In Places on the Run Ch. 05

"But you have Rhea, don't you John?"

"Is that why you want her there, with you and Luce?"

"I think so. You'll have your chance at birthdays and Christmases, and Lucy will get to re-experience fragments of something she missed through Rhea's child."

"So, you really want Rhea to stay there? With you and Luce?"

"And you too, John. It'll all be meaningless without you there."

"I wish you'd called me somehow, Deb."

"I know. I do too. Part of the price we'll have to pay, I guess."

"You know, maybe it'll work out. For Lucy. For all of us."

"Oh, you'll be off in the wild blue yonder again, John. Doing what you do best."

"It's what I am, Deb."

"Well, believe it or not, you're a father, John. And you're about to be a father again. You're about to be a husband, too."

I sat back, tried to catch my breath.

"So, in this great American drama you've built up in your mind -- you know, the one where our generation gave up on our responsibilities to the future -- what role did I play?"

"You? You played the nice guy, John, the boy next door all the nice girls wanted to fall in love with. The boy who didn't know how to love, the boy who wanted to be loved, needed to be loved, but who always saw the next adventure and took off running. That was your part to play, John. Like most of the men there..."

"And what was yours?"

"Me? Oh, hell, I'm an Englander, remember? We didn't play that game."

"Bullshit. You invented it."

She laughed. "Don't try to be the sophisticate, John. It doesn't suit you."

"Oh, okay, so everyone's got a role to play in your little drama, is that about it?"

"It wasn't my drama, John. It was yours, Americas. To a degree it still is, but the world's changing now. Not much room left for little boys after all. The world needs grown-ups now, the world is desperately seeking men with vision and all we're getting from America is little boys who like to play with guns, who like to run off and play 'Cowboys and Indians.'"

"I don't get you. First you say you..."

"It's not important, John. You asked, remember?"

"I did."

"You like music?" she asked.

"Yes, of course I do."

"Of course you do? Music defined your generation, shaped your expectations, was the soundtrack you played as you ran and ran. Who was your favorite group?"

"I dunno. Zeppelin, I guess."

"Let me guess. Stairway to..."

"Nope. Kashmir."

"Ah. Yes, that one certainly fed our Romantic Impulse, didn't it? To travel, to experience everything, to expand the mind?"

"You say those things as if they're evil."

"Not in and of themselves, they're not. But when a generation used them as a pretext, as a justification, to drift off into a drug induced haze of narcissism? To run away from their responsibilities as parents. Example: How the hell are kids supposed to stay away from drugs when their parents are stoned all the time?"

"You're making some rash generalizations, you know?"

"Of course I am, but that doesn't mean there isn't a kernel of truth in them."

"Maybe."

"What get's me about your country is this religious thing going on. It's like all these people who fell into drugs, those that wanted to get out of the cycle of dependence, they all turned to religion. They're getting high on religion now, and don't even realize they've substituted one addiction for another!"

"What's all this bullshit got to do with me?"

She sat back, looked exasperated. "Nothing John. It's got nothing to do with you, with anything at all. You want some dessert? Some ice cream, perhaps?"

"You can be a condescending prick sometimes, you know?"

"A prick? John, I'd feel ever so much better if you called me a bitch. Prick sounds so, well, so inappropriate."

"And 'bitch' does?"

"M-m-m, yes."

"So, what was your favorite group?"

She gave me that exasperated stare again, then she smiled. "The Dream Academy."

"I don't remember that one."

"Oh sure you do. 'Life In a Northern Town'? Remember that one?"

"Oh yeah. So, is that your favorite song?"

"No, not really. 'In Places on the Run,' that one always got to me."

"I don't recall that one."

"M-m-m, yes, I doubt it made the top forty over there."

+++++

We three stood in front of the hotel, hoses in hand, washing the dust and salt from our bikes. When they were dry, we started reloading them. We, the three of us, had gone through all our bags and culled what we could, and when we reloaded the bikes the loads were somewhat reduced. With everything cinched down, we restarted them, let them stand at idle and warm up for a bit, and we took that time to go over each other's riding gear -- zip jackets to pants, make sure boots were tucked in, helmet visors clean -- all the usual pre-ride stuff. We'd have to ride along the bay-front through heavy traffic, so we'd planned to leave early -- but not early enough, we saw. Traffic at 0630 was heavy as hell, rushing along at insane speeds, no one signaling before changing lanes.

"Maybe we should have breakfast," I said. "Maybe it'll thin out some after rush hour."

