Blue Voyage Read online

  “Turkey’s way better than where I’m from.” Then she added, almost fiercely, “I’d bury my heart here.”

  “What’s wrong with where you’re from?”

  She picked up a small stone and hurled it over the cliff. We couldn’t see or hear it fall. “It’s just a small town, everything all fake old-time America.” She sneered. “You know the type, I’m sure. All sandwich ‘shoppes’ and soda fountains, and civic parades for every possible occasion, and rallying around the local sports teams. And people are so narrow-minded there. They think they live in this perfect place, but it’s a bubble. It’s not real. They have no idea there’s this whole world out there, and other people to learn about. But here?” She made a grand gesture. “It’s a grand bazaar of life. Everything’s on display, everything’s waiting to be discovered. I’ve done Hawthorne to death. There’s nothing there for me now.”

  Hawthorne? I could have sworn she told the Clarksons she was from Rosedale, or Roslindale, or something like that. But before I could ask her, I got distracted by my stinging eyes. Sweat was dripping off my forehead. It was getting really hot. I wiped my face, carefully, with my shirt sleeve, and then felt Sage’s eyes on me.

  “So is it vitiligo?” she asked gently.

  I froze. I wasn’t used to hearing that word aloud, except by my dermatologist and my therapist. Not even Mom and Dad said it aloud. Saying it made it too real, even for them.

  “Vitiligo?” she repeated. “Is that why you wear all the makeup?”

  “Um. Yeah.”

  “I knew someone in high school who had it,” she said. “She was black, so it showed up more. I know sun was an issue for her, too. She used to cover it up, the white patches, but then she stopped.”

  “Why?” I asked in amazement.

  “She said she got tired of covering up. It was a lot of work.”

  I thought about that. Covering up was exhausting sometimes. And I suddenly wanted to reveal a little more of myself to Sage. Like about how hard it was to have vitiligo and wear certain kinds of clothes.

  But at that moment, Mom and Aunt Jackie showed up, panting and sweaty. Mom’s pristine white capris and pale blue tank top were dirt-streaked, as was her face where she’d wiped off sweat. Aunt Jackie looked paler than ever.

  Sage and I stood up.

  “So gorgeous!” Mom exclaimed, taking in the view and extending her arms. “Can we go inside?” She ducked her head in the doorway.

  “Sure. Berk and I did.” Aunt Jackie leaned against the entrance. She mopped sweat off her forehead with her sleeve. She didn’t look very good.

  Nils and Ingrid showed up a couple of minutes later, collapsing their titanium walking sticks. They, too, marveled at the view.

  “Why’d the Lycians have so much space in their tombs?” I asked, as we all filed inside to look around the closet-sized room. Shafts of light streamed in from the two windows. “This is way bigger than a coffin. Did they have more than one person buried here?”

  “Nope. Just one,” said Sage. “We studied these in school. These cliff tombs belonged to high-ranking people. They were rich enough to have nice houses and for their families to put their bodies here. All their valuables and gifts would have come with them.”

  I pictured Victoria Windham as an ancient Lycian in here, surrounded by her art objects, her weird cat and greyhounds whining outside. I imagined pushing a stone door shut. It made me kind of happy. Sometimes I wasn’t sure who I was madder at: Dad or her. Both of them were cheaters and liars. Maybe they deserved each other.

  “Those valuables are long gone, though,” Sage added. “Even though some of the families put warning signs on their loved ones’ tombs, or threatened eternal curses if any items were removed, looters ignored them.”

  “So where is everything now?” Ingrid asked.

  “Museums, mostly, my teacher said,” said Sage. “A lot of things went to American and European museums. Some are with private collectors. Some stuff’s just lost to history.”

  “So disrespectful,” said Mom. “Nothing should have left the tombs, or the country.”

  I knew Sage was talking about long-ago looters, but I thought of the local museum robberies, and the coast guard and police boats out in the harbor. Reward money for information leading to the criminals’ arrest. I felt a quick prickle of fear. Could these old empty tombs be used as hideouts for thieves?

  “Ow.” Aunt Jackie suddenly doubled over in pain.

  “Jackie? You okay?” Mom asked, frowning.

