Chapter Forty-five

AN HOUR LATER, alone, I was still sitting in front of the ancient black-and-white TV, its screen little bigger than my hand, and its definition about as good.

Beside me was a large stack of VHS tapes that I had already reviewed and a small collection of ones which I hadn’t yet seen, the fast-diminishing repository of all my hopes. Maybe the Western world’s too, but it was best not to think about that.

The office was cramped and, if it had been cleaned in the last decade, I would have been surprised. Despite the heat – air-conditioning hadn’t yet reached BP in Bodrum – there was no chance of falling asleep. The chair I was sitting in was so wrecked and uncomfortable that I had to get up every few minutes to give my back and butt a chance of survival.

All the time, stopping only to throw another tape on the discard pile, the time code was flying by in front of me, threatening to send me cross-eyed before the day was over. Just in case I got myself confused, I had written down the date, hour and minute of each phone call and allowed a margin of fifteen minutes on either side just to make sure she hadn’t arrived early or waited around afterwards.

Frequently checking the notation, I had come close a couple of times, watching the time code roar towards one of the appointed times, feeling my pulse race and the fatigue lift, only to see the tape stop abruptly and then find myself watching footage from a totally different week.

On one agonizing occasion I came within a hundred and forty seconds of the first phone call and I was certain the woman was about to walk into frame when the TV set suddenly went to a blizzard of static as the tape ran out completely and I was left staring in despair and disbelief. Ahmut Pamuk hadn’t been kidding when he said the system was chaotic.

I was down to my last three tapes when he appeared at the door. ‘Wanna coffee? ’ he asked.

I hesitated, looking sceptical, I guess.

He laughed. ‘I know what you’re thinking: Not more of that Turkish crap – so thick you don’t know whether to drink it or chew it. I’m not offering that – I’m suggesting a cup of real American java, as thin as piss, so weak we Turks normally serve it in baby bottles. ’

‘Sounds perfect, ’ I said.

‘One condition, ’ he replied. ‘I’ll go and buy ’em, I’ll humiliate myself with the café owner on your behalf, but if anyone pulls in you have to pump the gas. ’

‘Okay, ’ I said. With just three tapes left, I knew the chances of seeing the woman were negligible, and I had pretty much given up – apart from a miracle, a coffee was just what I needed.

I had finished the next tape and was partway through the second-to-last one when Pamuk handed me the coffee. I took the top off, looked around to find a garbage can, discarded the lid and looked back at the screen. It had jumped nine days and, with a growing sense of wonder, I saw the code at the bottom counting down fast to the date and time of the second phone call.

I checked my notation just to make sure – confirmed it – and couldn’t take my eyes off the screen. Behind me, Pamuk was standing in the doorway, enjoying his treacle-like coffee, and I knew that if I saw the woman I couldn’t react – he thought I was looking for someone pulling in to pump gas and, if I proved myself a liar, that would open up a rat’s nest of questions. Apart from that, there was a risk – however slight – that he would know the woman. Totally neutral, I told myself: keep it calm.

‘Did you mean what you said before? ’ Pamuk asked, taking the opportunity to kick back and have a chat.

‘About what? ’ I kept watching the footage, too frightened to try to skip forward in case I missed something.

‘Me being one of the best you’d heard. ’

‘It’s true, ’ I replied, watching the seconds fly by and click over into another minute. Keep going, I urged it silently: Keep going.

‘Did you play yourself? ’ said Pamuk.

‘When I was a kid – just good enough to know I’d never be great. I would have given anything to have had your talent. ’

He said nothing. I wanted to look at his face to see his reaction, but I couldn’t break my concentration. If I was going to catch sight of her, it would be very soon. I shot a glance to check the VHS player – there was plenty of tape left but, thanks to BP’s security system, that was no guarantee. It could jump a day, a week or a month at any moment. I looked back at the screen, watching the seconds cascade past and feeling Pamuk’s presence behind me.

