The last Rose of Istanbul

By Guido Quagliardi

THE LAST ROSE OF ISTANBUL
Giorgio Astori, ex manager of a multinational, looking for a job since a couple of years and divorced since few months, is employed, for managing its Turkish subsidiary, by Antares, a new, still small but fast growing industrial group operating in the field of biotechnologies. Ali Kamat, ex member of a Marxist-Leninist revolutionary group, passed, after several painful vicissitudes, to a ramified Islamic organization devoted to terrorism, is trained, in Afghanistan and in the United States, in view of a sensational attack to be launched against the western world. Two men, both marked by a trail of misadventures, to whom a chance of redemption is offered. Their roads intersect in Istanbul where, however, Songül, the new, brilliant, leggy assistant of Astori comes into play.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Guido Quagliardi
• Release date: Apr 4, 2017
• ISBN: 9788826046631

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The Last Rose of Istanbul

  Guido Quagliardi

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

Translating a text from one language to another is a long and heavy job. I would like therefore to express my sincerest thanks to my friend, Mrs. Elizabeth Yurdum, who patiently assisted me in the translation of my novel from Italian to English.

MAIN CHARACTERS

(In order of appearance)

Mr. Giorgio Astori - manager

Laura - ex-wife of Giorgio Astori

Dr. Baldassarre Colonna - Head-hunter for B. C. Consulting

Mrs. Balzelli - personal secretary to Baldassarre Colonna

Mr. Hasan El Assam – Human Resources Manager of Antares Group

Ing. Barzaghi - President of Antares Group

Dr. De Vita - CEO of Antares Group

Ali Bekar, alias Ali Kamat, alias Ali Çoskun: - terrorist

Mr. Gates – real estate agent

Caroline – American girlfriend of Ali

Selma - Ali Bekar’s first girlfriend

Ayşenur - Ali Bekar’s second girlfriend

Abdul - company driver at Antares Group

Mr. Omer Colaçoğlu (Omer Bey) – Vice Manager of Antares Turkey

Metin Bey – office boy

Osman Bey – Administration Manager

Kerim Bey – Osman bey’s assistant

Güven Bey – sales person, Antares Group

Semih Bey – sales person, Antares Group

Ayşe - secretary, receptionist at Antares Group

Songül Berrin – assistant to Giorgio Astori

Tarık - boyfriend of Songül

Birgül Hanım - Public relations manager of Kempinski Hotel, Istanbul

Tarkan Alkan – friend of Omer Colaçoğlu

Beccarini – Local Manager of Ansaldo, Turkey

Lucio Giovannotti – Local Manager of Iveco, Turkey

Alberto Geronzi – Local Manager of Astaldi, Turkeys

Andrea Freddoni - Trade Official of the Italian Consulate

Selin Özkan - friend of Songül

Ebru Yılmaz - friend of Songül

Serdar Öztürk (Serdar Bey) – Agent of M.I.T (Turkish Secret Intelligence Service)

Emre Önal - police officer

Murat Sancar – hit man

TURKISH TERMS USED IN THE TEXT

Çador: black dress used by Muslim women

Helal: forbidden according to Islamic rules

Rakı: Typical Turkish liquor

Ayran: drink made of yogurt and water

Bey: Mr. (followed by first name)

Hanım: Mrs. (followed by first name)

Ağabey (pron. abi): older brother (literal or as term of respect to an older man)

Son: last

Gül: rose

Kahve: coffee

Çay: tea

Tarikat: religious fraternity

Bahşiş: tip

Tembel: lazy

Tamam: OK

Yeni: new 

Mezarlığı: cemetery

Şeriat: Sharia, Islamic law

Sarhoş: drunk

Dolmuş: minibus

Gecekondu: put up during the night (house illegally built)

Bakkal: grocery

Şiş kebap: meat skewer

Meze: appetizer

İnşallah: with the help of Allah

Geçmiş olsun: get better soon

Günaydın: good day

Pide: kind of Turkish pizza

Hemşerhi: from same city

Köfte: meatballs

Bozuk: rotten, out of order

CHAPTER I

It was the end of July 2014 and, in Milan, many firms were already closed for the summer holidays.

