Bone Box Page 14

  He limps, wholly unaware of the pain, through a clearing of wildflowers—white and muted yellow and purple and a splash of orange. There are bits of garbage—the messy hand of the species—along the trail, but the scent of the flowers is strong. He feels at home here, partly because of the redolent odor and partly because of the light. It’s almost as though he’s flowing with the wind and water. Something akin to the presence he felt at Saint John’s Cathedral occurs, but there’s more to it now. This ground, at once foreign and familiar, feels hallowed. It would be a good place to pray. He can see praying here five times a day, or five hundred. What he was unable to do in the Blue Mosque, he can do here. Being alive is paradox, an intermingling of pain and pleasure, of the deep anguish of loss and the acute awareness of sweet air coursing through sunshine. And he offers thanks for his life, everything that’s happened, all of it, every moment. He sends his thanks along the creek and out among the branches into pure light.

  He is completely knocked off his horse here in the Ihlara, the Valley of Beautiful Horses, but he isn’t blinded. He would in this moment start his own religion, a faith without rules or rituals. A faith without icons. A faith in which fairy chimneys are steeples and trees minarets. A faith in which birds are the only angels. A faith in which all ground is sacred and all water holy. A faith in which breathing is prayer. But he knows, of course, if Joe’s Faith ever caught on, Pharisees would complicate it, devising prohibitions and creating rituals. And he is no preacher, no proselytizer. Still, he is struck by the ground beneath his feet, the air clapping all around, the light burning the branches gold over his head, and the water streaming and purling molten all about him. He becomes the rush of sparkling water across smooth stones. He is an ancient bell ringing. He is a freshening wind.

  37

  Travers doesn’t catch up to the group until, almost an hour later, he reaches the outdoor restaurant at the other end of Ihlara Gorge. The guide and the eight others, everyone except Abrahim, are seated at a long picnic table under a wooden lattice frame on a terrace near the creek. The only seat left is directly across from the man who shadowed him in Istanbul and sucker-punched him in Selçuk. The breeze is rustling and the light purling and pooling, but he is already apart, separated from them, again in the company of people. And already in a quandary, the balance between the breathtaking beauty of the day and the sordid affairs of men not at all clear. His years of corporate work taught him that revenge, though sometimes momentarily satisfying, doesn’t solve problems, but there isn’t any way he can let go of the mugging, drop it as though it didn’t happen, as though the pain isn’t real.

  Travers takes the seat and gazes across the table. The man’s small brown eyes are set close together below his scarred eyebrow and above his crooked nose. Covering his left hand with his right, the man glances at Travers’ discolored jaw and then looks away at an elderly waiter placing bowls on the next table.

  “Hello,” Travers says, “I’m Joe.” Over the man’s shoulder, the gleaming creek cascades down rapids.

  The man looks at Travers for a moment before nodding and again glancing at the other table.

  “You remember me,” Travers says.

  The man’s smile is wary.

  “Of course, you do. Your hand probably still hurts. My jaw certainly does.”

  The man takes a paper napkin and slips his left hand into his lap with it.

  The French girl seated next to Travers eyes his jaw and then quickly looks away again at the tour guide regaling the group at the other end of the table.

  Travers leans forward. “What’s your name?” he asks the man.

  The man studies his soup spoon.

  “I’d really like to know.”

  The man looks up, but then averts his eyes. “Ich bin Günter Schmidt,” he says to the red and gold plastic tablecloth.

  Travers is surprised for a second that the man speaks German. “Sprechen sie Englisch?” he asks, cocking his head so that the ringing in his ear is less intense and he can also make out the sound of the creek.

  Schmidt hesitates before holding up his right hand with his thumb and forefinger half an inch apart. “Small,” he says. “Little.”

  Smiling, Travers nods. “Good,” he says. “I’ll give you the chance to practice.”

  A slight old man with a white beard serves bowls of lentil soup from a tray. The tour guide glances at Travers and Schmidt but then goes back to flirting with the French girls.

