The Manzikert Hotel

Leo Kazankian, concierge at the Manzikert Hotel, is the hardest-working man in Istanbul.

Worked there for twenty years. Nobody knows his origin or if Kazankian’s his real name. Some say he fled west after shooting a melon thief in Samarkand, or that he’s wanted by the Swiss police for robbing a cigar store in Lausanne.

Has done a little bit of every job. Tap dancer, pastry chef, banker’s clerk, deckhand on a Baku oil tanker. “Ah, yes, that reminds me of a time when…” It’s never clear when he’s lying but statistically they can’t all be true.

Terribly proud of his moustache. Waxes it every day. In his early fifties and going bald with grace. Sometimes kids throw stones at him in the street, for being Armenian, which to them is like an infinitely worse version of a Jew.

Shrugs it off. Life has these little ups and downs. “I remember in Yerevan, during the war…”

Loves doing little jobs for people. Everybody comes to him for help. Hotel guests get top priority. Once a millionaire from Philadelphia asked for a tame Russian bear cub - Leo bought one from a circus and got it to his door in half an hour. He’s paid well, though not well enough.

Can’t do it all alone. That’s where you come in.

The Manzikert Hotel. In the Pera district, north of the Golden Horn. On Istiklal Avenue, by the Passage of Flowers, home to Yorgo’s Winehouse and a florist run by an exiled Russian baroness.

The last word on luxury in Istanbul. Step off the Orient Express at Sirkeci Station - hail a taxicab or squeeze yourself aboard a tram. Minarets loom above a jumble of dishevelled buildings in dusty red and faded yellow stone.

Alleys narrower than in the West. Stray cats, men in fezzes loitering, waiters standing outside empty cafes with towels draped across their arms. Fruit carts drawn by donkeys. Tramp steamers choking up the Bosphorus.

Gypsy traders carrying huge baskets. Veiled old women, clad in black, slipping on the cobblestones, shooting you the evil eye when you try to help them up. Puppeteers distracting you while their child accomplice picks your pocket.

There’s a smell, of course, but you get used to it. At the Golden Palace you’ll find a first-class restaurant, a hammam steam bath, a ballroom in the Oriental style. All the delights of the East, all the comforts of home.

The hotel attracts a cast of regulars.

Karim, the barman. Formerly a Black Eunuch in the Ottoman Imperial Harem. Lost his job after the Young Turks took over. Misses the gossip among the girls. Kidnapped from Abyssinia and castrated when he was four years old.

Philosophical. Loves listening to other people’s problems. Runs a support group for other eunuchs in the hotel lounge - they look out for each other and are good friends to have. Some work as musicians, some in authentic harem-style brothels, or just sell kebabs by the side of the road.

Fyodor Tomas, the world’s only black White Russian. Son of a former slave in Coahoma County, Mississippi. Moved to Europe in the 1890s, after a rich planter stole his family’s land and had his father murdered. Changed his name.

Became a waiter, then co-owner of Yar, the best restaurant in Tsarist Moscow. Personal acquaintance of Rasputin and several grand dukes. Married three times. Fled the Bolsheviks, landed in Istanbul, started a nightclub called Maxim’s with a Lancashire barkeep called Bertha Proctor and became known across the city as the “Sultan of Jazz”.

Heavily in debt. Likes to pop into the Golden Palace for a drink. Keeps tabs on the underworld - can always tell you what’s going on.

Avram Zorogon. Lives in a room on the top floor, full of dusty books. Unclear how he pays the rent - Leo changes the subject if it comes up. Long scraggly beard, gummy smile. Old. Engaged in some kind of vast arcane mathematical project, involving countless permutations of Hebrew letters - always on the verge of a gigantic revelation. Leo gets very upset if anyone’s unkind to him.

Spyros Papadopoulos. Forger. Specialises in Cycladic statues, sold to eccentric Englishmen as if they’re one-of-a-kind pieces freshly dug out of the earth. Workshop down by the waterfront. Hairy arms. Fez. Drinks endless glasses of ouzo in the hotel bar - always has some new crazy scheme for separating tourists from their money. Gets his hands on real antiques from time to time.

Daniel Pink. Calvinist teacher. Former Theosophist. Studied at the Moody Bible Institute in Chicago. Ran Bible classes for a tent evangelist in California, then briefly for the Strict and Particular Baptists of New South Wales. Found his way to Istanbul to write a book on how the Catholic Church is a front for the Babylonian demon religion established by Semiramis and Nimrod. Shy. Wants a wife.

Zeynep Aslan, journalist. Writes humorous pieces for Karagöz magazine. Would like to be taken off the fashion beat, but can’t persuade her editor that a woman should cover political corruption. Constantly fielding marriage proposals from Stavros. Late for everything. Loves jazz. Self-consciously modern. Gets too excited about murders - wants to solve a big juicy mystery, get famous and move to France.

Mustafa Yilmaz, cop. Fierce Turkish nationalist. Thin moustache, aquiline profile, brutal hawk’s eyes. Convinced that Leo and the gang must be up to something. Shows up at odd times to try and catch them in the act. Incorruptible. Shot in the leg at Gallipoli - it still hurts on rainy days. Wife and five children live in terror of him. If you work for Leo he’ll start following you around.

So what do you actually do for Leo?

Anything he asks. He is constantly presented with idiosyncratic problems. Sometimes a rich client will book a full month’s stay in the hotel, just to secure his attention. You are on his list of people to delegate things to.

Recover a stolen necklace - find the only copy of a rare book - track down a missing husband - prove a man innocent of murder with twelve hours to go before he’s hanged. When a dead body is discovered in the bridal suite, you might be the guy he calls to quietly dispose of it.

This takes you all over the Near East, of course. Leo won’t travel himself. He can’t leave the hotel alone.

Like any good old-fashioned hotel, there’s stories that it’s haunted. Leo laughs them off. Claims to have made them up himself, to attract more business.

There’s a room on the seventh floor that he won’t let anyone else clean. And sometimes at night he’s been caught walking down the corridors in his silk pajamas, muttering to the walls. He caresses them, tells them he’s sorry.

You’ve heard they mutter back.