Free Last Train to Istanbul by Ayse Kulin

took all the glass out of his hair and freshened up. A little while later, he went back down to the lobby wearing his gray suit. The receptionist was there, talking in an agitated manner to the guests.
    “You weren’t here when I arrived, so I was obliged to find myself a room. Here’s the key,” Tarık said. “I’m Tarık Arıca from Ankara. I believe the foreign ministry has reserved my room.”
    The receptionist looked confused. He stared briefly at Tarık and took the key without saying a word; it was obvious that he was still in shock.
    “Have you been able to find out what happened?” Tarık asked.
    “Apparently a bomb exploded at the Pera Palace Hotel nearby. Six people are dead and there are many wounded,” replied the receptionist.
    “Dead?”
    “I understand the British ambassador to Sofia is on a visit to Istanbul. They say he has come to see Inönü. I wonder if there is a connection. Maybe it was an attempt to kill him.”
    “You mean Mr. Rendel?”
    “Oh, you know him, do you?” asked the receptionist in amazement.
    “No, I don’t, but I know of him. Is he dead?”
    The man knocked on wood. “Those working behind the reception desk were killed, but apparently the ambassador had just walked into the bar a few minutes before and he’s safe and sound.”
    Tarık walked out of the hotel and down the street toward the Pera Palace Hotel. Policemen were trying to disperse the crowd in front of the hotel while nurses and doctors, stumbling over uprooted paving stones and twisted tram lines, carried the wounded to waiting ambulances. Squeezing through the crowd, Tarık approached a group of young men. He assumed they were journalists, as they were busy taking photographs.
    He asked one of the men how it had happened.
    “It seems the bomb was placed in a suitcase in the lobby.”
    Who was the bomb meant for? Tarık wondered. He thought probably the British ambassadors, Rendel and Hugessen, the ambassador to Turkey.
    Tarık couldn’t help feeling sorry for the poor souls who had been behind the reception desk, not to mention the innocent commuters who had just been going about their daily business. The taxi driver’s words came back to him: “Who knows when their number’s up?”

MARSEILLES 1940–41
    Selva poured herself a cup of hot coffee, breathing in the aroma, thinking how interesting it was that human nature adapts itself to all sorts of situations. When she and Rafo had first settled in France, she hated this bitter coffee served in these huge cups. Fortunately, Sabiha, or rather, Macit had managed to bring her many packages of tea, plus six dainty Turkish tea glasses. Macit had visited France quite often in those days. It was such a joy to drink that Turkish tea at breakfast with Rafo.
    After the birth of their son, Selva got used to this bitter coffee. She drank it to keep herself awake until the baby’s last feeding at night. What had begun as a way of keeping herself awake had turned into an addiction. Rafo couldn’t understand how she could drink “this poison.” In fact, there were a number of things Rafo couldn’t get used to here in France.
    “For goodness’ sake, don’t criticize things in front of other people,” she’d said when he first expressed his lack of enthusiasm. “They’ll think you are a peasant. Fancy not enjoying the best cuisine in the world.”
    “I don’t care what they think. The best cuisine in the world is Turkish. What do I care if they are ignorant?” Rafo insisted. “I willnever understand how on earth French food has this great reputation. Those heavy sauces play havoc with your digestion, and just the thought of swallowing snails makes me want to throw up. And as for that cheese that smells like sweaty feet…”
    Selva tried to get him to stop, but he wouldn’t give up.
    “Is there anything to beat the flavor of fresh vegetables cooked in olive oil, for instance? Can you tell me how they justify ruining the flavor of beautiful fish by