He grew larger in my mind and a strange emotion settled on me – I suppose all my senses were supercharged – but I had the feeling, the certainty, that I had been put into his life for a reason. It reminded me of the priest I had met in Thailand long ago who said that perhaps our paths had crossed so that he could tell me something. It felt like it was my turn to pass it on.

My concentration didn’t waver, my eyes didn’t shift. ‘You hate the work you do, ’ I said quietly, ‘you hate the music you have to play, and that’s enough to cripple a man’s heart. Any man. ’

On the screen there was no sign of a vehicle or a pedestrian – nothing. Maybe she was walking closer or parking her car and would stay so tight to the kerb that she would avoid the camera’s field of vision altogether – and that was assuming the tape didn’t run out or make one of its sudden jumps. I looked at the time code again, flying ever closer to the appointed minute for the call.

If I didn’t see her soon, the tiny window would have closed for ever.

I kept my voice even, neutral, nothing to betray anxiety or excitement. ‘I met a man once – this was many years ago, ’ I continued. ‘He was a Buddhist monk and he told me something I’ve never forgotten. He said that if you want to be free, all you have to do is let go. ’

Pamuk made no reply and, of course, I had no way of seeing his face. I watched the time code chew through the seconds – where was she?

Where was she?

‘That’s interesting, ’ Pamuk said at last, and repeated it: ‘All you have to do is let go. Is that what you’re telling me I should do – let go of the crap jobs? ’

‘I’m not telling you anything. But maybe it’s what I’m really doing here – I’ve been put on the road to pass it on, so to speak. Take it as a gift, if you want. ’

I saw a car on the screen. It swung through the frame as if it was going to park: a Fiat, I thought, dark-coloured, but it was hard to say on a black-and-white TV. I didn’t sit forward in my seat, even though I wanted to. I just flexed my shoulders as if I were stretching.

I checked the time code – it was damn near perfect. Moments later, a woman appeared from where she must have parked. She was a Muslim with a headscarf on, the usual long dress, her head down as she hurried towards where I knew the phone box was located.

Halfway past the pumps, well away from the kerb, she reached into her handbag and pulled out a cellphone. Then she stopped, glanced around as if she were making sure that nobody was watching, and I saw her face for the first time.

I stared at it for what seemed like minutes but, according to the time code, amounted to slightly more than two seconds. She checked the time on her watch, moved towards the phone box and disappeared from sight.

I barely moved. I kept my attention on the screen even though my mind was racing, feigning what I hoped was just the right body language to convince Pamuk I had seen nothing that would interest me. A short time later – maybe a few minutes, but it was hard for me to judge – the tape ran out, and I never saw the woman emerge from the phone box.

I used the static as an excuse to turn and see if Pamuk had registered anything untoward. He wasn’t there.

I had been so engrossed in what was happening on the screen that I hadn’t heard a car pull in for gas or noticed that Pamuk had left to attend to it. I sat in solitude and silence for a long time, thinking about the woman I had seen. Finally, I got to my feet and walked out of the door. If nothing else, the fresh air would do me good.

Pamuk had just finished serving another customer and, as they drove off, he turned towards me. ‘Find what you were looking for? ’ he asked.

‘No, ’ I lied.

‘Is that why you look so pale? ’

‘A few hours in your so-called office would do that to anyone, ’ I told him.

He smiled. ‘I want to thank you for what you said – that thing about being free. ’

‘Don’t mention it. Sorry about stabbing you with the needle. ’

‘I probably deserved it – about time somebody made me wake up. ’ He laughed.

We shook hands, and I walked away. We never saw each other again, but a few years later I was listening to National Public Radio and I heard him interviewed. I learned that by then he’d had a string of hits playing traditional instruments and had become a sort of Turkish Kenny G. His biggest-selling album was called If You Want to be Free.

Alone, deep in thought, I headed down the road and into the fading afternoon. I hadn’t taken the VHS tape with me, the one thing that would have helped identify the woman, because I didn’t need it. I had recognized her face when she had stopped to look around.

It was Leyla Cumali.