Life in Istanbul, Augusta was discovering, wasn’t completely defined by the traffic. It also revolved around the landscape—the hills and the sea. You were always walking either uphill or downhill. There didn’t seem to be a single flat space anywhere, she thought as they climbed yet another slope on their way to the ferry. No wonder Erol was always hungry.
But shining beneath them, at the bottom of all those hills, was consolation for their efforts: the Bosporus strait, the dividing line between Asia and Europe. A rupture between two continents.
What a funny name, Augusta remembered thinking at first. Her tongue tripped over it. Bosporus. On the map, before she came, it had looked to her like a giant river, snaking its way down from the Black Sea, through a small strip of Turkey, south toward the warmer waters of the Marmara Sea. But now that she was here, staring at the sparkling blue, it seemed less like a river and more like the sea itself. The salt-scented air sprayed her face as she stood on the shoreline with Erol, and the seagulls circled raucously overhead. Across the strait, over in Asia, a huge hill loomed over the city.
As they had strolled through the twisting streets, lined with block after block of shops, apartments, and people hurrying from one place to another, Erol explained his suspicions. “It must be Father Ephraim,” he said, the old excitement creeping back into his voice. “He’s always opposed any non-Greek ownership of Byzantine works. A few years ago, when the Anatolian Institute sold a 12th century illuminated manuscript to a private collector, he staged a protest for three days. The sale went through, but it caused a lot of embarrassment for the institute, and Father Ephraim considered it a victory against Ottoman imperialism. He might try something more dramatic this time around.”
“But, if I understand correctly,” Augusta interjected, “my book is not a Byzantine manuscript. It was printed by an Ottoman nobleman. At least, that’s what you told me yesterday.”
“True. It was printed in the Ottoman era, but it is based on a famous lost Greek work of philosophy. There are no other known copies in the world. Therefore your book is extremely valuable as a work of Greek patrimony. Not just the book itself, but what it represents. A missing part of Greek culture, restored. It would really be earth-shattering if the book can be authenticated as the lost discourses of Epictetus.”
Erol shuffled his feet, kicking at some stones on the edge of the sidewalk. “I can’t believe I missed this opportunity. I should have stayed awake all night translating the book while I had the chance. Now it may be gone forever.” He balled his hands into fists and slapped one against the other angrily. “If Father Ephraim was responsible for this, he’s going to hear from me.”
“Hey, calm down.” Augusta reached out and put a soothing hand on Erol’s arm. “If anyone should be angry, it’s me. It’s my book, remember? I’m the one who stands to lose the most. I was just robbed of a lot of money.”
Heaving a huge sigh, Erol turned to her and smiled. “Yes, of course. It’s just that I’ve spent so many years dreaming of this day, chasing down the lost discourses. You have no idea how hard you were to find.”
“You’ve told me.” Augusta grinned at him. She was surprised at her own calmness. She really should be more upset, she thought, after she was almost assaulted in the street. She had just lost a treasured family heirloom—her grandfather’s last, mysterious gift to her, and her only chance at opening the much-dreamed-of gallery. Without it, there was no way she would be able to launch herself into the art world.
But somehow, standing in the bright summer sunshine, gazing out into the hypnotic waves of the Bosporus, she wasn’t angry. She wasn’t even sad. Maybe it was the shock, she told herself. Or the jet lag. Or that delicious Turkish breakfast she had shared with Eda. She just couldn’t muster the anger she knew she ought to feel. She was no longer even scared, now that the book had been taken from her. A comforting feeling crept over her, like the waves lapping over the rocky shore nearby. Somehow it seemed like everything was going to be okay.
They boarded the large, white ferry and found a seat on the upper deck, overlooking the historic center of Istanbul to the right, the blue waves shining to their left. “Where are we going again?” Augusta asked as they sat down. “One of the islands, right?”
“Büyükada. Big Island.” Erol leaned over the railing, drumming his fingers restlessly on the rusty metal as he looked out to sea. “It’s where Father Ephraim lives, in the Aya Yorgi monastery. The Monastery of St. George. It’s been on the island for over a thousand years. Very few monks live there now, but it used to be very important. Some people still go there on pilgrimage, so the monks continue maintaining it today. Father Ephraim is the abbot. He’s in charge.”
Augusta leaned over the railing too, watching the foam churn at the ferry’s base two stories below. It was a long way down. She scooted back safely in her seat and concentrated instead on her fellow passengers, still trickling up from the lower deck. The women were mostly in headscarves, the men wearing button-down shirts and shiny shoes. Some with families, some with picnic boxes, some drinking tea an attendant was handing out from a round tray. Everyone sitting, relaxed, enjoying the prospect of a day out on the island. No one suspecting that a one-of-a-kind Ottoman book had just disappeared into thin air in their midst.
“What are you going to do when we get there?”
“We’ll go see him, of course. I dare him to look me in the eye and say he hasn’t taken the discourses.”
She couldn’t help looking a bit skeptical. “Do you really think an old Greek priest could run down a street in Istanbul, grab my bag, and get away faster than you?”
“Not Father Ephraim himself. But he could easily hire someone to do it for him. The thief could have followed us from the airport and ambushed us this morning.”
Augusta considered this possibility. “But what about my grandmother’s house in North Carolina? Would Father Ephraim have hired someone to do that?”
