Letter from a Stranger

‘I’d love it. You see, what happens to me is that I get visually overburdened if I view too many buildings and objects. I lose my judgement. I’m better if I pace myself. And listen, thanks for this morning. You are very knowledgeable. I was genuinely fascinated by Topkapi Palace – and especially the women’s quarters, the harem.’

Leaning forward, she then said, ‘I had something of a brainwave when we were going around Topkapi. It suddenly struck me that I would like to do a biography of Istanbul… on film, of course. This place has such an extraordinary story to tell… I think I would call it “Biography of a City”.’

Iffet was staring at her. ‘What a clever idea. Exciting.’

Justine was speaking the truth. The idea had suddenly hit her in the face when they were viewing the harem. She understood at once how fascinating a story about Istanbul could be. It was something she decided she would research once she had found her grandmother.

Iffet was asking how she could help Justine with this idea for the documentary when her cell phone buzzed. She answered it, listened attentively, gave her thanks and clicked off. ‘That was my office. I am so sorry, Anita Lowe is not listed at the land registry office.’

‘Oh.’ Justine felt a rush of dismay. She cleared her throat. ‘And Gabriele Hardwicke? Is she listed?’

‘No, she is not. If you knew which district they lived in, that could be a help. I could send someone to do an additional check.’

‘I have no idea,’ Justine murmured, and blinked, then glanced away.

Iffet realized immediately that Justine was tremendously disappointed. Her expression was crestfallen and her blue eyes looked moist, as if she might suddenly cry.

‘It is important to you, isn’t it, Justine? That you find these two ladies?’

‘Extremely important.’

A silence fell between the two women. Iffet couldn’t help wondering what this was all about and why her new friend was so upset.

Justine was asking herself if she should confide in Iffet, and immediately cancelled out that idea. She had met Iffet only yesterday, and could hardly tell her about the letter from Anita. She would hesitate to tell anyone. Her mother had done a horrifying thing and she didn’t want a soul to know. Other than Joanne, who was like a sister to her. On the other hand, perhaps she owed this very nice woman a bit of an explanation. An edited version of the truth.

She was about to speak out when the waiter arrived with the börek, and so she sat back in the chair, wanting to wait until they were alone.

Justine realized that she and her brother might have made a terrible mistake. They had decided Anita Lowe lived in Istanbul because the letter she had written bore an Istanbul postmark. But she might have simply been passing through the city, or on vacation. The truth was they didn’t have any idea where Anita lived, nor their grandmother either. And she was more anxiety ridden than ever.

For a moment her frustration soared. How foolish they had been, and she in particular. She pressed down on these feelings, and made up her mind to confide in Iffet, although only to a certain extent. She was far too ashamed of her mother’s behaviour to reveal that awful part of the story. She would have to fudge the estrangement, and put the focus on finding the two women.

Taking steely control of herself, Justine drank some of the sparkling water, and settled back on the banquette, glancing around. Several rooms formed the restaurant, and they were all visible to each other through the wide doorways. The cool aqua-tiled rooms, the windows and the starched white-linen tablecloths created a fresh look, and the setting provided a pleasant respite from the noise of the nearby markets and ferry terminals; it was a relaxing haven away from the jostling crowds.

‘I am glad I brought you here, Justine. I think you like it,’ Iffet said before picking up a börek and biting into the small triangle of pastry.

‘I love it, is it a new place?’ Justine asked, also starting to eat her own börek.

‘No, it’s very old. It was opened in 1901 by a fellow called Pandeli, and it has been a success ever since.’

When she had finished eating the börek, Justine looked across at Iffet and said quietly, ‘I think I owe you more of an explanation about my search for Anita Lowe, but let’s have lunch first. We’ll talk over coffee.’

This they did, after enjoying the sea bass cooked in paper and the grilled vegetables. Both women smilingly declined the delicious-looking desserts, and ordered Turkish coffee. ‘Rife with caffeine, but why not, for once?’ Iffet murmured, smiling at Justine. ‘What do you wish to explain about Anita Lowe?’

‘I must start with Gabriele Hardwicke,’ Justine murmured, holding Iffet with her eyes. ‘She is our grandmother, and it is she I am looking for, and I believed I would find her through Anita.’

Iffet looked taken aback, startled, and was silent for a moment, then she said, ‘And I haven’t been able to find Anita for you. Perhaps there are some other ways I might be able to locate her, if you are certain she lives in Istanbul.’

‘That’s just the point, I’m not. But wherever she is, I do think my grandmother will be with her. They have been friends since they were young girls, and have remained close. Let me tell you how all this came about.’

