38

‘I watched, (she wrote) but I did not feel. I went back and forth, back and forth, flipping between CNN and the BBC, watching the piles of rubble and the relatives who were clawing at them. The houses missing fronts, or hanging over the street or half collapsed into the wreck next door. The house that was still standing but minus the ground floor. The head half-visible under the slab of concrete, the child’s hand, the doll, the shoe, the corpse. The aerial views. The chaos at the hospitals. The bodies floating next to the half-submerged fun fair mermaid. The burning refinery that was about to explode, the naval base that was no longer, the ever rising death toll.

At first they thought the earthquake measured 6.9 on the Richter scale. Then they said it measured 7.2. The next morning they said 7.4. Now the death toll was just under a thousand. Now it had doubled, now it had tripled and the digging for bodies had hardly begun. The rescue teams had started flying in. But where were the co-ordinators to tell them where to go, and where was the army? Temperatures were rising. Those still living under the rubble were dying of thirst. The official death toll had risen to 18,000 and still there were buildings everywhere that no rescue team had even touched. Look at the abominable building materials. No wonder so many buildings had come down. No mercy for the corrupt developers who had cut every corner for profit. Sympathy for the angry hordes who had chased them into hiding. But now there was a cholera scare. Torrential rains that were hampering the rescue effort. At long last the army had arrived. Now the papers were claiming between 30 and 40,000 dead, even though the official figure was still fixed at eighteen…’

Her father had called her by now, and she had not picked up. In his message, he’d said that as far as he knew, ‘everyone we know’ was ‘safe’. But now came the aftershocks. Some were over five on the Richter Scale, and she dreamt she was standing on a pile of rubble. She was stepping over the broken slabs of concrete, searching for a sign of life. And there it was – a hand. She reached out to touch it. It was Sinan’s.

She screamed, but no sound came out. She woke up and made herself a cup of camomile tea. A wave of drowsiness came over her. She closed her eyes. She was walking along the Bosphorus. The pavement was shaking, the lampposts swaying, the cars were swerving and falling into the sea. She opened her eyes to chase the scene away. When she closed them again she was in the Pasha’s Library, watching the walls around her expand and contract, expand and crack. Then she was in Amy’s house, then she was standing outside Gould Hall, watching the columns crumble. Or on the college terrace, as the fissures snaked their way across the ground. She thought of the houses she’d spent time in. How many were still standing? She thought of all the people. How many were dead?

She was in the bathroom, brushing her teeth, when she heard a very familiar voice coming from the television in her bedroom.

She put down her toothbrush and went out to look. The man from Newsnight was talking to a woman on a satellite link-up. She still thought she was seeing things. All along she’d been catching glimpses of faces in the crowd and thinking she recognised someone. But now they flashed her name across the bottom of the screen. Professor Suna Safran. Boğaziçi University, Istanbul.

She had aged well. The edge of outrage was still there, but she spoke with the containment of a judge. She was putting into perspective the racist remarks made earlier that day by the Turkish Minister for Health. He had said he did not want blood donations from Greeks or Armenians, or indeed anyone who was not a pureblooded Turk. She was explaining that this man was a member of an ultra rightwing nationalist party, and part of the coalition government that was not expected to last much longer. She claimed that most people in the country deplored his statements, and that there was massive gratitude for all the aid that had been coming in from abroad, most especially from countries that were traditionally thought of as enemies. The new perceived enemies, she said, were the military.

But this, too, was an oversimplification, she said, her gravitas growing with every word. The army had itself been hard hit by the earthquake. Its fatal error had been to lack a contingency plan. There had, however, been an impressive coalition of civil societies. ‘The Turkish people have learned at last that they cannot wait to be saved but must learn to take matters into their own hands.’ It was the people who had been co-ordinating whatever rescue efforts had succeeded. It was they who had set up the ad hoc voluntary associations that had introduced food and shelter and rudimentary order for the tens of thousands who had been made homeless. She recited the number of a London-based charity account for anyone who wished to make direct donations. Jeannie wrote it down.

