Letter from a Stranger (12 page)

“That’s not true, you could. Very easily. You’re my twin.”

“Do you always have to have the last word?”

“Yes, because you had the first when you were born fifteen minutes before me. Dad told me you yelled your lungs out.”

“I can’t remember,” he answered, the laughter still echoing in his voice. “Okay, so it’s a deal. Talk to you later.”

“I’ll send the ads for your approval, once they’re done,” Justine said. “I’ll need your feedback.”

“Keep them simple. Remember, less is more.”

*   *   *

For the next half hour Justine made additional notes about Istanbul in her Moleskine, and stopped, suddenly thinking about the advert. She now realized that Richard had been right on two points. Firstly, if she invited people to come and talk to her about Istanbul, hundreds might indeed show up. Secondly, her grandmother would most likely be unhappy to see her photograph in a newspaper. So she must rethink certain things, and carefully word the advert; she must make a decision also about using the photograph of Gabriele. Maybe it
was
a bad idea, after all.

As soon as she saw Iffet she would offer her the job as chief researcher on the project. She hoped Iffet would accept; she believed she would. Iffet was proud of her city and would want it to be shown in the best way, in the right light.

Now her next task, which had become a daily ritual, was to send her e-mails to Daisy, Joanne, and Ellen at the office. All three were done swiftly, and Justine closed down her laptop and went to get ready.

Iffet had warned her it was going to be a very warm day again, and so after she had done her hair and makeup, she chose a light cotton dress and sandals for lunch and the boat trip around the Bosphorus.

The fact that they had not found the two women nagged at her unmercifully; on the other hand, Justine now found solace and renewed hope in the idea of the advertisement for the documentary about Istanbul. Also, she was looking forward to the trip on the boat, since it would show her different aspects of this city which she was coming to know and love.

*   *   *

“And if you would become the researcher on the project, I would be thrilled,” Justine said finally, looking intently at Iffet, having told her about the idea.

“I would be very happy,” Iffet replied in her lovely quiet way. “I am flattered that you would ask me.”

“Thank you, Iffet, thank you so much. What a relief that is, and my office will put you on the payroll of the new company I’m forming for the project. You just have to let me know what your fee will be.”

Iffet simply nodded. Taking a sip of the sparkling water, she then said, “I believe Richard is correct. You cannot invite people to visit you here at the hotel. Hordes will come. Might I make a suggestion, Justine?”

“Yes, go ahead.”

“I think you should ask people to
write or e-mail
to my office, and we will sort them. We can select the right candidates for you to interview.”

“That’s a fabulous idea! And who better than you to choose the people. After all, you’re an Istanbulite.”

“I am, yes, although I was not born here. I come from the country. My family owns a farm, that’s where I grew up.”

“And you left and came to the city, just like I did. I was born and bred in Connecticut, and Richard and I still use the house we grew up in. We go there for weekends. Does your family still have the farm?”

Iffet nodded. “One of my brothers runs it.”

“Do you come from a big family then?”

“I have a sister, Nimet, and three brothers, Hasan, Ihsan, and Ismet. My sister lives in Istanbul.”

“That’s nice that she lives here.… I guess the two of you emancipated yourselves, like I did.”

“That’s true. Returning to the advertisement, what exactly are you going to say in it? About the documentary.”

The two women were sitting in the restaurant on the terrace of the hotel, and now Justine bent over from the waist, picked up her white handbag, rummaged around, and found her notebook. After a moment of turning pages, Justine cleared her throat, began to read.

“Emmy Award–winning television producer Justine Nolan plans to make a documentary entitled
Biography of a City: The Lifestory of Istanbul.
” She paused, glanced at Iffet. “That’s the headline at the top and the text is quite simple, only a few lines which would run to one side of the ad. This is what I’ve written.
Justine Nolan’s latest documentary,
Proof of Life,
will be shown on the Cable News International network this coming September. It is the life story of the man considered to be the world’s greatest living artist, Jean-Marc Breton, and it will be viewed by millions around the world
.”