  “Just a cramp. It’ll pass,” said Aunt Jackie. A moment later, she straightened up and took a long sip from her bottle of water. I guessed she still hadn’t told Mom her news. I understood she was superstitious after having lost babies before, but how long could she keep it to herself? I was dying to shout out the news from the clifftop!

  Milton and Maeve arrived next. Maeve was beet red, and wheezing. Milton was breathing better, but a bee had stung his nose, and it was swelling.

  “Hey, you both made it!” said Aunt Jackie, grinning. “Good for you!”

  “Not too bad a hike,” huffed Milton. “For me anyway, since I swim all the time. Doctor says I’m more like sixty than seventy. But poor Maeve here’s spent. Doesn’t really have a hiking physique, does she.”

  Maeve, still panting, turned slowly and gave him a steely look.

  “Oh, now, Milton, that’s not nice,” said Aunt Jackie, reaching over to pat Maeve’s arm. “Maeve did great.”

  “Thank you,” Maeve said. “Bit of a pull, that last part, but we’re here.” Her eyes traveled to the urn in Aunt Jackie’s hands. “My, what an extraordinary vessel. Is it . . . oh, my.” Her eyes grew wide and her pink lipsticked mouth formed a perfect O shape. “Is Berk in there?” she whispered.

  “No,” said Aunt Jackie. “There are no ashes inside. Just rose petals. See?” She removed the acorn-shaped lid and showed her.

  Maeve leaned in for a closer look. “The seahorse handles are so unusual. Quite lovely. Solid gold, is it?”

  “Gold plated,” said Aunt Jackie, handing the urn to Maeve.

  Maeve took it near the carved-out window to view the seahorse handles better in the light. “It must be quite old.”

  Aunt Jackie shook her head. “Just a replica. It’s supposed to look like something from the famous Karun Treasure stash.”

  “Karun Treasure? What’s that?” Maeve asked, handing back the urn. Milton, Nils, Ingrid, and Sage all leaned forward to listen with interest as Aunt Jackie began to explain.

  “One of Turkey’s most famous collections of artifacts,” said Aunt Jackie. “Three hundred and sixty-three objects that were looted from the ancient tomb of a princess, back in the 1960s. Jewelry, pottery, things like that. They were sold to middlemen who then sold them to buyers at the Metropolitan Museum of Art. A Turkish journalist found them there, and after a legal battle, they were repatriated to this country in 1993.”

  I wondered about the princess who’d been buried with all that loot. For some reason I pictured her as a young dead princess. Even someone like Sage. Maybe the Sultan’s heart story had stuck in my head and I was mixing the two things up.

  “My husband used to do a lecture about the Karun Treasure,” Aunt Jackie went on. “He collected replica artifacts like this one and used them for his lectures about the common motifs and styles. I found this replica in his office with all his lecture notes on the winged seahorse motif. The curious thing about it is that it’s a replica of an urn that no one has actually seen.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Ingrid. “How can that be?”

  “Many scholars believe the Karun Treasure is not just limited to the three hundred and sixty-three items that were illegally purchased and stored at the Met all those years,” said Aunt Jackie. “Other items from the same tombs have surfaced in other countries since then. And the urn that looks like the one
I am holding is rumored to be the most valuable missing item from the Karun Treasure. It has actually been spotted in different parts of the world. There are oral accounts from international art dealers who claim to have been approached to buy it—though no one would touch it without a clear history for it. Still, artists have sketched and circulated images of the urn based on these accounts. That’s what this replica was modeled after.” Aunt Jackie sighed. “Berk liked to tell this story in his lectures. But the real urn has never surfaced long enough to be handed over to the authorities. And Berk lost some credibility with his colleagues at the museum over this, unfortunately.”

  “How come?” I asked.

  “Some experts don’t believe the accounts of the missing Karun Treasure urn, and they liken it to Sasquatch sightings and things of that nature. It’s almost a mythical being. A fantasy. Despite the eyewitness accounts by the dealers who are certain they saw it.”

  “I have read an article about this Karun Treasure,” said Nils, nodding excitedly. “I understand that it is cursed.”