Erol was silent for a moment, then shrugged. “Maybe. It’s possible. I doubt he would have wanted to hurt your grandmother, but he might have hired a thief who doesn’t mind hitting people.” His jaw clenched again. “That’s what we’re going to find out.”
As the engine revved and the ferry chugged slowly away from the shoreline, Augusta leaned back and closed her eyes, feeling the cool breeze on her face. What if they didn’t find the book with Father Ephraim? What would she do if they never found it at all? She wondered what her mother and grandmother would say when they woke up and read the message she had texted from Erol’s phone. They would mainly be concerned for her safety, she knew, but the theft was also a disappointment. She envisioned herself flying back home, empty-handed, with nothing to show for her strange trip to Istanbul.
Opening her eyes, she saw Erol looking at her with intense curiosity. “What is it?” Her hands instinctively flew up to her hair to see if anything was askew.
“Nothing.” His manner was still serious, but the broad grin had returned. “You’re just very different from what I expected.”
“Oh really?” Augusta laughed. “What did you expect?”
“I don’t know.” He crossed one long leg over the other and stretched back, relaxing in his seat. “But not you.”
The shoreline was getting farther away. As the ferry chugged along through the waves, Augusta could see the sultan’s palace up on the hill, the pencil tips of minarets pointing up over the buildings, the hills of the city undulating across the horizon like an urban sea. Ships came and went in different directions around them. The passengers beside them on the ferry sat placidly drinking their tea.
Augusta was surprised at how undisturbed she was by the strangeness of her surroundings. Just three days ago she hadn’t known anything about the lost discourses, or Erol Yilmaz, or Father Ephraim. She hadn’t known she would be robbed in broad daylight, standing in the center of one of the most historic cities in the world. All she had known was the grief of losing her grandfather.
The grief was still there, ebbing and flowing like the tide around her, but now her mind was occupied with other questions. Who had stolen her book, and why. How she would get it back. And most vexing of all, why her thoughts kept returning the lanky young man beside her, who was now vigorously throwing bread out to the seagulls.
Augusta tried very hard not to be charmed by the Prince’s Island, as they made their way by bicycle up the steep slope to the monastery, but it was hard to resist the island’s appeal. They passed crumbling Victorian mansions, trellised with bougainvillea and climbing roses. Outdoor cafes beckoned, and calicoed cats seemed to trail them wherever they pedaled. Given the choice, she might have preferred to sit down and order one of those delicious pastries rather than chase down a madman with an Ottoman book.
But Erol would not be deterred. He had spent the last 10 minutes of the ferry ride on the lower deck, waiting by the exit gate, and the moment they docked he was down the gangway, pulling Augusta along with him. Several taxis were waiting for tourists at the harbor, but Erol waved them away and nudged her into the bicycle shop instead. “This way will be faster,” he insisted. Noting his clenched jaw, she decided not to argue. A bike ride sounded nice anyway.
They were both sweating by the time they reached the top of the hill, but Augusta hardly noticed. She had completely succumbed to the island’s bohemian charm. If she had ever imagined a perfect island landscape, this was it—stands of tall pine trees interspersed with delightfully eclectic houses and restaurants, giving way to breathtaking views of the Marmara Sea below. She could happily spend her whole life up here, away from the crowds of the city, cooled by the age-old trees and brisk sea breeze.
Finally, at the crest of the hill, they reached a rambling old church. It was not at all what she expected—no grand cathedral, no imposing stone edifice. Instead, it looked like the other ramshackle buildings nearby, cobbled together from a mixture of wood, whitewashed plaster, and local stone. It was decidedly odd-looking, but so still and silent that it radiated an aura of ancient holiness. She felt the skin prick up again on the back of her neck as she coasted to a stop and propped up her bicycle.
Erol dismounted quickly and slammed his bike against the whitewashed wall, then rushed through a gate under a large stone portico without looking back at Augusta. She parked her bicycle and dashed through the gate after him, hoping this angry version of Erol wasn’t prone to violence.
Directly in front of her stood a small, red-brick building, its front door standing wide open. Erol must already be inside. Hurrying through the drab little entrance after him, Augusta was stopped in her tracks by the beauty of the church’s interior.
If the outside of St. George’s monastery was plain and unassuming, the inside was everything an ancient Greek church should be. The entire room was paneled with white marble and gold leaf. Heavy wine-colored carpets lined the floors, and thick, gold-encrusted chandeliers dangled from the vaulted ceiling. Oil paintings and icons covered every surface. In the semi-darkness of the church, candlelight flickered off the gold stars lining the ceiling, creating the illusion of a twinkling night-time sky.
Augusta didn’t see Erol anywhere.
“Erol?” she called softly, not sure if anyone else was around to be disturbed. No answer. She moved swiftly toward the altarpiece at the back of the church, checking the side chapels behind the vaulted columns.
When she at last reached the back of the church, Augusta gasped. Over to the right, just out of sight, someone was lying on the floor, spread-eagle across the thick carpets—an elderly man, his long black robe creased over his body at a haphazard angle. A bloody gash oozed across the back of his head. A dark-haired man, squatting beside the priest, looked up at her in surprise as she rushed toward them across the apse.
It was Erol.
Happy memories of the monastery on the Big Island! Our visit wasn't nearly as dramatic as this, though! Enjoying the series, Brittany - thank you.
The story has taken a sinister turn Brittany!! Love it.