I remembered that I hadn’t yet written to Nicki. Before I went to bed, I bought a postcard from the concierge and wrote a few lines. Still on Lincoln job. Money good. Should last a few more days. Home mid-week latest. Be good. Love, Papa.
I didn’t put the villa address, because that would have made her curious. I didn’t want to have to answer a lot of questions when I got back. Even when I’ve had a good time, I don’t like having to talk about it. Good or bad, what’s over’s done with. Anyway, there was no point really in giving an address. I knew she wouldn’t write back to me.
The following morning I went out early, bought a dozen packets of cigarettes, and then looked for a shop which sold tools. If I were to make sure that the stuff had been removed from the car doors, I would have to look inside at least one of them. The only trouble was that the screws which fastened the leather panels had Phillips heads. If I tried to use an ordinary screwdriver on them, there would be a risk of making marks or possibly scratching the leather.
I could not find a tool shop, so, in the end, I went to the garage off Taxim Square, where they knew me, and persuaded the mechanic there to sell me a Phillips. Then I went back to the hotel, paid my bill, and took a taxi to the ferry pier. There was no sign of the Peugeot following.
A ferryboat came in almost immediately and I knew that I was going to be early at Sariyer. In fact, I was twenty minutes early, so I was all the more surprised to see the Lincoln coming along the road as the boat edged in to the pier.
Miss Lipp was driving.
6
As I came off the pier, she got out of the car. She was wearing a light yellow cotton dress that did even less to obscure the shape of her body than the slacks and shirt I had seen her in the day before. She had the keys of the car in her hand, and, as I came up, she handed them to me with a friendly smile.
“Good morning, Arthur.”
“Good morning, madam. It’s good of you to meet me.”
“I want to do some sightseeing. Why don’t you put your bag in the trunk for now, then we won’t have to stop off at the villa.”
“Whatever you say, madam.” I put my bag down and went to hold the rear door open for her, but she was already walking round to the front passenger seat, so I had to scuttle round to get to that door ahead of her.
When she was installed, I hurriedly put my bag in the luggage compartment and got into the driver’s seat. I was sweating slightly, not only because it was a warm day but also because I was flustered. I had expected Fischer to meet me with the car; I had expected to go straight to the villa, to be told where I would sleep, to be given a moment to orient myself, a chance to think and time to plan. Instead, I was on my own with Miss Lipp, sitting where she had been sitting until a few moments ago, and smelling the scent she used. My hand shook a little as I put the ignition key in, and I felt I had to say something to cover my nerves.
“Isn’t Mr. Harper joining you, madam?”
“He had some business to attend to.” She was lighting a cigarette. “And by the way, Arthur,” she went on, “don’t call me madam. If you have to call me something, the name’s Lipp. Now, tell me what you have on the tour menu.”
“Is this your first time in Turkey, Miss Lipp?”
“First in a long time. All I remember from before is mosques. I don’t think I want to see any more mosques.”
“But you would like to begin with Istanbul?”
“Oh yes.”
“Did you see the Seraglio?”
“Is that the old palace where the Sultans’ harem used to be?”
“That’s it.” I smiled inwardly. When I had been a guide in Istanbul before, it had been the same. Every woman tourist was always interested in the harem. Miss Lipp, I thought to myself, was no different.
“All right,” she said, “let’s go see the Seraglio.”
I was regaining my composure now. “If I may make a suggestion.”
“Go ahead.”
“The Seraglio is organized as a museum now. If we go straight there we shall arrive before it opens. I suggest that I drive you first to the famous Pierre Loti cafe, which is high up on a hill just outside the city. There, you could have a light lunch in pleasant surroundings and I could take you to the Seraglio afterwards.”
“What time would we get there?”
“We can be there soon after one o’clock.”
“Okay, but I don’t want to be later.”
That struck me as rather odd, but I paid no attention. You do get the occasional tourist who wants to do everything by the clock. She just had not impressed me as being of that type.
I started up and drove back along the coast road. I looked for the Peugeot, but it wasn’t there that day. Instead, there was a gray Opel with three men in it. When we got to the old castle at Rumelihisari, I stopped and told her about the blockade of Constantinople by Sultan Mehmet Fatih in 1453, and how he had stretched a great chain boom across the Bosphorus there to cut off the city. I didn’t tell her that it was possible to go up to the main keep of the castle because I didn’t want to exhaust myself climbing up all those paths and stairs; but she didn’t seem very interested anyway, so, in the end, I cut the patter short and pushed on. After a while, it became pretty obvious that she wasn’t really much interested in anything in the way of ordinary sightseeing. At least that was how it seemed at the time. I don’t think she was bored, but when I pointed places out to her, she only nodded. She asked no questions.
It was different at the cafe. She made me sit with her at a table outside under a tree and order raki for us both; then she began asking questions by the dozen; not about Pierre Loti, the Turkophile Frenchman, but about the Seraglio.
I did my best to explain. To most people, the word “palace” means a single very big building planned to house a monarch. Of course, there are usually a few smaller buildings around it, but the big building is The Palace. Although the word “Seraglio” really means “palace,” it isn’t at all like one. It is an oval-shaped walled area over two miles in circumference, standing on top of the hill above Seraglio Point at the entrance to the Bosphorus; and it is a city within a city. Originally, or at least from the time of Suleiman the Magnificent until the mid-nineteenth century, the whole central government, ministers and high civil servants as well as the Sultan of the time, lived and worked in it. There were household troops and a cadet school as well as the Sultan’s harem inside the walls. The population was generally over five thousand, and there was always new building going on. One reason for this was a custom of the Ottomans. When a new Sultan came to the throne, he naturally inherited all the wealth and property accumulated by his father; but he could not take the personalized property for his own personal use without losing face. Consequently, all the old regalia had to be stored away and new pieces made, a new summer palace had to be built and, of course, new private apartments inside the Seraglio, and a new mosque. As I say, this went on well into the nineteenth century. So the Seraglio today is a vast rabbit warren of reception rooms, private apartments, pavilions, mosques, libraries, gateways, armories, barracks, and so on, interspersed by a few open courtyards and gardens. There are no big buildings in the “palace” sense. The two biggest single structures happen to be the kitchens and the stables.
Although the guidebooks try to explain all this, most tourists don’t seem to understand it. They think “Seraglio” means “harem” anyway and all they are interested in apart from that is the “Golden Road,” the passage that the chosen girls went along to get from the harem to the Sultan’s bed. The harem area isn’t open to the public as a matter of fact; but I always used to take the tourists I had through the Mustafa Pasha pavilion at the back and tell them that that was part of the harem. They never knew the difference, and it was something they could tell their friends.