“Why can you never find a policeman when you want one?” D.I. Bliss muttered angrily, as he drove the stolen black Mercedes through central Turkey.
“It’s the same in Holland,” said Yolanda, through a yawn, catching him by surprise as she woke.
“No wonder people steal things,” he grumbled, shuffling through the car owner’s cassette collection, seeking something soothing—Brahms or a Bach adagio perhaps. “We’ve been driving for hours and haven’t been stopped.”
“Nearly three hours,” she noted, glancing at her watch. Then she stretched extravagantly and ended by combing the fingers of her left hand through his hair.
“I haven’t even seen a police car,” he continued despondently, a soft warm feeling running through him as her fingers played with the hairs on the back of his neck; he slipped a likely looking tape into the player.
“I don’t know if we’d be able to get them to believe us anyway,” she added, then clamped her hands over her ears at the raucous blare of a Turkish version of “Jailhouse Rock.”
The road, which earlier had been as peaceful as could be expected anywhere on a early Saturday morning, was now buzzing with carloads of families, busloads of tourists, and truck-loads of everything imaginable, and unimaginable. A ribbon of humanity, and all their worldly possessions, streaming across the Steppes of Anatolia, according to the map they had bought at a gas station, several hours, and a few hundred miles, earlier.
She yawned again as the parched mountainscape slid by, as it had for hour upon hour. The grandly named Steppes of Anatolia, turned out to be nothing more than a barren rocky desert. Occasionally, they would pass a green tree, cannily growing spindly and sickly in the hope of avoiding the woodchopper’s axe or a voracious goat. Some even more enterprising trees lodged themselves precariously into fissures up on the side of escarpments but, otherwise, the scorched landscape appeared almost devoid of life. “I think the Valley of Death is somewhere around here,” muttered Bliss, his geography slightly askew as he scoured the dusty landscape, disappointed at the absence of Cossacks and a regiment of plumed Hussars. “Nothing but bloody goats,” he moaned, with a venom speaking of previous injurious experience. It’s a bit like life, he thought, bored by the never-ending undulating landscape, though the odd rocky outcrop and a small craggy mountain added occasional interest. A few romantic precipices and a failed marriage went through his mind, then he caught himself: his marriage hadn’t failed—failure suggested catastrophic collapse—his union with Sarah had gradually dissolved until it became two tenants with shared facilities and memories, and a grown up daughter, who, like her mother, had flown the coop. “I should call Samantha; she might be worried,” he told himself, remembering that he’d half promised to meet her for Sunday brunch. Then he had an unsettling thought. “Yolanda?” he said nervously.
“Ah, ah,” she hummed sleepily.
“You remember what we did in the airplane yesterday?”
“Yeah,” she replied, her eyes closing, the start of a dreamy smile sprouting around her mouth, and she left her lips parted a fraction, in preparation for a wider smile, which she knew, was coming. He blushed and stuttered, “We didn’t, um, we didn’t, um, take any precautions.”
The smile bloomed. “I know,” she said. “Isn’t it wonderful.” Then the blossom faded. “What do you want? Boy or girl?” Without giving him an opportunity to speak, she prattled on. “I would prefer a boy myself, we could call him Peter or Caas … although I’ve often thought Dave was a nice name.” Her resolve started to crack, seeing the mounting look of concern on his face. “We could have a girl next …” was all she managed before the smile burst back into bloom and turned to laughter. “Don’t worry Dave, I take a pill.”
Relieved, he laughed with her. Then he glanced into her deep blue laughing eyes and, looking ahead, saw that the sky had picked up the colour and spread it to the horizon.
“Where’s the truck, Dave?” she asked, forcing herself awake.
“There,” he replied, aiming a finger at a point about two miles ahead. On cue, the truck rose from a slight depression into full view, crested a hill and disappeared again. “According to the map there are no more intersections until we get to Ankara, and we should be there in about an hour.”