Along with the donation she sent to the designated bank, she included a letter to Suna in which she offered to help with any longer-term relief Suna and her colleagues might organise. She outlined her areas of expertise. She ended with an awkward sentence about how she would understand if Suna preferred not to take her up on her offer. But whenever she remembered she’d not heard from her in such a long time, she felt sad.

In the meantime, she followed other leads. Her father was still in touch with Amy, and when Jeannie called, Amy gave her Chloe’s email. Chloe had been living in Istanbul since the late 80s and was, among other things, on the board of the international school. The pupils were collecting money to help build a school in Gölçük, a town in the area worst affected by the earthquake. When Jeannie sent a donation, she got an instant response. The only good thing about the earthquake, Chloe wrote, was to have ‘reconnected’ with so many long-lost friends. She wanted to write back and ask for news of Sinan but could not bring herself to type his name. So instead she asked if ‘everyone’ was ‘okay’. To this she got no reply other than a round robin about the progress of the charity project.

It was in late October that she picked up the phone and heard Suna’s voice again. As serious as ever, but also arch. ‘So,’ she said, ‘You wish to help.’

‘If you think I can,’ Jeannie said. Her voice was hoarse.

Suna’s was like a bell. ‘Let us try and see.’

‘If you can send me a few details about the projects you’re involved in, I’m sure I can raise more funds,’ Jeannie said.

‘That would be most generous,’ Suna replied. ‘But there is a more pressing concern. To help us you would need to come to Istanbul.’

‘Istanbul. Are you sure they’d let me in?’

‘Why should they stop you, of all people? So tell me. Can you come?’

‘When?’ Jeannie asked.

‘We were hoping for tomorrow.’

She paused. Her heart was pounding. Now was the time to ask. But she still couldn’t say his name. Instead she asked, ‘Who is we?’

‘Ah!’ said Suna. ‘No, there are only the two of us. Myself and Lüset.’

‘I had plans,’ Jeannie said slowly. ‘But I’m sure I could change them.’

‘Good. That means you can come. I shall forward your name to our friend in the Turkish Airlines office. Another friend will come out to the airport to give you the items you will be kind enough to carry for us.’

Twenty-three hours later, she was en route to Istanbul. Clouds covered most of Europe that morning but cleared just before they began their descent over the Sea of Marmara. Jeannie could see the jagged, yellow coastline and the highway that traced it. She looked inland, and where there had been empty brown hills, there were now houses as far as the horizon. Since her last visit, the city had grown from two to twelve million – eighteen if you counted the suburbs. They were flying into the wind and the landing was bumpy. But when the engines stopped roaring, a man began to clap. Now the whole plane was clapping, laughing, chatting. But she could not find it in herself to join in.

It was while she was waiting for her bags that she saw the first poster – a sleek-looking white-haired man in profile, smiling at a bright-eyed girl of about twelve. Both were holding mobile phones to their ears, and it was, Jeannie thought, the loud red background that made her chest feel so tight.

Suna was waiting outside customs. She was alone, of course. And so was Jeannie. How old she felt. Did Suna notice? She embraced Jeannie warmly, assuring her, with a broad smile, that she hadn’t aged at all.

‘Neither have you,’ Jeannie lied.

And Suna said, ‘Ah! The object is not to nurture false youth, but to mature!’ The pretence lasted as far as the car. As she lifted the aluminium suitcase that Jeannie had brought for them, Suna asked if they’d given her any trouble over it. Jeannie said no, though they’d sent it off for a special inspection.

‘Ah! Then let us see how special this inspection proved to be.’ She opened the suitcase. ‘Ah! It was very special indeed! Yes, they have even taken it out of its box for us! How kind! Would you like to see what you have brought?’

She reached inside. When her hand came out, it was holding a foot.

Jeannie screamed and jumped back. Suna whooped with laughter.

