Bone Box Page 2

  A skinny young man, probably in his late teens, attaches himself to Travers before he crosses the street. The boy falls into step, says hello, and asks in passable English where he’s going.

  Travers doesn’t think walking through sadness would work as an an-swer so he says, “The Blue Mosque.”

  “I will show you the way,” the boy says, pointing along the Cavalry Bazaar.

  Shaking his head, Travers says, “Thanks anyway, but it’s not really necessary.”

  “It’s no problem,” the boy answers without missing a step. His smile is wide, his teeth crooked.

  The bazaar’s carpet and handicraft shops encroach on the mosque’s property, and Travers has a fleeting thought that someone with a stronger sense of the sacred might well wind cord into whip. While they climb the steps and cross to the mosque’s visitors’ entrance, the boy asks where in America Travers is from. When he tells him, the boy says that his brother visited Chicago and that his cousin lives in LA. As an older man with packets of postcards approaches, the boy snarls something in Turkish that must mean, “Get away from my goddamned pigeon.” After reminding Travers to remove his shoes and carry them in one of the plastic bags provided, he mentions that his family owns a carpet shop at the other end of the bazaar and that he’ll be waiting for Travers at the mosque’s exit.

  Travers wasn’t really able to focus on the mosque’s exterior while he was being steered toward the entrance, but the interior takes his breath. It’s enormous—and empty, with no pews and no altar. Small lights, fastened to circular bars hanging from hundreds of wires, illuminate the elaborate blue tilework. Men prostrate themselves on the prayer rugs facing the ornate mihrab, which marks the direction of Mecca. The minbar, a high elegant pulpit used by the imam to preach, stands to the right of the mihrab. Half a dozen children run about on the carpets in the vast space under the central dome. Women pray in an isolated niche on the periphery. They all have their heads covered, something that reminds Travers of the uniformed girls kneeling in Prescott’s Saint Joseph’s Academy chapel when he was very young. His mother was the school nurse, and she would sometimes bring him with her to work when he was himself too young for school. He liked her small white office with its neat stacks of medical supplies. And, as he sat in the back of the chapel with his mother at the weekly masses, the girls’ high voices ascended in song, their Latin chants rising through the soft, stained-glass light and sweet candle scent.

  Now, he stands on the periphery as well. He hasn’t prayed in recent years, hasn’t really been able to, but the mosque seems a good spot for it. He leans against a pillar for twenty minutes, waiting, but no chant wells up through the emptiness. Incapable of even an Our Father or a Hail Mary, he’s struck instead by how isolated he feels. He hasn’t yet seen another American, mostly because after the wars in Iraq and Afghanistan many of his countrymen aren’t traveling to any Islamic nation, even a secular one. And Turkey’s role as America’s ally is becoming increasingly ambiguous as the anti-Americanism in the region becomes more rabid. A young man is lurking outside the mosque’s exit and a woman is meeting him for dinner, but he still feels ostracized by language and religion and culture.

  Before Travers has time to tie the laces on his walking shoes, the skinny boy is on him again. Travers sits on a ledge in the mosque’s courtyard, looks over at the ablutions fountain, and tells the boy, repeatedly, that he’s just arrived in the country and isn’t going to look at, much less buy, any carpets. He came to Istanbul, at least in part, because in a world gone awry he needs to be taken by something magical, even perhaps a carpet ride, but he isn’t buying anything just yet.

  The boy is gone less than two minutes before another rug peddler hits on Travers. He is short and swarthy, and his English is halting—but he’s still able to promise a better deal than whatever the young man offered. Travers retreats through the courtyard’s exit into what’s left of the Hippodrome. The Brazen Column, the Egyptian Obelisk plundered from Luxor, and the Serpentine Column taken from Delphi are all that remain of the huge stadium that was Constantinople’s hub. He walks through the park thinking about the layers of fallen empires here—Egyptian, Macedonian, Roman, Byzantine, and Ottoman. He sits, finally, on a park bench by a fountain in a garden halfway between the Blue Mosque and Hagia Sophia, the 1,500-year-old Byzantine church. As the sun slips behind the stone wall, the light holds on the golden tips of the domes of both the mosque and the former church.