“We must get to a telephone in Ankara,” she said. “If I can call the captain he will know how to get the Turkish cops to help.”
“I could always call Edwards …” he began, then changed his mind. Samantha, his daughter, would be first—he needed sympathy not screaming.
“I hope he stops somewhere soon,” she said, the truck cresting another hill. “I need a bathroom and some food.”
“I need a shower,” mused Bliss, recalling his sweatsoaked minutes frantically digging into the warehouse compound during the night.
Yolanda, sniffed. “We both need showers—and new clothes.”
“We’re not going to steal them,” he jumped in firmly, thinking she might have that in mind.
The lunar-like landscape dragged by unendingly. The only evidence of human habitation was an occasional cluster of peasants’ houses, providing shelter from the sun for a skinny donkey or a flea-ridden goat. Sometimes the remnants of a dry stone wall would rise in the middle of a scrubby dry pasture, meander across the landscape for half a mile or more, then sink slowly back into the dusty soil; marking out some long-forgotten boundary, when the land still had a semblance of fertility—before the Angora goats, a zillion mohair suits still on hoof, had scoured every last blade of vegetation.
Two hours later Ankara was a distant red smear of rooftops in Bliss’ rear view mirror. The truck had not even slowed and Yolanda crossed her legs, fearing it might never stop. Spreading the map that was, for the most part, as barren as the landscape, she stuck her finger on the next town: Kirpehir, at least an hour away. “Can we stop somewhere Dave? I really have to go. We’ll have plenty of time to catch up.”
“We’ll never catch up if we don’t find another gas station,” he muttered as he scanned the deserted roadsides ahead, and a desultory idea took hold and shocked him with its simple logic: I don’t have to go back. I could set up a truck stop and stay right here—forever.
“What is it Dave?” said Yolanda, seeing him smile.
“Just a silly thought,” he replied, but was buoyed by the feeling of liberty. Realizing that, if he chose, he could be free—free from Edwards; and past relationships. That’s not freedom—that’s escape. You’re just running away—running from difficult situations. Anyway, look at the place—who’d want to live here? One glance at Yolanda with her expensively unruly hair, Cartier watch, and bank of credit cards told him to forget it.
A few scrawny bushes, clumping together for protection against the goats, lay off the road several hundred yards ahead. Bliss aimed for them, laughing. “If kissing your wife in a taxi is a crime, having a pee by the roadside probably carries the death penalty. But at least it will get the attention of the police.”
They bounced off the road and disappeared in a storm of dust, and Yolanda was out, fleeing through the gritty grey cloud. Two trucks and a handful of cars flew by, then Bliss noticed an ominous break in the traffic. Where’s the next car, he wondered, peering deeply into the rear view mirror, drumming his fingers on the steering wheel.
“Hurry up,” he muttered, his right leg joining in the restless rhythm of his fingers.
Still no traffic. His anxiety rose. “Come on, come on.” Then he saw it; in the mirror, rising over the top of the last hill, a huge lumbering low-loader carrying half a power station on its back, and behind it a mile or more of solid traffic. Leaning on the horn, he screamed, “Yolanda.”
“Just coming,” she shouted testily, unaware of the urgency of the situation, then ran from behind the bushes still tugging at her dress.
He slammed the car into gear and was already inching forward when she leaped aboard, then he jumped the throttle and sent the wheels spinning across the rock-strewn desert.
Too late. The low-loader was already passed, together with several trucks, a dozen cars and a bus. Bliss kept to the desert trying to outpace the vehicles, throwing up a whirlwind of dust and debris for hundreds of yards. Then a sharp scar of a deep ravine loomed ahead, forcing him to re-join the road before it ran over an iron girder bridge. Swerving aggressively, he intimidated the driver of a new Volkswagen into letting him into the line, but there were still six cars and a bus behind the oversized load, and the red and white articulated truck, with its human hostage, was getting further away by the minute.
