Istanbul Passage

In the back of each passport was a narrow slip of paper. More of Tommy’s code, not alphabet this time. DZ2374, AK52330. Leon stared at them, trying to work out a key, but came up with nothing. It seemed absurd, all of it. He was sitting at a desk with a drawer turned upside down, staring at meaningless numbers. But they must have meant something to Tommy. A man with passports who didn’t travel.

4

KANLICA

“I DIDN’T THINK ANYBODY was this rich anymore,” Kay said, looking past the bow of the boat.

Ahead of them the jetty that fronted Lily’s yali had been lined with hurricane lamps and the jalousied shutters left open, so that the whole house seemed to be shining with light, the white neoclassical facade bathed in it, throwing its mirror image back to the water. Lily had been lucky in the weather, a mild evening, more spring than winter, but even so it was cold on the water and Kay was hunched into a caracul coat, too curious to sit inside the cabin.

“The Vassilakos shipyards,” Leon said.

“Her husband was Greek?”

“No, no, a Turk. A Cypriot. The original owner was Greek. Lily’s husband bought him out during the population exchange. He kept the name, but he’s the one who really built the company.”

“What population exchange?”

“After the war with Greece. In ’twenty-three. Ethnic Greeks were sent home. Vice versa with Turks there. Whether anybody wanted to go or not. People who’d been here forever. It was a bad time. You go to Izmir, places like that, it’s still an open wound. Anyway, it gave Refik a chance to buy.”

Kay looked up, about to ask more, then turned back to the house, too excited to be dragged into the past.

“Here comes the return trip,” she said as an empty launch approached. “And another. My god, how many boats has she got doing this?”

Lily’s yali was on the Asian side, near Kanlica, where people went for yogurt, and she had provided a small fleet of motorboats to ferry guests across.

“This is how they used to do it,” Leon said. “Everybody went by boat. See the yali next to hers? With the big overhang? The boats would just slip in underneath, the way they do in Venice.”

“Not anymore, I guess,” she said, looking at the dark house, half its timber fallen in. “What happened?”

“Fire. They’re all wood, the old yalis. Heated by braziers. One hot coal and- woof. It’s a shame, that one. It’s as old as the Koprulu, a really classic yali. They’re all going, one by one. Arson sometimes, to collect the insurance. People can’t afford to keep them up anymore.”

“Except Lily,” she said, looking at the house again. Houseboys in white jackets were helping people out of boats, lanterns flickering, the rippling water flashing back. She turned to Leon, her eyes catching the light. “Thank you. For bringing me.”

He dipped his head in a mock bow. “Pleasure. No dancing, you know. Mostly just gossip. I hope you won’t be bored.”

“I’ve never been less bored in my life,” she said, almost laughing. “I keep thinking a pumpkin’s going to come and take me away.”

He pretended to look at his watch. “Not yet. Remind me to show you the garden before we leave. It’s famous.”

“This time of year?”

“Well, you have to imagine it.”

And suddenly he was seeing it, that first Bosphorus spring with Anna, everything in blossom, Judas trees and lilac and yellow laburnum, cherry and soft-green chestnut trees, pulling branches down to smell, dizzy with it. Years ago, when they’d been other people. He glanced over at Kay, still gawking at the house. As eager as Anna had been that day, bubbling over, catching his eye while Lily chattered away, a joke between them no one else heard. We talk about seasons, he thought, as if they repeated, came back, but they don’t. That spring was gone, irretrievable, a picture in an album, faces smiling, unaware of what would happen to them.

“What?” Kay said.

“Nothing,” he said, shaking the mood off. “You know the sultans used to light their garden parties with turtles? They’d put candles on their backs and let them wander around. Hundreds of them.”

She looked at him. “The things you know.”

He helped her out of the boat, handing her up to a houseboy, hand outstretched, the cabin passengers lining up behind them. He looked across the strait to Rumeli Hisari, just up the road from where Alexei had landed, not deserted tonight, busy with taxis dropping off people for Lily’s party. While Alexei sat smoking in Laleli, listening for sounds in the hall, turning the chessboard around-unless he was checking exits again. How much longer before something happened? Get the papers from Manyas and go.

“You’re right,” Kay said, looking through the open doors. “She does float.”

Lily was greeting people near the fountain that splashed softly in the center of the reception hall, now talking to Georg Ritter and a burly man Leon didn’t recognize. She was wearing a silk caftan with gold embroidery that billowed as she moved, her hair swept up, seemingly by the wind, in a high bun, held in place by two jeweled combs.

“Leon,” she said, coming over as a boy took their coats. “How wonderful, you brought her. I’m so glad,” she said to Kay, taking her hand. “How pretty you look. Such a lovely dress.” She gave it an appraising look, which Leon followed, the first time he’d seen her without her coat. A long off-white dress with a deep V-neck, cinched at the waist by a silver cord, a simple butterfly pin near her shoulder, garnet he guessed, like a piece of red that had dropped out of her hair.

“Thank you for having me. Your house-” She broke off, suddenly awkward. “I’ve never seen a yali.”

“It’s not one of the old ones, though, you know. Just nineteenth century, when everyone was in love with France.” She gestured toward the facade. “Now the one next door-”

“The one that burned?”

Lily nodded. “Poor Selim. Now that was the real thing. Tulip Period. And now it’s gone. He says he’s going to restore it, but they never do, do they? Just build something new. Do you know Dr. Ritter? He’s at the university. An eminence grise.”

“Grise? Blanche,” Georg said, pointing to his hair. He took Kay’s hand. “But delighted. Leon, I was hoping you’d be here.”

Now introductions were made, Georg bringing over the other man. “Ivan Melnikov,” he said to everybody. “Mrs. Bishop. Leon Bauer.”

“Melnikov?” Leon said involuntarily, hearing Alexei’s voice.

“Yes, you know me?” he said, his voice direct, too blunt for the frothy room, someone who might bump into the furniture. A broad, weathered face, pitted, maybe scarred years ago by acne.

“No. The name seems familiar, that’s all.”

“It’s common, the name. Mrs. Bishop. The Bishop at the embassy?”

“You see?” Lily said. “Everybody knows everybody in Istanbul.”

“You know Frank?” Leon said, curious.

“We have met.” He turned to Kay. “He’s here?”

“No. Ankara. I’m visiting Istanbul for a few days.”

“A beautiful woman alone in Istanbul,” he said, shaking his head, a stage gesture, trying to be courtly. “No Russian would allow it.”

“I’ve got a chaperone.” She nodded at Leon.

“Him? A chaperone?” Georg said.

“You don’t think I’m safe with him?” Kay said, looser now.