  Travers watches the young men with their cell phones, the families with their veiled women, and the children racing to and from the fountain. Two boys, dressed in matching blue shorts and shirts, squabble near him, their words unclear but their tones unmistakable. For a moment, he is watching his own sons, Tom and Jason. He misses that squabbling, in a sense longs for it, though he knows he’ll never again be referee or arbiter—or father. So much attention was given to Jason, the prodigal son, that Tom, as the dutiful firstborn, finally came to feel estranged. That and Tom’s current need to keep peace with his mother still require a certain distance from Travers that neither of them ever mentions in their biweekly calls.

  4

  The call to prayer begins as Travers steps out of the elevator onto the Blue House Hotel’s rooftop. He finds himself up among the trees with the Blue Mosque looming on his right and the Sea of Marmara, darkly silver in the fading light, shimmering on his left. Her back to the mosque, Sophia Altay sits reading a sheaf of papers at a corner table. There’s no gardenia, but he knows who she is because only two other tables are occupied, one by two young men and the other by a middle-aged couple. The amplified chant reverberates around the terrace. Travers stands for a moment listening to the plaintive, almost mournful prayer coming from the loudspeakers fixed to the mosque’s minarets. Distant voices call from other parts of the city.

  When a waiter approaches, Travers points to Altay. The waiter nods and waves Travers toward her. She is a petite woman in her late thirties, perhaps ten years younger than he is, with a narrow face and black hair that flows down her back in a loose braid. Her pale green blouse is buttoned up to her gold rope necklace. Her head is tilted, and her concentration is so complete that she doesn’t notice him until he stands by her table. She glances up, quickly closes the folder over the printed sheets she was reading, and looks up again. Her eyes are almond-shaped, hazel, and so bright that he takes half a step back.

  “Joseph Travers,” she says, her accent again making his name sound exotic.

  “Hello, Ms. Altay,” he says, not taking his eyes from hers. They are more green than brown, perhaps because of the color of her blouse, and they shine in a stunning feline way. Cat Woman, he thinks. I’m having dinner with the Cat Woman.

  She gestures toward the chair across from her, and he sits down. He can see the mosque’s central dome and minarets over her shoulder. The sea glimmers off to the side. And her eyes don’t blink. He sucks in his breath, picks up the cloth napkin, and wads it in his lap.

  She slides her folder into a red and gold woven cloth bag, sets the bag on the floor next to her, and says, “Welcome to Turkey, Joseph.”

  “Joe,” he answers. “Thanks.”

  They sit there in silence for a minute before the waiter comes over and asks him if he wants something to drink.

  “Yes,” he says. “Red wine. Turkish.” He looks at her half-empty tea cup. “Can I… Would you like something?”

  “Perhaps with dinner,” she answers.

  “A bottle of the house red,” he says to the waiter. “Thank you.”

  They sit silently again for another minute. Her face tapers toward her chin. Her nose is thin, and her mouth is full, giving her an unconventional but striking beauty. Finally, he says, “So, Ms. Altay, how did you find me?”

  She makes a steeple of her fingers and almost smiles. “Your sister,” she says.

  He laughs. His sister, three years his senior a
nd his travel agent, has, for close to half a century, been a little bossy and, conversely, lax with the details of his personal life. “You talked with her?”

  “Email,” she says. “She seems quite nice.”

  Figuring she must have gotten the name and address of his travel agency through the Glavine Foundation, he asks, “What else did she tell you?”

  “Nothing relevant.”

  Her answer seems more curt than it needs to be, and they lapse again into silence. She sips her tea, and he looks out to sea where a tugboat is nudging the bow of a massive tanker. The two men seated near them take out a digital camera and giggle as they compose photos of each other in the candlelight. The older man and woman smoke cigarettes and speak in exhausted voices with British accents. The waiter brings the wine, has Travers taste it, and pours two glasses. Travers raises his wine glass to propose a toast—to Turkey, to the Ephesus Project, to good food, to life, to anything—but he can’t tell yet if he and Altay have any common ground at all.

