19

The taxi screeched to a stop and Mom, Aunt Jackie, and I got out. While the driver took our bags out of the trunk, I gazed around the cobblestoned street lined with crumbling buildings and mazes of alleyways, a mix of shops and homes. The air was thick with fumes from scooters that raced past us, cigar smoke, and döner, lamb, turning in a rotisserie nearby. Through the window of a café, I saw men smoking hookahs like the caterpillar used in Alice in Wonderland. I felt a little like Alice myself in that moment, as if I’d fallen down a rabbit hole. I’d never been in a place like this: the Sultanahmet district, otherwise known as the Old City. The heart of Istanbul.

Mom paid the driver, and I thought of something Sage had told me at the cliff tombs: that Turkey itself was a grand bazaar. Now I could see what she meant. All of life was on display—and most of it was for sale. Children strolled by selling candy and postcards. At the end of the street I saw an arched yellow sign that read ARASTA BAZAAR, the gateway to a local market, and brick walls lined with rugs hung on display.

Istanbul was sprawling, and even this cozy neighborhood was a labyrinth. Was I really going to be able to find Sage in this city? I looked up, wondering what I could climb, a tower or someplace I might go to clear my head and think. Then I turned and saw an enormous mosque not too far away. Seagulls swooped around the domes and minarets. My breath caught in my throat. The Blue Mosque. I remembered the image on the cover of Lonely Planet. It was even more dazzling in person. I hoped we’d get a chance to go in. I started to point it out to Mom, but she seemed fixated on getting inside the hotel and down to the business of helping Aunt Jackie.

“I still can’t believe we got our bags so easily at the airport,” said Mom, snatching Aunt Jackie’s bag when she reached for it. Our suitcases had traveled to Istanbul without us while we were detained in Dalaman, and they’d been held at the airport overnight.

“Our evil-eye bracelets must be working,” I said, following Mom and Aunt Jackie across the street.

I noticed some of the women wore black veils covering everything but their eyes. Others were dressed in colorful hijabs and long tan- or cream-colored trench coats. Some wore plain white or black scarves with long-sleeved T-shirts and jeans. Even those without scarves or veils were more modestly dressed than most girls and women I’d seen at the Marmaris docks. This was not the same Turkey where I’d just spent the past four days.

I had to smile, though, thinking of all those times my ex-friends had tried to get me to wear short skirts and tank tops, not understanding why I always covered so much skin. Here, strangely, I wasn’t so out of place at all.

Suddenly the air crackled, stopping us in our tracks. A flock of pigeons shot into the sky with a whoosh. It took me a few moments to realize I was hearing music—someone was singing through a loudspeaker, or a bullhorn. The music sounded both piercing and muffled. Then I caught echoes of the song—no, many different songs—in the distance. A call and response. It was like nothing I’d ever heard, and strangely beautiful.

“It’s the call to prayer,” Aunt Jackie explained to Mom and me. “You’re hearing the muezzin from mosques all over the city. The loudest is from the Blue Mosque over there.”

I’d learned in Hebrew school that a muezzin is a Muslim who calls out the hour of daily prayers. We all stood still, staring at the Blue Mosque, listening to the muezzin. A few passersby stopped and turned toward the mosque, but most people hurried on, talking into their cell phones or hailing taxis.

“This is how I first fell in love with Turkey,” said Aunt Jackie. “When I heard the call to prayers, something stirred in my soul. I loved the idea that five times a day you would hear this music, a reminder to hit the pause button on your life, even if you don’t worship at a mosque. Berk laughed when I told him this. He said that after a while I wouldn’t even notice the calls anymore. And you know what? He was right. I didn’t.”

“Uncle Berk didn’t go to the mosque?” I asked.

“No,” said Aunt Jackie. “He was very secular. Not all Turkish people are practicing Muslims.”

“And this call to prayer, it happens five times a day?” I couldn’t believe it.

