Letter from a Stranger (7 page)

“This situation is different, because I sense there’s something rather big, important behind the estrangement, and I think Mom’s the
guilty
one. Gran’s innocent of wrongdoing, of that I am really,
really
certain. Our grandmother always had her feet on the ground, she was extremely well mannered, even tempered, levelheaded, practical, and a very nice woman. I often wondered where Mom got her temperamental nature from, or rather, from whom. Listen to me, Rich, the thing is this … I believe it would be dangerous to let our mother know we
know
what she did, how she’s kept Gran away from us all these years. If she knows where Gran is, and also Anita, then who knows what could happen? She might go and see them, scare the wits out of them, by harassing them.”

“I don’t think she’d do them any physical harm,” Richard protested, then frowned. “Is that what you’re getting at?”

“No, I’m not. I agree, I don’t think she’d attack them physically.
Verbally,
yes. And that kind of abuse can be very disturbing to anyone, most especially two old ladies. And what if one of them had a heart attack or a stroke because our mother scared them?”

“Yes, I see what you mean, she can be very voluble. And vicious. She’s got a nasty tongue.”

“Only too true. She’s a loose cannon, in my opinion. Capable of anything. So no, I don’t want to phone her and ask her where Gran lives. I’ll find Anita, and she’ll take me to her. Don’t forget, I was a journalist before I became a filmmaker, and I know how to track someone down.”

“And there’s Iffet. Jo thinks she’s going to be of great help to you.”

“She probably is.” Justine glanced at the clock. “My God, it’s almost two o’clock! Hey, Rich, I can call Eddie in London, get him to flip through the phone book.” She reached for the phone on the bedside table, and Richard grimaced. “Don’t call him at this hour, for heaven’s sake. It’s only seven o’clock in London.”

“Knowing Ed, he’ll be up.”

“But won’t he think it strange that you’re calling him in the middle of the night here?”

“I guess so.” Putting the receiver back in the cradle, she said, “I’ll give him a shout later. In the meantime, I wouldn’t mind a cup of tea … or hot milk. Something. And guess what, I’m hungry.”

“So am I. So it’s settled then, we’re going to leave it alone. By that I mean we’re not going to call our mother in China? Or wherever the hell she might be?”

“Correct. I’m going to find Gran, and it’s not going to take me as long as you think. I’ve a good feeling about this friend of Joanne’s, and I trust my own instincts. Gran’s in Istanbul. And a good-looking English woman, with a hint of regality, is more than likely part of local society, moving in the right circles.”

“You’re right. Let’s go down to the kitchen. I’d love a mug of hot tea and some cake or cookies.”

Justine leapt out of bed, threw on her robe, and she and her twin went down the stairs to the kitchen. As she put the kettle on, Richard opened the refrigerator door, and finding nothing he wanted to eat, he went into the pantry. “Oh, my God, there’s a coconut cake in here,” he exclaimed, carrying out the cake stand with a glass dome.

Justine stared at him. “If you touch that cake you’re in
real
trouble! Pearl will have your guts for garters!”

“That’s one of Dad’s expressions!”

“Borrowed from our grandmother. And I believe Pearl made the cake for the tea party in the gazebo tomorrow.”

“
Whoops.
I’ll go and put it back.” A moment later he emerged from the walk-in pantry with a glass biscuit jar. “What do you think? Will Pearl get mad if I have a couple of these cookies?”

“I think you’re on safe ground.”

*   *   *

The fire had burned low, but there were a few glowing embers left, and so there was a warm and cozy feeling in the kitchen. Richard and Justine sat at the big square table, sipping their mugs of tea and munching on the cookies.

Neither of them spoke for a while, but their frequent and sometimes long silences were never awkward. Rather, they were comforting. It had always been like this since they were born. They were totally at ease with each other, and on the same wavelength. Very often they had the same thought simultaneously, and said what the other was thinking.
Twinship
. That was the way Richard described it, much to Justine’s glee.

As children they had done everything together, had gone to the same schools from kindergarten through high school. Later, they went to Connecticut College in New London, a choice that had been perfect for them, as it turned out.

Joanne had asked if she could join them there, and they had been delighted when she got in. And so the childhood triumvirate had continued from their young adulthood into their college years, and afterwards.

