Читать книгу Deadline Istanbul (The Elizabeth Darcy Series) - Peggy Hanson - Страница 31

CHAPTER 27

I had a sudden chill of recognition that I was in Asia Minor, on the shore at last of a holy land where three great religions had helped to form me and everything I knew.

Mary Lee Settle, Turkish Reflections

Lawrence Andover’s house was, in a word, perfect. Its uneven floors were polished so that the wood gleamed in lamplight. Scattered around the living room lay exquisite rugs, some Turkish, some Persian, in muted tones of red, blue, green. Bookcases lined the walls, a collector’s library on the shelves. The scent of roses infused the room from two slim vases that boasted Ottoman designs.

On every piece of antique furniture sat some startling work of art: richly-decorated Iznik-style plates and bowls; statues Greek or Roman in inspiration; old manuscripts in the flowing, pictorial Arabic script, adorned by intricate miniatures. I couldn’t take my eyes off the ceramics, swirls of blue and orange, red and green, with tulips or carnations.

Andover caught my amazed, admiring gaze at the room: “Yes,” he said wryly. “I am a collector.”

“It’s beautiful,” I breathed.

Out the six vertical windows at the back of the yalı, the Bosphorus glided by, wide and dark and silent between this continent and Europe. A passing ferry switched on its lights, becoming in an instant a jeweled princess’ slipper.

Drinks were served by a well-trained, white-uniformed servant.

“Have some rakı,” urged Andover, pointing to a bottle of the deceptively-innocent-looking, colorless liquid.

The memory of the burning, anise-flavored national drink made my mouth water. Turkish meze in all its glorious variety is meant to be nibbled as one sips, just sips, rakı. And one, of course, gossips while sipping. I might get Andover to talk more freely over rakı.

The meze was laid out on a large glass-covered coffee table: charred eggplant and green pepper and two or three kinds of beans, each fried in olive oil and garlic and served with yogurt with still more garlic; tiny Black Sea anchovies, fried to a crisp; buttery-leaved börek filled with goat cheese or bits of lamb and spinach; Persian melon called kavun in Turkey; and flat, hot pide bread.

Only the food could have taken my mind off the ceramics and art works on the walls. I dug in with gusto.

Andover clearly enjoyed entertaining amazed guests. “It’s good, isn’t it?” he said. “I have the best chef in Istanbul!”

“You do indeed!”

Even the distant sound of a doorbell didn’t slow me down. A shame that my mouth was full as I turned to meet the newcomer.