“Yes,” she confirmed. “You’ll hear it next around dinner. Shall we go in?” Aunt Jackie led us across the street and stopped in front of a four-story cream-colored building with white trim. Some windows protruded, like square bay windows, but they were covered in wooden lattice. Flowers spilled out of pots by the heavy wooden front door, and a flowering vine crept up the side of the corner building. Looking up, I saw that both the hotel and the building next door had rooftop gardens. I made a mental note to check out the hotel’s garden as soon as I could.

“ geldiniz! Welcome! This is the Hotel Mavi Konak,” said Aunt Jackie. She smiled, but her face tightened as she stood by the door.

“Oh, Jackie, it’s so sweet!” exclaimed Mom. “Perfectly charming!”

Aunt Jackie frowned. “When people say charming, they usually mean run-down. That’s what Mom and Dad said when I sent them pictures.”

“But that’s not at all what I meant.” Mom looked hurt.

“Well, it’s small even for a boutique hotel. It’s just fifteen rooms. But Berk and I had all kinds of ideas for renovating and modernizing the place after his parents left it to us, and . . .” Aunt Jackie’s voice quavered. “I just wish we’d finished it. Together.”

“Is there much work left to do?” Mom asked. “The outside looks pretty spruced up.”

“Outside is fine. But it’s a bit tired inside,” Aunt Jackie admitted. “It’s an old Ottoman-era mansion, and it’s got its quirks. There’s always more to do. Constant updates. Maintenance and plumbing issues. No wonder we’re getting all these bad online reviews lately.”

Aunt Jackie led us inside and gave us a tour. There was a small lobby, a breakfast area with ten square tables, and a kitchen, which was closed and dark. Behind the front desk, made of gleaming dark wood, was a wall of wooden pigeonhole cubbies, each with an old-fashioned key hanging from a hook. The only modern touch was the computer on the front counter.

Mom exclaimed over the marble floor, the low divans encircling the room, the tapestries smothering the walls, and all the ornate Turkish rugs. I liked the little garden and patio outside, which were surrounded by crumbling, ancient-looking walls. Aunt Jackie said they were actually Byzantine ruins.

We were outside admiring a wall and the little stone fountain attached to it when a middle-aged man with wispy gray hair and a bristly gray mustache hurried up to us. He reminded me of a praying mantis, with his hooded eyes and the way he rubbed his hands together as if agitated, or cold—I couldn’t tell which. He wore crisp black trousers and a maroon jacket with gold braiding and a double row of gold buttons. “I see you are admiring our ancient wall,” he said, grinning, displaying tobacco-stained teeth. “Enjoy and appreciate. Our history appears on your bill!”

I couldn’t tell if he was joking.

“No bill for these two,” said Aunt Jackie. “They’re family. This is my sister, Kitsie, and my niece, Zan.” To us, she said, “This is Mustafa Polat, our guest relations manager.”

Mustafa greeted us more warmly. “Merhaba! Ho geldiniz.”

“Merhaba,” I said back. “Teekkür ederim.” He smiled, just as Orhan had when I first said thank you in his language. It was getting easier for me—and kind of fun—to say things like “hello” and “thank you” in Turkish.

“We are happy to have you here,” said Mustafa. “You must be very tired from your journey. I hope Turkish Airlines will reimburse you for all of your delays and inconveniences.”

Aunt Jackie shifted uncomfortably and looked down. I guessed she hadn’t told Mustafa any details—or even the truth—about what we’d been through in the last twenty-four hours. Maybe she didn’t want to freak out her staff.

“I’m happy to be here. Looking forward to a good night’s sleep,” Mom said.

“Ah, a good night’s sleep! Yes! We charge double for that!” Mustafa said with a wink.

Mom gave him a tight smile.

Mustafa turned to Aunt Jackie. “Jackie Hanim. May I speak with you privately?” he said in a low voice.

“Of course.” The two of them went back inside the lobby to talk.

“That’s strange. Why did he use a different last name for her?” Mom asked.

“He didn’t,” I said, remembering some of what I’d read in Lonely Planet. “‘Hanim’ means ‘Mrs.’ in Turkish, and they use it after the first name. ‘Bey’ means ‘Mr.’” I crept forward toward an open window leading to the lobby.