Twice, he nearly killed them, recklessly overtaking in the face of oncoming traffic. At the third attempt, Yolanda laid a hand on his arm, “Dave, be careful.” Then her words, “Think of the baby,” relaxed the strain and spread a smile across his face.
Twenty minutes later they were still trying to catch the kidnappers. Bliss unkindly implying it was all her fault for taking so long—even suggesting she should pee for Holland in the next Olympics. Finally, he scraped by the giant truck ascending a steep hill, the transformer on its back weighing it to a crawl. Then he looked in his mirror and saw again the dreaded inscription “Trust in Allah” plastered across the top of the cab.
“Kirpehir,” proclaimed the dusty signboard at the entrance to the dusty town, and the detectives’ uneasiness was rising to a panic. According to the map there was only one main road through the town, but they worried the truck might stop and transfer its hostage to another vehicle, or drive surreptitiously into a warehouse and vanish altogether.
Houses seemingly grew out of the desert as they entered the town—the rocky desert outcrops merely taking on a more geometric shape—as rough conical stone mounds transmuted into cubes, with tiny windows and bleached wooden doors. As the Mercedes bumped and rattled along the steeply inclined cobbled road, they scanned side streets for the articulated red and white trailer, and were occasionally startled by a vibrant splash of colour: Tex-Mex red or guacamole green; the entrepreneurial householder having taken advantage of a few cans of paint destined for a more avant-garde city, which had fallen off the back of a passing truck.
“There it is,” she screeched, suddenly jabbing her finger at a parking lot at the end of the main street—a truckers’ oasis. Dozens of huge rigs jammed every available space and some had even overflowed onto the high street itself. A strategically placed row of black and yellow booths, marked “Telefon,” seethed with truck drivers checking in with their bosses or wives; others, no doubt, making arrangements for a clandestine adventure in some city well away from their bosses or wives. All around the parking lot enterprising merchants had set up stalls, turning the entire area into a vast colourful bazaar, and one side of the square, where Bliss flagrantly parked the Mercedes under a “No parking” sign, was taken up with the facade of a Mosque, its single Minaret pointing to the sky like a space-rocket ready for launch.
“I’ll phone the captain if you find some clothes and look for a police station,” said Yolanda, then nodded toward the parked truck on the other side of the square. “How long do you think they’ll stop?”
Bliss shrugged. “Not long. There’s two drivers so they can take turns. But there’s only one road out of town, if they’re stopping now it means they still have some way to go. As long as we check every ten minutes or so we’ll be able to catch them.”
Yolanda nodded her agreement, “What’s the time now?”
Brushing the dust off his watch, he remembered to add two hours before replying, “Nearly twelve o’clock.”
“Okey dokey. Let’s be back here in fifteen minutes.”
Leaving the car, they had managed to take only a couple of paces before they were almost knocked to the ground. A powerful blast of white noise from a trio of metal horned megaphones shrieked at them from the Minaret. Yolanda clamped her ears again as the dreadful noise was superseded by the discordant singsong voice of the Muezzin calling his flock to the Mosque. Religious fervour instantly seized the entire town. Everything stopped; cars were abandoned in the streets; stores suddenly deserted; young girls whisked out of sight. The truck drivers melted from the phone booths and men scurried into the mosque from all directions.
“Great,” she said, noticing the vacant phone booths. “I’ll call the Captain.”
“I could try Edwards …” he began, then changed his mind. “I think I’ll call my daughter.”
“She’ll be worried.”
He shook his head. “No. She’s so busy with her career she probably doesn’t know I’m away—that’s the advantage of living on your own; no one misses you.”
“Is that an advantage?” queried Yolanda quietly.
Yolanda was bubbling with excitement when Bliss returned to the car with a suit, shirt, and underwear neatly tied in a brown paper parcel.
“What is it?” he said, noticing her grin from a distance.
“I spoke to Captain Jahnssen. They’ve found LeClarc,” she said breathlessly.