‘You silly girl, it is only plastic. It is a prosthetic limb for a ten-year-old girl in Yalova whose leg had to be amputated following three days under the rubble. Also her kidneys have failed. The things you’ve brought will keep her alive.’ She gave Jeannie a sharp and searching look. ‘Surely you are pleased! As you know, we have a fascist xenophobe for a health minister. It’s been difficult getting supplies. But still. Jeannie, think. Who could have imagined, that in 1999 we two would be standing here, looking at this?’ Having tried but failed to close the suitcase, she took the prosthetic limb out of the suitcase and threw it into the back seat.

During their trip into the city, down new highways that flew them over hill after hill of mud and raw concrete and half-built mosques, Jeannie saw no obvious signs of earthquake damage. ‘Don’t worry,’ said Suna. ‘You will soon enough.’ She mapped out their programme. They would drop Jeannie’s things off at her apartment. ‘You don’t mind, do you? Of course, if you prefer a faceless hotel…’

Suna’s apartment was at the top floor of a tall, narrow building in Cihangir. Jeannie went straight to the window to look at the Bosphorus. From here the sea looked the same as she remembered it. But there were no longer empty hills behind Üsküdar. Just concrete apartment buildings as far as the eye could see.

As she stood there, lost in the view, she wondered about Sinan. How to ask, and when? Best to wait until they were on their way to Yalova. That way Suna wouldn’t see her face. She didn’t want the details. She couldn’t bear too much about his wife or his children or the happy life they had together. She just wanted to know if he was safe. She was brought back to herself when the building shook. The chandelier above her head seemed to be swinging, but not enough for her to be sure she was not imagining it.

She opened her suitcase and tried to figure out what you wore to an earthquake zone. When Suna saw what she’d chosen, she burst out laughing. ‘Did I say anything about a funeral in Antarctica?’ She hummed to herself as went through Jeannie’s things, pulling out her long black cashmere dress and high-heeled boots. ‘For an earthquake zone? Suna, are you sure?’ Suna puffed out her lips. ‘Even in an earthquake zone, there are standards.’

There was a taxi waiting outside. It took them to a terrace of handsome mustard coloured buildings – these Jeannie recognised, though in her time they’d been derelict. They alighted in front of a café whose entrance was flanked by potted trees. Suna marched over to the next door along and punched in a security code. They walked up two flights to a large, bright pop art sign featuring a traffic light – and in large neon letters, the Turkish words for ‘Enlightenment Radio.’ Inside, it was all polished oak and leather and dark green carpet. Lou Reed was singing about the wild side. The receptionist ushered them to a waiting room that was separated from a recording studio by a plate glass wall.

The man in the studio had his back to them. There was something about the way he sat… He got up to leave, and as he did he turned his head just long enough for Jeannie to see his profile.

The grief welled up inside her again. As she struggled to regain her composure, another man walked into the recording studio carrying a large pile of newspapers. He had close-cropped hair and a broad, open, childish face. He was dressed in jeans and a loose fitting checked shirt that looked expensive, as did the large gold watch on his wrist. When he saw Jeannie, his face lit up. He came out with his arms open wide. ‘Come in! Sit down!’ It was Haluk.

Otis Redding was coming to the end of the dock of the bay by the time they’d followed him into the studio. As Joni Mitchell began to sing about a parking lot, Haluk smiled and said, ‘Tell me honestly. Are you surprised?’

But now a fragile, china-faced woman walked in. Jeannie recognised her instantly. They embraced like the old friends they were.

‘So,’ said Haluk. ‘How long has it been? Lüset, didn’t you count it?’

‘Eighteen years,’ she said.

‘Eighteen years,’ said Suna. ‘And just imagine. If we could have foreseen…’

‘We would not have believed it,’ said Lüset.

‘Ah! More than that!’ Suna cried. ‘We would have rebelled at the thought!’

‘Although the point must be made,’ said Lüset. ‘We were not the same people who have gathered here today.’

‘In some ways, yes. In others, no. In any event, there are things we need to explain to David. He is looking bewildered!’ She gestured over at the affable young man Jeannie had briefly mistaken for Sinan. She settled into her seat, moving the pile of newspapers to one side: there they were again, stretched across the page. The white-haired man and his granddaughter, advertising mobile phones. ‘So,’ said Suna, propping her elbow on their noses, ‘Where shall we begin?’

