Baksheesh (19 page)

The one night of passion I was ever likely to have at my age wasn't supposed to be like this.

Not at all.

“I've changed my mind about going to the other side,” I said to the cab driver. “Take me to Mecidiyeköy.”

I got out of the taxi and, standing there in the street, I lit a cigarette. Apart from the occasional passing car, the street was
empty. I looked at my watch. It was twenty past twelve. I switched on my mobile and called Selim.

“You're drunk,” he said to me.

“So what if I am?”

“For God's sake, don't try to drive in that state. I'll come and get you.”

“Of course I'm not going to drive. What do you think I am? A Turk? I'll get a cab and come over,” I said.

“I know you won't do that because you can't bear to waste money on taxis,” he said.

“Don't be silly. What do you think I am? A German?” I said.

“I think I've missed you,” said my lover, whose email password was “Kati”.

“Only think?” I said.

I felt my arm suddenly knock against somebody. I jumped in panic. The spring mattress rocked about like crazy. Thinking it must be an earthquake, I tried to open my eyes to look around the room for a desk to hide under. But there was no desk. What would a desk be doing in a bedroom? I was in a bedroom. A bedroom I recognized, but it wasn't mine. My shoulders ached, my head even more. I had no idea where I was until I saw the person my arm had knocked. Seeing Selim's bald head brought back vague images of the previous evening. When I'd arrived, I'd been unable to keep upright and had come up with some sort of tearful explanation. Probably said something disgraceful. The sort of thing one would never say when sober. I did an enormous yawn, knocking his head again. How could he still be asleep? Of course, it was Saturday. That made no difference to me. My responsibilities didn't stop at weekends. There was a murder I needed to solve. If only I knew what time it was!

I propped myself up on an elbow to look at the clock next to Selim, once again rocking the bed. It was a digital clock. Eight thirty-four. What a ridiculous time to wake up on a Saturday morning. I did another huge yawn, without even covering my mouth. Should I get up and make breakfast for us both? Should I go for a shower? A shower wouldn't help. I always feel terrible after drinking too much. Really dreadful.

I prised myself out of the bed, where Selim was still sleeping like a baby. I went into the kitchen and tossed an Alka-Seltzer into a glass of water. It tasted disgusting. I sat down and waited for the kettle to boil for coffee. When the water boiled, I found there was no coffee in the house. Maybe this was some sort of divine intervention. Someone was saying, “Never forget the cellulite, even at moments when the only thing you really need is coffee.” That's how I saw it. I might have thought, “I'll ask the corner shop to send up some coffee,” or I could have brewed some tea instead.

I went into the bathroom for a shower. I couldn't stand up properly for long enough to take a shower, so I decided to run a bath. There was some raspberry bubble bath on the shelf. Wasn't it a bit odd for my lover to be using fruit-scented products? Other men insist on covering themselves with smells so pungent they burn the back of your throat. I turned on the taps and sprinkled lots of raspberry bubble bath into the water. Closing the toilet lid, I sat on it and waited for the bath to fill, still yawning constantly. I felt wretched. It was all too much for me. Suddenly, I began to howl, as if I'd trapped my finger in a door. As I cried, I squirmed like a worm and fell off the toilet seat. My leg hurt. That made my cries get louder. I was gasping, shrieking, grovelling on the floor and crying my eyes out. Surely Selim couldn't sleep through all that noise. I carried on sobbing my heart out.

It's not a good idea to strain the face muscles too much when crying, or laughing for that matter. Both can cause premature wrinkles. But I only thought of that after my violent crying had subsided. But people need to cry sometimes, and to laugh.

I came out of the bathroom and phoned my mother.

“I'm getting old,” I said.

“Are you sleeping properly?” she asked.

“Not really, but I don't have insomnia,” I said.

“Are you eating vegetables?” she asked.

“Hmm,” I said. I lived on toasted cheese sandwiches most of the time, with the occasional plate of okra. Okra once in a blue moon.

“Do you get enough exercise?” she asked.

“No,” I replied.

“Then of course you'll age,” she said. Aren't mothers terrible? They make me feel very glad I'm not one. No mother should close the subject with the words, “How old are you? What makes you think you're getting old?” Mothers should ask probing questions and make nonsensical interpretations of the answers.

“When you start the menopause, you'll know what ageing really is,” said Mother. My very own birth mother said that. She sounded more like an enemy, don't you think?

“The menopause doesn't start at this age, Mother,” I said.

“It does in our family. You only have a year or two left,” she said.

“How's your rheumatoid arthritis?” I asked, hoping to change the subject. It worked. For the next five minutes, she told me all about her ailments, how Frau Hellersdorf, her best friend at the German Rest Home in Majorca, had fallen out of bed and broken her arm and how good the weather was. I had to promise to visit her in October. Otherwise, she was even going to risk coming to Istanbul to see me. My mother didn't like Istanbul. She couldn't understand why anyone, meaning me, would live in this city unless they had to. The streets were too crowded, the roads too narrow, the people too friendly. She hated having to be friendly towards people the moment she met them. She would complain continually. About Turkish men spitting in the streets, litter louts, stray animals… She made my life a misery.

 

I didn't want to put on the top and skirt I'd been wearing the previous day, so I went into the bedroom to look for some clothes that I might have left at Selim's. He was still fast asleep, oblivious to everything. Perhaps I shut the wardrobe door rather loudly, because he stirred and turned over. He finally woke up as I closed
a drawer in one of the bedside tables. To make my peace, I squatted down next to him. He stroked my hair.

“This colour is lovely,” he said.

“I was very drunk last night,” I said.

“I realized that,” he said.

“What did I say to you?”

