Full-Bodied Wine : A Vintage Murder

by Biddy Jenkinson

  Chapter 6

  Millicent, I am using darker ink as you suggest. Of course you are correct when you say that Walter's jest about the effect of dressing, left or right, on one's political orientation, was coarse. Forgive me for repeating it.

  I met my counterpart in the Portuguese Embassy this morning. He claimed that they surrendered the lease of the residence since another Ambassador might not be appointed immediately due to the unsettled nature of the country. I raised an eyebrow. He relented.

  'The decision was taken , of course, on independent grounds. Between ourselves, however, Miguel, who is now in hospital in Lisbon, is raving. He insists there is ''evil'' in the house. Word got around. We had a query from the Spouses Association. We might keep the house empty for a year and then find that the new ambassador's consort had negative feelings about psychic manifestations.'

  I thought of you, my dear Millicent. You would nail your rosary beads to the mast and put the kettle on. Yet, having had such peculiar sensations in the place, I would be reluctant to leave you on your own there. The cook and driver are highly recommended. If the cook will play second ladle to Pierre and the driver passes muster, our recruitment problems are solved.

  I had to go to Istanbul yesterday on a consular case. An Irishman, exuberant and in need of relief after his first exposure to 'lion's milk', as raki is called, showed – inadvertently – disrespect to a statue of Attatürk and was arrested. They were anxious to get rid of him and he pleaded innocence, ignorance and repentance. In fact, he had no idea that there was a statue above him on a pedestal. He has been sent home. This morning I caught up on routine paperwork. We had a visit from a school group doing a project on Ireland. I provided orange juice and biscuits. Walter made an appearance.

  We will take the Portuguese residence if Dublin approves. I told Walter that the Portuguese Ambassador called it a haunted house. He was not concerned.

  'The Chinese cure a haunted house by hiring a poet to live there, Denis. Ghosts can't endure the workings of inspiration. Pierre will scuttle the supernatural with an ode to an aubergine.'

  'Shouldn't we insist on improved security?'

  'I suppose we should have the landlord fence the back of the house. For the sake of appearances.'

  'You don't think diplomats are at risk?'

  'I'll buy Colette a six-shooter. She will hold off the Indians.'

  The house plans are ready to go to Dublin in the next bag. A morbid aura, perceived by myself alone, is not enough to justify opposition. The landlord, Mr. Muftu, has agreed to our price. I'll talk to him about security. The driver, Orhan Ahmet, presented himself this morning. He is twenty-four, handsome, self-confident, graceful. The Countess will be pleased.

  'I do not wish, Dennis, to be driven around by someone who lacks style. It is not possible to make an entrée if a shabby, sloppy individual lumbers around to open the door for one. I have in the past been chauffeured by a toad and a cricket. It is embarrassing.'

  Orhan's record is impeccable. His English is fluent. He was an Arts student at Ankara University until the present troubles broke out. Walter asked him to explain why, given the general impatience of drivers in Ankara, there are not more accidents. His answer – that Ankara drivers, like fish in a shoal, have an instinctive sensitivity to each other's movements – satisfied Walter.

  'Where are you from?'

  'From Fatsa, on the Black Sea coast.'

  'A chauffeur from ancient Phadsa ... from Iasonion Akrotirion ... from the land of the Amazons. What could be better?' murmured Walter.

  'There are no Amazons there now.'

  'No, but you may find one in Ankara.'

  I was afraid that Walter was going to make a more particular reference to the Countess, so I hastened to ask Orhan about his driving licence. He wants a salary slightly higher than that which I have been authorised to offer. He also wants to retain the kapici's room as a 'base' while on duty, as he did while working for the Portuguese. Dublin, quite rightly looked for reassurance that this room would not be used as live-in accomodation. I measured it and showed that the candidate could not lie down in it, except on the diagonal. Dublin still hesitated. I listed the jobs that Orhan will be expected to perform, in addition to driving: odd job man in the office, local postman, fetcher and carrier for office, and residence, translator, negotiator, custodian of the flag, caretaker of the pool. This last title was a mistake. While agreeing to the higher wage, Dublin noted the reference to a pool and decreed that 'A pool is not deemed necessary since Ankara is only seasonally hot. The pool should be drained, at the landlord's expense, before the ambassador takes up residence.'