  I’d been touching one of the seahorse handles while Aunt Jackie was talking, admiring the details of the scales on the seahorses’ tails, but at the word “cursed” I snatched my hand away. Then I remembered it was just a replica and so there was no way it could be cursed.

  “Oh, no. That’s just a myth. Like the cursed King Tut treasure,” said Ingrid.

  “No, many people do believe the treasure is cursed,” Aunt Jackie corrected. “Everyone associated with the original Karun Treasure, from the original looters and tomb raiders to the middlemen who sold it off to the people who purchased items? They all suffered some kind of misfortune or died early. They say anyone who was ever involved in that looting, or who has possessed the treasure items for any length of time, had an unhappy life or very bad luck. Some people think the curse has been lifted since the Karun Treasure items returned to Turkey. But those who believe in the missing urn speculate the curse won’t be lifted until the entire Karun Treasure is reunited—not just the three hundred and sixty-three items recovered from the Met but any other pieces of it that may still be at large.”

  “I see you do know a thing or two about archaeology,” said Milton, almost accusingly. “Now I’m getting my money’s worth!”

  Aunt Jackie shook her head. “Honestly, that’s the extent of it. It’s all Greek to me. I just know about the Karun Treasure because it was Berk’s most popular lecture topic.”

  Milton took a bandana from his pocket and mopped his brow. “Just don’t get my Maeve started on tchotchkes,” he warned. “She’s quite the collector. Hits all the antique shops and rummage sales within a ten-kilometer radius of our home. She’ll talk your ear off about them.”

  “Oh, Milton.” Maeve gave him a withering look. “This urn is an objet d’art, not a tchotchke.”

  I backed away from the Lobsters as they continued to bicker. My stomach churned a little, as it sometimes did when my parents fought.

  Mom looked uncomfortable, too, as if she was thinking the same thing. She changed the subject in her chirpy voice. “Where are Fiona and Alice?” she asked. “I worry about Alice with that cane.”

  “Fiona shouted up to go on without them,” said Milton. “I don’t reckon they’ll make it all the way up.”

  “Maybe we should get started, then,” Ingrid suggested.

  “Okay. Let’s go back out on the ledge, shall we? Back in the light?” said Mom. “It’s a little gloomy in here, and this is supposed to be a celebration of Berk’s life.”

  We all gathered on the ledge again. Sage went straight for a column and held on tight.

  Aunt Jackie looked at all of us, then down at the urn in her hands. “Thank you all for being here. I just wanted to say a few words about my beloved—” Her voice broke.

  The Geezers exchanged worried looks.

  “There, there,” Maeve said. “It’s all right.”

  My nose twitched and my eyes watered. I almost felt as if I might cry, and I hadn’t even known my uncle that well. But it pained me to see Aunt Jackie in pain. Her face made the whole thing so real.

  “Shall I take over?” Mom whispered. “Get things started until you’re ready?” Mom was using her event-planning voice, all business, but she rubbed Aunt Jackie’s back.

  Aunt Jackie blew her nose and nodded.

  Mom stepped in front of the group. “Dearly beloved,” she began. “We are gathered here today at this sacred site to remember Berk Yilmaz. Husband to my sister, Jacqueline Stern Yilmaz. Uncle to my daughter, Alexandra Glazer.” Then Mom looked up to the sky. “We ask you to give us your blessing in this moment, and to look after the soul of Berk, who departed this earth too soon.” She raised her arms in an expansive gesture, then teetered a little and looked down. She lowered her arms fast. “Holy crap. We are really high up, aren’t we.”

  Aunt Jackie stepped forward. “Thanks, Kitsie. I’m okay. I’ll take it from here.” She stroked the lid of the urn. “I loved you so,” she said at last, as if Uncle Berk were standing right there with us. “Your intelligence. Your sense of diplomacy. Your quiet reserve. Your sense of fun and mischief—that side of you that you seldom showed other people.” Then she muttered, “And at the same time, I’m so furious.”

  “Jackie!” Mom whispered, stepping forward.

  “It’s all right,” murmured Ingrid, holding Mom back. “Sometimes that’s what people feel after they’ve lost a loved one. You should let her have her say.” She nodded respectfully at Aunt Jackie. “Go on. Say what you need to say.”

