Читать книгу Letter from a Stranger - Barbara Taylor Bradford - Страница 17

A voice filled the room. A man’s voice. Melodic. Slightly high pitched. Singing in a foreign language.

Justine opened her eyes and blinked in the dim light. Struggling up into a sitting position on the bed, she listened more attentively as the voice finally trailed off, stopped. Now there was perfect stillness. No sound at all.

Sliding off the bed, where she had been dozing, Justine went over to the seating area. The French doors were open, and she stepped out onto the terrace, looking around. Leaning against the terrace railings, she peered down into the garden below, expecting to see an orchestra, the singer preparing to sing another song. But there was no band. No musicians. No singer.

Then, suddenly, she understood. What she had just heard was the voice of a muezzin standing at the top of a minaret, calling the faithful to prayer. Joanne had mentioned this last weekend, explained that it happened five times a day, that electronic amplification carried the muezzin’s voice around entire districts, all of which were large and heavily populated.

The muezzin’s singing had awakened her from her languorous dozing, forced her off the bed, and she didn’t care. In fact, she was glad. She had some serious thinking to do.

After lunch with Iffet, she had come up to her room, unpacked, put everything neatly away and called Eddie Grange in London. He had not been able to find out anything on the Internet about the two companies her grandmother had been associated with. Very simply, there was no evidence that there had been either showrooms or offices for Exotic Lands and Faraway Places. It was as if they had not existed.

She had thanked Eddie and hung up. This new information, and the fact that her grandmother was not listed in the London phonebook, more or less proved that she did not live in London any longer. Perhaps she had vacated the city long ago and settled permanently. Unless she had an unlisted phone number. But Justine doubted that. Her grandmother wasn’t into the secrecy game. Unlike her mother, who was.

With her arms folded and resting on top of the railings, she stared out into the night, lost for a moment in the beauty. The sky was a lovely deep pavonine blue, the stars were coming out in a brightly scattered array, and there were twinkling lights everywhere, especially on the other side of the Bosphorus. The Asian side.

How odd it is, she thought, to be here in Istanbul and straddled between Europe and Asia Minor, on two continents at once. What an intriguing place this was. Straightening up, she realized she was more positive than ever that her grandmother was here, somewhere in this city. She felt it in her bones.

Now she couldn’t help wondering if the search at the land registry office would produce an address for Anita? Gran? Of course it was possible that Gabriele had her own home here. She had been independent by nature, decisive and driven, had stood on her own two feet, battling the world, making everything work for herself and for them.

Justine smiled inwardly. She had inherited those traits from her granny, no doubt about that. In fact, her father had told her she was more like her grandmother than her mother. And it was true, thank God.

Why would her grandmother come to live here in Istanbul? Justine was able to answer that question instantly.

Her grandmother’s lifelong friend Anita lived here, and there were several other good reasons as well. The weather was mild all year round, according to Iffet, and was certainly the perfect climate for an older woman; knowledge of Istanbul from years ago, when she was doing business; other old friends residing in the city; a lifestyle she enjoyed.

Justine went back into the room, turned on several lamps and sat down in a chair. She closed her eyes, focusing her mind on Gran, and intensely so.

To all intent and purpose, Gabriele Hardwicke had seemingly disappeared off the face of the earth. Just as if she had died. Justine knew she hadn’t. She had Anita’s letter to prove it.

Certainly there was nothing of her life remaining in London. Earlier today Eddie had told her so in no uncertain terms. Zilch, was the way he had put it. And certainly she had been surprised, even startled, when he had wondered aloud if her importing business in London had ever existed.

What if the same thing happened here? What if neither woman owned homes here? Then there would be no way to find them. She would be facing a brick wall…

A blue-and-white tiled wall. Unexpectedly she was seeing this in her mind’s eye… a blue-and-white tiled wall in her grandmother’s kitchen in New York. No, several walls. Tiles from Istanbul, Gran had told her. Like the blue-and-white vases, tubs, planters and urns her father and Gran used to sell to interior designers in Manhattan. And brass objects. And carpets. Those beautiful silk-woven carpets from Istanbul. No, from Hereke, a small town located outside the city.