His voice jumped, “Alive?”
“Yeah,” she said, quickly, “But I’ll tell you in a minute, we’ve got to keep going. The truck’s still there; the drivers are in a café. I need clothes. Grab some food and lots of drink.”
Returning ten minutes later, arms overflowing with packets, bags and bottles, Bliss didn’t immediately recognize the veiled woman standing next to the Mercedes, even wondering if he was in the right square but, turning around, spotted the truck. Then Yolanda saucily lifted the veil and gave him her most lascivious wink. Not now, he thought, his mind racing with the memory of what lay under the shapeless black dress. The heavy black shawl, draped over her golden hair and drawn across her face, certainly made a mockery of the old Turkish saying Abdul had taught them in Istanbul. “The thicker the veil the less it is worth lifting,” he had claimed.
Yolanda rummaged through a paper bag as soon as she got in the car. “I’ve got some black hair dye, soap, deodorant, a toothbrush and some toothpaste …” she paused, giving the tube a quizzical look, “I think it’s toothpaste.”
“I’d rather have a wash,” he said, grabbing the deodorant and plastering it under his arms. “Where’s LeClarc?” he continued, excitement in his tone.
She turned up her nose. “Phew. I think you smelled better before … Dave — quick, they’re going,” she said, brushing it aside.
The truck was edging slowly out of the square and heading back to the main road.
“Damn!” mused Bliss. “I was going to try calling Samantha again.”
“My turn to drive,” she said, shoving him out and sliding into the driver’s seat. “You can get changed on the way.”
A few seconds later, the truck turned onto the main road and set off, ever eastward, and, with the burning sun high overhead, the Mercedes fell into line.
“What did the captain say about LeClarc?” he tried again, as they swung onto the main road.
“Wait a minute,” she said, noticing the red warning light. “No gas.”
He buried his face in his hands, “Oh shit!, I forgot.”
“Gas station,” she said, as if trying to summons one magically. And there it was, conveniently placed, two hundred yards ahead.
“How did you do that?” he laughed.
She beamed and took the credit.
With a full tank, new clothes, and a chancy selection of food and drink, they raced eastward and caught up to the truck.
“What did the captain say about LeClarc?” he tried again, as they relaxed with the truck back in their sights.
“Something about a trawler—apparently they had to chase it with a helicopter and drop someone on board at high speed.”
“Why would they have to chase a trawler?”
She shrugged. “The crew had been tied up—anyway LeClarc is safe. The captain’s calling the Turkish police to tell them where we are. Someone should be with us in about an hour so you should get some sleep.”
“Just be careful. The last time I went to sleep you crashed the car.”
“That wasn’t my fault.”
“Yes it was,” he said firmly, gave her a contradictory smile and fell asleep, exhausted.
Five hours later Bliss was jerked awake by the bumpiness of the road. “Where’s the cavalry?” he asked, his eyes taking in the lush surroundings of a tree lined river gorge where he had expected to see a posse of Turkish police. “And where’s the truck?”
Yolanda was manoeuvring the car onto a grassy knoll under some Eucalyptus trees. “I saw the police about an hour ago, six carloads all going the other way, I thought they’d turn around and catch us, but they didn’t. I think they had set up a road block but left before we got there.”
“Brilliant,” replied Bliss.
“The truck’s over there,” she added pointing through the trees. “They have stopped at another café. We have time to stop and eat.”
“And wash,” he said, noticing the sound of running water as he climbed out of the car and headed to a convenient tree.
“Yolanda,” he called a few seconds later, “come and look.”
“What?” she said, leaving the car., She caught up to him under the trees and they stood in amazement, looking down at a fairy-tale scene. Rays from the hot. afternoon sun, heading westward again, were filtering through the Eucalyptus trees and dancing in dozens of tumbling waterfalls at their feet.
