“Supposing, Miss Pendelbury, that your parents asked for an official visa, it would be more likely that you would find the information you’re looking for in the archives of the old Ottoman regime, not with us. Before the Republic of Turkey was founded in 1923, this consulate used to be our embassy, but I see no reason why the papers you are looking for would have found their way here. Only the Turkish foreign minister might have something in his archives that would interest you, but even supposing that such minor paperwork has been kept, I highly doubt that they would undertake such complicated research on behalf of a private party.”
Here Daldry interjected. “Unless, perhaps, the British Consulate contacted the Turkish authorities and made it clear that the request came from a close personal friend of the British Ambassador’s wife. You might be surprised at what the desire to please an ally and economic partner can do to lift administrative roadblocks. I know from personal experience. One of my uncles on my father’s side is a close advisor to our Foreign Secretary. I’m sure he’d be glad to hear about your efficient assistance in this matter.”
The consul looked up from his work. “I understand entirely, Mr. Daldry. I’ll be in touch with the Turkish authorities and I’ll do my best to get an answer for you. Still, I wouldn’t be too optimistic if I were you. It strikes me as highly unlikely that they would have kept something so simple as a visa request for such a long time. You said, Miss Pendelbury, that your parents might have come to Istanbul sometime between 1900 and 1910?”
“Yes, that’s right.” Her face had flushed a particularly deep shade of red during Daldry’s bald-faced lie.
“Enjoy your stay in Istanbul. It’s a wonderful city. If I hear anything back from the Turks, I’ll send a message to your hotel.” He rose and showed them to the door. Alice thanked him for his time.
“I suppose your uncle must also be named Daldry, if he’s your father’s brother, isn’t that so?” asked the consul, shaking Daldry’s hand.
“No, actually, it’s not,” said Daldry, remaining composed. “As an artist, I chose to take my mother’s maiden name because it seemed much more original at the time. My uncle’s name is Davies, as was my father’s.”
Alice and Daldry left the consulate and returned to the hotel to take the tea that the consul never got around to offering them.
“Is Daldry really your mother’s maiden name?” she asked, settling into a chair.
“Not at all. But chances are that you’ll find a Davies or two in every branch of the government.”
“You really aren’t afraid of anything, are you?”
“You ought to be congratulating me. We made out rather well.”
The Karayel, a cold wind from the Balkans, began to blow as evening fell, bringing with it a snowstorm that effectively ended the unusually mild winter Istanbul had been enjoying that year. When Alice woke up the following morning, the pavement was as white as the percale curtains hanging on either side of her window, and the roofs of Istanbul looked no different than those she had left behind in London. The snowstorm continued throughout the day, keeping people indoors and nearly obscuring the view of the Bosporus. After eating breakfast in the hotel dining room, Alice went back to her room and sat at the desk, where she had developed a habit of writing a letter nearly every evening.
Dear Anton,
Winter has struck and given us an excuse to take a break from touring the city. I met the British consul here yesterday, but he didn’t leave me feeling very optimistic about my chances of finding out whether my parents ever came here. I think about them all the time. I often wonder whether it was the fortune-teller’s predictions or the dream of discovering a new fragrance that took me away from London. Perhaps it was you. If I’m writing you, it’s because I miss you. Why did I hide my feelings? Maybe I was afraid of putting our friendship at risk. When my parents died, you were one of the few remaining links to my past. I’ll never forget the letters I received from you every week during the long years that I lived with my aunt.
I wish you’d write me letters again so that I could read about what’s new in your life and know how you pass your days. I’m having a wonderful time. Daldry sometimes acts like a spoiled child, but he’s a gentleman at heart. And Istanbul continues to be a beautiful, fascinating place. Today I found something in the Bazaar that I think you’ll like very much. That’s all I’ll tell you for now . . . I’ve sworn to myself that I’ll manage to keep a secret for once. When I come home, we’ll go for a walk along the Thames and you’ll play . . .
Alice paused for a moment and chewed on the tip of her pen. She scribbled out the last sentence until it was illegible.
. . . we’ll walk along the Thames and you’ll tell me everything that happened while I was away.
Don’t think I’ve come all this way just to be an idle tourist. My ideas for a new perfume are also coming along, or rather, I’ve got ideas for several different projects. The next step, as soon as I have some time, is to visit the spice market. Last night, I decided to create a series of fragrances for people’s homes. I know it’s not a completely new idea, but this particular variation is promising, and it came to me thanks to the perfume maker I told you about in my last letter.
As I was falling asleep last night, I thought about my parents, and each memory was linked to a scent. I’m not talking about my father’s cologne or my mother’s perfume, but other things, like the smell of a leather satchel, of chalk dust and hot chocolate. It always smelled like cinnamon in our house when my mother was baking. She put it in nearly all of her desserts. And when I think back to the winters of my childhood when we went out to the countryside, I can smell the firewood my father collected in the forest and burned in our fireplace. In late spring there were the wild roses he gave to my mother, filling the sitting room with their fragrance. Mother always knew about my interest in and sensitivity to smells, but I never explained to her how odors mark every minute of my life and form a sort of language, a way of understanding the world. I smell the passage of time the way that others watch the changing colors of a sunset, distinguishing dozens of notes—rain dripping off leaves and filtering through moss, grass drying in the summer sun, the straw in the barns where we used to play hide-and-seek, the manure pile you pushed me into that time, or the branch of lilac blossoms you gave me on my sixteenth birthday.
The memories of our teenage years and our adult lives recall other odors. Did you know that your hands have a peppery scent, for example, something between brass, soap, and tobacco?
Take care of yourself, Anton, I hope you miss me, at least a little bit.
I’ll write to you again next week.
Fondly,
Alice
The following day a steady rain melted the snow. It was the first of several days that Can took Alice and Daldry around the city to see monuments such as the Topkapi Palace, the Süleymaniye Mosque, and the tombs of Süleyman and Roxelana. For hours on end they wandered the animated streets around the Galata Bridge and shopped in the Egyptian Bazaar. In the spice market, Alice stopped at each stall, breathing in the varied scents of the powders, dried flowers, and vials of essential oils. Daldry went into raptures at the sight of the intricately painted tiles in the Rüstem Pasha Mosque, and again before the frescoes in the former Church of the Holy Saviour in Chora. Only on one occasion, when they were in an old neighborhood where the timeworn wooden houses had escaped the great fires, did Alice feel ill at ease and ask to go elsewhere. She later took Daldry to the top of the Galata Tower, which she had first visited without him.
For Alice, the most memorable visit was a morning trip to the Flower Passage and its covered market, followed by lunch in a charming little waterside restaurant. On Thursday they toured the Dolmabah?e neighborhood, and on Friday they went to Eyüp, a district stretching from the Golden Horn to the Black Sea. After admiring the tomb of the Prophet Mohammed’s companion Abu Ayyub, they walked up the steps to the cemetery and paused for a drink at the Pierre Loti Café. From the windows of the old house where the French author came to relax, one could see over the Ottoman tombs to the broad horizon and the shores of the Bosporus beyond.
It was here, during a moment alone, that Alice confided in Daldry and told him that she thought the time had come to start thinking about returning to London.