Belevski the key without even looking up from his newspaper.
Helen and the doctor kissed as they climbed the stairs. He tried not to think about the devastating news she told him at the restaurant. His heart pounded so hard that it practically burst from his chest. After Belevski locked the hotel room door behind them, they barely left each other’s arms. They drank more champagne and stared out the window at the Topkapi Palace on Seraglio Point, where the Bosphorus met the Golden Horn. Then they undressed one another. For now, at least, one of Manol Belevski’s fantasies was about to be fulfilled, and at that moment he was the happiest man on earth.
CHAPTER 22
Manol Belevski was alone in bed when he awoke the next morning to the sound of someone pounding on the hotel room door. His skin was sticky, his mouth was dry and his head hurt, but the fragrance of sex, Helen’s body and perfume filled his senses.
“Helen, my sweet. Where are you?” he asked. “Someone’s at the door.”
She didn’t answer. Instead, a man’s voice, thick with an accent, insisted that he be let in.
“Go away!” Belevski said.
He didn’t want to get up, but after the third pounding, the doctor dragged himself out of bed. As he pulled on the slacks that Helen had stripped from his body last night, he wondered where she had gone.
When Belevski opened the door, stale cigarette smoke and body odor emanated from the gaunt Turkish man in a wrinkled gray suit who stood before him. Deep lines crisscrossed the man’s oblong face. A sly smile crept from under his bushy mustache to reveal a broad mouth with three large, yellow teeth. Small brown eyes peered at the doctor from beneath one massive black brow.
“Good morning, Dr. Belevski. I trust you had an enjoyable night.”
His mouth broke into a lewd grin as he turned a large manila envelope over and over in his hands. The swollen knuckles and stained fingernails on his bony fingers looked as if they had been soaked in some disgusting yellow-brown liquid. Even the coarse spiky hairs on the back of his hands looked oily and unclean. He held out the envelope.
“I am so sorry to wake you, but I thought you might be interested in seeing these before I …”
“What are you talking about?”
The doctor glanced at the envelope and then back up at the man’s sallow face. Without realizing it, Belevski stalled for a time, trying to think. Who was this odious man, and how did he know his name? What could he possibly have in his hand that would be of interest to the doctor at this time of the morning? What on earth did he want?
Where in the name of God was Helen? She was leaving for America this evening, so she must have gone out to get them coffee or breakfast. But why was she taking so long to get back? For a moment Belevski wondered if Helen’s disappearance and the man at the door were somehow connected, but he didn’t dare consider it.
“Go away, or I’ll call the police,” Belevski said and turned away.
Before he could close the door, the man slipped inside.
“As you wish, doctor. But a famous man like you, the personal guest of our Vice President, has attracted a good deal of attention from journalists like myself. People will ask many questions, especially when they see these pictures.”
He tossed the envelope onto the coffee table that stood in front of the couch. “You are married, are you not, Dr. Belevski? It would be quite a scandal for a man of your stature to be caught in a hotel with a woman who is not your wife, would it not?”
Reluctantly, Belevski picked up the envelope and removed several photographs.
Laugh of the Hyenas Page 15