“It’s beautiful,” said Bliss, totally lost for a more appropriate description. A cataract of polished rock basins formed a giant’s staircase with water cascading gently from one pool to the next, then overflowing into the next, down and down again, sometimes falling six feet or more while other times trickling sideways, only a few inches, into another pool before plummeting into yet another. The crystal clear spring water gurgled and laughed as it plunged over and over again in the treelined gorge.
Two minutes later they were showering naked under a six feet high waterfall. They washed themselves, and each other, in the soft smooth water and stood for minutes just letting it pour over them. Then they washed each other again, their soapy fingers playing and exploring as their wet lips met and locked. Finally they broke apart as Yolanda considered dying her hair black to match the locals, but then decided not to bother.
“You only bought one toothbrush,” he complained as she cleaned her teeth.
“We’ll share,” she said, taking it out of her mouth and jabbing it into his.
Then they laid together in a perfectly sized pool, staring at the blue sky through the waving fronds of Eucalyptus, the water swirling gently round them on its way from one waterfall to the next.
“In England a place like this would be filled with screaming kids and people with rubber tires and inflatable things,” said Bliss.
“The same in Holland,” she agreed, “and you would have to pay to get in.”
“Can we stay here forever?” she asked, as her hand swam under the water and gently played between his legs. He closed his eyes and his mind drifted. “Um. Yes please,” he replied.
“The truck’s moving,” she said lazily a minute later.
“Damn,” he replied and kissed her quickly as they climbed out of the pool. “No towels,” they exclaimed together, and stood dripping wet, laughing, on the edge of paradise.
“We’ll use my shawl,” she said.
A minute later they were bouncing back along the track toward the road, clean, happy, and refreshed— Bliss driving as Yolanda gave directions.
The dying rays of yet another day slanted across the landscape as they drove. Mile after mile of barren brown mountains were broken only by the occasional green stripe of a verdant valley. Goats and sheep outnumbered the peasants a thousand to one, and Yolanda had swerved a few times to avoid a wild camel as she drove and Bliss slept.
“I think the next town is called Dlyabakir,” Yolanda said, slowly reading the name, then a note of concern crept into her voice. “Edge of the map, Dave.”
“I know,” he replied. “How’s your geography?”
“Syria—I think, but it might be Lebanon, Jordan, even Israel … Shit!” she exclaimed. “I might have bought the wrong costume.”
“Don’t worry. Immigration and customs will stop the truck at the border and it’ll be easy to rescue the guy.” The he squirreled an audiocassette out of his pocket. “Nearly forgot,” he announced, “I picked it up at one of the market stalls—only cost a few lira.”
“What is it?”
“Handel’s ’The Arrival of the Queen of Sheba,’” he announced, triumphantly, slipping the obscure aria into the player. Three triumphal bars sang out then it snapped with a twang and the machine vomited out a stream of tape. “Damn.”
The mountainous landscape gave way to scrubby desert by the time the sunset. They had eaten well and Yolanda congratulated him on his excellent choice of food. Claiming, truthfully, to have no idea what they were eating, he admitted it tasted better than raw herring.
“So would goat poop,” laughed Yolanda, adding, “We’ll go back to Istanbul and have bluefish when this is over,” her eyes glazing at the prospect.
“Can we still stay in that Hotel?”
“The Yesil Ev,” she reminded him.
“Yeah. I’d like to try out that bed properly.”
“So would I, Dave,” she replied sweetly.
The start of a smile was wiped out with a sudden concern. “I hope they haven’t thrown our suitcases into the street,” said Bliss.
“No. I gave them my credit card. They’ll just charge us until we get back.”
His sharp intake of breath alerted her to his thoughts. “Don’t worry Dave. I can afford it. Anyway, we are staying for at least another week; I want to show you all the sights.”
“Now you’re talking …” he started, but was cut short by the sudden blinding lights of an oncoming vehicle, the first for many miles, and the Mercedes’ tires dug into the dusty desert as he swerved. In a flash the car was past and the lights went out.
