“Well, I’m telling you they lived on the second. Believe him if you like, but it was my aunt who rented them the apartment. You see, the window on the left was their sitting room, and the window on the right was their bedroom. There was a kitchen at the back that looked out over the courtyard, just like in this building. Let’s sit. My leg is bothering me.” They sat. “In fact, my leg is what led me to meet your parents.”
Mr. Zemirli explained how, as a teenager, like many of the other boys his age, he liked to come home from school by jumping on a passing tram and riding astride the single taillight on the back of the wagon. One rainy day, Ogüz missed his mark and got his leg caught between the wheel and the wheel guard. The tram dragged him for several meters before he fell free. The surgeons did their best to stitch up his wounds and saved him from needing an amputation, but he couldn’t do his military service, and his leg always throbbed with pain when it rained.
“The medicine was very expensive, much too expensive in the pharmacy, but your father brought it home from the university hospital, as he did for many of the needy families in the neighborhood. It was during the war, and many people were falling ill. In their little apartment, your parents established a sort of clandestine dispensary. When they got home from the hospital, your mother would care for patients, while your father handed out the medicine he had found, as well as remedies he created himself from medicinal plants. In the winter, when many children came down with fevers, sometimes the line of mothers and grandmothers stretched into the street. The local police knew what was going on, but since it was entirely voluntary and for the public’s good, they looked the other way. Besides, they sent their own children when they fell sick. I can’t imagine any policeman brave enough to confront his wife with the news that he had arrested the source of the family’s medical care. And believe me, as a child, I knew all the local policemen!” He chuckled.
“One evening, your father handed out much more medicine than he usually did. He gave away everything he had. The next day, your parents had disappeared. They had been gone for two months before my aunt dared take the key and go see what had become of the apartment. Everything was perfectly arranged and in its place. Not a single dish or spoon was missing. On the kitchen table they had left the rest of the rent they owed and a note saying they had gone back to England. That note came as a huge relief to the people of the neighborhood. We had all been very worried about C?mert Eczaci and his wife, and also worried that our policemen had done something terrible to them and hidden it from us. You know, thirty-five years later, every time I go to the pharmacy to get the medicine for this cursed leg of mine, I can feel them around me. I look up and see C?mert Eczaci’s face in the window of my aunt’s apartment. So you can imagine what an emotional experience it is to see his daughter here before me this evening.”
Alice could see the tears welling behind the thick lenses of Mr. Zemirli’s glasses, and it made her feel a little less embarrassed about not having been able to keep her own from streaming down her cheeks.
The flood of emotions had also taken Can and Daldry by surprise. Mr. Zemirli took a handkerchief from his pocket and dabbed the tip of his nose before leaning over and refilling their glasses.
“We should drink to the memory of the generous pharmacist of Beyo?lu and his dear wife.”
They raised their glasses of mint tea in an improbable but heartfelt toast to Alice’s parents.
“Do you remember me from those times?” asked Alice.
“No, I don’t recall having seen you. I wish I could tell you otherwise, but I would be lying. How old were you?”
“Five.”
“Well, that’s normal. Your parents worked and you must have been at school.”
“That makes sense,” said Daldry.
“What school do you think I went to?” asked Alice.
“You really have no memory of it yourself?” asked Mr. Zemirli.
“Not the slightest. That period is like a black hole. I only remember my childhood in London.”
“They’re strange things, our first memories. This is different with everybody, and some people remember more than others. And you can ask: Are those memories real, or have we just created them from what people told us? I personally don’t think I remember much from before I was seven, and still, I might have been eight . . . I do remember telling my mother this once, and it made her very distressed. ‘What? All those years taking care of you, and you don’t remember a thing?’” He paused. “But you were asking about the school. Your parents probably sent you to Saint Michel’s; it’s not very far from here and they taught some English. It was a very strict school with a good reputation, and I’m sure they keep very careful records of their pupils. You should visit them.”
Mr. Zemirli suddenly seemed very tired. Can coughed and signaled that it was time for them to go.
Alice rose to her feet and thanked the old man for his hospitality.
Mr. Zemirli put his hand on his heart. “Your parents were humble, courageous people. They were heroes. I’m glad to know for certain that they made it back to their home country in safety, and even happier to meet their daughter. If they never told you about their time in Turkey, I’m sure it was pure modesty. I hope that you will stay long enough in Istanbul to understand what I am talking about. Godspeed to you, C?mert Eczaci’ nin kizi.”
When they were back in the street, Can explained that he had called Alice “daughter of the generous pharmacist.”
It was too late to go directly to Saint Michel’s School, but Can promised to make an appointment for them the following day.
Alice and Daldry had dinner together in the hotel dining room. They spoke little over the course of the meal, and Daldry respected Alice’s silence. From time to time he tried to amuse her by telling stories from his school days, but Alice’s mind was elsewhere, and her smiles seemed half-hearted and distracted.
As they were saying good night in the hall, Daldry remarked that Alice had every reason to be happy. Ogüz Zemirli was probably the third, if not the fourth, link in the chain.
Back in her room, Alice sat at the writing desk next to the window.
Dear Anton,
Every evening when I cross the hotel lobby, I hope the concierge will give me a letter from you. It’s a silly thing to hope for. After all, why would you write?
I’ve made a decision. It’s taken a lot of courage for me to promise such a thing to myself, or rather, it will take a lot of courage to keep the promise. The day I come back to London, I’ll ring your doorbell and leave a packet of all the letters I’ve written in a little box in front of your door. I’ll buy the box in the Bazaar this week.
Maybe you’ll read them through the night, and maybe the next day you’ll come to my door. I know that makes for a lot of maybes, but maybe has recently become a big part of my life.
I may have finally found the source of the nightmares that have been plaguing my sleep.
The fortune-teller in Brighton was right, at least about one thing. My childhood began here, on the second floor of an apartment building in Istanbul. I spent two years here, and I must have played in a little street with a long flight of steps at its end. I don’t remember it, but these images from another life keep coming back to me in the night. If I’m going to understand the mystery that surrounds those early years of my life, I have to keep searching. I’m starting to guess at the reasons my parents never told me anything. If I had been my mother, I would have done the same thing and kept any memories to myself that were too painful to recount.
This afternoon, I was shown the windows of the apartment we used to live in, where my mother must have watched people passing in the street below. I could almost make out the little kitchen where she cooked our meals, and the parlor where I must have sat on my father’s lap. I thought time had healed the pain of their deaths, but nothing could be further from the truth.