Justine and Richard understood each other completely and on every level, and now Richard suddenly said, “We’ve both clamped down on our anger, and that’s best for the moment, don’t you agree?”

She nodded, and said in a low tone, “But the day of reckoning will come, you know.”

“Anger with our mother and a confrontation with her now would be an indulgence at this moment, Justine. The most important thing is to get you on your way to Turkey.”

“Agreed.” Reaching out, she put her hand on his, resting on the table. “I know you’re going to worry, but I’ll call you every day, I promise.”

“Day or night, any time, my cell will be on.” He shook his head, squeezed her hand. “I hope Gran’s all right. I can’t bear to think what the last ten years have been like for her.… She must have been so hurt.”

“And lonely,” Justine remarked softly. “That’s the worst thing of all for anyone. Loneliness.”

Part Two

THE SEARCH

To reach the port of heaven, we must sail sometimes with the wind and sometimes against it—but we must sail, and not drift, nor lie at anchor.

—Oliver Wendell Holmes,
The Autocrat of the Breakfast Table

Seven

Justine recognized Iffet Özgönül at once. It helped, of course, that the woman she zeroed in on was standing next to a tall man holding a sign with the name
NOLAN
printed on it in large letters.

But Justine knew it was her. She fitted Joanne’s description: slender, petite, a brunette with short curly hair and a big smile on her face. And now she was waving. Iffet had been told what to expect by Jo, no doubt about that: a lanky blond American with long hair and blue eyes.

Waving back, then turning around, Justine beckoned to the young man carrying her two bags, and strode forward, increasing her pace. He hurried after her.

A moment later the two women were shaking hands, and Iffet was saying in perfect English, “Hello, hello. So pleased to meet you. And welcome to Istanbul.”

“I’m glad I’m here, and pleased to meet you too, Ms. Özgönül.”

“Oh, please, call me Iffet, everyone does.”

“Iffet it is, and I’m Justine, okay?”

“Of course. And it’s a name we Turks know well. Centuries ago we had an emperor called Justinian, who built the now famous Hagia Sophia Church. You don’t need a history lesson now. Let’s go to the car. And by the way, this is Selim, our driver.”

The tall man bowed courteously, and smiled; Justine smiled back and thrust out her hand, which he shook.

Iffet led her through Atatürk International Airport and outside to the car, which turned out to be a small minibus. As the young baggage man was stowing her bags in the back, Justine glanced at Iffet and asked, “Are we picking up other people?”

“Oh, no, not at all. But I always use these little buses.” Lowering her voice, she added, “They’re cheaper than regular cars, and more comfortable.” With a smile she hurried over to the baggage handler, and handed him money, thanking him.

Justine also thanked him. “I could have done that, Iffet,” she murmured. “Look, I have the tip money here right in my pocket.”

“Oh no, it’s fine, really. Come, let us go.… Isn’t it a beautiful day?”

“It surely is,” Justine answered, lifting her head, looking up. The sky was a perfect cerulean blue, with a few white clouds floating above in the vast sky, and it was sunny and warm, perfect spring weather. She took several deep breaths, glad to be outside after the long night flight, and then bounded up the steps into the minibus.

Once they were on their way Iffet asked her what she wanted to do that day, if anything at all, and also told her that she had booked her into the Çiragan Palace Kempinski hotel, following Joanne’s instructions.

“Yes, she told me she wanted me to stay there, that I would love it. As for doing something, I believe I’d like to take it easy today. I did sleep a bit on the plane, but not much. I was sort of restless, frankly. I’d prefer to do nothing.”

“I don’t blame you, Justine. The hotel has a pool. Perhaps more importantly, also a spa. A good spa. Perhaps you should indulge yourself.” Iffet gave her a big smile, her whole face lighting up. “You can even have a Turkish bath, if you want. However, that might knock you out.”

Justine began to laugh. “Joanne’s a big fan of them, and insisted I had
one
at least. But not today.”

Changing the subject, Iffet now said, “I’m thrilled that you’re thinking of making a documentary here in Istanbul. May I ask what it’s about?”

