Everyone Worth Knowing (53 page)

Elisa, Leo, Davide, and I rode into town with Mr. Avigdor—

who insisted quite adamantly that we call him Kamal—while the

others ducked into the limos behind us. He gave us the whole rundown

on the weekend, assuring us that our only collective respon-

sibility was to show our guests a fantastic time. He would take care

of everything else. We were to let him know if they wanted anything,

anything at all ("And by anything, I most certainly mean anything—

boys, girls, leather goods, hard-to-find food or drink items,

'recreational substances'—anything") and he would ensure that it

found its way to the appropriate person. The itineraries he handed

us looked more like lists of restaurants and clubs than any sort of

schedule; the days were completely blank, leaving time for the

"beauty rest, spa treatments, shopping, and sunning that everyone

will surely require," but the nights were jam-packed. For three

nights, starting at eight o'clock each evening, we'd be fed dinner at

a fabulous restaurant, work our way through two fabulous lounges,

and end up at a superfabulous, ultra-exclusive nightclub, where

we'd remain until close to dawn, just like the young Turks and visiting

Europeans. New Year's Eve differed from the other nights

only in that we were to conduct a champagne toast—on national

TV—at the stroke of midnight. Photographers would document

every minute of the fabulous fun, and Kamal expected that the resulting

publicity would help just as much in Turkey as in America;

after all, who doesn't want to party at the very same place Philip

Weston did?

Check-in went smoothly with only a half-dozen complaints

about the rooms ("too close to where the maids keep their cleaning

shit"; "not nearly enough towels to dry this much hair"; "so not

interested in having a view of a
mosqueV),
and everyone was in

good spirits when we reconvened at the impressively elegant

champagne brunch held in our honor on the hotel's rooftop overlooking

the majestic Topkapi Palace. I managed to sneak away

after an hour and walked the few blocks to the Grand Bazaar,

where I planned to roam and gape at everyone and everything. I

entered through the Nuruosmaniye Gate to cries of "Miss, I have

what you look for," and wandered aimlessly through the cavernous

building, weaving in and out of the overflowing stalls, taking in the

limitless amounts of beads and silver and rugs and spices and

hookahs and merchants who sipped and smoked, sipped and

smoked. I was in the process of haggling with a little man who

couldn't have been a day younger than ninety for a powder blue

pashmina when I felt a tap on my shoulder.

"You realize you're fighting over approximately forty cents,

don't you?" Sammy asked, grinning like he'd just discovered a very

big secret.

"1 know that!" I said indignantly. Of course I didn't.

"So why are you doing it?"

"You're obviously not very familiar with the culture around

here. You're expected to haggle. They actually find it insulting if

you don't."

"Oh, really? Mister, what price are you asking for this scarf?" he

asked, addressing the hunchback seller in the softest voice imaginable.

"Six dollars, U.S., sir. It is of the finest quality. From the south.

Made by my own granddaughter just a week ago. It is beautiful."

The man smiled to reveal a fine spread of toothless gums that

somehow made him look even friendlier.

"We'll take it," Sammy announced, pulling some Turkish lira

from his wallet and placing them gently in the man's paper-thin

hand. "Thank you, sir."

"Thank
you,
sir. A beautiful pashmina for a beautiful girl. Have

a nice day," he said merrily, clapping Sammy on the back before

returning to his water pipe.

"Yeah, you're right." Sammy grinned at me again. "He looked

really insulted to me." He wrapped the scarf around my neck and

gathered my hair into a bundle to lift it up, letting it fall on top of

the silky soft material.

"You didn't have to do that!"
But I'm so glad you did,
I thought.

"I know. I wanted to, to apologize for crashing your trip. I

really didn't know you'd be here, Bette. I'm sorry about that."

"Sorry for what?" I said lightly. "Don't be ridiculous, you have

nothing to apologize for."

"Have coffee with me? I've been in the country for hours and I

still haven't had Turkish coffee. I'm excited at the idea that it won't be

skim or extra-hot or no-whip or sugar-free or blended. What do

you say?"

"Sure. My book here says the best place is a few hallways

over."

"Your book?"

"Lonely Planet.
How can you go anywhere without a
Lonely

Planet?"

"You're such a dork," he said, pulling on the end of my pashmina.

"We're staying at the Four Seasons, getting shuttled around

by private drivers, and have unlimited spending accounts, and

you're following your
Lonely Planet?
Amazing."

"Why, exactly, is that so amazing? Maybe I want to see a few

things that aren't on the spa-oceanfront-dinner-members-only club

circuit."

He shook his head, unzipped his backpack, and rooted around

inside. "This is why it's amazing," he said, pulling out his own

copy of the exact same book. "C'mon, let's go find that stall."