“Hey, don’t you go snooping. This is none of our business,” Mom whispered. But she followed me anyway, and we lingered by the window, pretending to admire some flowers.

“Pinar Hanim has quit today,” Mustafa was saying in a low voice. “She and her daughter both.”

“What? Did they at least give two weeks’ notice?”

“No. They completed their workday and then left. I gave them what cash I could for the week’s wages, but we will need to mail them their final check.”

“This is a nightmare,” said Aunt Jackie, running her hands through her hair until it stood almost straight up, like an alarmed cat’s fur. “We have no more housekeeping staff! And we have that German tour group checking in tomorrow. They’re a small group, but so particular.” She sighed. “Can we advertise the positions first thing tomorrow morning?”

“Certainly. I have already written the advertisement. But there is more.” Mustafa hesitated, then frowned. “Ayla Hanim and Serhan Bey came by this morning, at the very moment our Dutch guests in Room Nine were complaining about the toilet situation. They said they were eager to meet your family from Boston, but they also asked if the financial documents were ready for their review.”

Ayla and Serhan—Uncle Berk’s sister and brother. Mom and I exchanged a worried look.

“You didn’t tell them I was on a cruise, did you?” asked Aunt Jackie.

Mustafa winced. “Not in so many words. But you know I do not like to be dishonest.”

“That’s okay.” Aunt Jackie sighed. “I’ll figure out some way to explain to them. Maybe they’ll take it as a sign the hotel is in the black again, if I had enough money for a cruise.” She didn’t sound very convincing. And I knew those spreadsheets she’d pored over on the boat would tell a different story.

“Poor Jackie,” murmured Mom. “This is way too much stress for her to come back to. Zan, we’re going to ramp up our efforts. Full-time. I know it’s not a glamorous job, but starting now, we’re on duty. We’re not sightseeing or anything until we get this place into shape.”

I stared at her, suddenly comprehending. I was going to have even less freedom than I’d had on the Blue Voyage. How was I going to track down Sage and get the answers I needed? “We’re going to work all the time?” I asked Mom.

She raised an eyebrow. “Would it really kill you to scrub a toilet for once in your life?”

“No! I totally want to help her. But—”

“Good. Just think of the great college application essay you’ll get out of it. Here’s a title for you: ‘The Summer I Spent in the Tourism Industry in Istanbul.’ Or how about this one? ‘What Manual Labor Has Taught Me About the Value of Honest Work.’ You haven’t forgotten your dad’s little life lesson in the garage, have you?”

I remembered it well. When I was in middle school and refused to do math, he once had me sweep out the entire garage. “Don’t like this work?” he’d said when I’d complained. “Then study hard. Get a job so you won’t have to do it. There are no free rides in life, kiddo.”

What I couldn’t explain to Mom was that I had urgent business: finding Sage and getting her side of the story, so I could at least understand why I’d fallen for her lies and been set up. Then, if she couldn’t convince me there was some excellent reason behind it, I’d turn her in to Inspector Lale. If Sage turned out to be a good lead, some of that reward money might come my way, and I could help Aunt Jackie.

But in order to set all this in motion, I needed spare time. Just a little.

Mom hugged Aunt Jackie when she returned to the patio garden. “We couldn’t help overhearing,” she said. “So. Meet your new full-time housekeeping and hospitality staff.” Mom slung her arm around my shoulders and beamed. “What do you think?”

I squirmed. Mom elbowed me.

“Oh, no. It’s too much work,” Aunt Jackie protested. “We’ll find someone soon.”

“We can handle it. No job too big. Right, Zan?” Mom gave me an encouraging shake on the shoulder. “Besides, you need to get to your doctor first thing tomorrow. And you need to deal with your contractors and maintenance crew. So there’s no debate. Just give us a list, and we’ll roll up our sleeves and tackle it.”

“I really appreciate it,” said Aunt Jackie, her eyes moist. “You guys are lifesavers.”

Then I noticed someone else was in the lobby. At the base of a stairway, a guy in a white shirt was polishing a banister with a white towel. He looked up and caught my eye, then looked down, as if embarrassed, and started polishing faster, his hair hanging over his eyes.

