Istanbul Passage

“Suleyman’s Mosque. Start with that.”

“What else? Not in the guidebooks. What do you like?”

“Me? Everything. The water. All the boats. The food.”

“The food?”

“Not this stuff. Their food.”

“Eggplant,” she said.

“But look what they do with it. The sultans had a chef just for eggplant.”

“You like it here,” she said, her eyes appraising him.

The man was moving away from the wall, heading toward the buffet table, but still keeping them in sight. Why not just come over? But he wouldn’t, not while they were talking. He’d wait for an opening.

“It’s the layers,” Leon said. “Take here, where we’re standing. The Orient Express built it. So their passengers would have somewhere to stay. Somewhere grand. With all the latest.”

“Here?” she said, taking in the faded room.

“The height of elegance then. Like the train. The dining room at Sirkeci has the same look. This was Pera in those days, the European quarter. All the embassies, until they moved to Ankara. Just across the bridge from the Ottoman city. Except all of it was Ottoman, really. For five hundred years. Before that, the hill was Genoese, a trading concession from the Byzantines. They built the tower. The Byzantines lasted a thousand years. You can probably see their shipyards from your room. All along the Horn. Istanbul is like that. You’re always standing on layers.”

“What about this layer? Now,” she said, interested.

“Now? The war was a hard time for Turkey.”

“But they were neutral.”

“They kept a standing army. Just in case. A lot of money for a poor country. Now they’re broke. The house needs a paint job, but they have to put it off to next year. So everything looks a little shabby. But I guess that’s true everywhere, since the war.”

“Except home.”

He stopped, then dipped his head, ceding the point. “Except there.”

“But you want to stay here,” she said, almost to herself, trying to read his face. “You don’t give much away, do you? Before, when you were standing here, just looking, I had no idea what you were thinking. The others, yes, but you, no idea.”

“I didn’t know I was so mysterious,” he said lightly. “Most people don’t think so.”

“Well, most people aren’t, are they? Themselves. So they don’t see it. They don’t see the layers, either.” She looked away, over his shoulder. “My god, who’s that?”

He turned. “That’s Lily. Nadir.”

“But who is she?”

“Her husband took over Vassilakos Shipping. When the Greeks were thrown out. Widow. In Washington she’s what they’d call a hostess. She gives parties.”

“She’s not shabby.”

She was dressed for a funeral, a high-necked, black silk dress with padded shoulders and only a few jewels, day diamonds, a thin bracelet, and one giant pin that glittered, starlike, on the dark fabric. Her hair, wheat blond streaked with gray, was covered by a black cloth with silver thread, something between a snood and a head scarf, a soft Ottoman wrap that made all the hats in the room look dowdy.

“You don’t see jewels like that in Ankara.”

“You don’t see them here much, either. Lily’s a special case.”

She had been standing at the doorway, scanning the room, and now saw Barbara and headed toward her, people stepping aside as she moved across, a kind of social choreography. She took Barbara’s hands in hers, a regal moment, and said something, then as Barbara teared up, gripped the hands harder for emphasis, a gesture more dramatic than hugging. Everyone in the room had turned to watch.

“Another Istanbul layer,” Leon said. “She was in Abdul Hamid’s harem.”

“His harem? How old is she?”

“It’s not that long since they abolished it. Forty years, less. She was a child.”

“A child?”

“They were often sent early. For training,” he said, then saw her expression. “Not that kind of training. Household things. Manners. Not everybody got to sleep with the sultan. Certainly not children. It was supposed to be a privilege, to be a gozde. One of the noticed.”

“And was she? Noticed?”

“No, she was too young. After, she was lucky. She found a protector.”

“I’ll say,” Kay said, still looking at the pin.

Lily was moving away from Barbara now, respects paid, and passing the man with the moustache. A glance, almost too quick to be noticed, not stopping, but aware of him.

“Would you like to meet her?”

“You know her?”

“Everybody knows Lily. She has one of the great yalis. On the Bosphorus. You come in on the train and see the houses, the ones that look like they’re falling down, and you think that’s Istanbul. But you don’t see the yalis. The old gardens. The khedive used to stay in hers, when he came to Istanbul. Then her husband bought it. So now it’s hers. A great friend of Ataturk’s, by the way. From the early days. So don’t say anything anti-Turk.”

“First Frank, now you. I have been let out from time to time.”

“I just meant-”

“I know what you meant. I’m an embassy wife. It’s funny, though, she doesn’t look Turkish. The light hair, I mean. You don’t usually see-”

“Circassian. Originally.”

She cocked her head. “And now you’re not going to tell me where that is and I’m not going to ask because I don’t want you to know I don’t know, so I’ll never know.”

He smiled. “Part of Russia now. East of the Black Sea. Very popular with the sultans. For slaves.”

“Gentlemen prefer blondes,” she said.

“Even then.”

Lily was surrounded by people but turned, a social instinct, as if she had actually felt Leon approach. “Leon,” she said, the French pronunciation. “How nice. I was hoping.” She extended her hand to be kissed, playful.

“I didn’t know you knew Barbara.”

Her eyes lit up, a naughty child caught out. “Hardly at all. But, darling, I couldn’t resist. No one’s talking about anything else. Imagine. Like a roman policier. In Istanbul. I had to come.”

“But a robbery-”

“Ouf. With no money. A Turkish thief would take money, no? The Bosphorus at night? An assignation, it has to be. The fatal meeting. But who?” She looked around the room. “So maybe the jealous wife. She could do it. Very strong hands, that one, you should feel them. A gun would be nothing for her.”

Leon smiled. “Behave yourself. Meet Kay Bishop. She’s here from Ankara.”

“With the embassy?” she said warmly, taking her hand.

Kay nodded. “My husband. Does it show?”

“Everybody in Ankara is with an embassy. Why else would they go? The dust. My god, such a lot of dust. Of course, Kemal wanted a Turkish city, and that’s right, but you lose something too, I think. Poor Istanbul, too decadent for him he said, he’s just a soldier, barracks are fine, but you know he meant there were too many foreigners. In those days all the shop signs-Armenian, Greek, Hebrew. Now just Turkish. Even here. A Turkish city now.”

“It’s Kay’s first visit.”

“Yes? Then you have the perfect guide. No one knows the city like Leon. It’s always the foreigners-we’re the true Istanbullus.”

“You? You haven’t been a foreigner since-”