Giorgio was going through the job adverts in Corriere della Sera for the second time but there was nothing suitable – most of the ads were for younger people under thirty-five, for positions in computers, the pharmaceutical industry or consumer goods; they wanted technicians and specialists and people to work as representatives and agents in the provinces. There was hardly anything for executives older than forty and, of the few that were, none matched his skills.

With his 49 years and without any ‘saints in heaven’ looking out for him, Giorgio Astori knew perfectly well that his chances of finding a job were close to zero. The importance given to his degree in Economics and of his long international experience was close to zero when looking for a job. Skills, qualifications and experience were worth almost nothing without relationships with politicians or top managers, something which he had not been able to build up, having spent most of his working life out of Italy. Apparently experience in foreign markets was regarded as an asset only by those dumb journalists writing for management magazines. On the contrary, applicants who had always worked in Italy, networking and cultivating contacts, were in a much more favorable position. In fact, qualifications and experience could even prove to be counterproductive when, for lack of better opportunities, applying for less qualified jobs.

However he didn’t have the luxury of giving up – for the last couple of years he had been living on his savings which, further eaten into by an expensive divorce, were almost gone.

From the window he looked at the stinking water of the canal. An old fruit-box floated sideways, drifting down the watercourse. It was chased by a bottle of Pepsi Cola, which appeared to be gaining ground. Along the banks of the canal an old man was walking shouting to himself for God knows what reason, while a pair of badly dressed youngsters were parking their noisy scooters, probably on their way to the corner pub where they would squander in the slot machines money stolen from their parents. What a nice neighborhood!

The mini-apartment in the Navigli area allowed him to pass as ‘intellectual’, though the reality was it was all he could afford, but, as things were going, even staying in this stinking hovel and cutting back on all other expenses, he would still only be able to pay his rent for another three or four months.

Not that there was much left to economize on, anyway. His expenses were minimal. He had even sold the car, a few months before, not so much for the modest amount which he had made out of it, but in order to save on insurance expenses and vehicle taxes. The only money he had been able to make had come from a couple of low-paid consultancy jobs he had managed to get during the previous two years. And no retirement allowance, because he was too young, while all the amount received as liquidation from his old firm had been eaten by the expenses necessary to pay the onerous mortgage of their old house assigned by the judge to Laura. 

Personally he would have been satisfied with any job even if he was over-qualified for it, but, paradoxically, no firm was willing to employ him even in a low level position with his qualifications. Without a work permit he could not get a job in foreign countries where he had worked in the past and he was too old for unloading fruit in the wholesale markets, or picking apples in the fields! 

What a shitty world! He had thought about suicide, but he was not ready for such a dramatic choice: he was still attached to life, despite everything.

In order to escape the grip of panic he had also tried drinking, but it did not bring him any relief, just nausea. Plus, indulging in alcohol was too expensive for his income.

He got up to check the rather empty refrigerator: just a couple of tins  of meat, some cans of beer, a bottle of long-life milk, an unopened packet of frankfurters and some fruit. This evening he would eat sausages with potatoes. He checked in the compartment under the sink and saw there were still a few, although a bit old and beginning to sprout. Good! He had solved the problem of dinner, for today.

He boiled the frankfurters and potatoes and then sat down at the table with the plate in one hand and the icy can of beer in the other. Beer was the only luxury he had not given up, but he had had to compromise on quality: now he had to settle for the cheaper brand that could be found in the supermarket.

The misery of a former executive who has lost his job is the most pathetic: he is left with a well-furnished wardrobe, a sense of style and culture and a carefully cultivated appearance which masks his real conditions and makes him still pass for a respectable gentleman in the eyes of those who don’t know his troubles, but he cannot bring himself to beg for help, or to go to the soup kitchen. He is condemned to maintain his dignity until the end.

There were probably many others in similar conditions, he thought to himself, now that computers and rationalizations had decimated executives and middle managers. Or, maybe, he was worse off than most because of his divorce and his lack of real friends ready to help him and, he had to admit, because of the consequences of his past outbursts against his incompetent and unreliable bosses.