 

They began with a half-mocking, half-wistful description of the ‘lazy summer of 1970, when we were free but not free, and propelled by simmering boredom.’ They described their first impressions of Jeannie, a ‘fresh-faced American Barbie with no knowledge of the world’ – and of her famous exchange with Suna at the discotheque. Suna describing it as ‘one of those discussions so typical of the era, where the surface is political, but where the true content resides in the confused designs of the heart.’

They went on to tell the polite young man named David that Jeannie had gone on to become a ‘human rights leader’ – this made her blush with shame. She had, they said, been ‘a dedicated behind-the-scenes ally’ to the cause in Turkey, and that she had paid ‘difficult visits’ here even in the ‘darkest days following the coup of September 12^th 1980’. When Jeannie offered to correct the record, they silenced her with dismissive waves, only to exaggerate the help she’d given since the August earthquake. ‘Really,’ she said. ‘I’ve done next to nothing.’

‘But now you are here,’ said Haluk. ‘All this stands to change.’

‘So what really happened? With the trunk, I mean. In 1971.’ To Jeannie’s horror, the question sent them into peals of laughter. ‘It’s a good question,’ Suna said, ‘But the explanation is even better. Do we have time, my dear Haluk?’

‘Of course we have time. And it is time young David knows what sort of mettle his mother is made of.’ He nodded at Lüset. This boy was her son?

‘Then suffice it to remind him that we are harking back to the 12^th of March, 1971,’ said Suna. ‘Or to be precise, a few months after that, when the mass arrests had begun, and a hysteria was brewing with baseless rumours.’

The boy David smiled politely. It was clear to Jeannie that he had endured this story many times before. But it did not seem clear to the others.

‘According to our accusers,’ said Haluk, ‘we belonged to a cell, and had become convinced that one of our number was an informer. Apparently, we instigated a mock trial and went on to murder him. But there was always something strange about this story. No one could name the victim!’

‘In early reports it was Dutch Harding,’ Jeannie said.

‘You are right,’ said Haluk. ‘But as you know, his body has never been found.’

 

‘Which means?’

Something flashed in Haluk’s eyes. ‘What could it mean, except that it is well hidden?’

‘But the trunk…’ Jeannie said.

‘Ah!’ said Suna. ‘Here we come to the twist in the tale. There was no one in the trunk. There was nothing but literature. Or to be more precise, the contents comprised of 754 copies of a contraband periodical. I know because I wrote and mimeographed them all.’

‘Ah, that mimeograph machine,’ said Haluk. ‘How well I remember it.’

Suna cleared her throat. ‘I am speaking now of that infamous day in June of 1971 – we argued, yes?’

Yes.

‘I said terrible things, didn’t I?’

We all said terrible things.

‘But we all had our reasons.’

Of course.

‘So let me tell you ours. When you turned up at the garçonniere, spouting such ugly lies about a certain valued mentor…’

‘I had no idea – no proof – it was a stab in the dark. Suna, you don’t know how deeply I’ve regretted…’

A wave of the hand. ‘It does not matter what you said, my dear. It never has! No! We had other fish to fry that day. The news had come to us that we were soon to be raided. Naturally we were beside ourselves. If a certain valued mentor had not been there to help us…’

‘Though his first suggestion proved disastrous!’ Lüset recalled.

‘This is an understatement. We tried to burn the literature in our bathtub.’

‘But the tub was plastic.’

‘Our only achievement was to create a large and ugly hole.’

‘We put out the fire with the shower,’ Lüset said.

‘However, this only added weight to the telltale documents.’

‘But the clock was ticking,’ said Suna. ‘So we piled them up into a trunk, and we called a taxi. After a short but unpleasant journey Haluk met us on the shore and took us out into Bebek Bay in Kitten II.’

‘You have forgotten to mention the trail of red,’ said Lüset.

‘Ah yes, the trail of red,’ said Suna. ‘This is perhaps the most exquisite irony. Our contraband literature included our rough notes and early drafts.’

‘And a large number of these had been executed in red ink.’

‘And now they had become wet.’