As all this came rushing back to her, she thought: That’s it. She snapped open her eyes and sat bolt upright. Dealers in tiles, ceramic objects, antiques and carpets… those were the people she had to find, if it became necessary. Perhaps they would remember her grandmother, perhaps even still knew her, and therefore knew where she lived.

Justine went to the desk, began to make notes about the items that had been imported from Turkey by her father and grandmother. As she did this she felt an easing of the tension inside her, because she had thought of another way she might be able to trace Gabriele Hardwicke. She had to find her. She would not rest until she did. And she would start tomorrow.

At one moment, Justine roused herself from her unceasing thoughts of her grandmother and pushed herself up from the desk. She could not resist the pull of the terrace that opened off her room, and she went outside to sit under the night sky. She glanced up, marvelling at that midnight blue arc above her. The stars were amazing… so many of them here in Istanbul, littering a sky that was clear, peaceful and infinite.

Across the Bosphorus the lights of Turkey and Anatolia on the Asiatic side were pinpoints of brilliant colour glittering across the countryside, turning it into a fairyland. And downstairs people were already dining at the terrace café; she could hear the sound of muffled voices and laughter against the backdrop of a tinkling piano.

She immediately recognized the song, picking up the strains of ‘Somewhere Over the Rainbow’ from one of her favourite old movies, The Wizard of Oz. Her grandmother had loved that movie as much as she and Richard had when they were little. And she herself had always yearned for Dorothy’s sparkling, scarlet shoes.

That’s what I need, a Wizard, she thought, and a Good Fairy and a Magic Wand. She let out a small sigh, and then it nudged its way in… that maddening thought of the estrangement. What had happened between her mother and Gran to cause this insane rift? She wondered then if it could possibly have anything to do with money? Her mother was a spendthrift – she knew that only too well from her childhood, her father’s angry tones echoing in her head right now, as if he were standing next to her. Bankrupt was another word constantly on his lips. ‘You’ll bankrupt me, the way you spend,’ he used to shout angrily, and there would be another row between her parents, doors banging and raised voices for hours.

But they always made up eventually, and things normalized again. But looking back she acknowledged that they were either in each other’s arms or at each other’s throats… it had been the most tumultuous of marriages. After one of these rows had occurred, her grandmother had not come to the country for a while. She had gone instead to Huntington to stay with her close friend and lawyer, Trent, at his house on the water overlooking Long Island Sound. Sometimes Gran took them with her, and she and Rich enjoyed those trips, and enjoyed being with Uncle Trent, who made them laugh and spoiled them and thought up fantastic treats. Her mother never wanted them to go out there to Long Island, mostly because she did not like Trent Saunders. Not at all.

She was jealous, Justine suddenly thought, jealous of Trent’s presence in Gran’s life. What was it that she had once muttered? ‘Nobody can take the place of my father.’ But her father had died when her mother was seven. She had idealized him. She had always been going on about Peter Hardwicke.

How odd that she had forgotten hearing her mother say that to Gran, and for so many years. Unexpectedly, it stood out in her mind now, perhaps because it informed her, told her something important: Trent Saunders had been more than her grandmother’s American lawyer, he had been a special friend, very special indeed. I hope he was, Justine thought, seeing her grandmother in her mind’s eye, the lovely looking blonde with blue eyes and a mischievous laugh, always so elegant and charming, and ever the lady, the genuine thing. A class act.

Anger flared in her. Anger with her mother. For a split second, she was again tempted to call her in China, but resisted. Why alert her to anything? Far better to confront her when she had accomplished what she had come here to do. And yet again she was positive her grandmother’s whereabouts would not be forthcoming. Her mother’s modus operandi was always to deny everything.

Glancing at her watch, Justine saw that it was nine thirty, and she went into the bedroom. Picking up the phone, she called room service, ordered a green salad, a plate of assorted cheeses and a pot of English breakfast tea with lemon. This done, she found the zapper, turned on the television, found CNN, and sat down to watch the latest news, wanting to connect to the rest of the world again.

Even as a child she had loved news, was always thrilled to know what was happening around the world, which was why she had become a journalist. She had been, and still was, a news buff.