He reviewed the list of people to whom he had already turned for help, hoping to come up with a name he may have forgotten: the few former bosses who had valued his skills, old colleagues, influential people whose paths he had occasionally crossed... it really seemed that he hadn’t forgotten anyone. Most of them had hidden behind a variety of excuses, some had made vague promises which had never materialized, others, in their turn, fell out of favor, or had reached retirement, so they could no longer help him. No one had come up with anything concrete in support of their platitudinous words of comfort. After having tried so many times to contact them, now he could not even recall them without feeling embarrassed.

He had revised his curriculum vitae many times. At first he had highlighted and shown off his qualifications and expertise in their best light but latterly, as he realized the perverse reality of the job market, he had started to down-play them to avoid scaring off any possible future boss. He had, in fact, come to understand that no manager was really willing to hire truly capable and qualified employees who could, one day, become a threat to his own position. It was obvious that the jobs went to the young applicants with little experience, or to grey, anonymous characters who would not cast a shadow on their future bosses. The same behavior was also typical of the owners of small or medium-sized enterprises who proved to be even more jealous of their own prerogatives, refusing to hire anyone who showed a certain intellectual level.

All those Keynesian theories learned at university, asserting profit maximization to be the main goal of liberal economies, were just bullshit! Where the owners were rich and the managers powerful, making company profits came second to the personal ambitions of those in charge. Terrified of being challenged and replaced by equally or more capable people, except for some clever technicians necessary to run the production and technical assistance and, maybe, a smart accountant, they chose to surround themselves with colorless yes-men.

A ‘genuine’ manager, once he had lost his job, could therefore give up any hope of getting another position unless they had a ‘backer’ in the world of politics which he, most definitely, did not have. In addition to this, the age of forty was an insuperable barrier, as he had already experienced, even if physically he still kept himself pretty fit. Maybe he should falsify his identity card!

The phone rang... His heart skipped a beat: almost nobody ever called him nowadays. May be some good news? Right away he picked up the phone on the bedside table with a slightly trembling hand.

Hello? Who is speaking please?

Good morning, am I talking to Mr. Giorgio Astori?

Yes, you are. How can I help you?

"Let me introduce myself. My name’s Mariella Belillo and I am secretary to Cavalier Lunardi, owner of Traminer, a small manufacturer of high-quality wines. Really wines for connoisseurs! We found your name browsing on the list of members of the Association of Industry Managers. If you had time to come and visit us, we would like to introduce to you our range... "

Excuse me for interrupting you, but I am not interested. I am a teetotaler. Please do not call me again.

Angered, he hung up the phone. How did they get his number, those jerks! For a second he had hoped it might be somebody offering him a job.

The interruption had broken his concentration and, already feeling down, the call had taken away the remaining hope he had of something coming up. 

Depressed, he decided to go out for a walk.

Next morning he woke up at nine, one of the few advantages of being unemployed! He pulled up the shutters and opened the window. A gentle breeze cooled the air of the beautiful summer day. It would have been a perfect day to go for an out of town trip, as he and Laura used to do when they were still together. Not that they had managed to do it very often, unfortunately, as she always complained about the slightest thing. In those days he had never had enough time because of work commitments and, now, he didn’t have the money for petrol and no longer had the car, anyway. Even if he could go, what would he do alone in the countryside? And besides, if he was serious about looking for a job, he didn’t really have the time to spare either. He had to keep focused.

After coffee he therefore restarted working hard on his computer. The search for a job was proving to be an extremely challenging task: reviewing ads in major newspapers, calling old friends, acquaintances and head-hunters who generally fended him off with all types of excuses, re-examining old management magazines and looking for possible new firms or people to contact,  searching the web for e-mail addresses to send his curriculum to so he could save on postage, long walks near his old firm in the hope of ‘accidentally’ walking into those whom he could no longer call... What a drag! And the stress was making it even harder.

