Letter from a Stranger

‘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 mobile 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 blonde 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 phonebook.’

‘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 dialled her office, passed on the name and waiting 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 lift, 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.

Staring back, Iffet asked, ‘What is it? What is wrong?’

‘I’ve just thought of something. If a person owns a house in Istanbul, or an apartment, would the property have to be registered with a government agency? You know, for local taxes?’

‘It would, yes!’ Iffet exclaimed. ‘Ownership of property has to be registered at the deed and land office at the local municipality. Tapu ve Kadastro Dairesi, that’s the name of the land office. I must put one of my staff on this immediately. If you’ll excuse me, Justine, I must speak in Turkish to that person. It will be quicker.’

‘No problem.’

Taking a few steps away from Justine, Iffet again used her phone, and within a split second was talking rapidly to someone in her office.

‘It is being taken care of,’ she announced a moment later, a huge smile on her face, her brown eyes sparkling. She glanced at her watch. ‘It’s twelve thirty now. Lunchtime. So I might not receive the information until tomorrow.’

‘That’s all right, and thank you. Come on, let’s go and have lunch.’ Together Justine and Iffet walked across the lobby, through the lounge, the indoor café and out onto the terrace.

They were shown to a table in a corner, one that had a spectacular view of the hotel, its gardens and the swimming pool. Beyond was the Bosphorus flowing down into the Black Sea. As usual it was busy with varied traffic. Today there were sailing boats, private yachts, tourist boats and the ferries, plus a couple of cargo ships. In the distance, a huge cruise ship sat stationary on the far horizon, silhouetted against the bright blue sky like a behemoth.

‘What a fantastic sight this is!’ Justine said.

‘It is lovely. If you didn’t want to move you could stay here and keep very busy. There’s the spa, a hair salon, many shops, bars, restaurants, swimming and tennis.’

Justine smiled. ‘But I do want to move, I want to see this city, get to know it.’

‘I have made a list for you.’ Iffet immediately pulled a sheet of paper out of her bag. ‘A list of churches, such as the Haghia Sophia, the little Haghia Sophia, both built by your male namesake, Justinian. The Blue Mosque, the Topkapi Museum, and various palaces. I’ll take you wherever you want to go tomorrow.’

‘I’m in your hands, you’re the expert, but I wouldn’t want to miss the Grand Bazaar and the Spice Bazaar.’

‘I have them on the list for Saturday,’ Iffet answered, then glanced up at the waiter who had appeared at the table. She ordered sparkling water and so did Justine, and both women took the menus he handed to them.

‘I’m not a foodie, not very adventurous when it comes to food,’ Justine explained, ‘and I see several things here that I like. A club sandwich, for one, and a number of good salads. Do you know what you want, Iffet?’

‘Like you, I am a simple eater. I will select one of the salads.’

‘And I’m going to go for the club sandwich.’ Justine beckoned to the waiter who came over and took their order, and then Justine said to Iffet, ‘Have you ever been to New York?’

Iffet shook her head. ‘But I do know London quite well. I go there often. Do you want to travel here in Turkey? Is there anywhere special you’d like to visit?’

‘I’ve always wanted to go to Ephesus, but I’m afraid I won’t be able to do it this trip. Perhaps next time.’

‘If you make your documentary.’

‘That’s right.’

The two women liked each other, had clicked immediately during the drive from Atatürk Airport, and their conversation was nonstop both before and during lunch. On the plane, Justine had re-read Joanne’s computer printouts and the travel guide she had given her, and because she was a quick study and had a retentive memory, she was able to have an intelligent discussion with Iffet. But always at the back of Justine’s mind was an image of her grandmother, and thoughts of Anita Lowe. But she knew that once she had located one or both of them she would be able to relax. For the moment she remained tense inside, anxiety ridden.

At exactly two o’clock, Justine interrupted their conversation about the Basilica Cistern, a vast underground water system, saying to Iffet, ‘I’m sorry to cut this short for a moment, but I must call my brother. He’s expecting to hear from me about now.’

‘That is perfectly all right, Justine, I shall give you your privacy.’ Iffet made to stand up and leave the table.

Justine put out a hand, touched her arm, exclaimed, ‘No, no, that’s not necessary. I’m just calling him to let him know I’ve arrived safely and am in your care.’ She shook her head, sighed lightly. ‘He worries about me a lot.’ Taking out her mobile phone, she dialled Richard’s apartment, and within a few seconds she heard his voice.