“I don’t really know yet,” Justine admitted, giving her a wry smile. “I need to see the city, poke around, learn about the people, the life, and about Istanbul’s history, politics, and religions. I do know that the latter fascinate me. I’ve done a bit of research, Iffet, and I think it’s amazing that Muslims, Jews, and Christians have lived peacefully side by side in Istanbul for many centuries. What a feat that is. Unbelievable.”

“It is, and I will be pleased to help you with your research, Justine. I am at your disposal, as is my entire office.”

“Thank you.”

*   *   *

The lobby of the Çiragan Palace Kempinski was spacious and airy, with a high-flung ceiling, handsome furnishings, and enormous elegance in the grand manner.

Everyone from the doormen and bellboys to the assistant manager and the young public relations woman greeted them with courtesy and friendliness, and Justine realized that they knew Iffet well. That was the reason
she
was getting the royal treatment.

Within seconds of their arrival in the lobby, she and Iffet were whisked up in the elevator by the public relations woman and the assistant manager. Alighting on the fifth floor, they were guided down the corridor to her room. When they were ushered inside, Justine saw at once that it faced the Bosphorus and had a magnificent view. It was large and comfortable, with a seating area in front of French doors which opened onto a terrace furnished with chairs and a table.

“This is great, thank you so much,” she exclaimed to the hotel staff who had accompanied them, as she glanced around, taking everything in. Once they had explained everything, they departed, reminding her they were at her service if she needed anything.

When they were alone, Iffet said, “I’m happy you like the room, Justine. When I came over to inspect it this morning I was also pleased. I had requested one overlooking the Bosphorus, but they’re not always available.”

“Thank you. And it suits my needs perfectly. I’d love to take you to lunch here, Iffet, to discuss a few things. Do you have time?”

“I kept today open for you, and thank you. We should perhaps have lunch on the terrace, it’s a beautiful spot. Unless you prefer to be in air-conditioning.”

“No, outside. I’d just like to tidy up, if you’ll excuse me for a few minutes. But before I do that I need to do one other thing … find a telephone book.” As she spoke, Justine glanced around the room, opened the wardrobe, then a cupboard and a chest of drawers, shaking her head, looking disappointed. “Not one in sight.”

“I can get a number for you immediately.” Iffet pulled out her cell phone and asked, “What is the name of the person?”

“Anita Lowe. And listen, I haven’t found her on any Google search, or anywhere else on the Web. But why not give the local book a shot?”

Iffet explained, “I shall call my office, that is the fastest way.”

Justine nodded, picked up her handbag, and went into the bathroom. After washing her hands and face, she took out a hairbrush and attacked her mane of long blond hair. Once it was sleek, no longer a tangled mess, she put on lipstick and sprayed herself with perfume.

Her mind was racing as she stared at her reflection in the bathroom mirror, her thoughts focused on her grandmother and Anita. She knew she wouldn’t rest until she had found them. Her appearance didn’t matter; they took precedence in her head.

Straightening her black blazer, pulling out the collar of her white shirt, she decided she at least looked tidy, if nothing else. Grabbing her bag she went back to the bedroom, ready for action, prepared for what the rest of the day held.

Iffet glanced at her when she came in, and said in a regretful voice, “Anita Lowe is not listed in the Istanbul phone book.”

“Oh.”
Justine pursed her lips, then she said, “Could you try another name, please?
Gabriele Hardwicke.
That’s Hardwicke with an
e
at the end. Again, I tried to find her number without success.”

Once again Iffet dialed her office, passed on the name, and waited patiently. After a few seconds she shook her head. “No luck.”

“I wonder how I’m going to find these two?” Justine muttered, almost to herself, then forced a smile onto her face. “Thanks for trying, Iffet. Shall we go to lunch?”

“I am ready.”

Going down in the elevator Iffet suddenly turned to Justine, and asked, “Do you have an address for either of the two ladies? If so, you could write a note. I can have it delivered in an hour. There is a special service I use.”

“I don’t have an address for either,” Justine replied as they stepped out into the lobby. She thought: If I had an address I’d be hightailing it over there already. Swiftly she continued, “I really do need to find Anita. I’m fairly certain she lives in Istanbul, and—” Justine cut herself off abruptly, and stood stock-still in the middle of the lobby, staring at Iffet.