Justine told her story swiftly, giving only the details, resisting any embellishments, and explained that she and Richard were out of touch with their grandmother because of a quarrel between Gabriele and her daughter, their mother Deborah. Finally she finished, ‘And I’m worried about Gran because Anita indicated in her letter she is so despondent and misses Rich and me. Also, she might not be well – she is almost eighty.’

Iffet had listened attentively, and now she said slowly, thoughtfully, ‘Everyone has been making assumptions… Anita, you and your brother. I shall make one. Let us assume Anita and Gabriele do live here. If that is so, there are several other things I could do. What nationality are they? American?’

‘No, they’re both English. As I told you, I think they grew up together. In London. Although my grandmother does have some sort of connection to Yorkshire, in the north of England. But why do you ask?’

‘Because there are many foreign consulates here. Often foreign residents visit their consulates just to say hello, leave their names for future reference. Or for social events the consulate might give. There are also other organizations that foreign residents can join. I could make enquiries.’

‘Thanks, Iffet, that’s great, and I have a couple of ideas myself. My grandmother seems to have past connections to Turkey, buying ceramics, antiquities and carpets for a showroom in New York which she and my father ran. They sold to interior designers. I was wondering if you knew any dealers… one of them could have known Gran, might still know her.’

A dark brow lifted, and Iffet asked, ‘What kind of carpets? Kilims?’

Justine shook her head. ‘No, not kilims – they were woven silk carpets from Hereke.’

‘This is a good thought of yours, Justine,’ Iffet said, sounding enthusiastic. ‘I know one excellent carpet dealer; we could go to the shop whenever you want. It’s not far from here.’

‘Let’s do that. But here’s my other idea, and I know you’ll be able to help. Last night I was watching television, going to different news stations. When I clicked onto the network I work with, Cable News International, I was taken aback when I saw my own face. I couldn’t believe it. There I was on Turkish television. The network had made a promo for my new documentary. That’s what gave me the idea – to be interviewed on a local show. Anita or Gran might just happen to see me.’

The worried expression on Iffet’s face had dissolved and she was smiling. ‘Brilliant. I can arrange a television interview. What about a newspaper story? We have a Turkish daily newspaper called Zaman Daily English. I can phone them.’

‘You’ve brightened my day, given me hope!’ Justine exclaimed, a smile lighting up her face. ‘Let’s forget about the Spice Market today, head for the carpet shop instead.’

‘We’re going to Punto,’ Iffet explained. ‘It’s close to the Grand Bazaar over there. It won’t take long.’ Five minutes later she was ushering Justine down a narrow street and through a heavy wooden door which stood open. ‘The carpet dealer is located in this han. It is called the Vezir Han.’

‘What’s a han?’ Justine asked, always curious about everything.

‘A han is a big courtyard with several buildings around it, and originally, centuries ago, the han provided accommodation for travellers, their pack animals, plus their wares. At night the heavy door was locked for safety. Today these courtyards house workshops, and there are many of them all over Istanbul. Now, we must go around this corner and we will be there.’

A moment later, Iffet was leading her into a small, ancient shop called Punto. As they entered a young man came forward, smiling broadly. He bowed to Iffet, shook her hand, still smiling, and Iffet introduced him as Kemal, youngest son of the owner. After shaking Justine’s hand he immediately led them down a flight of steps, and Iffet said in a low voice, ‘He’s taking us to the private room reserved for special customers.’

‘I’m not a customer,’ Justine whispered back.

‘I know. And he knows we are mostly seeking information about Gabriele Hardwicke. I told him on the phone. He wants this to be done in private, and you will be shown rugs, as a matter of courtesy.’

‘I understand,’ Justine responded.

Kemal led them to a banquette, and said in English, ‘Please be seated, ladies. Comfortable, yes?’

‘Yes, thank you,’ Iffet said, also speaking English. She then reverted to Turkish for a moment or two. Justine guessed she was explaining things to him. Kemal nodded, and disappeared, hurrying across the showroom, entering an office.

Turning to Iffet sitting next to her, Justine asked, ‘What did you tell him?’

‘I asked him if he could telephone his father, who is not here today, to enquire if he knows your grandmother. And then I spelled her name for him. He is sending out an assistant called Mustafa, who is going to show us some of the best Hereke silk carpets, and later a weaver will demonstrate how she works on a loom. I hope you don’t mind, but we must show politeness.’

‘I understand, and I don’t mind at all.’

Mustafa arrived, introduced himself, shook their hands, bowed, and then brought out the first carpet. It was beautiful, as were the next two, but when he presented the fourth, throwing it down and pulling it across the floor, Justine caught her breath in surprise. It was a mixture of various blues, on a deeper blue background, and it was gorgeous, that was the only word to describe it.

‘It’s breathtaking!’ she exclaimed to Iffet, and smiled up at Mustafa. ‘I’ve never seen such a wonderful carpet,’ she said, and it was obvious she meant this.