Joseph Kanon - Istanbul Passage

Leon stared down at the paper, the one that said he hadn’t done anything at all, a story of good intentions.

“I’m not a traitor.”

“Yes, I know. The good patriot. Leon, we want the Americans to protect us. I don’t ask you to work against them.”

“Just what people say at parties?” Leon said, sarcastic.

“Well, the foreign community. It’s true, we like to have ears there. But they’re leaving Istanbul. The war’s over. We’re not-” A second, looking for the word. “Strategic anymore. If only the Russians would go too. But no, so we need other ears. Their Turkish friends. Some of them you already know. Friends of Georg. What do they say to them? A foreigner who speaks Turkish-a valuable asset. An American working for me? No Turk would ever suspect. And resourceful. Think of it this way. It’s what you would do for the Americans. Except you do it for me. Unofficial. The way you like to work.” He paused, the air still. “For me. But not against them. You have my word.”

“Your word,” Leon said, almost laughing.

“Yes, my word,” Altan said, nodding to the papers. “Not Gülün’s. Not the fisherman’s. None of them. Mine. You have that. So you see. What a perfect Janissary arrangement it will be. We will have an obligation to each other. Sign, please.”

Leon took the pen.

“And now you should rest,” Altan said, glancing at his watch, then at Leon as he wrote, a hasty scribble, his head down, as if he didn’t want anyone to see. “Obstbaum will be angry with me. Would you like help? To the bed?”

“No.”

Altan put the statement in the briefcase. “So. We understand each other? You know, I’m looking forward to this.” He began moving to the door. “One thing,” he said, stopping. “You don’t mind? A personal curiosity. Who did shoot Mr. King?”

Leon said nothing for a second. How long ago had it been? Then he met Altan’s eyes.

“I did.”

Altan tilted his head a little, surprised. “You,” he said. “But why?”

“Self-defense.”

Altan started to smile, as if Leon had said something clever, then rolled his eyes, a genial salute. “Of course. Self-defense.” He nodded, leaving. “It’s as Lily says. An Istanbullu.”

Later, lying in bed, he looked for a wall clock and realized he had entered Anna’s timeless world. There were no hours at the clinic, no days, each the same as before, all continuous. Thoughts came out of sequence, at random, with no purpose beyond themselves, unless you tried to follow them. He had been thinking of the blue tiles at the Çinili Camii, the way they shaded into turquoise and gray, and he wondered if he was really thinking about Kay, or just the perfect peace of the courtyard that day, sitting near the fountain, Kay telling him he could never really belong here. Asking questions. For Frank. But at some point she had stopped. Maybe even that day. He would have known, felt it when they’d gone back to Laleli. It was important to remember, that she had stopped.

Maybe the night of the party, when things changed, watching him with Georg. He saw the round face again, shiny with sweat and fear, apologizing. The last thing he did in his life, too late to change. But did anyone? Even given the chance? He saw other faces, Barbara and Ed, touched by death and going on as before, and he saw how it would be for him, back to days at the office, furtive Thursdays with Marina, drinks at the Park, the nightly brandy at Cihangir with his war memorial of photographs, all the same, except for the meetings with Altan, the deceit that would give an edge to all the rest, then eat away at it until nothing else was left. Visits to Anna with nothing to say because everything in his life was now secret, even from her.

He swung out of bed, backing against it until he was no longer dizzy, then took hold of the IV rack and moved it with him. In the hall, just the dim night-lights and soft, sibilant Turkish coming from the nurses’ station, something about the supervisor changing their shifts, ordinary life. He had put on slippers and now slid quietly over the waxed linoleum. At the end, Anna’s room had the usual light near the floor, some moon coming through. She opened her eyes when he touched her hand.

“Don’t be frightened. I know it’s late. I couldn’t come before.”

Now that she had registered the disturbance, the hand touching her, she retreated, eyes blank. Thinking what? Maybe everyone at Obstbaum’s had the same mental life, stray thoughts, out of order.

“I’m down the hall,” he said. “Are you surprised? I never thought I’d be here, did you?”

He stopped. Like talking to a child. Not what he’d come for, what they could do anymore. Ed and Barbara going on as before. But it wasn’t before.

“I’m going to sit down,” he said. “I get tired.” He pulled the chair nearer to the bed. “There’s so much to tell. I’m not sure where to start.”

He sat for a minute, staring, trying to find a narrative, then gave it up.

“The funny thing is,” he said slowly, sitting back, “I thought I was doing the right thing. Each time. When I helped him in the water, I never even thought about it. How could you do anything else? And then when I shot him. Each time. I thought it was the right thing to do. But it couldn’t have been, could it? Both.” He looked up, as if she had said something, then nodded. “He asked. I was the only one he had left. To ask. So what does that make me? Not that anybody cares. He wasn’t-”

What? He thought of him in the hamam , showing his scars, his face in the doorway on the way down from Laleli, already a death mask.

“A good man,” he finished. “The opposite. The opposite.” Repeating it, convincing himself. “Still. I used to think I was. But who gets to say? I’ve been thinking about that, who gets to say?”

He rubbed the bandage over the IV on the back of his hand, the thought circling.

“During the war it’s okay, killing people. Then it’s not. Can you turn it off, just like that? Like some switch in people’s heads. Once you start.”

He looked up again, but she hadn’t moved, her face smooth, not a line.

“Anyway, it’s done. You don’t get to do it over.” His eyes went to the window. “Any of it, I guess. Everything you’ve done.” Drifting, thoughts out of sequence again. “I met somebody.”

He pulled back, hearing Kay’s voice. She wouldn’t like it.

“I thought that was right too. And stealing the money. Everything. And now-” Another minute, the silence like sleep. “It just happened, meeting her. I didn’t plan it.” He made a face. “She did, I guess. I don’t know. But then-she didn’t expect- Anyway, she said so.”

This thought getting away too, his mind wandering out to the garden. Where he and Alexei had stood watching the dark room, saying good-bye. But there was something else, important.

“Do you believe someone can lie,” he said, “and still tell the truth?” His face still turned to the window. “Lie about things. But not the two of you. What happens between you, that has to be the truth, doesn’t it? Or we wouldn’t have anything. Even for a while.”

He stopped, aware that he was talking out loud, that she might actually have heard. Something she couldn’t hear. He turned back to her, covering it.

“The rest I don’t know. That’s a funny thing too. I wanted Tommy to give me a job and now I’ve got it. But not for him.” He leaned forward. “We need to think about what to do. Work for Altan-it’s not illegal exactly, but it’s something. And it won’t stay that way, whatever he says. He wants me to think I can get away with it, everything, but the minute he’s finished with me-” Alexei’s lemon now. “They’re all bastards. All of them. They throw people away. Our side too.” He looked up. “But even so.” He thought of Phil, kneeling with the ground crew.