"It's Saturday, John."

"Shit."

"Well," Deb said, "let's get to it."

We motored down to the edge of the roadway and waited for an opening, then cut in when a hundred meter gap appeared. About halfway around the bay we got on the D565 and exited for Istanbul, and a few minutes later we were clear of traffic, clear of the town and in open country. The road reminded me a lot of the Southern California roads I was used to: rolling hills, curvy roads, lots of traffic, gas stations aplenty. Well, this is nice, I thought. We've Americanized the whole world! Los Angeles, here we come!

We stopped for a late breakfast in Manisa and planned to make Bursa by early-afternoon, Istanbul by evening, and so far the riding was easy, the bikes purring like kittens. When we passed cars, or when they passed us, people inside stared at our bikes, at us, I guess, like we were aliens. Which I guess we were. Still, this was not like Croatia, or Greece. We were -- different.

We made Bursa much earlier than expected, so decided to push on to Istanbul, and there we rediscovered what real traffic was like. I'd hand-printed directions through town to our hotel, the same hotel Brigit had been staying at, and while the directions were in the top of my tank bag and so just visible, looking down and away from all the traffic was dangerous. I slowed down and pulled over, and we took out maps, started to figure a way through this mess.

And just then a motorcycle cop pulled up behind us, on the side of the road.

"Oh, swell," I said.

The cop started rattling away in Turkish and I just shrugged, Sam chuckled, Deb of course rolled her eyes.

"You are English?" the cop asked.

"American," I said. "She's English," I added, pointing at Deb, "but it's not her fault. Really."

"Ah, yes. You are lost? Where are you try to find?"

I held up the map, and the address of the hotel, the Hyatt on Taskisla, by the university.

"Okay, I go slow. You follow me."

I turned to Sam and grinned. "A police escort, no less. Well, let's do it!"

The cop led us through a twisting maze of highways then over the Bosphorus Bridge into the city, and a few minutes later we were at the hotel -- and the cop stopped with us. He wanted to talk, it turned out, but we needed to get our bikes unpacked and secured, so I asked him to come by later and have dinner with us. Surprisingly, he agreed, and said he'd be back at eight, and could he bring some friends?

"Sure. The more the merrier!" And actually, he laughed. Always a good sign. "We'll meet you in the lobby," I said, pointing. He waved and roared off into traffic, and I turned to Deb. "Well hell, that was unexpected!"

"Fun too! It was like he parted the Red Sea for us...everyone got out of our way!"

"Where's Sam?"

"I think he went in to get the rooms."

He was walking down the steps a few minutes later; he looked depressed.

"She's still here," he said.

"What? Brigit?"

"Oh, no," Deb said, frowning.

"Well, you can bunk with me," I said, groaning at the thought of her still here, just waiting for a fight.

"Follow me. There's a garage around the corner, and I have the pass card."

A while later we had the stuff we needed off the bikes and Sam had decided to take his stuff to his room, to her room.

"Sam," Deb said before he got out of earshot, "no sex until I've talked to her. Okay?"

He nodded. "No sex. Don't worry."

Deb looked at me, I looked at her. We both shook our heads, tried to prepare for the worst.

"That motor-jock will be here in an hour," I said. "Let's shower and get ready. It'll probably just be the two of us."

She nodded. "Right," then she disappeared into her room.

I called Rhea first, got her up to speed, asked how Luce was. They were in the kitchen as it turned out, cooking dinner, so I got to talk to her too. It hit me then, how good it was to hear their voices. We talked for a few minutes then I rang off, jumped in the shower. A few minutes before eight I called Sam.

"You coming?"

"Where?"

"We're meeting that motor-jock in the lobby, in a few minutes."

"I'm still in my riding clothes."

"Doesn't matter. I'm heading down. Join us if you feel like it."

"On my way," he said. "See you at the elevator."

Deb was there already and we rode down together. "I talked to the girls," I said.

"I know. Lucy was so excited she was finally home when you called."

"So, Dad? How's it feel?" Sam asked, just a little trace of sarcasm in his voice. Deb blinked her eyes rapidly, and I was beginning to understand this was a warning sign.

"Real good, Sam. Really very good."

He looked ahead, nodded his head. "Well, fatherhood suits you..." he began, but the elevator door opened and we were greeted by a half dozen motor-jocks, four still in uniform.

"So," Deb began, speaking in halting Turkish, "where would you like to go for dinner"

The cop who'd helped earlier laughed. "You want breakfast, now?"