She watched CNN, found herself glancing at the rolling text at the bottom of the screen, and switched to Sky News out of London. Nothing but bad news tonight, she thought, as she gazed at the screen and the unfolding events. The voice of her first news editor at the local Connecticut paper now reverberated in her brain. ‘Bad news sells newspapers,’ he had constantly told his reporters. ‘Don’t bother to bring me good news.’ Well, the world these days was one big bad news story on a global scale.

Wanting variety, she zapped again, found her own network, Cable News International, and sat glued to the screen until room service came.

The waiter eventually arrived at her door, wheeled the table into the middle of the room, and placed it so that it faced the television set. She thanked him as she signed the room service bill, and then sat down, continuing to watch as she picked at the salad.

Suddenly Justine stiffened. There was her own face. On the screen. And an announcer’s voice saying, ‘Famed documentary filmmaker Justine Nolan takes you into the private realm of the world’s greatest living artist, Jean-Marc Breton. Her filmed biography of the master, “Proof of Life”, will air on this network in September as a CNI documentary special.’

Images of Jean-Marc Breton – his homes in Provence and Spain and some of his paintings – flashed across the screen and then were gone. And so was her face. The news continued to roll. Business as usual.

Justine was taken aback. She now realized what Miranda Evans had meant when she had said, immediately after the screening, ‘We’ve got to maximize this, Justine. It’s a brilliant film, and it’s going to be a worldwide hit. I’m going to make sure of that. I’ll prepare a campaign immediately, do some promos.’

Miranda had said this on Tuesday. Today was Thursday. So Miranda had done the work yesterday, splicing a few key frames together, writing a couple of lines to go with them, and having Eric Froman, of the golden voice, do a voice-over. Just a few good words had been enough to accompany those vivid visuals. And voilà! Here was a promo on air tonight. Miranda Evans was moving swiftly, working well ahead of time. She was obviously convinced she really did have a potential hit on her hands. But then Miranda has always promoted her, backed her with a network right from the beginning.

Wow, oh wow! Justine was pleased, and went to find her cell phone, punched in Richard’s number, needing to share this with her brother.

When he answered, she said, ‘Rich, it’s me. Is this a bad time? Or can you talk?’

‘Hi. And it’s okay, I’m in my office. What’s happening?’

‘Well, listen to this! Miranda’s worked wonders already. I’ve just seen the first promo for “Proof of Life” on CNI. Imagine that. I saw it by accident, and obviously she had the promo made yesterday when I was flying here. I must admit, it took me by surprise.’

‘Hey, that’s great. I’ll keep a look out for it tonight. And she is a fast worker. How was your day?’

‘A bit disappointing, in one sense. Anita and Gran are not in the Istanbul phonebook. But I guess we knew that. Iffet is checking with the land registry office, to see if they’re listed there. They would be if they own homes here. Eddie hasn’t been able to find any trace of those companies Gran was involved with. You know, Exotic Lands and Faraway Places. As he put it, “there’s zilch in London”. He even suggested they might not have existed.’

‘He’s wrong. Gran talked about them to us, and she didn’t invent such things. She probably closed them down many years ago, and he hasn’t gone back far enough. Let’s hope Iffet finds something positive.’

‘I came up with a couple of other ideas. I thought Iffet could take me to see some dealers in carpets and ceramics. If I’m lucky we’ll find somebody who knew Gran, and knows where she lives today.’

‘Brilliant idea. I know you’re on the right track, so just keep going. Call me tomorrow. I will have to run now, Juju, I’ve got a meeting starting in a few minutes.’

‘It’s ten o’clock at night here, so I’m going to bed soon. I’ll call you tomorrow.’

They both clicked off, and Justine sat back, cut into a piece of cheese and placed it on a cracker. She had a brainwave. Interviews, she thought. I can do some interviews about “Proof of Life”. Explain I’m here to do research, may make a documentary about Istanbul. Television, newspapers.

She jumped up, went to get her notebook, looked at the list of names Joanne had given her, contacts in the media here. A brainwave indeed. If she couldn’t find Anita and Gran she would have them find her. The media was the key. I’ve got to put my face in front of Gran, she added to herself. It’s the only way.