Steiner and the Hypnotic Cue

CHAPTER 22 Memories of Istanbul

We crossed the King Hussain Bridge into Jordan early the next day, with the intention of flying back to Scotland from there and not via Tel Aviv, where our ‘business partners’ possibly lay in wait. 

The organisers hadn’t actually paid us any money yet, but they had spent cash promoting the event, and would be looking for payback when we did not turn up. Most of these promoters were  local mafia and not to be messed with. We often breathed a sigh of relief when the cash came in and we left the country.

David was raging at me for cancelling, but even in his rant at me that morning, he still talked about taking a break and getting ready for Q-School. He was also mad  about having to leave his gear in Tel Aviv. He could have had his luggage forwarded on, but he didn’t want anyone to know where we were.

The journey South from Jerusalem to the bridge into Jordan is only about a hour, but we had to wait for ages at the border control. There were other buses queued up. Some of  the religious people from the day before were there as well. They weren’t singing now. I don’t think the soldiers with the machine guns would have approved. Although, I don’t think guns nor bullets would have stopped Sheila McLaughlan if she put her mind to it.

Sheila spotted us and headed our way.  One of the group followed her. I was in no mood for talking. Picking up the hint, David cut them off and started talking to them, no doubt feeling  confident in his atheism.

I watched him from a distance. Sheila reminded of someone—it took me a while to work it out; then it hit me—Faye Dunaway. She had played a mad preacher woman, who was kidnapped—Aimie Semple McPherson was her name. I had watched it with my mother on TV, years ago. She was also  the Wicked Witch in Supergirl. Dunaway was crazy, with wild, red hair and piercing eyes.  I was only five when I saw that. She terrified me and I couldn’t sleep for weeks. Sheila was the spitting image of her.

He must have talked for almost two hours, before we were all shouted back on the buses to leave. He shook their hands, and the hands of a few others. They swapped business cards and gave him couple of leaflets. He never discussed with me what was said.

I never asked.

Over the bridge, we turned North and just over a hour later, we were in the city of Amman, trying to book a flight. All the airlines were based at the bus depot. There was nothing, we were told, for a couple of days. School holidays and religious trips at Easter had conspired against us.

The Crowne Plaza hotel was so close to the bus depot that we walked there in less than five minutes, being instructed that to drive there by taxi would take about 20 minutes in the rush-hour traffic.

The next day, we went back to the airline offices to check for flights. Nothing was coming up online. At the depot, everyone gave us the same reply, “Come back tomorrow!”

We left the offices, and decided to have a quick walk around the area. We turned right; walked about 100 metres and passed a Safeway, of all things, and there in front of us, was the sign on a building: JETS. It had to be a joke!  Those people were just a stone’s throw from the hotel. The thought of seeing Sheila again for a third day did not excite me at all.

Taking a hasty left, we walked up the road. There was only a slight hill, but it was hot and the sweat poured off us. Searching for a taxi to take us somewhere better, we ambled along and found ourselves in a medical district. There were three or four hospitals on either side of the road. Something caught my eye; something I had seen before.

Back in the early days of touring, in Istanbul, David had got us into a slightly embarrassing situation with one of the hotel staff. We had really gone to town seeing all the tourist spots—the palaces, the Blue Mosque, the Covered Market, and in our travels we noticed there was a large number of girls with bandaged up faces and black eyes. One night we were talking to Jan, one of the hotel managers. He was trying to impress us with his English and get David Noble to sample the local beverage—Raki. After a few glasses, Jan asked us what we thought of his country (how many times have we been asked that question?). We told him it was great and that Dolmabache was the best palace in the world. Then David brought up the subject of domestic abuse. Jan looked very puzzled, until we told him about all the girls we had seen. He laughed and added,

“You must understand—here in Istanbul lots of girls get plastique—you know, they change the face.”

“What so many of them?” I asked amazed.

“Yes, yes … very popular here. Maybe girls come from the East, or have, you know, a big nose. They want to look like girls on television,  you know look beautiful—Yes? Go to university and get husband. So many times the family saves up and they get the nose fixed, like this. It’s very normal here. You understand?”

We understood alright and had a right good laugh about our confusion.

Just opposite me, I saw a girl leaving a hospital with her nose bandaged and I had one of my flashes of genius.