  “It’s my first visit to Turkey,” Travers says to Schmidt. “How about you?”

  Still guarded, Schmidt takes a sip of his soup.

  “Is this your first trip here, Günter?”

  “I come here before.”

  “Really? What do you do?”

  Schmidt takes a piece of bread from the basket on the table, breaks it in half, stuffs the larger half into his mouth, and chews hard.

  Travers tastes the soup, which is very good. “I’d really like to know. What work do you do, Günter?”

  Schmidt looks at the bread and soup and plastic bottle of water but not at Travers’ swollen jaw. Finally, he says, “I am instructor. Physical education in Vienna. At the gymnasium.” He shrugs. “In the summers, I do other works…”

  “What work?”

  “Last summer I did works at Ephesus.”

  “I was just there,” Travers says. Schmidt has, it seems, already told him what he needs to know. “Tell me about your work,” he adds, his tone more amiable.

  All through the lunch of chicken and tomatoes and couscous, Travers keeps peppering Schmidt with questions. The man hides his left hand for awhile, but then, as Travers’ inquiries gradually disarm him, he talks more freely about the dullness of his life in Vienna and his wanting to visit New York and Las Vegas. Eventually, he raises both hands, gesturing to emphasize points. Travers gazes over his shoulder at the white water, the rhythmic rush and tumble. Schmidt may be a boxer and probably Kirchburg’s boy, but he’s no killer. He’s not the one who shoved Kenan over the curtain wall.

  When the sliced watermelon is brought to the table, Travers stands abruptly. The French girl looks up at him. Her shoulder-length hair is brown, her face round, and her expression quizzical. He places his palms on the table and leans toward Schmidt. “It’s good to meet you, Günter,” he says. “I don’t think you know what you’re involved in.” He brushes his fingers across his swollen jaw. “Hell, I don’t, and I’m the one that got knifed.”

  Schmidt wipes his hands with his napkin and, his eyes becoming dull, looks at Travers.

  Travers gazes out for a moment at the light flashing along the rippling creek. “I forgive you, Günter,” he says, “but I won’t forget. There was no reason to knife me.”

  The conversation around the table dies.

  Travers extends his right hand. “Whatever the intended message was, I didn’t get it.”

  Schmidt looks at Travers’ extended hand but doesn’t shake it.

  “I’m staying here until all this is finished.”

  Schmidt doesn’t move; the French girls and the others stare up at Travers.

  “Ihlara Gorge is gorgeous today, Günter. I hope you noticed it.”

  Schmidt looks down at the napkin he is squeezing in his left hand.

  Travers steps back from the table and takes a breath. “Tell your boss to stop,” he says, his tone not threatening but forceful. “Tell him that the bones and the documents don’t belong to him.”

  38

  When Travers boards the minibus, Schmidt, up front with the driver, stares silently through the windshield smattered with dead bugs. Abrahim hunches over in his seat writing furiously in his notebook. The others on the tour are subdued, as though they’ve just witnessed an accident; nobody addresses either Travers or Schmidt. As the bus travels, Travers looks out at the rolli
ng hills, some green and some brown—and all suffused with light. Gradually, the French girls begin to chat among themselves, and the Australians open their guidebook and read to each other about Cappadocia’s underground cities. At one point, Travers sees in a distant field an old man leading a donkey with an old woman sitting on it.

  When the bus reaches the underground city of Derinkuyu, Abrahim doesn’t go with the others to the entrance of the subterranean site. Travers follows along for the first three levels through tunnels, storerooms, kitchens, dining rooms, chapels, and even a school. It’s all a hollowed-out warren replete with stables and a winery. Electric bulbs illuminate the stone passageways, but the walls are still close and the ceilings low. Each time the group descends to another level, another tour group is squeezing up the narrow steps. The first levels were likely carved out by Hittites as storage spaces, but the subterranean city reached its heyday in the seventh century when tens of thousands of Christians lived on fifteen levels at depths of more than three hundred feet. The city provided a safe haven against the Arabs that intermittently pillaged Anatolia. An immense stone blocking wheel allowed the residents to seal off the entrance from attack, and secret portals enabled them to sneak out and hack apart their enemies from behind.