After another pause, she then went on, “There will be a bit of blank space, and then I want to say something like this …
Now Justine Nolan plans to focus her camera on Istanbul, its history, religions, traditions, architecture and historical sites, food, as well as its diverse peoples. Do you have a story to tell about this city? If so please…”
Closing the notebook, Justine finished, “That’s as far as I’ve gone with the text, and now of course we can add your office address. What do you think?”

“It’s perfect in length. Concise, to the point. When do you plan to have it in the paper?”

“Hopefully next week. I thought of using your photograph as the chief researcher, my own as the producer, and Gabriele’s as the advisor on the project. She may see it, or a friend might, and she’ll know I’m here. But that aside, I am truly serious about doing the film, the ad is not merely a ploy to find my grandmother. I hope you understand that, Iffet.”

“You are a serious and sincere person, Justine, I know that. And your project is very exciting. I am delighted to be associated with it, and I will be happy to give you my photograph.”

“Thank you, and now perhaps we’d better order our salads. What time is the boat coming to pick us up?”

“It will be at the hotel jetty at four o’clock.”

Twelve

Several hours later Justine and Iffet boarded the sleek white motorboat anchored at the Çiragan Palace jetty, and went to sit in the glassed-in area behind the two men in charge of the boat. It was a sunny afternoon, extremely warm, and this part of the deck was cool and comfortable, and there was a small table with water, bottled drinks, and a bucket of ice.

Once they were on their way, moving down the straits toward the Bosphorus Bridge, Justine went to stand in the open area of the boat. She was armed with her video camera and started shooting at once. As they sped under it she was amazed at the size of the suspension bridge. What a magnificent piece of engineering it was.

Iffet came to join her, explaining, “We are going to the edge of the Black Sea. We’ll turn and come back up on the Asian side. And we can do the trip again if you wish. For extra pictures.”

“That’s a great idea, Iffet, and thanks for suggesting this. It’s giving me a wholly different perspective.” Turning to look at her, she said, “I’ve been thinking of bringing Eddie Grange in from London for a few days. He works as the line producer on the documentaries I make in Europe. I’d like him to get a feel of Istanbul, because I’m hoping he’ll sign on for this new documentary.”

Iffet nodded, then asked, “What is a line producer?”

“Exactly what it says … a producer who is on the line every day, in other words on the set and actually overseeing the shooting of the movie by the director. I’m the executive producer, which means I’m in charge of everything and everyone. I’m on the set every day too, of course, but only for a few hours. I have to attend to the business end.”

“In other words, you’re the boss.”

Justine grimaced, half laughed, murmured, “You’ve got it.”

She started filming once more, and Iffet remained at her side, also enjoying being on the boat.

They were moving along up the other side now, passing many mosques, villas, museums, ancient buildings, and parks, which were all visible because they were built on the shoreline. Iffet began to talk about the Asiatic side of Istanbul, pointing out monuments, famous landmarks, and restaurants noted for their good food; she also gave her the history of this part of the city and Turkey in general. Justine was once again impressed with her knowledge, which was exceptional, and covered everything from archaeology to ancient and modern history, and many local traditions.

When they had come full circle around the Bosphorus, Justine said, “Can you ask the driver to take us back to Central Istanbul, Iffet, please? I’d like to get some more shots of the skyline.”

“Yes, I will,” Iffet replied, then added, “But he does speak English.”

“Sorry.” Justine followed her into the covered area of the boat, where she poured herself a glass of water, feeling rather foolish. Of course he spoke English. What an idiot she was. Tourism was big business here, and there were lots of American and English visitors, as well as people from all over the world.

Once they were stationary in the middle of the water, facing Central Istanbul, Justine started to film, wanting to capture the city from various angles, and she moved around a lot.