  Aunt Jackie took a deep breath, then continued speaking, almost inaudibly, to the urn. “I’m not furious at you. I’m angry at whoever did this to you. I know you would never do something as unsafe as go hiking alone where you were. And that’s why if I ever find any clue about who did this to you, I will make certain that justice is served.”

  “Oh, my,” Maeve whispered to Milton. “Was there some kind of mishap?”

  Mom smiled that tight smile of hers and put her arm around Aunt Jackie. “There are some complicated emotions,” she said. “A few unknowns.”

  “Yeah, like who pushed him off a cliff,” snapped Aunt Jackie. “For the hundred or so lira he might have had in his wallet at the time.”

  Mom whispered a few more things to Aunt Jackie, probably trying to do what she called “disaster control” like when something went wrong at a party or event.

  Aunt Jackie nodded, cleared her throat, and continued in a louder voice. “Berk, I know your goal was to always provide for our family. So whatever choices you made on your last day on this earth, I forgive you. I miss you. And I promise I will raise our child to the best of my ability, and she will know our family and our country here, and she will know, above all, that her father, Berk Yilmaz, was a good man.”

  I caught her eye and gave her a thumbs-up. I’d heard so many speeches in my life, my dad’s and those of lots of important people, but none had ever moved me like Aunt Jackie’s simple words about her husband.

  Aunt Jackie smiled back at me. Then she lifted the lid of the urn, removed the certificate inside, and shook the rose petals out. The dried, withered bits—ten-year-old petals—were immediately carried off by the breeze.

  We all watched in stunned silence as Aunt Jackie calmly put the certificate back inside the urn and replaced the lid.

  “There,” she said, turning away from the ledge, toward the tomb. “It’s done.”

  “Hold on a second,” Mom said. “Did you say ‘child’?”

  12

  The Geezers burst into applause and cheers, and Sage and I exchanged a knowing look.

  Mom’s hands flew to her mouth. “You’re pregnant?”

  Aunt Jackie grinned. She looked the happiest I’d seen her since we arrived in Turkey.

  “But you—you said you couldn’t!” Mom spluttered.

  “Mirac
le of science. Took us four rounds of IVF and made us near broke in the process. But we did it. We actually did it.” She wiped away a tear.

  “Oh, Jackie!” Mom threw her arms around her sister. “I’m so happy for you! And I’m going to be an aunt! How far along are you?”

  “Twelve weeks. I’m officially through the first trimester.”

  I went to give her a hug, pretending as if I was hearing the news for the first time.

  “Hey, thanks for not spilling the beans,” she whispered with a wink.

  “Anytime.” I grinned. Now it felt real. I was getting a cousin! Our family was growing. Maybe this would usher in a new era. And Aunt Jackie surely deserved some happiness after all she’d been through.

  “A toast!” proposed Nils. “I’ve got a bottle of wine in my backpack.” He pulled it out triumphantly. “Ingrid and I were going to have it on a picnic, but we’ll share. And apple juice, of course, for the mother-to-be. Oh, but I see I’ve forgotten the corkscrew.”

  “I have one.” Sage pulled a Swiss army knife out of her pocket.

  While the Geezers and Sage gathered around Nils and the wine, Mom said quietly to Aunt Jackie, “Did Berk know? You know, before . . . ?”

  Aunt Jackie nodded. “It’s one more reason I’m sure he got mugged and led to his death on that trip. Knowing what we went through to conceive a child, he wouldn’t have gone on a hike to such a remote place alone. No way would he take that kind of chance.”

  A vein in Mom’s forehead pulsed. I could tell it was taking all her effort not to jump down Aunt Jackie’s throat about the murder theory. “Well,” said Mom, in a measured tone, “now I’m extra glad we’re going to be in Istanbul for five weeks, to help you. You know, we don’t really need to do any sightseeing there.”

  I looked at her. “We don’t?”

  “We’re all about you now,” said Mom to Aunt Jackie. “Helping you with the hotel is our number one priority.”

  Sage handed Aunt Jackie a bottle of apple juice. “Congratulations,” she said shyly, looking at her with admiration. “I’m really happy for you.”