Barbara Taylor Bradford - Letter from a Stranger

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.