  I countered with a landlord's specification that it must be properly maintained in case of deterioration through disuse. I don't see why Walter should be deprived of the use of it when there will be no additional cost to the state. He will be easier to deal with if he takes sufficient exercise. He still runs down the hotel stairs in the morning.

  'Has the light played tricks recently?' I asked him.

  'It hasn't and won't.'

  'Perhaps you suffered a blackout on previous occasions? It might be time for a check-up, Ambassador. Low blood pressure, perhaps?'

  'No, Denis.'

  I am pleased to report, dear Millicent, that Orhan Ahmet is now our driver. I took an early opportunity to quiz him about the house.

  'You have an evil eye sign on your door.'

  'A traditional charm. My grandmother gave it to me.'

  'The Portuguese Ambassador did not like this house. He found it oppressive. Have you any idea why he felt that way about it?'

  'His Excellency was...'

  'Yes?'

  '...was close to the age of retirement.'

  My dear Millicent, I was quite sure that he had been about to say something else. I feigned indignation.

  'Are you suggesting that his judgement was impared by his age?'

  Orhan shrugged gracefully.

  'It is a house in which things have happened. One can insulate oneself from the atmosphere. My 'loge' is quite comfortable.'

  He would say no more. I didn't push him because I want information about the neighbourhood.

  'Who lives in the house to the right of the Residence, as one goes in?'

  'An oil company owns the house. There is rarely anyone there.

  'The Italian Military Attaché lives on the other side...'

  'On the left hand side,' he interposed with a quirky expression.

  'I am acquainted with Colonel and Mrs. Barbellini...'

  What I really wished to ascertain, dear Millicent, was the degree of intimacy that existed between the houses. (One would not wish to be snobbish, yet cannot help being aware that the status of an Embassy goes down if it is over run by military attachés.) I found it difficult to frame the question. Orhan availed of the pause.

  'Mrs. Barbellini has a maid, Maria....'

  'Yes?'

  'She brings me meals sometimes.'

  'Pasta?'

  'Pizza. The relationship is Platonic.'

  He spoke stiffly, evidently wishing to put the point on record. We went out for a beer together to celebrate his appointment.

  My dear Millicent, You will find my writing less legible than usual. I have been critical of Walter because of his tumble on the hotel stairs. At least he had the grace to come down on his left side. I have sprained my right thumb and have a lump on my forehead. I worked late last night and then went to the residence to measure the guestrooms for carpets.

  I went upstairs directly and took the measurements. I felt no malevolence in the house this time, yet I sensed recent presences. You know what it is like to stand in a theatre after the crowd has left? I didn't want to go down to the basement but decided that I had better conquer the feeling. I switched on the light and started down the stairs, looking towards the pool, not expecting a step to rise up and hiss. I fell past a humped back ... pink maw ... needle teeth. Then I bumped my head and blacked out. I was cold
and sore when I awakened. Somehow, I had managed to wiggle over to the bar where there was a floor mat, and pulled a cloth, from the table, around me. You will be pleased, Millicent, that though unconscious, I still had that much presence of mind.

  In spite of the pain in my head this morning, I feel quite happy. Even as the cat hissed at me, the horror receded. I saw a white blaze on its forehead and recognised it as a cat that sits on the roof of the guard's box, one of the semi-wild cats, tolerated as controllers of rats and mice. A cat is a cat for all that. Yet, how did it get in, and, even more to the point, how did it get out? When I recovered, I went all over the house looking for it. I didn't find it. Neither did I find any vent that might allow it to enter and exit. I had a few hours' sleep before opening the office.