Mustafa ushered him outside to the patio, and I saw he was actually around my own age.

“Allow me to introduce my son. This is Nazif,” said Mustafa. He poked at Nazif’s back to prompt him to stand up straighter. “He started working here with me two months ago, part-time, after school and on weekends. Now he is working full-time for his summer job. I am training him to be a bellboy, and introducing him to other exciting work in hotel management.”

Nazif looked as if someone had given him a bellboy costume for a part in a play. He wore a crisp white short-sleeved shirt with gold epaulets. But the shirt was untucked over his black trousers, and his black shoes were scuffed, unlike his father’s gleaming ones. As soon as Mustafa took his hand off his son’s back, Nazif immediately slouched again. He didn’t exactly project excitement about his dazzling career in the hospitality business.

I stole another glance at Nazif while Mom talked to him about his job. I noted his thick brown hair, messily parted to one side. He had a rounded chin and full lips, which worked into a slow, shy smile when Mom said it was nice to meet him. Above his lips was the faintest trace of a mustache. He wasn’t model-hot, or stylish like Riza of the Gulet Anilar. Riza—I wondered who he was serving apple tea to now on that boat. But Nazif was cute, in a rumpled way.

“Nazif will take your bags and show you up to your rooms,” said Aunt Jackie. “I’ve put you in the Harem Suite. I hope you’ll be comfortable there. You can get freshened up and relax before dinner while I go over some business.”

“You should be resting,” Mom countered. “Put your feet up. That’s an order.”

Aunt Jackie smiled. “Okay, doc. I’ll take my phone to my couch and work from there.”

Nazif loaded our bags onto a gold luggage cart and brought us to an ancient-looking elevator with a sliding metal gate. “You are on floor four,” he mumbled, his eyes downcast as he held open the elevator door and began to walk away.

“There’s plenty of space,” Mom said, backing against the wall. “Zan, squeeze next to me so Nazif can come in.”

“There is not room for all of us and the luggage,” he said, still avoiding eye contact. “Please, you two go first, and I will go after. I will meet you on floor four with your bags.”

“Not the friendliest bellboy, is he?” Mom whispered as Nazif slammed the rickety elevator gate shut and sent us on our uncertain journey up to floor four. The elevator shuddered and moaned as we ascended. “And Mustafa’s polite enough, but his jokes about overcharging tourists are way out of line.” She shook her head in disbelief. “Grumpy and Son. It’s no wonder this place is getting low marks for hospitality.”

“Maybe we should take over their jobs, too,” I said. “Seeing as we’re taking over the entire hotel. I’m sure you have lots of ideas about how everything could be better.”

“Oh, things definitely could be better,” said Mom, kicking the shabby rug on the elevator floor. “This hotel has its charms. It could be amazing. But it’s in dire need of updates. The staff is in chaos. And it’s got terrible public relations problems.”

“PR problems? Fits right in with our family.”

Mom glared at me. “It’s not funny. Your aunt’s going to be a single mother. She needs this hotel to work. Otherwise she’ll have to go back to teaching English, where she barely made enough money to get by. Or we’ll have to twist her arm and get her to come back home with us. Which would thrill your grandparents, but I don’t really see her doing it, do you?”

Alarms went off in my head. What if Mom decided not just to visit Aunt Jackie more often here but to move here? Could that happen? Maybe finishing my last two years of high school here would be okay, maybe an adventure, even—but what if I didn’t see Dad anymore? Much as I didn’t feel like seeing him now, the thought of being across an ocean indefinitely made me feel strange and kind of sad.

“This isn’t your idea of what to do with the rest of your life, is it?” I asked, thinking of her self-help book. “We wouldn’t, like, move here and help out permanently, would we?”

“How do you manage to go to these places in your mind?” Mom sighed. “Look. There’s not much left of our family right now. Aside from your grandparents, Aunt Jackie, and this new cousin you’ll have soon. So I am asking you to rise to the occasion.”

Maybe she had a point. But I noticed she didn’t answer my question.