‘It’s me, Rich,’ she said. ‘Safe and sound in Istanbul, sitting by the Bosphorus having lunch with Iffet. It’s exactly two o’clock here, and I guess you’re having breakfast in New York.’

‘I am. A piece of toast and a mug of coffee standing up in the kitchen. How was the flight? How’s Istanbul? What’s the hotel like?’ he asked in a rush of questions.

‘The flight was great, just under ten hours, and landed on time. Istanbul is fascinating, what little I’ve seen of it. The weather is fabulous, and so is the hotel. Oh, and Iffet is lovely …a friend already.’

‘So you’re in safe hands all round, and I can relax.’

‘Of course you can. Anyway, you know very well I can take care of myself. Any news, anything special happening?’

‘Nothing at all. Daisy is great, work’s going good, and the first part of the installation is under way. So far without any hitches.’

‘Great. I obviously don’t have any news about anything. Too soon. I’ll call you tomorrow at this time, but my phone’s always on if you need me. Big hug, love you.’

‘Love you too, Juju. My arms around you.’

After clicking off, Justine smiled at Iffet and confided, ‘He fusses about me, but he just can’t help himself. I guess I’m the same with him. We’re twins, and we’re almost literally joined at the hip.’

‘Oh, twins! I understand about twins. I have a friend who is a twin, and she and her sister are the same way.’

‘I can imagine. But it’s fantastic in so many different ways. Now, getting back to our interrupted conversation, you were telling me that the Basilica Cistern goes back to Byzantine times and was laid out under Justinian.’

‘It’s a cavernous vault underneath Istanbul. We can visit it if you are interested, it is open to the public.’

‘I’d love to see it.’ Justine opened her black leather handbag, pulled out her black Moleskine notebook. She found the page she was looking for, said, ‘I put the Basilica Cistern on my list, along with the two big bazaars.’

‘Good. We shall cover everything in the next few days. Perhaps this little tour of ancient places in Istanbul will produce an idea for your documentary.’

‘It just might,’ Justine murmured. ‘It just might.’

EIGHT

A voice filled the room. A man’s voice. Melodic. Slightly high pitched. Singing in a foreign language.

Justine opened her eyes and blinked in the dim light. Struggling up into a sitting position on the bed, she listened more attentively as the voice finally trailed off, stopped. Now there was perfect stillness. No sound at all.

Sliding off the bed, where she had been dozing, Justine went over to the seating area. The French doors were open, and she stepped out onto the terrace, looking around. Leaning against the terrace railings, she peered down into the garden below, expecting to see an orchestra, the singer preparing to sing another song. But there was no band. No musicians. No singer.

Then, suddenly, she understood. What she had just heard was the voice of a muezzin standing at the top of a minaret, calling the faithful to prayer. Joanne had mentioned this last weekend, explained that it happened five times a day, that electronic amplification carried the muezzin’s voice around entire districts, all of which were large and heavily populated.

The muezzin’s singing had awakened her from her languorous dozing, forced her off the bed, and she didn’t care. In fact, she was glad. She had some serious thinking to do.

After lunch with Iffet, she had come up to her room, unpacked, put everything neatly away and called Eddie Grange in London. He had not been able to find out anything on the Internet about the two companies her grandmother had been associated with. Very simply, there was no evidence that there had been either showrooms or offices for Exotic Lands and Faraway Places. It was as if they had not existed.

She had thanked Eddie and hung up. This new information, and the fact that her grandmother was not listed in the London phonebook, more or less proved that she did not live in London any longer. Perhaps she had vacated the city long ago and settled permanently. Unless she had an unlisted phone number. But Justine doubted that. Her grandmother wasn’t into the secrecy game. Unlike her mother, who was.

With her arms folded and resting on top of the railings, she stared out into the night, lost for a moment in the beauty. The sky was a lovely deep pavonine blue, the stars were coming out in a brightly scattered array, and there were twinkling lights everywhere, especially on the other side of the Bosphorus. The Asian side.

How odd it is, she thought, to be here in Istanbul and straddled between Europe and Asia Minor, on two continents at once. What an intriguing place this was. Straightening up, she realized she was more positive than ever that her grandmother was here, somewhere in this city. She felt it in her bones.

Now she couldn’t help wondering if the search at the land registry office would produce an address for Anita? Gran? Of course it was possible that Gabriele had her own home here. She had been independent by nature, decisive and driven, had stood on her own two feet, battling the world, making everything work for herself and for them.

Justine smiled inwardly. She had inherited those traits from her granny, no doubt about that. In fact, her father had told her she was more like her grandmother than her mother. And it was true, thank God.

