Liberation Movements

Katja

We’re on velvet-seated stools at the Orient Express Bar of the Pera Palas, surrounded by pink-tinted walls. Past Istvan, at dark corner tables, men in loosened ties with fuming cigarettes huddle over drinks, and the occasional tourist family tries to rein in their children. This is so different from the bar where I last met Brano Sev.

“Spies used to come here,” says Istvan.

“That so?”

“Mata Hari, Kim Philby. Back when spying was still glamorous.” He winks when he says that, and, as he slides a glass with clear liquor in front of me, adds, “Agatha Christie wrote Orient Express in one of their rooms.”

“Thus the name of this bar.”

“Exactly.”

I look at my glass as he pours cold water into it, the mix turning milky.

“ Rak? Turkish brandy,” he says. “Is that all right?”

I answer by draining the anise-heavy liquid, and Istvan, seemingly impressed, calls for another.

He talks to me like a man trying to sell something. He tells me about electric fans. “The real symbol of the twentieth century. Man over nature. When nature makes you hot, you beat her to the ground with one of these. The next step is climatization, what the Americans call ‘air-conditioning,’ but we’re not yet ready for that much control over nature.”

“You’re very philosophical for a salesman.”

“You’d be surprised. Salesmen are some of the most philosophical people around. It’s the long hours alone, stuck with your own thoughts. And the hotels, which, even if they’re as beautiful as this one, begin to look the same. The world begins to look the same. And you start to wonder how different we all really are, and why we do what we do. That’s really all of philosophy in a nutshell.”

“The why. ”

“Yes, why. That’s the basic question of philosophy. How is a question for science.”

“Maybe you should write this down.”

“I know my limits.” He takes a drink and cocks his head, and in this light I can see his scalp through his thin hair. “So why are you in Istanbul? Obviously not business, or you’d have a reservation.”

“I just wanted to see it. Istanbul.”

“And what do you do back in the Capital?”

I’m not sure at first if I should answer, but then it seems that there have been too many secrets around me, and I don’t want this to continue. “I’m a militiawoman.”

Istvan inhales, bobbing impressed eyebrows. “I’d never have guessed.”

“Why not?”

He answers as if he’s standing behind a podium. “From my experience you can tell the Militia type pretty quickly. They walk like they’re being watched all the time. They give off this silent-but-judging aura they want everyone to notice. As if what’s going on in their heads is for them, and only them, to know about.”

“Isn’t everyone like that?”

“You’re not.”

I smile, lean closer. “Then tell me what I’m like.”

He peers at me over the rim of his glass, his eyes twinkling-he likes this. “Well, you’re average height, so you don’t stand out that way. You’re not overly muscled, which would also stand out on a woman. But you’re fit. That could mean any sort of job.”

“You’re just describing my body.”

“Have to start somewhere. So…you do have a habit of taking in a place when you enter. Like this bar. When we came in, you immediately looked to your left and right, to see what was on either side of the door. Usually people look ahead, to where they want to end up. But you’re careful.” He shrugs. “I suppose that’s the training.”

I sip my rak? and wait for more.

“You know how you look,” he says. “In that way you’re self-conscious. But not in the way most militiamen are. You’re self-conscious the way beautiful women are. They know that when they enter a room, eyes will turn to them. They know that because of this they have some power.”

“You’re embarrassing me.”

“I’m just telling you what I see. When we were on the plane and I started to speak with you, you acted as if I were asking for your phone number. Because you’re used to this. So you went out of your way to ignore me, even though I was sitting next to you.”

“I’m sorry,” I say, because at that moment I really am.

“I’m not offended; it’s a common thing. It’s how beautiful women protect themselves. Why should they have to lose their anonymity just because of the way they look? It’s unfair, so you have to fight it.” He looks down at my empty glass. “You want another?”

“Water,” I say, and he orders this from the bartender, as well as another rak? for himself. Then he measures me with his eyes.

“Now that you tell me you’re a militiawoman, it starts to make me wonder. In France I’ve run into a couple of policewomen, but they tend to shape themselves into men. Short haircuts, a kind of forced machismo. Partly so that the public will take them seriously; partly so their co-workers will stop trying to kiss them. But your fingernails-you keep them painted and long. Your hair is well cared for. And you use makeup.”

I instinctively touch my cheek.

“You must have a difficult time in the Militia office. What department?”

“I’m a homicide inspector.”

He takes another breath, very affected. “Now, that’s interesting. What made you want to track down murderers?”

No one has ever asked me that before, so I don’t have a pat answer ready. I’ve only been asked, by my worried family, why I’d want to work with Militia oafs-and by my frustrated husband, why I’d want to risk my life. But homicide in particular?

It’s the same reason I’m here in Istanbul.

I say, “Some years ago, my fiance was murdered.”

“Did they catch his killer?”

I shake my head.

“So you do this in order to avenge him.”

“Perhaps.”

He drinks his rak? and considers that. “What about the abstract stuff?”

“What?”

“The state-defending the order of the state and all that?”

“Of course. That, too.”

“But not really.”

I pause, then shake my head.

He takes another sip. “What if he was caught? The murderer, I mean. Let’s say you caught him and he was sent to some work camp. Let’s say he’s sent to dig the Canal. What would you do?”

“I’d be happy.”

“But would you want to leave your job?”

“I don’t follow.”

He smiles. “It’s simple, Katja. If he’s the reason you wanted to become a homicide inspector, and you took care of that reason, would you still want to be a homicide inspector?”

I can feel myself flushing, because I don’t like this question. It sounds too much like a question Aron might pose. If you left the Militia, would you then have my baby? But I know the answer to this what-if. “I don’t know how to be anything else,” I say, though I’m not sure he believes me. I’m not sure I believe myself.