‘And the excess fluid leaked. Ink was spilled.’

‘And this is how we left behind us a path of red which alerted a suspicious janitor who had come out early to buy a loaf of bread. He alerted the police station, thus setting into motion the chain of events that resulted in our arrests.’

‘But you are jumping ahead of your story,’ said Lüset.

‘This is true. As was my intention. I save the best for last!’ Her laugh was not reflected in her eyes. ‘What we did was this. Having travelled out into Bebek Bay to join the swirling currents, we took the string bags out one by one to drop them in. Alas, they did not sink. Instead they spread over the surface. As far as the eye could see, there was a telltale carpet of damp and disintegrating revolutionary literature.’ She swept her arms, as if to conjure it up again. And to Jeannie’s horror, she burst out laughing.

‘Can this be true?’ Jeannie asked.

‘Of course it’s true!’

‘Then I hope you’re going to tell me that you were never taken in for questioning? Never jumped out of a fourth floor window?’

‘Ah!’ Suna said. ‘This is another story altogether! Though perhaps now is not the time. For we are late. Are we not?’

Minutes later, they were bundling into another of the yellow cabs that had replaced the 1958 Chevrolets of Jeannie’s memory and heading for Taksim. This square, too, had changed, though not beyond recognition: there was a massive new hotel on the eastern side but the traffic was still chaotic and the pavements clogged, and there, on the vast billboard behind the war memorial, was the sleek, white-haired man conversing on his mobile with the innocent twelve-year-old, in triplicate.

They walked down İstiklâl Caddesi, now a paved walkway open only to pedestrians and trams, turning right into a narrow street, and into a bar called Kaktüs. They had been there ten minutes when a sulky, pouting, doe-eyed woman came in. She was wearing jeans and highheeled boots and a black leather jacket over a skimpy lace top. Across her chest were half a dozen golden chains.

It was Chloe. She ambled over to our table to offer Jeannie her beautifully manicured, ring-laden hand. ‘Well, who would have thought?’ she said. ‘How many years has it been? You look just the same, though.’

‘You look even younger,’ Jeannie said.

She laughed, rather tragically. ‘Well, I sort of have to, don’t I?’

As she opened up her Prada bag and got herself a cigarette from a golden case, Suna said, ‘Chloe’s husband was a plastic surgeon.’

After Suna had explained how Chloe’s husband had been ‘struck down in the prime of life by leukaemia’ and how Chloe had been running his clinic single-handed ever since, Jeannie offered her lame apologies.

Chloe took a drag of her cigarette and said, ‘Oh well, what can I say? These things happen. I don’t know about you, but I’m in the mood for a Martini. You want one, Jeannie? They know how to make them now. They use real gin.’

 

So they had their Martinis and then Chloe glanced at her watch and realised how late she was for a function where she’d be bored to tears. ‘I’ll see you anon,’ she said, and soon the others, too, were putting on their coats. Minutes later, she was sitting in the front row of a large theatre.

And there was Haluk in front of the curtains. He made a short speech that was received with loud applause. The curtains parted to show an orchestra. There were four singers – two men in tuxedos and two women in bright red gowns. The songs they sang were all in Greek. Jeannie thought she recognised the music, and when the stage darkened and a familiar face filled the screen behind the orchestra, she realised why. The woman in the film clip was Sibel, Sinan’s mother, circa 1967, standing in pool of light at Montreux. She was wearing the same low-cut dress Jeannie recalled seeing in a photograph, singing a gorgeously sad song, first in French, then in Greek, then in English.

When the lights went up, Haluk was standing with the singers. With him was an older man. It took Jeannie a few moments to realise he was Chloe’s father.