Why would her grandmother come to live here in Istanbul? Justine was able to answer that question instantly.

Her grandmother’s lifelong friend Anita lived here, and there were several other good reasons as well. The weather was mild all year round, according to Iffet, and was certainly the perfect climate for an older woman; knowledge of Istanbul from years ago, when she was doing business; other old friends residing in the city; a lifestyle she enjoyed.

Justine went back into the room, turned on several lamps and sat down in a chair. She closed her eyes, focusing her mind on Gran, and intensely so.

To all intent and purpose, Gabriele Hardwicke had seemingly disappeared off the face of the earth. Just as if she had died. Justine knew she hadn’t. She had Anita’s letter to prove it.

Certainly there was nothing of her life remaining in London. Earlier today Eddie had told her so in no uncertain terms. Zilch, was the way he had put it. And certainly she had been surprised, even startled, when he had wondered aloud if her importing business in London had ever existed.

What if the same thing happened here? What if neither woman owned homes here? Then there would be no way to find them. She would be facing a brick wall…

A blue-and-white tiled wall. Unexpectedly she was seeing this in her mind’s eye… a blue-and-white tiled wall in her grandmother’s kitchen in New York. No, several walls. Tiles from Istanbul, Gran had told her. Like the blue-and-white vases, tubs, planters and urns her father and Gran used to sell to interior designers in Manhattan. And brass objects. And carpets. Those beautiful silk-woven carpets from Istanbul. No, from Hereke, a small town located outside the city.

As all this came rushing back to her, she thought: That’s it. She snapped open her eyes and sat bolt upright. Dealers in tiles, ceramic objects, antiques and carpets… those were the people she had to find, if it became necessary. Perhaps they would remember her grandmother, perhaps even still knew her, and therefore knew where she lived.

Justine went to the desk, began to make notes about the items that had been imported from Turkey by her father and grandmother. As she did this she felt an easing of the tension inside her, because she had thought of another way she might be able to trace Gabriele Hardwicke. She had to find her. She would not rest until she did. And she would start tomorrow.

At one moment, Justine roused herself from her unceasing thoughts of her grandmother and pushed herself up from the desk. She could not resist the pull of the terrace that opened off her room, and she went outside to sit under the night sky. She glanced up, marvelling at that midnight blue arc above her. The stars were amazing… so many of them here in Istanbul, littering a sky that was clear, peaceful and infinite.

Across the Bosphorus the lights of Turkey and Anatolia on the Asiatic side were pinpoints of brilliant colour glittering across the countryside, turning it into a fairyland. And downstairs people were already dining at the terrace café; she could hear the sound of muffled voices and laughter against the backdrop of a tinkling piano.

She immediately recognized the song, picking up the strains of ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’ from one of her favourite old movies, The Wizard of Oz. Her grandmother had loved that movie as much as she and Richard had when they were little. And she herself had always yearned for Dorothy’s sparkling, scarlet shoes.

That’s what I need, a Wizard, she thought, and a Good Fairy and a Magic Wand. She let out a small sigh, and then it nudged its way in… that maddening thought of the estrangement. What had happened between her mother and Gran to cause this insane rift? She wondered then if it could possibly have anything to do with money? Her mother was a spendthrift – she knew that only too well from her childhood, her father’s angry tones echoing in her head right now, as if he were standing next to her. Bankrupt was another word constantly on his lips. ‘You’ll bankrupt me, the way you spend,’ he used to shout angrily, and there would be another row between her parents, doors banging and raised voices for hours.

But they always made up eventually, and things normalized again. But looking back she acknowledged that they were either in each other’s arms or at each other’s throats… it had been the most tumultuous of marriages. After one of these rows had occurred, her grandmother had not come to the country for a while. She had gone instead to Huntington to stay with her close friend and lawyer, Trent, at his house on the water overlooking Long Island Sound. Sometimes Gran took them with her, and she and Rich enjoyed those trips, and enjoyed being with Uncle Trent, who made them laugh and spoiled them and thought up fantastic treats. Her mother never wanted them to go out there to Long Island, mostly because she did not like Trent Saunders. Not at all.

She was jealous, Justine suddenly thought, jealous of Trent’s presence in Gran’s life. What was it that she had once muttered? ‘Nobody can take the place of my father.’ But her father had died when her mother was seven. She had idealized him. She had always been going on about Peter Hardwicke.

