Divorce Turkish Style (20 page)

Undoubtedly everyone at some time or other has found the walls of their comfortable home or office begin to cave in on them. I noticed that the barber next door was sitting in the street outside his shop. It wasn't something I'd ever done before, but that day I decided to follow his example.

“
Selamünaleyküm
,” said two swarthy moustached men as they passed by.

Each of the men carried an enormous
davul
drum and wore an ugly, faded beige jacket that looked as if it had been pulled out of a sack and a tie that resembled a halter.

“And to you,” I said, not feeling in the mood to respond with “
aleykümselam
”.

“We're Ramadan drummers,” said one of the men, pressing a flyer into my hand. “If anyone else comes round to collect tips, don't give them anything, miss.”

No drummer who woke me up first thing in the morning would get a penny out of me, even if he were my own brother. However, it wasn't a fact I felt the need to broadcast. The men moved on and I glanced at their flyer, which showed photocopied headshots of the two of them.

It read:

“Dear residents of Bereketzade, we are the same Ramadan
davul
players you see every year. But please pay attention. In recent years, imposters with no knowledge of how to play the
davul
have been coming here, using our name and the flyers you have in your hands. They have falsely claimed to be our relatives and members of a group with our name, and have pocketed the money so kindly donated by your good selves. We are a duo, as you see in the photo on this flyer. Please do not hand over money to anyone other than us when we come to you with our
davul
s. You can ask the district mayor, governor or police for authentication. Thank you for your attention. God bless you during Ramadan.”

Noticing me smile as I read the flyer, a girl from a nearby gift shop approached me, presumably having taken sitting outside as a sign that I wanted company.

“Isn't it forbidden to play the
davul
in Beyoğlu?” she asked.

“I've no idea,” I said, because I didn't keep track of changes to regulations about drumming during Ramadan.

“Does anyone still rely on the
davul
to wake up in the morning?”

“I've no idea,” I said again.

The truth was that I avoided getting involved in discussions about Turkish traditions. If you were a foreigner, or even a member of a minority, it was best to know where to toe the line and keep quiet when it came to sensitive topics, like cultural or religious traditions. What would happen if Turks in Germany criticized the shopping hysteria that began so many months before Christmas, or bemoaned the impossibility of finding a café or bar open on Christmas Eve?

“Anyone who wants to get up for their pre-dawn breakfast during Ramadan should just set their alarm,” complained the shop girl. “There's no need to wake those who aren't fasting, is there?”

“Well, Ramadan does give the unemployed an opportunity to do a bit of paid work,” I said, still determined to say nothing against the Ramadan
davul
and its players. “The
davul
players are either Romanians or unemployed people who come into the city from outlying regions during Ramadan. Is it such a bad thing if they manage to fill a few bellies?”

I could see that my populist stance was offending the young shop girl.

“It's just noise pollution. Since when has banging a drum with a mallet been called playing the
davul
? I've heard that in some districts players have to audition to get a licence. That'd make them improve.”

It was the first time I'd heard this.

“You mean they get marked on their
davul
playing?” I asked.

“I'm just telling you what I've read in the papers. But if it's true, it'd put an end to these mallet-wielding
davul
players.”

I remained silent. The girl hovered around a bit longer but then left, realizing I wasn't in a sociable mood that day.

Naz phoned at about noon.

“Haven't you left for Lüleburgaz yet?” I asked.

“Aylin got back on Thursday. I'm meeting her at four. Have you got time to come too?”

“Where?” I asked immediately. Of course I had time!

“At the Nişantaşı Brasserie.”

If your brain has been tainted by prejudicial ideas about Turks, I'd recommend spending a few hours at the Nişantaşı Brasserie if you find yourself in Istanbul. You have to go properly dressed, of course. I'd certainly have to change out of my uniform of cargo pants and trainers if I didn't want a doorman to grab me by the scruff of the neck and throw me out like a drowned kitten.

Fofo had come in after I'd gone to bed the previous night. I phoned the apartment, but he was still asleep. Great! The person who'd brought this whole business down on my head was loafing about in bed.

“Where are you, Fofo? You're supposed to be at the shop by ten o'clock on Mondays! And where were you last night?”

“Had a bit too much to drink last night. I'm on my way,” he mumbled.

I shouted at him a bit more, and within fifteen minutes he was in the shop, obviously having rushed out without even washing his face.

“What do you mean by turning up at this hour?” I said, pointing at my wristwatch.

“Okay, okay, I'll open up tomorrow. All right?” said Fofo.

“No, it's not all right,” I said, remembering that the next day was Tuesday, Fatma's cleaning day, and I didn't want to spend it at home because she'd work me too hard. “Why were you so late in last night?”

“I met someone new,” said Fofo.

“Oh great! So while I'm working my socks off, you're out enjoying yourself!” I yelled.

I eventually calmed down, stopped glaring at him and looked at him with a mixture of curiosity and concern.

“So-o? Are you in love?” I asked.

“No, sweetie,” said Fofo. “He's a wham-bam-thank-you-ma'am kind of guy. Love had nothing to do with it.”

“What do you mean?” I said, though I was pretty sure I knew exactly what he meant.

“What do you think I meant? I think they say ‘light the fuse and it's over in a flash' here!”

“That's one way of putting it,” I said, laughing.

“Shall I make you some green tea?” said Fofo.

“I'm off to meet Aylin at the Nişantaşı Brasserie.”

“Well, I'd say that's great, if you were dressed in Stella McCartney shoes and Gucci trousers, but you won't get within two hundred metres of the place dressed like that,” said Fofo, striking a pose.