“You mentioned two men: Osman and Ä°smet. One of them had obviously been killed. Have you been reading Turkish detective stories again?”

What a sweet man. I buried my face in his shoulder – it was just the right shape – and placed my hand on his buttocks.

“What did you do while I wasn't here?”

“I lied to everyone and said, ‘Kati's on holiday.' I was afraid you'd bump into one of them.”

“And how did you spend your time?”

“Watched TV. Read one of the books you left here.”

Had my lover, who prided himself on never reading fiction, actually been reading novels in my absence?

“Which one?”

“It's in German. A book called
Magic Hoffmann
. If you haven't read it, you should. What have you been doing?”

“I'll tell you later,” I said. “I have to meet Yılmaz, as you know. I didn't go last week.”

“What? Leaving already?”

I kissed his earlobe.

“Lale's got a job. With an advertising company.”

“Are we going to see each other this evening?”

“I'll call you. My mobile's switched on. You can call me too. Pelin's staying with me.”

 

I took a taxi from Selim's place to Mecidiyeköy, collected my car and parked in front of my apartment building. It was easier to find parking spaces in the daytime at weekends. I wanted
to sing out loud. To salsa with the lad in the corner shop. Oh, if only I could belly dance or play the hand drum. Chisss tak. Tak ta tak tak.

I rang the main doorbell. Pelin leant almost double out of the window.

“Did you forget your key?” she called out.

“No,” I said. “I'm going to meet Yılmaz at the café in Firuzağa. Do you want to come?”

She pulled a face. She couldn't stand Yılmaz, but was too polite to say so.

“I've got things to do at home,” she said.

 

After Yılmaz left me to go and see some newly released film, I called Batuhan.

“We've found the uncle,” he said. “He'd gone to his village. All that money in his pockets and he couldn't think of anywhere better to hide it than his village. He's being brought back to Istanbul today. So that's it. Case closed, I guess.”

“Congratulations,” I said. “To both of us.”
Ein Glück kommt auch selten allein.
In other words: not only disasters, but good things also come in pairs.

“Let's drink to it,” he said.

“I don't think we should be in a hurry to drink to anything,” I said. “It all looks far too simple to me.”

“I can't help it if real-life murders aren't as complex as they are in your whodunits. That's why working in the murder squad isn't exactly thrilling.”

“Yes, but I expected it to be more intellectually challenging than that,” I said. “Have you managed to find out who killed the old woman?”

“Do you think there's a link between the two incidents?”

“Why don't we meet in Kuledibi? I want to show you something,” I said, not wanting to fall into the trap of withholding
information from the police. I knew my responsibilities as a citizen. I was also one very happy citizen.

“I can't. The guys have just left Van. They're bringing the uncle back, as I said. We could meet tomorrow. At twelve o'clock. At that tea place.”

“OK,” I said. Reluctantly, I got up and went home.

 

“The uncle says they have an ongoing blood feud with a neighbouring clan and it must be one of them who did it.”

I was sitting with Batuhan in the tea garden in Kuledibi. It was Sunday. Not really warm enough to be sitting outside, by Turkish standards.

“It's strange the brothers said nothing about a blood feud, isn't it?” I remarked.

“Yes, it is strange. I wonder why they didn't mention it. But since no one has been killed on either side for thirty years, they probably thought it was all over.”

“Is a blood feud ever over?”

“Of course. If they make peace,” said Batuhan.

“Well, they certainly should do in this day and age. I don't know what the practice is, but… I read an expert-witness report written by my father on vendetta killings among Turkish migrants in Germany.”

“Your father?” said Batuhan.

“Yes, he was a criminal lawyer. He used to be called in as an expert witness for cases involving Turks because he'd lived in Turkey for a long time and knew Turkish.”

Batuhan looked at me with curiosity, nodding his head.

“From that report,” I continued, “I learnt that reduced sentences are handed out for vendetta killings in Turkey. Just think, you commit premeditated murder but get a light sentence. Very odd.”

“What did your father say in his expert-witness report?”

“He wanted reduced sentences for vendetta killings in Germany too.”

Batuhan clapped his hand to his mouth and laughed.

“So, if I kill someone in Germany because of a vendetta, I get a light sentence?”

“I don't know if it's always like that, but the judge reduced the sentence in the case where my father was the expert witness.”

“You know, they get their kids to carry out the murders because they're given light sentences.”

“How does a blood feud start?” I asked.

“It can start with any sort of dispute. Territorial issues, for instance. Someone occupies someone else's land and the owner then kills him. Then someone in the first family kills a member of the second family, and so on.”

“And it ends when there's no one left to kill?”

“There's always someone left to kill. They hide their children – pack them off to the big cities to keep them safe. Depending on which family's turn it is, the next in line to be killed runs away and the other side hunts him down.”

“So was it the turn for someone in Osman's family to be killed?”

“That's why they came to Istanbul in the first place.”

“Did the other family remain in Van?”

“They've migrated all over the place. Some settled in Adana. But others are still in Van.”

“What are you going to do?”

“We'll take the uncle in for questioning. And Osman's brothers.”

“Doesn't it seem strange to you that the murder weapon was a revolver?”

“A revolver? How do you know that?” he asked, narrowing his eyes as he looked at me.

“You told me,” I said.

“I did? I don't remember that at all. So, what about the revolver?”

“Do you think Osman's uncle or a blood-feud killer would use a revolver?”

He patted the pockets of his jacket, looking for cigarettes. As he pulled them out, a photograph fell onto the table.

“This is the uncle,” he said, pushing the photo across to me.

He was a dark, spindly man with sunken cheeks, a moustache and large eyes. To the average German, he was a typical Turkish male. I gave the photo back to Batuhan.

“I had also wondered whether these people would use a revolver,” he said.