But he was not the slow, kindly, ponderous Hector Cabot she remembered. Someone had replaced his batteries. His movements were electric. His laugh was animated, almost wild. His brief remarks in Turkish were followed by even briefer remarks in fluent Greek. He then switched into English. ‘I hope no one minds,’ he said, ‘if I use this third language to thank our international sponsors, who have travelled thousands of miles to be here tonight. This is a historical occasion, one that would have been beyond our wildest dreams as recently as last summer. I hope it proves what we at the Institute think of as our founding motto. Good things can come out of tragedy. Enemies can put down their arms and recognise each other as friends. Our encore this evening is to be Sto Periyali To Krifo.’ He paused here to bow to the thunderous applause. ‘As most of you will already know, the lyrics are by the great Greek poet Seferis. During the junta years, its political resonances led the colonels to ban it. The resonances may have changed now, but the central meanings must remain the same here as they do across the border. “In the hidden bay, we wrote her name, and then we watched, as the beautiful wave came in and washed the name away…” Do I need to explain that the name they wrote and saw washed away was freedom?

So the song is sad. It’s about people who’ve spent their lives fighting for something they keep losing, who’ve lost their way. But if we can still gather together to sing this song, then it must mean…’ He raised his eyes and swallowed, ‘It must mean we can still live in hope. So I hope you don’t mind if I add my croaky voice to the chorus.’ Looking into the front row he said, ‘Darling? Are you still there?’

A thin elegant woman with golden hair climbed onto the stage. He gave her a bearlike embrace that nearly toppled her. Retrieving her balance, she smiled at Hector with adulation. Amy Cabot. How could she? It was clear that Hector, who had drunk his way out of their marriage all those years ago, was drunk again. Yet here she was, standing at his side, erasing the past with a song about the perils of writing in the sand.

Later on, when they were sitting at a long table at Yakup II, Suna tried to explain. Amy and Hector, ‘who now number amongst my dearest friends’ were ‘not precisely remarried’ but ‘in a sense even closer.’ Hector still divided his time between Istanbul and Connecticut. His work as head of IPEM (the Institute for Peace in the Eastern Mediterranean) meant that he also spent time in Greece. The cultural links forged so tentatively before the earthquake had strengthened since the ‘rapprochement’. The concert they had just attended was a case in point.

Now, as if on cue, Hector and Amy were entering the restaurant. Both rushed over to welcome Jeannie back. Could it be that she had a clean slate, too, along with everyone else? Hector pulled up a chair and engaged Jeannie in a long, intense, very personal discussion. He had, as Jeannie had guessed, been drinking, but he could drink, he claimed, without going over the edge. Taking a measured sip of wine, he said, ‘How about your father?’

Before she could answer, the conductor and his singers came in. Suddenly everyone but Jeannie was speaking Greek. Then it was Turkish for a sentence and a half. Then English. It went on like that, with the conversation spilling back and forth between languages like water in a boat.

It was during this strange to and fro that Jeannie discovered Haluk and Lüset were now husband and wife. Once again they met her surprise with laughter. ‘It is strange how things work out, no?’ said Lüset. ‘It is as Suna said: had either of us read the future when we were merely teenagers, we would have been most perplexed.’

Here Suna interceded. ‘You must tell them the story. It is very romantic.’

And so was the way that Haluk and Lüset shared the telling of it. They had been married for six years but were still finishing each other’s sentences: In 1992, when she was ‘recently divorced’, and on a flying visit to London, Lüset had caught a glimpse of Haluk in the café of the Arcola Theatre. ‘Though identification was difficult,’ Haluk added, ‘for I had become very fat.’

‘But so much else, as well,’ said Lüset.

‘Yes, I had been enjoying my own life. I was free! I forged my own destiny! But now, before I knew it, I was back in Istanbul – all forgiven, all forgotten – in the embrace of my family.’

‘And mine,’ Lüset added.

‘My darling, why repeat the obvious?’

Everyone laughed. At what? Then all eyes went to the window. In the street outside, the television crew that had followed the Greek performers to the restaurant had now surrounded a dapper, crisply smiling white-haired man. Though Jeannie did not recognise him, a wave of nausea passed through her. He had an entourage; even as he spoke they were clearing his way to the door. Haluk and several members of their party jumped to their feet. Each embraced the man with respectful warmth. The man now moved over to Jeannie’s end of the table. ‘Welcome back,’ he said. ‘Long time no see!’

It was İsmet.

She was too shocked, too horrified to speak. This seemed to amuse him.