  Schmidt stays close to the guide, seeming to listen attentively to the guide’s tales of mayhem. Travers slips back to the entrance and fresh air and natural light. The town above-ground is pretty desolate. Three-dozen small houses spread in no discernible pattern from the central square with its souvenir stands and open-air carpet shops. The carpet peddlers beckon to Travers, but he buys only a couple of bottles of water from a veiled woman waiting for Derinkuyu to disgorge its next group of tourists.

  Travers finds Abrahim sitting on a wooden bench in the shade of a tree behind one of the carpet displays. His notebook is open to a pen and ink drawing of the Wise Men from the Church Under the Tree. With liquid streaming from each man’s gouged eyes, the rendering is both amazingly artistic and deeply disturbing. Because of the monochromatic drawing, Travers can’t be sure if the flowing imagery represents blood or tears. Without saying anything, he holds out a bottle of water.

  When Abrahim looks up at Travers, his eyes, a beautiful brown almost the color of bronze, shine. “Deo gratias,” he says, accepting the bottle. “Pax vobiscum.”

  Abrahim’s speaking Latin throws Travers even more than Schmidt’s German. “Et cum spiritu tuo,” he says before realizing what he’s doing.

  Abrahim smiles. His olive skin is so smooth and clear that he seems more a girl or young boy than a man.

  “Do you speak English?” Travers asks.

  “I am learning,” Abrahim answers, closing his notebook.

  “May I sit down?”

  “Please,” Abrahim says. He shifts so that there’s more room on the bench for Travers.

  Travers takes a seat, twists the cap off his bottle, and drinks deeply. The sky is clear, and a single bird sings in the tree that shades them. “The tour doesn’t interest you?” he asks.

  “I am interested only in the churches,” Abrahim says without any irony in his voice. “In the saints.”

  And their relics, Travers thinks. “Is this your first time in Cappadocia?” he asks.

  “Yes.” Abrahim sets his notebook on the daypack next to him, stows the pen in his jeans pocket, and tilts the bottle so that the water swirls. “The cave churches give me joy.”

  “But not the Church Under the Trees.”

  “No.” Abrahim squeezes the bottle. “It was sinful for the Islamists to defile the icons. Very evil.”

  Travers nods. Abrahim’s knuckles are cut, too, but there’s nothing else about him that looks like a fighter. “And Saint John’s Cathedral,” he asks, “did working there make you happy?”

  “Yes,” Abrahim answers. He glances at Travers, unscrews the bottle’s cap, and takes a quick sip of water. His lips glisten as he says, “My life was good there. It was… I was good…for a time.”

  “Did you like working with Doctor Altay?”

  “Yes, very much, very much,” Abrahim says, but then he suddenly looks away. When he turns back, he looks like he’s going to cry. “She told me to tell you to go away,” he blurts.

  Travers sits back, listens to the townspeople hawking their souvenirs in broken English and German, and takes another drink of water. “I am not going to go away, Abrahim,” he says.

  “She says that she does not need your help.” The skin below Abrahim’s right eye twitches. “She does not want your help.”

  Travers takes a deep breath. “Look at me, Abrahim,” he says, his voice low. He turns so that his swollen jaw is more prominent. “I have fifteen stitches in my leg.” He points to his thigh. “And my ear won’t stop ringing. Leopold Kirchburg had me beaten. Tell her that. And tell her that Herr Kirchburg took the computer files.”

  Abrahim flinches. “The Christ’s letter?”

  Travers’ pulse races. Jesus Christ’s letter!

  “And Saint John’s letter?” Abrahim says. “Herr Doktor Kirchburg has them?”