  They order dinner. He drinks his wine, and she finishes her tea. A cell phone in her bag rings, but she doesn’t answer it. Travers’ own phone, an old Motorola model he thinks of as his Amish phone, is down in his room. After Jason’s death, he got rid of all of his advanced devices—the technology was too constant a reminder. And when he laid himself off from Motorola, he took only the Amish, which makes calls, sends text messages, and tells time, but has no frills at all.

  Altay dabs her lips with her napkin and then locks on him with those feline eyes. “Why did you arrive a day early?” she asks.

  He shrugs. “I wanted to see the city.”

  “Why are you here?”

  He has numerous answers to that question but says only, “To check on the Selçuk sites. Make a status report for the Glavine Foundation.”

  She folds her hands and leans forward. “Why?”

  “I sit on the Glavine Foundation board.”

  She stares at him. “But why now?”

  He leans back and brushes his hand across his mouth. The Cat Woman’s eyes are spectacular, but he doesn’t like the way she’s looking at him. “Bill Glavine asked me to. He’s an old friend. A college buddy.”

  “And you’ve kept in touch all these years?”

  “Not exactly. But our lives crossed pretty regularly in business. And he invited me to join the board last year.”

  She nods, and then her eyes fix on his. “And your role is…” She waves, her hand a quick specter in the candlelight. “As a corporate executive you recently fired scores of people…” Her smile is cross. “…including yourself. And now you’ve leapt at the chance to come here.”

  “Maybe, Ms. Altay,” he says, “we should chat a little. Get to know each other a bit. Maybe talk about this with the others tomorrow night.”

  The waiter brings a long flat loaf of bread on a wooden plank, but she doesn’t even look at it. Shaking her head, she asks, “Why are you really here?”

  Ripping the end off the loaf, which smells wonderful, he meets her gaze. “I told you I’m here to visit the sites, get to know the operation, make an evaluation.”

  She puts her hands flat on the table as though she’s about to pounce. “An evaluation? Come on,” she hisses, “you know nothing about archeology. What is your actual agenda?” Her English, fired up, sounds British.

  Anger rises in his belly. His real agenda is complex, but it has little to do with her or the Ephesus Project or archeology or the current state of international relations or, for that matter, anything geopolitical. His life is bounded by personal loss, not financial or political gain. It’s not that he doesn’t care, but his concerns are private, not public, his outposts and checkpoints internal. He tosses his napkin onto the table and says, “Ms. Altay, why did you want to meet this evening.”

  Half standing, she leans across the table. Her eyes are William Blake’s tiger’s. “If you think you can come here and ax me, you’re wrong. I’ll fight you tooth and nail.”

  “What?” he blurts.

  “Saint John’s is my site, and neither you nor any of those other…” She pauses. “…gentlemen…are going to terminate me. My work…the work…is important. More important than any of you can comprehend. I know what I’m doing. And I’ll run the site as I see fit.”

  “What are you talking about?” He had a few meetings blow up on him over the years, but he generally knew beforehand both the odds and the causes—corporate intrigue or antithetical goals or personal vendettas among the participants.

  She reaches for her bag, stands, and glares at him.

  “What the heck are you talking about?” he repeats.

  She twists the bag’s strap around her hand, but the glint in her eyes softens. “You really don’t know what’s going on, do you?” she says, more incredulous than furious.

  “I know this…” He passes his hand over the bread. “…I know that dinner…this meeting’s…a mess. That you assume I’m here to do something I’m not. That whatever’s happening makes you…angry.” He picks up the piece of bread and drops it again. “But, no, I don’t know anything about what you’re saying.”

  She stands there, one arm extended, one hand holding the bag’s strap against her hip, her head cocked—a girl making like a little teapot. She’s a head shorter than he is, maybe five-foot-three, and her waist and hips are svelte in her long khaki skirt.