“He’s driving without lights,” he complained bitterly, the policeman in him wanting to tear after the offender with a ticket.
Another unlit car flew out of the darkness and briefly flashed its lights, catching Bliss unawares again, although he managed to stick to the road this time.
“What the …” he started, then checked in his rear view mirror and spotted the shadow of a dark car.
“Yolanda, we’ve got company.”
“Police?” she said hopefully, swivelling to look.
“I don’t think so,” he replied nervously.
“Bandits?” she enquired, with an excellent Southern drawl.
Bliss checked the mirror again. “Possibly. Let’s see what happens if we slow down.” They slowed and the following car matched their speed, making no attempt to pass. He sped up again and two miles later the sinister car was still there. At every turn his heart began to jump; expecting to find a roadblock just around the corner, expecting the occupants of the following car to leap out wearing bandannas and carrying machine guns.
“Hold tight,” he said, ramming his foot to the floor. The Mercedes nearly took off. “Keep looking,” he shouted and she spun round in her seat.
“We’re losing him,” she said after a few moments.
“As soon as we’ve rounded the next bend,” he warned, “I’m going to turn off my lights and do a one-eighty.”
They shot round the corner at nearly a hundred miles-an-hour and Bliss jumped on the brakes, then pirouetted the car around. Without stopping he drove straight at the following vehicle and stabbed on his high beams. Blinded, the driver lost control and careened off the road, bouncing out of their view into the desert and crunching into a rock.
Bliss spun the car back around, gripping the wheel hard to stop his hands shaking, and his lights picked up the occupants clambering out.
“I wonder who they are?” Yolanda breathed rhetorically.
“Do they look like bandits?” he asked as he stood on the accelerator.
“It’s difficult to tell,” she replied, still straining her neck.
Bliss agreed with a nod. With their swarthy skin, deep-set dark eyes, black greasy hair, and villainous smiles, all the locals looked candidates for the “most wanted” page of the Police Gazette.
Three more cars passed without lights, the drivers relying on the moonlight and Allah. After the third, Bliss turned off his lights and drove without difficulty. “If you can’t beat them, join them,” he said to Yolanda who translated the saying into Dutch for his amusement.
Five hours, three towns, and a hundred unlit cars later the red warning light came on again.
“Low on gas,” said Yolanda who had taken over the driving.
“Town up ahead,” he said lazily, as he noticed a radiant glow on the horizon.
“Which town?”
His eyes searched in the dim light. “It must be off the map,” he concluded. “Syria maybe,” he added, sitting up attentively. “We’ll get help from the border police wherever it is.”
She consulted the dashboard clock. “It’s three o’clock Sunday morning. We’ll be lucky if anyone’s awake.”
“Fingers crossed,” he replied, as they rounded the next bend, and were suddenly confronted by the “town”: nothing more than a border crossing besieged by a bunch of squatter’s huts. A half dozen trucks were pulled off to the side and the drivers stood around, enthusiastically shaking hands, jabbering excitedly, and gesticulating wildly as if they had just conquered Antarctica or climbed Everest.
Yolanda eased the unlit car onto the desert and killed the engine. “I’ll take a look,” she said, throwing the shawl over her head and slipping out of the car as he tried to protest.
“Damn woman,”
Ten minutes later she slunk back. “Dave it’s not Syria. It’s Kurdistan,” she said, forlornly slumping in the seat.
“Kurdistan,” he repeated,” Isn’t that part of Iraq?”
“Uh, uh.”
They sat in silent deliberation for several minutes; thoughts of home and family interwoven with frightening images of the Gulf war: bloated bodies of gassed Kurds, and fanatical Iraqis chanting, “Death to westerners,” tortured hostages, and terribly mutilated prisoners of war.
“Dave,” she enquired slowly, “Do you think we should carry on?”
“Yolanda!” he scowled.
For once she agreed. “Okey dokey, Dave. Well that’s it then.”