Wish I were a fiction writer. A mysterious woman poses in every room in Istanbul’s magnificent Topkapi palace. Click, click. A photographer follows her. I watch. She doesn’t change her expression, which is devoid of emotion.
She’s a celebrity or a Turkish politician or a model. A cover story will appear in next month’s Vogue. And I won’t even know about it, although I followed her until I tired of guessing her identity.
I like to know what’s going on. A young mother from Staten Island was found dead in Istanbul the day that I left the city, returning to Tel Aviv to catch my flight home. A photojournalist, she had walked all the places I had walked alone at night. It was her first trip out of the United States and she was excited, her husband said.
She had stayed in a supposed “seedy part” of the city. She had written to a few men via the Internet before leaving home, unfortunately, on a once-in-a-lifetime adventure. Quite a story.
Apparently a homeless man who had sniffed glue “excessively” the day she was murdered was responsible for this hideous violence. There’s something odd about his confession, my friend Gail told me. The man wasn’t sure of how the killing took place. Seems like homeless people are often accused of crimes they didn’t do.
I want to know what really happened. Her husband reported there was no hanky-panky between his wife and the men she contacted online. Maybe that’s true. Maybe the real story is different.
I make up stories all the time. Sometimes I wish I wrote fiction. But not very often. What I really like is asking questions.