Deb laughed, threw her instant phrase book in the nearest rubbish bin: "Okay, I give up! Dinner! Where's a good place for dinner!?"

"We have a place in mind. Come, we have automobiles! Oh, my name is Orhan. And this is Ahmet, and Nazim, and Ahmet and Zulfu and, at his insistence, Erik Estrada!"

Deb seemed confused as she introduced Sam and myself, then we explained Jon and Ponch, CHIPs from the old TV show about California motor-jocks and everyone laughed again.

"Sam writes movies," I said, "and used to play football for the Los Angeles Rams."

The cops stared at Sam like he was some sort of minor god, then Orhan asked what I did. Feeling they'd passed over Deb, I started there. "Deb is a physician and a professor, at Cambridge, in England. I'm a pilot. I worked for TWA until a few months ago, now I work for a company that makes rockets."

More silence as he translated, then Orhan motioned us to go outside. There were three squad cars out front, and as we got in I had visions of Turkish prisons dancing in my mind, but ten minutes later we pulled into a parking lot between a BMW motorcycle dealer and a crowded restaurant, and we followed our hosts into the restaurant and...it appeared their wives were already there, and many others, too.

I had no idea what was ordered, but it was delicious -- and endless! Lots of yogurt, lamb too, but vegetables featured in every dish. We drank tea, strong with cinnamon and cardamom, and began to listen. All the officers were motorcyclists, professionally and when off-duty, and it seemed they wanted to know everything about our trip. Where we'd been, and more importantly, where we were headed. They were serious, too; no idle chit-chat that night!

"We left Munich in July, and we are returning to Munich, hopefully in December, by way of India, China, and America."

Everyone in the restaurant -- waiters, patrons, cooks -- fell silent.

One of the cops started laughing, but he looked at Deb and stopped.

"You are not serious," Orhan said.

"No, we're crazy," Deb said, and everyone was laughing again, then we were answering questions, asking a few of our own, trying to eat when we could and before we knew it there were about twenty more people gathered 'round our table. We asked about getting visas for Iran and another Ahmet chimed in, said he worked in the some government ministry and that he could help, and he gave Sam his business card. Zulfu, a senior sergeant, said he'd tried to get into Afghanistan a year ago and the Taliban were a real problem, that we'd be better off avoiding that route.

"I agree," Sam said. "Our State Department firmly advised us not to go there. One diplomat said the most direct route would be through southern Iran and on into Pakistan. Avoid all the trouble in the north, but he said the area was still dangerous."

"There's trouble, alright," Orhan said. "When are you leaving?"

"We're staying here for at least a week. Until we get the visa situation figured out."

Orhan looked at his watch, then I did too, and it was almost midnight.

"I will be at the hotel tomorrow again, at eight," he whispered in my ear. "We will have dinner at my house. Fewer people, better conversation. I would not impose but I must ask you a question then. This is alright with you?"

"Of course, Orhan. I'll look forward to it."

Sam of course had disappeared, but I saw him up at the counter paying the bill, then Orhan saw him and frowned. "We invited you," he said. "You are our guests."

"That's just Sam, Orhan. Please do not be offended."

He nodded, but he was hurt. "Okay."

The wives had been -- almost -- silent during the evening, and I assumed they must've felt out of place, yet two were talking non-stop with Deb now, and I was curious -- but decided to ask her about it later as we walked to the cars. Sam was in the other car and I hadn't had a chance to ask him about Brigit all evening; now I really needed to know what was going on with her. I really needed to know his state of mind, too.

Orhan and I shook hands when I got out, just as Sam's car pulled up. Deb waited while Sam said his goodbyes, then we went into the hotel to the bar, and as we took a seat Sam ordered Port then sat back and relaxed.

"So, about Brigit," Sam began, and I was all ears, Deb too, "I asked her to pack her bags and leave. She said she loved me, that she was sorry..."

"And that she'd never had it so good, and now she was going to have to go to work again..." I chimed in.

"John, shut the fuck up," Deb said, "and let him finish."

Sam looked distressed, I said I was sorry. "Anyway, I told her I wasn't about to sleep with her, then she cried. I got mad then, told her to leave, she said she would, but you know, I doubt she has. I guess I'll find out when we go back up."

"How do you feel about all this, Sam?" Deb asked.

"No couches, Deb, please. No Freud. I'm not sure I can handle that tonight."