‘He’s aged quite gracefully, don’t you think?’ said Suna as Haluk walked him back to the door. Her tone was arch, contemptuous, detached.

İsmet, she went on to explain, had done ‘rather well’ for himself. A ‘judicious third marriage’ had equipped him to take full advantage of the telecommunications boom. ‘Though of course he has continued to interest himself in other, more significant channels of communication also. Yes, we must all be in his debt! When it comes to alerting the nation to the great new menace in our midst, no one has done more than İsmet Şen! And what an invaluable help he has been to his old friends across the ocean, now that they, too, have decided that the evil empire is no longer espoused to Communism but to political Islam! But only behind the scenes – of course. In public he is simply known as the Pocket King.’ She went on to explain that mobiles were known as pocket phones in Turkey. ‘The nickname remains ironically insulting. It is well known that he deals in arms.’

‘This man is an arms dealer and you talk to him?’

‘You are speaking as if by talking to him, we are expressing our fear!’

‘What else am I to think?’

‘We are not afraid, Jeannie. I assure you. If anything, he is afraid of us! Times have changed. To succeed in his new ambition, to be the Voice of the Secular and Islam-hating Republic – it is not enough to pull the strings behind the scenes. He must be seen with the great and the good. He must smile with Haluk at his side! And if Haluk does not quite play his part… Look – look for yourself,’ she said, gesturing lazily towards the door. But Jeannie saw nothing but respect in Haluk’s smile and nothing in İsmet’s demeanour to suggest fear.

When she said as much, Suna said, ‘Ah! Perhaps you have been gone too long to pick up on the nuances.’ But how could Haluk even pretend politeness in front of this man, how could Suna speak in such level tones of his ignominious career? İsmet was the enemy, the man who’d tried to cancel them out. The man who had pushed Suna out of that window! It felt wrong, unjust – a multiplying of the injuries he’d caused.

Her unease stayed with her when the conversation turned back to the grim details of the earthquake relief effort. Whenever Suna, Haluk or Lüset touched upon something truly horrible – a fundamentalist group preventing members of a secular relief group from passing out essential supplies, a construction czar who was not going to trial, the closing of all earthquake camps to non-governmental organisations, the failure of the Red Cross to get the homeless into winter housing, the continued flouting of building regulations, the likely death toll if the next earthquake had its epicentre in Istanbul – they would burst out laughing.

They laughed, even, when discussing a tremor that had occurred earlier that same day. They discussed it in some detail. For some, it had been an up-and-down movement, and for others, the buildings they’d been in had seemed to sway. It was in the middle of this exchange that the restaurant itself began to shake.

It was then that Jeannie saw the fear in people’s eyes. And frankly, it was a relief. This was not a dream after all, she was not locked inside a ghastly fairy tale in which everyone was living happily after, except for her. When the shaking stopped, no one moved. Then everyone began talking at once. ‘You felt that, too, didn’t you?’ ‘Where do you think the epicentre was?’ ‘What did we do to bring this misfortune on our heads?’ Out came the mobiles. Suna was the first to give up. ‘The network has been flooded,’ she told Jeannie. ‘That means it must have been a relatively bad one. The moment there’s a bad one, everyone in the entire city gets straight on their phones. What a shame our old friend İsmet is no longer with us – I could have berated the Pocket King to his face!’

Jeannie stood up. ‘I need some air.’

It was colder than before. She buttoned up her coat. She looked inside: they’d all found something new to laugh about. And – she knew this was churlish and ungrateful and hard – she couldn’t bear it. It was as if she was lying in a lonely ditch, watching the glittering windows of a passing train.

She looked at the way Haluk and Lüset talked to each other. She would lean forward and so would he. She would begin a sentence, he would laugh as he caught the thought and ran with it. He would turn to the woman on his right but at the same time draped his arm around Lüset’s shoulder, and her face would light up, as if he had just given her an unexpected gift.

And she, their old friend, should have been glad for them. She cursed herself for coming back. She turned down the alleyway. A dark figure was walking towards her, his head bowed, his hands plunged into his coat.