After a while she stopped shooting and went over to the rail, looking across at the skyline. What she saw took her breath away again … domes of churches, synagogues, and mosques huddled together … the spires of minarets standing tall and slender … gold glittering on the tops of spires and domes of these religious places. Grand old palaces, stately and elegant … modern hotels, apartment buildings, and museums. Beyond were crowded streets and narrow alleyways, the hans, chic shops, offices, restaurants and cafés … the Grand Bazaar and the Spice Market. Boutiques for fashionable clothes and jewelry were everywhere, along with stalls selling vegetables and fruits … fried fish and other local delicacies … Turkish delight and baklava. And mingled amongst them were the homes of Istanbulites. Over eight million people lived and worked here on the European side. There it was in all its glory … a great metropolis teeming with people of all kinds, from all walks of life.

A thought struck her and it made her stiffen, frightened her.
How would she ever find her grandmother in there?
Central Istanbul was overwhelming. I’m on a wild-goose chase, she thought, and a sense of failure trickled through her. A sadness enveloped her as she walked back to the covered area, sat down, sighing under her breath. Damn, damn, damn. A needle in a haystack. That’s what I’m looking for.

Waiting for her to say something, watching her intently, Iffet finally reached out and touched her arm. “What is it, Justine? You look so
pensive.
…” She let her voice fade away, conscious always of everyone’s privacy, never wishing to pry, be invasive, or intrude.

“I’ll never find her,” Justine said at last, her voice full of anguish. “Just looking out at that city over there makes me shrivel inside. It’s not just a city, it’s an overwhelming metropolis and of a kind I’ve never seen before. Foreign to me in a hundred ways, yet oddly familiar in others … and, oh, how it
defeats
me. Gran is lost to me. I believe that now. She could be in a hospital or an old people’s home. And then again she might not live here at all. It’s been a waste of my time, this trip. Finding her is an impossibility.”

“Oh, Justine, do not say that! Do not give up hope.” Leaning forward Iffet said enthusiastically, “I think the idea for the documentary is brilliant. And so is the idea of taking an advertisement.”

Justine lifted her head and looked at her new friend and suddenly felt ashamed of herself. She exclaimed tersely, “Here I go again, moaning and whining, and feeling sorry for myself. I owe you an apology, Iffet. I’ve been extremely selfish since I arrived here a week ago. And you’ve been just wonderful, putting up with me the way you have, and doing all you could to help. I’ve been so self-absorbed about finding my grandmother, I haven’t given a thought to you, and that’s not right when you’ve been so very, very gracious.”

“You haven’t been self-absorbed. You’ve thought about Daisy and worried about Richard, and his state of mind, the loss of his wife, and you have had a
brilliant
idea. To do a biography of a city. Such a
splendid
idea, I believe. So please do not apologize to me. It is not necessary. You are not leaving yet, Justine. You said you were going to get your line producer to fly over from London … Eddie. You said you wanted him to see the city. The other day you called it a city of a thousand and one dreams. I did think this was another good title, if I might say so. Please, do not lose hope … not yet. And remember the advert. That could bring results.”

Justine stared at her, thinking how extraordinary this young woman was, and she said swiftly, “Iffet, you’re such a blessing. You do cheer me up.”

“I am glad. Let us go around the Bosphorus one more time. Another full circle. We will float down the Asian side, and you will take more photographs … such a different side of the city, very unique, so ancient.”

“All right, let’s do it. I might as well get as much stuff as I possibly can.”

*   *   *

Iffet went over to Arzu and Nuri, the drivers, who were standing chatting to each other at the front of the motorboat. After giving them instructions, she returned to the canopied area where Justine was. Iffet sat down next to her. She asked, “What is it? You are concerned. Are you all right?”

“I’m fine, thanks, Iffet. I was just thinking about an idea Richard and I discussed before I left New York. It’s something I could do to find Gran, but I’m reluctant.”

“What could you do?” Iffet looked at her closely, intrigued.

“Hire a private detective. From an agency. Richard and I had thought of doing it, but changed our minds.” Justine turned to face Iffet. “Now I’m not so sure we were right.”

“You said your grandmother is almost eighty. How old is Anita? The same age?”

“I should think so, since they apparently grew up together. They’re probably both very frail now, perhaps not well even; in fact they could be ill.”

“I understand your reluctance to engage an investigator. However, I could find you the right person. Someone discreet. If you decide it is necessary.”