  “Sophia,” he says, “let’s start over.” He rises and offers her his hand. “Hi. I’m Joe.”

  She looks at his hand, gazes into his eyes one more time as if checking to make sure he really isn’t her executioner, slides her bag to the floor, and shakes his hand. “Hello, Joe,” she says.

  “Would you like to have dinner?”

  Glancing at the darkening sea, she says, “No… Yes…yes, I would.” When they’re seated again, she adds, “You really don’t know what’s happening here, do you?”

  “Apparently not.” In his career, he made sure he was always prepared for meetings. He’d always done his homework, and thorough preparation was often his edge. Though he knew he hadn’t gotten up to speed here, he didn’t think he would be so completely out of step. He picks up the piece of bread again, breaks it, and finally takes a bite. He then pours himself another glass of wine and raises his glass—but not in a toast. “I’m here for a lot of reasons having to do with my own life,” he says, “but I promise I’m not here to fire you. Or to close your site.” He sips the wine. “Maybe you can tell me why you think I am.”

  Her phone rings again, and she leans over, reaches into her bag, and mutes it. She raises her glass, swirls the wine, bites her lip, and begins to talk about her work as the director of the Ephesus Project in Selçuk. As she speaks, other customers arrive. The waiter brings tomato and cucumber salad to the table. Across the terrace, two young women in long green skirts play music on traditional Turkish instruments. The oud player looks Arabic, and the flute player appears European—and their songs are sad and beautiful. A single star gleams between the mosque’s minarets. Altay’s sea bass arrives with its head and tail before the waiter prepares it for her tableside. The vegetables in Travers’ shish kebab taste as though they were picked that afternoon. The German narration from the Blue Mosque’s light show sounds like a distant diatribe.

  When Altay mentions for the second time that Leopold Kirchburg has summoned her to Istanbul so that her employment can be terminated, Travers asks, “But does he actually have the power to fire you?”

  She finishes her wine and puts down her glass. “Yes. And no. The Herr Professor has organized and consolidated the archeological sites around İzmir under his directorship of the Aegean Association.” Shadows from the candle play across her face. “He has developed…cultivated a mutually beneficial relationship with the Turkish Ministry of Culture whereby he receives all of the credit for the finds and Turkis
h museums receive the artifacts.”

  Travers pours each of them another glass of wine. “But…,” he says as he finishes.

  “My…Saint John’s is an Aegean Association site but is funded by the Glavine Foundation. American philanthropics fund a number of the Aegean sites.”

  “So he’s the association’s director, but he’s not the money.”

  “Exactly.” She takes a sip of her wine and looks into his eyes. “He’s a brilliant academician. The heir of Austrian aristocrats. A thorough organizer and an ambitious director.” The sea bass and the wine and the music and the conversation about her work have tempered her antagonism, but an edge is returning to her voice. “However, he ab-hors the heat and sun and dust of the sites in summer.”

  “Prefers Vienna’s clime and culture?” Travers asks. “A director in absentia?”

  “Exactly. He’ll condescend to meet here in Istanbul, but he hasn’t visited Saint John’s in a year.” She sips her wine and cocks her head. “Too much grit for him.”

  “But from what you’ve told me,” he says, “it sounds like the site is running smoothly.”

  Her eyes fire. “It is. I’ve followed his directives to the letter. All year. Everything exactly to his specifications.”

  Travers drinks his wine, feeling its warmth seep through him. “Then, what’s the problem?”

  “Leopold is…” She stops herself, takes a breath, and banks the fire in her eyes. “I and some of my staff have begun a supplementary dig that we work only after all of our Ephesus Project tasks have been completed each day.” She takes another sip of wine and glares across the table. “We are digging without Leopold’s explicit permission. He loathes that I am taking initiative.”

  Looking in her eyes, Travers sees both how deeply compelling and absolutely defiant she can be. “But that doesn’t sound actionable,” he says, “at least not enough to terminate you. It sounds more personal.”

  Her eyes spark again for an instant, and then she looks away for the first time. “The problem,” she says to her wine glass, “is professional.”