He concentrated hard on the screen trying to find any new head-hunters he hadn’t tried before. He had already largely given up on the international ones to concentrate on those operating regionally: Brescia, Bergamo, and then Vicenza, Treviso, Padua ... towns in the rich North-East where he hoped it could still be possible to find something.

The doorbell rang but he didn’t react. What was the point? No company would give a positive answer by post nowadays or, for that matter, to turn you down either.  Phone, emails or faxes were the way good news would come.

He went therefore, reluctantly, to open the door. It was the old landlady, dressed in mourning as usual. In fact, this time she appeared even more shabby than usual. If he could kindly forward the payment of the rent, she asked, because she had urgent expenses….

Of course, do not worry, Mrs. Pasetti. I’ll arrange it by tomorrow.

In fact, who cared? His last remaining money was deposited in the bank at quite a low interest rate so while he had still some money what harm was there in paying her the rent early? Besides, maybe in the future he might have reason to remind her of this gesture and to ask her, in return, to let him pay late when his money ran out.  But what was the point, he wondered. One more week or ten days, what difference could it make? Or, perhaps, he could simply not pay until they came to evict him. In Italy evictions take years. But that poor woman had no other income apart from the rent from the two small apartments inherited from her husband who had died several years before. How could he seriously consider treating her so shabbily, saving himself by strangling her? No, he would not have the courage to behave like that!

He had to find another solution, but what? He angrily pressed the lock button on the computer. Why keep trying when he never received answers to his messages! He had to think of something else fast. How could he go on without an income?

An idea flashed into his mind: maybe he could go to Africa as a volunteer with some humanitarian organization, assuming, of course, they wouldn’t consider him too old for that too!  If nothing else, this would at least guarantee his survival. An unconventional move, perhaps, but still a solution. He could explain away this odd choice to old friends, if they asked, as the result of some sort of spiritual crisis. In fact, he asked himself, why should he even be caring about what they thought?

He restarted the computer to look for any suitable organization to contact but, first, as soon as it turned on, he opened Outlook to check his inbox. Just in case. Should it be the right time! In fact, in the mail-box, a message without a clear subject had just arrived from a B.C. Consulting LTD. Never heard of them. Who were they? The e-mail did not contain any text, but only an attachment. He had to open it anyway, despite not knowing its origin. It might be something important. In fact, in retrospect, the name reminded him something....  Ah, yes, a head-hunter for one of the provinces: Verona, Vicenza, Padua, or, maybe... He did not remember exactly. Would it be his lucky day? He eagerly clicked on the icon, hoping not to be infected by one of those damn viruses. That was the only thing missing! He had already once had to spend a large amount getting his computer sorted out after it got infected.

In the attachment he found the following text:

Dear Mr. Astori,

Further to your last e-mail dated March 22, I would like to meet and discuss a possible job opportunity which could be suitable for you. Would you please contact my assistant Ms. Balzelli as soon as possible (ph. n. 045 238 54 938), who will fix an appointment? Looking forward to meet you,

Best regards,

Baldassarre Colonna

He felt a burst of adrenaline in his blood, but forced himself to calm down. This was not the first time that somebody had contacted him to discuss his suitability for an interesting position, talks which then lead to nothing after the initial chat. Was it really possible that they always found better candidates? He had little doubt that they published ads in the papers just pro forma, in order to present their clients with a large list of candidates, to justify their fees, only to later give the job to someone they had decided on from the beginning. But, perhaps, this time he might be different. Statistically it was impossible to always be unlucky!

He picked up the phone, but then he put it down right away. Calling back immediately did not appear a good strategy. It would make him look over desperate. He should wait at least a few hours. He decided to call back at six, when routine phone calls slow down. There were still a few hours to go so he would have to be patient.

He began pacing nervously around the room. What sort of position would it be? Better not to be over optimistic and expect too much! As usual, there would be many other candidates competing for the same position. Hopefully, though, a provincial head-hunter might not have a pool of many other candidates with qualifications comparable to his.

