Free Many and Many a Year Ago by Selcuk Altun Page B

smile.
    â€œVlad left his entire inheritance, apart from his $1.3 million savings, to his nephew Alex. Other than an old telegram Vlad carried with him, we had no clue at all as to the whereabouts of Haluk, who had inherited that $1.3 million. I ran ads in two popular Turkish newspapers. We waited six months but heard nothing. At that point Alex founded an investment fund in his uncle Vlad’s name. For the last seven years the profits on the money that never found its way into the luckless Haluk’s hands have been donated to Vlad’s favorite church. Last month, when his uncle showed up in Alex’s dream scolding him for not trying hard enough to find Haluk, I was dispatched immediately to Istanbul.
    â€œI knew that an ordinary interpreter would get me nowhere. So when one of the locals mentioned a brave English-speaking pilot who’d just moved in, I wanted to meet you. Firstly, Lieutenant Kuray, I have a proposition for you: use this telegram Haluk sent to Vlad fifty years ago to trace him. I’ll give you $10,000 in advance. If you find him or his heirs in ten days I’ll give you $20,000 more. Here’s a card with a phone number. I’m available twenty-four hours a day. If I don’t hear from you in ten days I’ll assume that Alex’s dreams will no longer be disturbed by his uncle …”
    I thought this would be foolish to turn down. I was curious about what the half-century-old telegram said, more than about where it came from. And even if the whole thing ended up being a fruitless Anatolian goose chase, it might at least be a good opportunity for me to adapt to civilian life. The lawyer was already taking a yellowing envelope out of his briefcase. It pleased me to see the anxious look that fell across his face when I ignored his card and failed to open the envelope, but I said “Okay” anyway.
    He whistled as he left the apartment.
    Then I remembered Professor Ali, to whom I had promised some specially wrapped fish and a bottle of hot pepper sauce. I went down to him and told him what I’d just learned. From the way he drew in his lower lip and arched his eyebrows, I gathered that he had no reservations about my trying to track down this Haluk Batumlu.
    I counted the dollars—I don’t know why—that poured out of the A4 envelope, and read the telegram twice through its protective plastic. It was dated 5 June 1956:
    Vlad Baba
,
    I have one last favor to ask of you. If you could send 400 liras to me, care of my friend below, you could change my life. The address:
    c/o Hasan Gezgin
,
    Ziraat Bank
,
    Mahmudiye
,
    Eskişehir
    I kiss your hand
,
    Haluk Batumlu
    I went to the Internet to find out about this town whose name was probably bigger than itself. I liked what I saw, mainly because it had a population of less than 5,000. The reason why this tiny spot on the map had been named after Mahmut the Second was that the sultan, for some reason, had set up a stud farm there in 1815 to breed Arabian horses.
    I caught the Başkent Express to Eskişehir the next morning. I was agitated throughout that four-hour journey, reliving those days I spent in the hospital after my plane crash. My hand started shaking as we approached Eskişehir station. I hid it behind my back, hoping the anxiety would pass.
    I took a taxi to Mahmudiye. The slant-eyed driver asked me enthusiastically whether I was a horse dealer. I don’t know with what tone of “No” I answered, but he seemed a little peeved.
    â€œSorry, sir,” he said. “It’s just that I’ve never seen anyone come to Mahmudiye who’s not a horse dealer or owner.”
    Long before we reached our destination I grew weary of the bleak thirty-mile stretch of road. I disembarked at a gas station, marvelling at this town which appeared to live in the slow lane. The men I saw wandering the half-deserted main street were all moustache-free, well mannered and slant-eyed. I plunged