  This morning I did a 'reputation check' on the house with the local police. This is essential. Can you imagine what would be said if I proposed a house, previously of ill repute? It has no history. The police have assisted with parking and traffic control at large receptions, since it became a residence and they appreciate the hospitality accorded. I expressed the hope that there would be no change in the relationship. Any more hesitation on my part could be considered obstructionism. The lease has been drawn up. Dublin has agreed to it. There is one odd clause to the effect that everything in the property before our tenancy begins, whether known to be there or not, is the property of the landlord. I drew the attention of our legal advisor to it. No problem.

  We have moved into the new office on Atatürk Bulvari. Everything is squeaky smelly-new. For the present, I am extremely tidy. We had hoped that our policeman might be accommodated downstairs in the foyer but Protocol insists that he should sit upstairs in the small hall between our door and the lift. I am uneasy about this. Before I came here, I was advised that Turkish security would monitor contact made with the Embassy by human rights activists, trade unionists, dissident minorities. The Office of Public Works has promised to dispatch furniture for the residence quickly.

  If all goes well, Millicent, we could marry in mid-May, have a week's honeymoon anywhere you like, and then come to Ankara, a settled married couple. I'm enclosing a photograph of the view over the city from the kitchen of our own apartment. The balcony is big enough for a little table and two chairs. The apartment is only a ten minute walk from the office. There is a small Migros supermarket not far away. Unfortunately, it is down hill from us. I am told that this is a fixed rule about supermarkets.

 

  Orhan brought me to a carpenter's shop in Ulus. They will make shelves for the books that are still in boxes. We went to a doner kebab café after that and had lovely juicy beef with lettuce and raw onion in fresh bread, all washed down with ayran which is something like sour milk. Orhan endured my limping Turkish until I had used up every word I know. Then he answered questions that must seem, to him, to be terribly silly. I am continually amazed by the sheer bulk of merchandise for sale. Who buys all the shoes, light bulbs, underwear? Who buys all the dog collars, spiked to keep wolves at bay? Camel bells? I am intrigued to see women wearing the scarf and long skirt wrangling, unembarrassed, with male stallholders over the quality and price of bras and knickers, tugging at elastic to test its quality, poking at gussets, testing fastenings. There is a tenderness for the elderly that is endearing. But how can the old, blind and maimed survive in a city of potholes, lidless manholes, sudden, unrailed drops of six feet or more from pavement to basement? Having a companion from the area with you on a stroll through the city is exhilarating. You are no longer a stranger. I am tempted to buy two white, fan-tailed pigeons. I know you would love them. They would be happy in cages on the balcony for the present and would be sufficiently tame by summer to be let loose with reasonable hope that they wouldn't fly far. Tell me what you think.

  It has become known that we are taking the Portuguese residence. People congratulate me. The Barbellinis are overdoing the role of friendly neighbour. Colonel Barbellini turns up at the hotel regularly to have afternoon tea with the Countess. (He has a membership in the hotel sports club.) She tolerates him. Walter says he is a bore and that even the Turkish right – who might otherwise adopt him – are peeved by his imperious manner. Just as well. We would not want people to say that the Irish Ambassador is 'wonderfully open', meaning that he has ranked himself, by association, with people of lesser status. The diplomatic community is not kind to the Barbellinis. One of the more shrewish Americans, Sharon Pyx - a lady whom I find it politic to remind frequently that I have a fiancée in Ireland - asked me if it were true that there is a track worn between our new residence and the house next door.

  'Angelina Barbellini and the Portuguese Ambassador.... Haven't you heard? They had much in common. The talk is that Colonel Barbellini feels that it may now be his turn to go courting next-door, maintain the right of way, so to speak.'

  Sharon is a mischievous woman. I refuse to worry over her insinuations. There is such a track, caused, no doubt, by the normal commerce between neighbours, by the goats that still graze in the vacant lot and by the platonic excursions of the friendly Barbellini maid, bearing pizza to Orhan.