We claimed a couple of miniature stools around a tiny table

and hand-motioned for two cups of coffee, which came accompanied

by a small plate of sugar cookies.

"Can I ask you something?" I said, slurping the thick liquid

from the small cup.

"Sure. Ask away."

"What is your relationship with Isabelle?" I asked, tiying to

sound casual.

His face tightened. He said nothing, just stared at the tabletop

and ground his teeth.

"Forget it, it's none of my business," I added quickly, desperate

not to ruin the moment.

"It's complicated," he said.

"So you've said." I watched a tiny kitten leap from the ground

to the top of a huge rug pile, where the teenage girl tending the

stall fed it a dish of milk. "Well," I finally said, "it's your deal. Let's

just enjoy our coffee, okay?"

"She pays me to spend time with her," he said softly, moving

his eyes to meet mine as he took a sip.

Well, I wasn't exactly sure what to do with that information.

It wasn't a total shock, considering what Elisa had said, but the

way he stated it, so calmly, with that matter-of-fact way that I was

discovering was very,
very
Sammy—well, it just sounded so

strange.

"I'm not sure I understand. Does this have something to do

with working for one of those agencies that hire all the hot guys to

bartend and stuff?"

He laughed out loud. "No, I never went that route, but I do appreciate

your thinking that I could meet their attractiveness quotient."

"Then I really don't understand."

"A lot of times people meet us at Bungalow and then hire us to

work their private parties, stuff like that. I was bartending there last

summer, and Isabelle was around a lot. I guess she took a liking to

me. It started out that she'd pay me a few grand a night to tend bar

at her dinner parties or meet and greet guests at her charity benefits.

When she was named co-chair of the New York Botanical

Garden's annual benefit, she decided to take on a full-time assistant.

I guess I was the natural choice because I could, uh, do other

stuff as well."

"Other stuff? She pays you to sleep with her?" I blurted before I

could even consider what I was saying.

"No!" he said sharply, glaring at me with a steely look. "Sorry.

It's hardly weird that you would wonder that. I'm a little sensitive

about it. The short answer is no, I'm not sleeping with her, but the

more truthful one is that I'm not sure how long I can get away

with that. I certainly didn't think that was an aspect of this in the

beginning, but it's becoming pretty clear that it's expected."

"What about her husband?" I asked.

"What about him?"

"Doesn't he care that his wife has hired a gorgeous young guy

to hang out at her home, help her with her assorted fund-raising

activities, accompany her on romantic weekend getaways to Istanbul?

You'd think he wouldn't be thrilled." I got a little tingle from

indirectly calling him "gorgeous."

"Why wouldn't he be thrilled? As long as she's discreet and

doesn't embarrass him and is available when he needs her for his

work functions, I imagine he's psyched not to have to go to all her

social shit and tell her how hot she is and discuss at length

whether he prefers her in Stella McCartney or Alexander McQueen.

He's the one who signs my checks, actually. He's a decent guy."

I didn't quite know how to respond to any of this, so I sat, trying

to think of something inoffensive to say.

"It's just a job that happens to pay really, really well. If I ever

want to open my own place, I can't turn down a six-figure salary

for hanging out with a pretty woman a few hours a week."

"Six figures? Are you
kidding?"

"Not in the least. Why else do you think I would do this? It's

beyond humiliating, but I've got my eyes on the prize. Which, incidentally,

might be closer than I thought." He popped a cookie in

his mouth and chewed.

"What do you mean?"

"Well, nothing's definite, but a few guys from CIA approached me

last week about going in with them and opening a place together."

"Really?" I moved closer. "Tell me about it."

"Well, it'd be more of a franchise situation, I guess you'd say,

rather than a whole new place. It's by the people who own

Houston's, and there are a few of them already on the West Coast.

They say they do really well. It's a pretty basic American menu—

not really any chance to do anything creative, since the concept

and the menu are nonnegotiable, but it would be all mine. Or at

least, mine and theirs." He sounded about as excited as someone

who'd just been told they had a sexually transmitted disease.

"Well, it sounds great," I said, trying to inject my voice with

some level of enthusiasm. "Are you excited about it?"

He appeared to think about this for a few seconds and then

sighed. "I'm not sure
excited
is the right word, but I think it's a

good opportunity. It's not quite what I had in mind, but it's a step

in the right direction. It's crazy to think I'd be able to incorporate

my own personal vision for a place at this point in my career—it's

just not realistic. So to answer your question, do I have some burning

desire to own one-third of an Upper Hast Side Houston's

restaurant? Not really. But if it'll allow me to stop working at Bun-