The glint in her eye was still there when we stepped out of the elevator and she surveyed the peeling wallpaper. “What I could do here with a halfway decent decorating budget,” she muttered under her breath.

Nazif came up the elevator with the luggage cart a minute later. He brushed past us and pushed the cart down to the end of the thickly carpeted hallway. Then he unlocked the door to our suite with one of those big, ornate keys I’d seen hanging behind the front desk. The door opened with a lot of clatter, squeaking loudly. He gestured for us to enter, then pushed the cart in after us.

“Oh, it’s exquisite!” said Mom, clasping her hands together.

“A palace!” I exclaimed, looking around the living room at the plush furniture.

Nazif seemed surprised, and finally looked right at Mom and me. “It is not really so big,” he said. “There is one bigger, down the hall. The Sultan’s Suite.”

“Should we move there?” Mom asked.

“No. That is used mostly by businesspeople. Sometimes it is rented for use during the day, for meetings or business functions.”

As he talked, my view of our suite changed. He was right; it wasn’t so big. Two strategically placed, ornately framed mirrors gave the illusion of extra space, and the divans and chairs were actually pretty faded and threadbare. The small living room separated two miniature bedrooms. Off Mom’s room was a tiny bathroom with marble floors, which was mostly occupied by a white claw-foot bathtub. But compared to the boat and the two interrogation rooms we’d been in, the suite was spacious, even luxurious. The walls gleamed white, and all the furniture looked antique. And best of all? I’d have my own room.

Nazif showed Mom to her bedroom, then brought my bags to my room. The room had barely enough space for an old-looking wooden armoire, a narrow nightstand with an old-fashioned rotary-dial phone on top, and a twin bed with an elaborately carved headboard and footboard. But the place was cozy and inviting. The bed was draped with a lush bedspread embroidered with colorful tulips, peacock feathers, and twisting vines. It looked like the perfect bed to dive into and pull the covers up over my head—which I would totally do, if I didn’t have a new job as a maid and a side job as a sleuth trying to find a missing person.

My room also had a built-in window seat next to a small bay window. The window was covered with those wooden lattices I’d seen from the street outside. But to my surprise, when I sat down on the cushioned seat amid the embroidered throw pillows, I was able to see outside between the densely slatted diamond shapes.

Nazif lingered at the door, leaning against the doorframe. When I looked at him, he turned abruptly, as if embarrassed to have been caught there.

“Hey, can you tell me why the windows are like this? Can they be opened?” I asked.

He turned back around. “The latticework is from the Ottoman era,” he said. “This part of the house was originally the harem, the women’s quarters. The women could see out of these shutters without being seen from the street. The windows cannot be opened. But you can always go up on the roof.”

No curious stares. No blazing sunlight. Sounded good to me, after all I’d been through lately! Then I squinted through the lattice again. And gasped.

“What is it?” asked Nazif.

I was so stunned I couldn’t answer. There were two men across the street, standing in front of a shop that advertised painted tiles and plates. One guy had a thick mustache. The other was bald. They wore street clothes, not uniforms: polo shirts and jeans. But I’d know those faces anywhere.

Lazar and Vasil.

Holy crap. Crap, crap, crap, crap. I shrank back from the window, though I knew they couldn’t see me through the heavy latticework. Why here? Why now? They really must be smugglers. They must be looking for me, sure I was their ticket to Sage, who either knew something or had something they wanted . . . or they knew Sage had given me the figurines and now they were here to get them.

They were arguing about something. Vasil kept his arms folded while Lazar spoke with angry gestures. Sage must have seriously pissed off these guys if they were going to such lengths to find her. Maybe she’d reneged on a business deal.

I felt fresh waves of anger toward her, mixed with an undertow of confusion. I couldn’t get the thought out of my head: Maybe she had some good reason. I picked up the rotary-dial phone on the nightstand to call Inspector Lale. I rummaged in my backpack pockets, looking for her business card.

Just as I found the card, I realized there was no dial tone on the phone.

