Liberation Movements: A Novel (Ruthenia Quintet Book 4) by Olen Steinhauer

Author:Olen Steinhauer [Steinhauer, Olen]
Language: eng
Format: azw3
Publisher: St. Martin's Press
Published: 2010-04-01T00:00:00+00:00

Katja

What did I do between noon and five, waiting for my second meeting with Brano Sev? That was just five hours ago, but standing here by the carousel, waiting for Istvan Farkas to collect his baggage and feeling naked beside a group of women covered in black with only slits to reveal their eyes, I’m having trouble remembering. Yes—I walked. I walked from the Metropol, up Mihai Boulevard, along the concrete landing that borders the Tisa, stopping to look now and then at the high cranes leaning over the broken roofs of the Canal District. Tomiak Pankov’s celebrated project to clean, scour, and rebuild that oldest part of the Capital meant nothing to me. Then I turned onto the small side streets and found a bakery with a few rolls left in the window, eating them as I continued westward, unable to look at the people I passed. This troubled me, that I could not relegate the events of seven years ago—relegate Peter Husák—to a small room in my head, a small room that could be managed and dealt with constructively. Instead, I was left numb, standing at the edge of Victory Park with half-eaten rolls that I let fall to the grass. I worried that the memory of Peter Husák was killing me. I even considered finding Aron and talking to him. After three years of marriage, perhaps, I could finally tell my husband the story that made me cold in bed and ruptured any chance we had of marital calm, or children. But the secret had gone on too long, and now not even honesty could save us.

Once we’ve bought Turkish lira at an exchange desk and then purchased visas, Istvan says, “Ready?” When he smiles, it’s a trembling, proud smile, as if he’s hiding a present behind his back. Or a triumphant smile. With only a few words, he’s gotten a woman to come to his hotel with him.

We take a taxi through the dry evening fields surrounding Atatürk International, the static of the driver’s radio broken now and then by Istvan’s innocuous observations: “It’s lucky we met, isn’t it?…You haven’t had a gyro until you’ve had one here…There’s an excellent bar at the hotel, so we can have a decent nightcap.”

The main roads take us through European Istanbul, toward a place the signs call Beyolu, and the old city grows around us. Istvan points to the right, into a dark spread of lights and roofs that dwindle toward a glowing dome with six pointed spires. “Sultan Ahmet Camii,” he says, and the driver perks up.

“Evet,” he says, then switches to English: “Blue Mosque. You tourist?”

I nod in the direction of the lights but am distracted by my own reflection in the window.

We cross a bridge, and I say, “This is the Bosphorus?”

“The Golden Horn,” Istvan corrects. He again points to the right. “The Bosphorus is over in that direction; on the other side is Asia.”

“Asia,” I say.

“You’re on the very edge of the continent.”

When we finally arrive at the Hotel Pera Palas, I’m stunned.

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