EPISODE II

Istanbul – November 8, 2007

George Kaufman walked out of the airport and into the hazy glare that was Istanbul in the afternoon. The 34-year-old lawyer had just flown in from New York and he was in desperate need of both a shower and a bed. But first there was the small problem of his suitcase.

The wheels, George ruefully noted as he tried to pull the suitcase, seemed to be pointing at each other. They certainly had been working when he arrived at the New York airport. But now, no matter what he did, he went one way and the suitcase veered another. A woman swathed in a black chador collided with the errant suitcase, sending it crashing to the ground. A teenaged girl in a miniskirt and bright red lips shot him a shy smile and disappeared into the arms of the woman in black.

George kicked the suitcase and ran his hand through his short brown hair. The lawyer was of medium-build, with an intelligent look and an even-tempered approach to both successes and problems. But as of late, he had begun to notice a distressing phenomenon, one that was increasingly worrying him: It seemed that if something could go wrong in his life, it did. First there was the incident with the Algerian contract, then he ended up drawing the short stick for this routine due diligence and, he kicked his suitcase again, now this. Granted, it was not a major problem but, George thought as he bent down to try to jam the wheels back in place, it was symptomatic. George twisted the wheels one more time. When that didn’t work, he hefted the suitcase on his shoulder and slowly pushed his way through the crowd of people waiting for the newest arrivals.

Across the street was a line of yellow cars, the drivers leaning against their cars, spitting out sunflower seeds and exchanging raucous laughter. A fat man squatting against the second taxi caught George’s eye and motioned him over. The man’s meaty arms grabbed the suitcase from George and threw it in the trunk. George stumbled slightly and grabbed the back door handle to steady himself. When he removed his hand, he was still clutching the handle. The driver grunted inexpressively and motioned George around to the other side. The lawyer arranged himself on the sticky seat and again wished the business trip had been to Paris, Berlin or even Brussels.

“I’m going to the Pera Palas Hotel,” he said as the taxi lurched to a start.

The driver grunted and flicked his cigarette butt out the window. “You sure you want to go Pera Palas? Why you not pick the Swisshotel? Much nicer. Pera Palas hotel is old, like Turkey. Very old. Too old.” The driver shook his head in a manner that did not seem reassuring.

George sighed. He had been given less than 24 hours to prepare for the trip. The secretary who handled travel arrangements was on holiday and the travel agency across the street was busy booking cruises. A woman at the firm insisted he stay at her “absolutely favorite” hotel. It was a charming, turn-of-the-century hotel with big windows, small balconies and an amazing history. George assured her that he had enough history in college and that the Hilton would be just fine, but she was already on the phone booking him a room. George now realized he should have been more wary. The woman took holidays in remote places and returned with unusual diseases that spread panic in the office. With his luck, the hotel would be put under quarantine.

The driver adjusted his rearview mirror to take a better look at George. “Many tourists come to Turkey now. Two days ago I drive a German man from airport. Are you German?”

“No, I’m American.” George looked out the window and saw dull concrete buildings and some patches of brown grass. He closed his eyes and wondered when the reported beauties of the city would become apparent.

“American.” The driver said this with a certain weightiness. “America. I would like to see your country. But nobody gives me a visa.” He paused for a moment as to give George time to consider the injustice of it all. “You know, I have a cousin in Texas. Maybe you know him? His name is Mehmet, Mehmet Uzunlu.”

Kaufman opened his eyes. “America is a very big place, and Texas is very far from where I live. I live in New York.”

“Ah, New York.” The driver nodded to himself. “New York. I have an uncle in New York.” He turned and glanced at Kaufman. “My uncle. He is Ahmet. His last name, I don’t remember. But he drives a taxi like me. You know him?”

“Your uncle Ahmet?” Kaufman could not believe he was having this conversation. “I really don’t think so. New York is a very big place.”

The driver grunted and reached for the pack of cigarettes on the dashboard. “Maybe Ahmet moved. Maybe he not in New York. You want to smoke?” He held up the pack. Kaufman shook his head.

“You don’t smoke? Very good, very good,” the man said, pausing to pull a cigarette out of the pack with his teeth. “But here in Turkey, we all smoke. We don’t care about tomorrow, we smoke, we play, we like the girls.” He turned and winked at Kaufman. “You maybe like some fun as well?”

Kaufman rubbed his head, trying to subdue what felt like the start of a raging headache. “No, I mean yes, of course I like girls, but no, that’s not why I’m here.” He readjusted his eyeglasses to reduce the pressure that was building behind his forehead. “I’m here to work. I’m a lawyer. We don’t have time for fun.” Lately, Kaufman had started to believe that being a corporate lawyer left little time for normal human pleasures like watching movies, reading novels and eating anything that was not delivered to the office.

The driver considered this for a few seconds. “Oh, very sad, you Americans work too much.”

George nodded, he couldn’t have agreed more. He rested his head on the window and stared tiredly outside.

The taxi turned and veered along the winding highway. The scenery changed from high concrete buildings to low ones, and the spotted patches of brown and green grass gave way to a mass of blue water that swelled and glittered in the afternoon sunlight.

“Look at the Bosphorus. So beautiful. But maybe the Black Sea is more beautiful. The most brave Turks come from the Black Sea. My family, we come from the Black Sea. You heard of it maybe?” The driver turned again to look at Kaufman in the backseat, a habit that was making the lawyer very nervous.

“The Black Sea, yes, of course I’ve heard of it, it’s supposed to be very beautiful.” Kaufman’s main recollection of the Black Sea was newspaper articles detailing how polluted the waterway was, but he did not think this was the time to mention it.

“Yes, the Black Sea is maybe the most beautiful place in the world.” The driver’s voice dropped sadly. “But we come here many years ago, my family very poor.” The small man smiled again. “We work very hard and now I have five children and a big house and many pretty girlfriends,” he winked at Kaufman in the mirror. “They like my car. They also like my music. Here, I play for you.” He turned on a radio station that was more static than music and started humming along.

Kaufman slumped in the seat and tried to block out the noise pouring out of the pink, fur-covered speakers behind him. Would he ever get a chance to sleep? He had been flying for nearly nine hours, not including the unexpected five hour layover in Frankfurt for reasons that nobody ever made clear. On top of that, the trip had come as a total surprise and he had to break a date with that pretty city reporter he had met at the bookstore club.

Read the next installment of “A Murder in Ankara” by Lee Sherman only on NewsPlink.