“That's why I'm going home now.”

“Wear the black trousers you bought in the sale last year with a white shirt and your red stilettos. You'll look great in those.”

“Are you mad? I can't even walk far enough to hail a cab in those shoes.”

“You could call Pera Taxis to come and pick you up,” suggested Fofo.

He always managed to find simple solutions to complex problems. Do you see why I love him so much?

“Don't you think the cab driver might be annoyed if I'm only going as far as Nişantaşı? And it's Ramadan. All the drivers will be fasting,” I said.

“Ah yes, I completely forgot that Ramadan started today. Never mind, you can give the driver a generous tip. They're all really polite at that taxi rank.”

“Fine, that's what I'll do,” I said.

It wasn't my habit to tip taxi drivers in Istanbul. Giving a tip for possibly the worst service in the world was against all my principles.

Fofo's advice had eased the stress I'd been feeling about having to get dressed up and walk through Kuledibi to get to Nişantaşı.

“I'm off. See you at home,” I said. “You're coming home this evening, aren't you?”

“Do you think I'm getting old or something?” asked Fofo.

“What's the matter now?” I asked, somewhat exasperated that he wanted to discuss his existential issues with me.

“Actually, my favourite nights have been spent at home with you,” said Fofo unexpectedly.

This strange pronouncement was obviously a translation from Spanish. As I walked home, I considered what he might have meant:

I like being at home most when I'm with you.

It's more enjoyable staying at home with you than going out.

You're fun to be with, and an evening spent with you is always worthwhile.

You're magnificent, fun to be with and beautiful.

As I opened the door to my apartment, my mobile started ringing. When I finally found it after rummaging in my enormous bag, I saw that Fofo's name was flashing on the screen.

“What's up?”

“You know that long silver chain you have? Wear that,” said Fofo.

Good God! Anyone would think I was attending a fashion show instead of going to interrogate someone!

“Fine,” I said.

As soon as the cab turned into Abdi İpekçi Street, we were hemmed in by traffic. And what traffic! It was at a complete standstill and people were yelling at each other. A man in a Land Rover the width of a truck tried to edge out of his parking spot and caught the bumper of a posh grey Porsche sitting in the queue. The female driver ahead of us slammed her hand down on the horn and a furious war of words commenced.

“We've hit the early evening traffic, miss,” said the driver. “Those who've been fasting are desperate to get home for their evening meal.”

“I'll get out here,” I said, jumping out of the cab. “You can leave this road a bit further along.”

It might not have been Berlin, but at least there were pavements in Nişantaşı, unlike some areas of Istanbul. I made my way towards the brasserie, a haze of strong perfume wafting over me from two women walking ahead. Once inside the restaurant, I headed for an empty table in the far right-hand corner. The windows were mirrored glass on the inside, which meant I could observe everyone sitting in the brasserie as well as those coming in or out. Since the purpose of being there was to see and be seen, I wanted to sit in a prime position.

The brasserie's clientele mainly consisted of Nişantaşı ladies, with only the occasional male. The ladies, whether fifteen or seventy, looked amazingly similar, with noses fashioned by the same cosmetic surgeon, swollen pouting lips and identical facelifts. They wore the same fashion labels and bore the signs of Botox injections, subcutaneous vitamin cocktails and several tanning sessions a week. I enjoyed observing these women, though personally I was repelled by skin burned orange on a sunbed.

I was early, so I decided to order a latte, despite a twinge of guilt about overdoing the coffee. It wouldn't count if it was decaffeinated.

“A decaf latte, please. And a glass of water,” I said to the waitress.

The waitress replied in English. Was that because she'd noticed I wasn't Turkish?

“Why are you speaking English? I speak Turkish,” I said.

“Sorry, I don't speak Turkish. I'll call my colleague,” she said, summoning one of the waiters working behind the bar.

I had nothing against foreigners, but was it normal for a waitress working in Istanbul to speak no Turkish?

Naz and Aylin arrived a few minutes later. I was surprised to see that Aylin was a real Nişantaşı type. She was about thirty-four, with long, sleek, highlighted hair and a pert upturned nose.
She was dressed in blue denim hipsters and heels so high even I wouldn't have dared wear them, and she exuded an overpoweringly sweet perfume that I couldn't identify.

We didn't take to each other. Although, to be honest, I couldn't tell whether she liked me or not, because Nişantaşı ladies had the habit of looking down their noses at everyone. For instance, if one of them bumped into you in the street, they'd give you the evil eye rather than apologize. And it wasn't just ordinary people like me who they treated that way. They did it to each other. The worst offenders were always the richest, so there must have been an unwritten code of behaviour for such situations.

Serving these ladies had to be the worst job in the world. Perhaps that was why the brasserie employed waiters who didn't speak Turkish. My waitress was undoubtedly much happier than her Turkish colleagues, who understood what was being said around them. Someone like Sevim, Sani's secretary, wouldn't have stood a chance there. Having met Aylin, I now understood why Sevim had been so flustered when we saw her.

I wondered whether Sani had been like these Nişantaşı ladies. If so, there must surely have been a dozen people prepared, and even happy, to stand by and watch her die.

“I hear that you and your husband Remzi were among the first people to enter Sani's house,” I said. “I understand that Cem Bey phoned you.”

“That's right. Cem said that Sani hadn't been seen for a few days and wasn't answering her phone,” drawled Aylin, rolling her r's and stifling a yawn. “I called the office, but she hadn't been there. Remzi told me to call the police, which I did. When we arrived at Sani's house, the police were already there.”