How odd that she had forgotten hearing her mother say that to Gran, and for so many years. Unexpectedly, it stood out in her mind now, perhaps because it informed her, told her something important: Trent Saunders had been more than her grandmother’s American lawyer, he had been a special friend, very special indeed. I hope he was, Justine thought, seeing her grandmother in her mind’s eye, the lovely looking blonde with blue eyes and a mischievous laugh, always so elegant and charming, and ever the lady, the genuine thing. A class act.

Anger flared in her. Anger with her mother. For a split second, she was again tempted to call her in China, but resisted. Why alert her to anything? Far better to confront her when she had accomplished what she had come here to do. And yet again she was positive her grandmother’s whereabouts would not be forthcoming. Her mother’s modus operandi was always to deny everything.

Glancing at her watch, Justine saw that it was nine thirty, and she went into the bedroom. Picking up the phone, she called room service, ordered a green salad, a plate of assorted cheeses and a pot of English breakfast tea with lemon. This done, she found the zapper, turned on the television, found CNN, and sat down to watch the latest news, wanting to connect to the rest of the world again.

Even as a child she had loved news, was always thrilled to know what was happening around the world, which was why she had become a journalist. She had been, and still was, a news buff.

She watched CNN, found herself glancing at the rolling text at the bottom of the screen, and switched to Sky News out of London. Nothing but bad news tonight, she thought, as she gazed at the screen and the unfolding events. The voice of her first news editor at the local Connecticut paper now reverberated in her brain. ‘Bad news sells newspapers,’ he had constantly told his reporters. ‘Don’t bother to bring me good news.’ Well, the world these days was one big bad news story on a global scale.

Wanting variety, she zapped again, found her own network, Cable News International, and sat glued to the screen until room service came.

The waiter eventually arrived at her door, wheeled the table into the middle of the room, and placed it so that it faced the television set. She thanked him as she signed the room service bill, and then sat down, continuing to watch as she picked at the salad.

Suddenly Justine stiffened. There was her own face. On the screen. And an announcer’s voice saying, ‘Famed documentary filmmaker Justine Nolan takes you into the private realm of the world’s greatest living artist, Jean-Marc Breton. Her filmed biography of the master, “Proof of Life”, will air on this network in September as a CNI documentary special.’

Images of Jean-Marc Breton – his homes in Provence and Spain and some of his paintings – flashed across the screen and then were gone. And so was her face. The news continued to roll. Business as usual.

Justine was taken aback. She now realized what Miranda Evans had meant when she had said, immediately after the screening, ‘We’ve got to maximize this, Justine. It’s a brilliant film, and it’s going to be a worldwide hit. I’m going to make sure of that. I’ll prepare a campaign immediately, do some promos.’

Miranda had said this on Tuesday. Today was Thursday. So Miranda had done the work yesterday, splicing a few key frames together, writing a couple of lines to go with them, and having Eric Froman, of the golden voice, do a voice-over. Just a few good words had been enough to accompany those vivid visuals. And voilà! Here was a promo on air tonight. Miranda Evans was moving swiftly, working well ahead of time. She was obviously convinced she really did have a potential hit on her hands. But then Miranda has always promoted her, backed her with a network right from the beginning.

Wow, oh wow! Justine was pleased, and went to find her cell phone, punched in Richard’s number, needing to share this with her brother.

When he answered, she said, ‘Rich, it’s me. Is this a bad time? Or can you talk?’

‘Hi. And it’s okay, I’m in my office. What’s happening?’

‘Well, listen to this! Miranda’s worked wonders already. I’ve just seen the first promo for “Proof of Life” on CNI. Imagine that. I saw it by accident, and obviously she had the promo made yesterday when I was flying here. I must admit, it took me by surprise.’

‘Hey, that’s great. I’ll keep a look out for it tonight. And she is a fast worker. How was your day?’

‘A bit disappointing, in one sense. Anita and Gran are not in the Istanbul phonebook. But I guess we knew that. Iffet is checking with the land registry office, to see if they’re listed there. They would be if they own homes here. Eddie hasn’t been able to find any trace of those companies Gran was involved with. You know, Exotic Lands and Faraway Places. As he put it, “there’s zilch in London”. He even suggested they might not have existed.’

‘He’s wrong. Gran talked about them to us, and she didn’t invent such things. She probably closed them down many years ago, and he hasn’t gone back far enough. Let’s hope Iffet finds something positive.’

‘I came up with a couple of other ideas. I thought Iffet could take me to see some dealers in carpets and ceramics. If I’m lucky we’ll find somebody who knew Gran, and knows where she lives today.’