Nazif stepped forward and picked up the curly cord from the back of the phone, which went nowhere, and which ended in a tangle of exposed wires. “The phone is for display only,” he apologized. “Decoration.”

“Display only? Are you kidding me? Didn’t my aunt pay her phone bill?” I meant it as a joke, even though nothing was funny right now, but Nazif just stared, and I knew it was true.

“The line to the main desk works. Not the individual room lines, currently,” he said. “Will that be all your questions?” he asked hopefully, backing away.

“I guess that’s all.”

Nazif hurried away before I could tip him. Which was good because I didn’t have cash anyway, and it seemed weird to tip someone my own age.

I replaced the receiver, and the useless phone jingled a little, hinting at a ring. Just as well. When I looked outside again, a crowd of gypsies was passing by, pushing wooden carts heaped with bags toward the Arasta Bazaar. Lazar and Vasil were gone.

I needed to move, to do something physical, or I was going to explode. As I started unpacking my backpack, my mind spun with options. Inspector Lale wasn’t due back in Istanbul for another couple of days. I could have Nazif or Mustafa call her from the front desk. But then they would know we had a problem, and what if any guests in the lobby happened to overhear? Aunt Jackie clearly didn’t want to reveal what we’d just gone through in Dalaman. Lazar and Vasil would be long gone by the time the police got here, and I didn’t want the hotel to attract attention as a place where criminals lurked.

Anyway, they hadn’t done anything except stand out in the street, in a public place. They looked threatening, but they hadn’t actually threatened me. Hopefully they wouldn’t enter the hotel lobby. I just wanted to get to that working front desk phone and let Inspector Lale know I’d seen the two “guards” from the Anilar. She’d know what to do with that information, and I would have done the right thing by tipping her off.

I reached into my backpack one last time for my tube of concealer, thinking I’d freshen up fast before heading down to the lobby. My hand hit the Freya Stark book that Sage had given me. I held it, frowning at the cover with its photo of the cliff tombs. I didn’t want the book anymore, just as I didn’t want the gold figurines. Everything from Sage seemed tainted. I riffled through the pages. There was nothing in this book I wanted to read.

Then a little piece of paper fluttered out from near the back of the book. I picked it up off the floor.

It was a store receipt, torn at the top. On the back was a handwritten address: 25 Istiklal Caddesi, Beyolu, Istanbul.

My heart began to beat fast. Maybe this was Sage’s host family’s address. Or a school address, or maybe a friend’s. I clutched the creased and worn receipt, feeling its connection to her.

“Excuse me.”

I looked up and saw Nazif in the doorway again.

“Oh. You’re back?”

“I have shown your mother how to operate the shower. The hot and cold are reversed, installed incorrectly. It is important you use cold for hot and hot for cold. Do you want me to show you also?”

“Hot for cold, cold for hot. I think I got it.”

“Good. I must go back downstairs now.”

“Just one thing,” I said, standing up. I showed him the address on the receipt. “Do you know where this is? Is it near here?”

He studied the address. “Istiklal Caddesi? This is the main street in the neighborhood called Beyolu,” he said. He handed the scrap of paper back to me, took a phone out of his pocket and typed something, while I shook my head in disbelief. Clearly I’d wanted to make a call a moment ago; why hadn’t he offered his phone?

Then Nazif showed me a map on the screen. “This. It is a mostly touristic place. People like to climb the Galata Tower and visit Taksim Square. Some famous churches and monasteries are also there.”

“Can you search for the exact address for me?”

He ran a Google search, but nothing came up. A little circle spun endlessly on the screen.

“We have weak Wi-Fi signal here in this part of the building,” he explained. “Maybe you will have better luck in the lobby.”

“Okay. Can I use your phone down there?” I asked, reaching for it. My hand accidentally brushed his. It felt incredibly soft.

He practically recoiled from me, stumbling backward. “My father needs me downstairs right away,” he mumbled. “We have these Dutch guests who are having a difficulty, and—”

“Fine. Never mind.” I didn’t know why Nazif was allergic to me, but I didn’t have time to figure it out now or even to be annoyed by it.

I needed more details about that address, and fast.