"And I guess," I interjected, "you just answered that question. So. Let's move on. Orhan said he needed to talk to us tomorrow night. Dinner. His house."

"What the fuck? He said 'needs?'"

"Yeah, Sam, I don't get it either. As long as it's not illegal, we better hear him out."

"Well, the embassy is closed tomorrow," he said. "Deb, when will it be safe for me to get laid?"

"Assuming you use a condom, go knock yourself out."

"And without?"

Deb just shook her head. "Have you ever heard of antibiotic resistance, Sam?"

"Just kidding, dollface. I'm going up. If she's there, I'll be right back. If she's gone, I'm going to shower and change, then I'll be right back."

"So...?"

"I'll be right back. More or less."

"Right."

He disappeared and Deb looked after him as he left, then she looked at me.

"He's really just a giant penis, you know?" she said. "A penis in search of, what's that grand American word? Poon?"

"Ah. Well to be really accurate, that's 'poon-tang.' West African derivation, dahling, in case you must know, or you forgot."

"Shove it up your ass, Anders."

I broke out laughing. "Hey, I got to keep you honest somehow."

"You? Never."

"Uh-oh. Here he comes."

"She's up there. What should I do now?"

"Was she alone, or pole vaulting?"

"Goddamnit, Anders!"

"Sorry John. She's alone?"

"Yup."

"Be right back." I went over the concierge desk, asked when the next flight to America was.

"Five hours sir, at 0600. To JFK."

"Okay, I'll be right back."

"Okay, Sam," I said as I got back to the table. "There's a flight out at 0600. I say we go upstairs and pack her bags, then take her out to the airport and put her ass on the plane."

Deb looked at me, then at Sam, who was just looking at the floor and nodding his head. "Or, Sam, you could go up there and talk it out. See why she's staying, what she really wants from you?"

"She wants an engagement ring," he said.

"And what about you? What do you want?"

"I want none of this to have happened."

"Sam," I said, "come on! She's a confessed nymphomaniac, and you're going to leave her for three months? Really?"

He kept shaking his head.

"Sam, do you love her?"

"I don't know anymore, Deb. I really don't. I'm too mad, and way too depressed."

"Sam? What's it to be?" she asked. "Talk it out or put her on the plane?"

He walked over to the concierge, talked for a moment, then left for the elevator again, but not before stopping at our table. "I'll see you two in the morning" he said, his voice now just a little too loud. "Don't stay up too late, John. You know how horny you get when there's a full moon out."

Deb craned her head, looked out the window. "Indeed," she said, ignoring the stares of everyone else in the bar.

+++++

I had five days of dirty clothes to wash and found a machine in the hotel basement, so set out to do that early the next morning, and after the wash was on I went up for breakfast. Of course Sam and Brigit were there, deep in animated discussion as I grabbed a plate at the buffet, so I walked to a different part of the restaurant and took a table by myself. I watched Deb come in, watched her sidelong glance as her infallibly accurate radar scanned Sam and Brigit, and then, as her eyes fell on mine. She smiled, took a few pieces of fruit from the buffet and then joined me.

"You're up early," she said. "Kill any small animals last night?"

"I'll never tell. I did find a washing machine, however."

"Ah, the crucial things. First things first. Talk to Sam yet?"

"Are you kidding? Cobra and mongoose right now. I ain't getting anywhere near that mess."

"Really? Well, here they come."

"Fuck."

"You're so articulate in the morning, John. Sometimes your brevity of speech leaves me breathless."

"Well, John, Deb? Why didn't you join us?"

"Indeed," Deb said. "Why not, indeed?"

"You looked involved," I said. "I thought I'd give you a little space."

"So, Brigit, how are you this morning?" She was, we could see, red-eyed but appeared quite happy, which I was beginning to understand meant absolutely nothing.

"Fine. I'm fine. I'd like to talk to you later, if that's alright?"

"Of course," Deb said. "Why not now, before the day gets going."

"Alright. Fine." Deb left with Brigit, leaving me with Sam.

"So, she didn't leave. How do we feel this morning?"

"I'm sending her back home, to Ireland. To stay with her parents a while. She's wanted to for a while, maybe she can get her feet back under her again, get settled in her skin, maybe stop hating herself in the process."

"Did you talk to her parents?"

"For a few hours, actually. If you could handle stuff here, I'd like to go back with her. See that things look safe for her."

"Safe for her?"

"Well, you see John, I discovered something last night, something personal, something private, something grand. Anyway, I'll be back on Tuesday. Anything you want from Ireland?"