  Letters! Blood rises in Travers’ face; his ears buzz as well as ring. Christ! John the Apostle? When he tries to take another breath, he coughs. He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth and then, trying to keep his tone even, repeats, “Tell her all that, Abrahim.”

  Abrahim fidgets with the bottle cap for a moment. “Who is that man?” he asks. “The other one?”

  It takes Travers a second to focus on the question. Though he himself suddenly has many questions, he understands that Abrahim won’t have the answers. “You mean, the man on the tour?”

  “The one you ate with.” Abrahim’s right eye twitches so much that it must be difficult to see clearly.

  “He works for Herr Kirchburg, I think.” Letters from Jesus Christ and John the Apostle! “He was sent to watch me, just as you were.”

  “She sent me to give you the message.” Abrahim reaches up, not quite touching Travers’ jaw. “Is that man the one which hurt you?”

  Travers hesitates. “Yes, but…”

  Clenching his fist, Abrahim lowers his hand. His voice becomes suddenly strident. “He will hurt Doctor Altay!”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “He will!” Abrahim says. Then, he opens his hand and lets his shoulders drop. His voice softens. “I saw you praying.”

  “What?” Travers is surprised by Abrahim’s abrupt shift in tone.

  Abrahim looks directly at Travers. “By the river,” he says. “When the others were gone. You were praying.”

  “Yes, Abrahim. I guess I was.”

  “Pray for Doctor Altay.”

  “I’m not going away.”

  “Pray for me,” Abrahim says, his voice sad.

  39

  From his corner table at the Sarihan Cave Hotel’s rooftop terrace, Travers gazes out across Göreme at the fairy chimneys in the valley. Nearby, doors and windows are carved into many of the conical spires. Farther away, some of the tufa and volcanic ash formations are cylindrical and capped with darker basalt. Beyond them, mountains range to the horizon. The air is still, but hosts of small birds dart for insects in the fading light. As Charles Lee strides toward him, Travers drinks his apple tea.

  Lee says, “Hey, Joe. Good to…” When Travers turns, Lee stops and stares at his swollen jaw. “Y’all sure got your clock cleaned.”

  “Yeah,” Travers says, waving toward the white metal chair across the table. “Have a seat.” When Travers returned to the hotel after the tour, there was a note from Lee saying that he had arrived in town and that they needed to meet ASAP. Travers left a return message, showered, and redressed his leg wound before coming out to the patio. He is wearing walking shoes and light nylon pants so that once this meeting is finished he can head out of town. He’s not feeling ja
ngled like he did the morning he hiked to Saint John’s curtain wall at dawn, but he still needs to walk. He wants to roam for awhile to make sense of what he learned on the tour. And, he wants to regain, if only for a moment, that singular feeling of oneness—if he can.

  The waiter that followed Lee over to the table takes his order for a can of Coca-Cola and a glass but no ice. Lee then leans forward, resting his forearms on the edge of the table. His carefully pressed blue sportshirt, the color of his eyes, has a golden eagle monogrammed on the pocket. He looks even more tan and fit than he did when he arrived in Istanbul. “I’d ask,” he says, “how you’ve been, but…” He smiles.

  “I’m all right,” Travers says, returning Lee’s smile. “In fact, I’m pretty good.”

  “Even if you don’t look so good.” Lee’s drawl is diminishing again. “How was that tour today?”

  Travers looks down from the rooftop at the rosebushes and at the amphoras set at angles in the hotel’s courtyard. “Charles,” he says, “the Eagle Consortium has no vested interests in any sites in Cappadocia. None at all in the region. Why are you here?”

  Lee’s smile broadens as he leans farther forward. “Why are you here?”

  “My stay in Selçuk didn’t go well.”

  Lee sits back. “No, I believe it didn’t. And that’s something we have to talk about.” He looks down over the roofs of the town. “But that’s not why you came to a place halfway between East Gibbip and Bumblefuck.”