The Navigator - Cussler Clive - Страница 47
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Cemil translated his friend’s commentary. “Mehmet says he can give you a deal on these. Normally, they go for eight lira, but he’s willing to drop the price to five if you buy more than one.”
“Does Mehmet remember selling a statue to an American photographer a few years ago?” Austin asked.
Cemil translated the question and the answer. “Mehmet is Turkish. He remembers every sale he ever made. He recalls the photographer very well. Especially with this item, which moves very slowly. But he is old, and memory has not been very good lately.”
“Maybe this will help,” Austin said, “I’ll take all of the figurines.”
Mehmet beamed as he carefully wrapped each statue in tissue paper and placed the purchases in a plastic bag, which he handed to Carina.
“Can your friend tell us where he acquired these statues?” Carina said.
Mehmet explained that he had bought the statues in the south where his mother lives. He tells buyers that they are harem eunuchs. The craftsmanship could be better, and the detail was poorly executed, but he likes the old man who made them. He picks up a batch whenever he visits his aging mother, which is about once a month. The artist sells them in the abandoned village, he said.
“Where is that?” Austin said.
Cemil said, “It’s called Kayakoy, near the town of Fethiye. It was a Greek village until the Treaty of Lausanne was signed in 1923. The Greeks returned to Greece in the exchange and Turks living in Greece came to Anatolia. Then the Turks left after a big earthquake. It’s a tourist attraction now.”
Austin asked the artist’s name. Mehmet said he was sure he’d remember, but first he suggested that Austin and the lovely lady would like to look around the shop. Austin got the hint. He bought a silk scarf for Carina and a fez for himself, even though no self-respecting Turk would be caught dead in the cylindrical headgear.
Bidding Mehmet good-bye, at Cemil’s suggestion they headed to the Haghia Sophia neighborhood for lunch in a pleasantly shaded garden restaurant. While they waited for their food, Cemil said, “I’m sorry you came all this way for nothing.”
“I’m not sorry,” Carina said. “It gave me the chance to meet you in person, and to thank you for all you have done. Besides, we’re not through here yet.”
“But you have seen that the statues are only a tourist item.”
Austin lined up the figurines on the table. “How far is the town where these were made?”
“It’s on the TurquoiseCoast. About five hundred miles. Are you thinking of extending your visit to Turkey?”
Austin picked up a figurine. “I’d like to talk to the artist who made this.”
“So would I,” Carina said. “It’s quite possible he used a life-sized model.”
“This statue must be very valuable.”
“Maybe,” Austin said. “Maybe not.”
“I understand the need for discretion,” Cemil said, rising from the table. “Dalyran is only about an hour from here by plane. From there, it’s not a bad drive to Kayakoy. If you’ll excuse me, I’ll be on my way, but if you need any help please let me know. I have a great many connections in Istanbul.”
A few minutes after Cemil left, Austin and Carina hailed a taxi to drive them back to the hotel. The desk clerk found two seats on an early-morning plane to Dalyran and made car rental arrangements as well. As they stood in the hotel lobby, Carina said, “Now what, Mr. Tour Guide?”
Austin pondered her question and said, “I think I can do something off the beaten path.”
A cab took them back to the archaeological dig. Austin asked Hanley if he needed volunteers. He put them to work shoveling mud through strainers. Carina didn’t seem to mind being covered from head to toe with Bosphorus mud. She jumped about like an excited schoolgirl whenever they found a coin or broken pottery from the muck.
They worked until late at night, when the van came by to take the NUMA crew back to the hotel. As they trudged through the hotel lobby, Austin and Carina were so tired they hardly noticed the pair of men sitting in plush chairs reading magazines. Nor were they aware that two pairs of eyes followed them every step of the way to the elevator.
Chapter 27
AUSTIN TURNED THE RENTED RENAULT off the TurquoiseCoast highway onto a road that twisted and turned like a spastic snake. The road ran for several miles through cultivated countryside and sleepy villages. As the car rounded a bend, ruins could be seen on the crest of a hill.
Austin parked next to a cluster of buildings. The abandoned village had become a state-run tourist attraction. The inevitable ticket seller was waiting to take their modest admission fee. He pointed the way toward the village, and went to intercept a car with two men in it that pulled up next to the Renault.
An ascending mule path went past an outdoor restaurant, souvenir shop, and several freelance vendors peddling their wares. After a hike of a few minutes, Austin and Carina had an unimpeded view of the village.
Hundreds of roofless houses baked under the hot sun. Plaster had peeled off the outside of the silent structures to expose their rough stucco walls. A few houses had been taken over by squatters who had spread their laundry out to dry. The only other sign of life was a satanic-faced goat that munched contentedly on a weed-choked garden.
“It’s hard to believe that this place was once full of life,” Carina said. “People making love. Women crying out in labor. Fathers bragging about their newborns. Children celebrating birthdays and baptisms. Mourning the passing of old ones.”
Austin was only half listening to Carina rhapsodize. Two men had stopped on the trail about a hundred feet behind them. One was taking photos of the goat. They were in their twenties, Austin estimated, both dressed in black pants and short-sleeved white shirts. Their arms were thick and muscular. Their faces were shaded by the brims of their caps and sunglasses.
Carina had continued along the mule path. When Austin caught up with her, she was strolling across the courtyard of an abandoned church toward an old man perched on a wall under a shade tree. Decorated bowls and plates were lined up on the wall, which he was using to showcase his wares.
Austin greeted the man and asked if he were Mehmet’s friend, Salim.
The man smiled. “Mehmet buys my work for the covered bazaar.”
“Yes, we know. He told us where to find you,” Carina said.
Salim had the Pablo Picasso look that comes to Mediterranean men of a certain age. The skin on his cheeks and bald head was tanned the color of tanbark and his face was as unlined as a baby’s. Good humor and wisdom lurked in big eyes that were as dark as raisins. He gestured toward his wares.
“Mehmet tells you of my souvenirs?” he said.
Austin pulled the Navigator figurine from his pocket. “We were looking for something like this.”
“Ah,” Salim said, his face lighting up. “The eunuch.” He made a horizontal cutting motion with an invisible knife. “I stop making them. No one buys.”
Austin carefully considered the next question. “Does the eunuch have a grandfather?”
Salim gave him a puzzled look and then flashed a big-toothed grin. He drew his arms in wide arcs as if they were describing a large circle. “Buyuk. Big eunuch.”
“That’s right. Buyuk. Where?”
“In Lycee tomb. You understand?”
Austin had noticed the strange Lycian tombs carved high up on the faces of plunging cliffs. The entrances were framed by ornate columns and triangular lintels like classic Greek or Roman temples.
In halting English, Salim said he had always been interested in art. As a young man, he explored the countryside with paper pad and charcoal in search of subjects. On one exploration, he had found a Lycian tomb unknown to the people in his village. The tomb was cut into a cliff above the sea, hidden from view by thick vegetation. He had gone inside and discovered a statue in the cave. He sketched it. When he was looking for a subject later to mold in clay, he went back to the sketch.
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