He tried reading the paper to relax and to kill time, but he couldn’t focus on what he was reading. He tried laying down on the bed but couldn’t sleep. It was impossible to concentrate on anything and the hours just dragged by. At a quarter to five, after almost one hour pacing nervously back and forth in the room, he couldn’t take any more and picked up the phone only to put it down again immediately. First a glass of water to lighten his voice, he thought. Then he returned after a minute to the phone, with the glass in his hand. He should not sound over excited, he was repeating to himself while dialing.

B.C. Consulting, what can I do for you?

Hello, may I speak with Miss Balzelli?

Speaking. May I know who is calling, please?

Yes, this is Giorgio Astori, calling from Milan. I am ringing in response to an e-mail from Mr. Colonna which I received this morning. Could you kindly put me through?

I am sorry. Mr. Colonna is presently out of town.

Astori then tried to get at least some information out of her. Miss Balzelli, who had a light Venetian accent, answered very politely, but she did not want, or was unable to provide, information. She was not aware of the reason why her boss had called him, she said, and, therefore, he would have to talk directly with Mr. Colonna, when he was back in the office. Would he be so kind as to call back the next Monday afternoon.

There was nothing else to do. Astori thanked Mrs. Balzelli and hung up the receiver.

He spent the following days in trepid expectation. He knew he shouldn’t stop his job hunting just because of this one possible offer but, with his mind worrying about it, he found it hard to concentrate on anything else. He would have given years of his life to find out what they had to offer him, although he knew he would be ready to accept whatever it might be. On the other hand he would have to be careful not to appear too eager: jumping right away on what they might offer him, like a starving beggar, would not sound professional. He should show interest, but also a certain detachment. Above all, he should be diplomatic when they asked about his salary expectations. That was always the most critical moment. It was difficult to decide in advance how much to ask. Aiming too high he would risk being rejected should there be candidates with more modest demands but, if he was too accommodating, he could give the impression of being less qualified and ambitious and be turned down for that very reason.

Throughout Sunday night Astori could barely close his eyes and, on Monday morning, he got up in a sweat after hours spent tossing and turning.  The previous week he had set a meeting with Laura at 9 o’clock to try to resolve the issue of the alimony payments which he had been trying to reduce for months. Now he was trying to work out how to prove to the court that he really was unemployed and so really didn’t have the income necessary to meet his original commitments to his ex-wife. Being able to bring pay slips, or an employer’s letter confirming a low paid job, would make things easier but, being unemployed and ashamed to officially register as such, what could he bring? How could he prove that he was not hiding a well-paid job?

The judge handling the case, in the absence of firm evidence, continued to postpone a decision, asserting that the parties had to come to an agreement between themselves based on common sense, but Laura, persuaded that he was deceiving her, refused to believe that he was really unemployed. And, besides, she had never showed much common sense.

Astori was suspicious that she had been having him tailed recently. Indeed he had learned from the landlady that someone had been asking about him. Maybe this could work to his advantage! Once Laura understood and accepted his situation it would be much easier to convince her to lower her demands, especially since, in the meantime, she had found a job.

Anxious, as usual, not to be late, he entered the lawyer’s office five minutes early and had to spend some time in the waiting room. He tried to kill time by browsing through one of the old magazines on the coffee table, but he could not concentrate.  His thoughts kept returning to Laura: he would see her again in a few minutes. He had to try to look natural, avoiding that strange sense of panic that, after divorce, gripped him every time he met her.

Fortunately he only had to wait a few minutes before the secretary let him in and he found Laura already there, elegant, with full make up and just out from the hairdresser. She now had a rather short cut. He felt sorry - he had always liked long hair better. She was, all the same, beautiful, and that new skin-tight dress she wore highlighted her figure perfectly.

For a second he was tempted to beg her to come back to him, but then her sudden burst of anger right after meeting him reminded Astori that there had been, unfortunately, quite serious reasons for the separation. Laura was still furious at his request to reduce the alimony payments. Christ, was there no way to make her understand his situation? Apparently, even whatever may have been found out by the hounds she had set at his heels had not been sufficient to convince her to soften her demands. He should have expected that: stubbornness had always been one of Laura’s dominant features and her character would certainly not change now. He had to resign himself to