Hotel Bosphorus (26 page)

“Do you remember his name?” I asked.

“Peter,” he said sadly, almost sobbing. “How can you ask me if I remember? I know the names of each and every one of those children.”

I lit another cigarette.

“That incident… Was the child living in a village on the Rhine?”

“If you can call it a village, yes. It had a strange name. Just a minute…” He gestured with his hand to stop us interrupting him or his thoughts.

“Pfaffenheck!” he said. “Yes, yes, it was Pfaffenheck. The mother's name was Gudrun Kim. While working on that file, I learned that over half of all Koreans are called Kim.”

“You mean that the child was half-oriental and half-German,” I said.

“Yes,” he said. “But if you ask me, he didn't have the physical appearance of an oriental.” He shrugged his shoulders and scratched his ear at the same time. “It's of no interest to me what people get up to in their married life.”

“So that means Peter's mother's name was Gudrun,” I said. I was saying out loud what was going through my mind. “So now what will happen?” I asked Jean.

“Nothing,” he said. “Until Müller was killed, I'd hoped the murders could be solved. That man was the tip of the iceberg. According to the witness who made the statement to the police and later got killed, Müller set up the connections, which meant Müller undoubtedly knew the other members of the gang.” He pursed his lips sadly, adding, “All those years of work for nothing.”

“So had the case been closed?”

“Only a statement by Müller would have enabled us to go further. It might have meant we could get some more names. But now, there's nothing more to be done. As you see, I don't even keep up with the press articles about the Müller murder. It's over as far as I'm concerned.” As he said that, he was scratching his ear again.

“I'm almost sad about Müller's murder,” he said. He waved his hand behind his head as if wanting to indicate that these matters were now behind him.

“Yes,” said Selim, slapping him on the back. “Let's talk about something positive.”

For the remainder of the meal, I didn't open my mouth except to answer a question directed straight at me. There was no need for Selim to insist on taking me home that time. I was too tired and wrapped up in my thoughts to put up any kind of resistance.

When the taxi stopped outside my mother's house, my mind was on Petra and Peter so I didn't understand why Selim said, “I have to get up at seven o'clock tomorrow.”

“You'll get up as long as you set the alarm,” I said.

“What I mean is, I won't come up with you,” he said. “Our first night should be special. We should at least be able to have breakfast together in the morning.”

Perhaps it was his normality that brought me back to my normal self, I don't know. “Never mind that,” I said. “If tonight is good, it means we'll have lots more mornings to have breakfast together.”

 

The next morning, Selim really did get up at seven o'clock. After he left, I tossed and turned in bed, preparing numerous sentences in my head, but didn't like any of them. What was I going to say to Petra?

In fact, I didn't really say anything. Or rather, I said it all in a very brief telephone conversation.

“I now know who killed Müller.”

“In that case, don't call me, call the police.”

“I don't want to call the police.”

“Why?”

“I think you've suffered enough. And I don't want you to go to jail. I just want you to know that I understand you.”

I put the phone down and took my best outfit out of my suitcase. After all, I was going to visit my mother.

Three days later, while I was flying to Mallorca to settle my mother into a care home, Selim was returning to Istanbul to wrap up his business. By the time we met again in Berlin to go to Morocco together, I was going to need a good holiday, after spending a week with my mother in Mallorca.

People soon shrug off tiredness when they're in love, and I was as fresh as a new-born babe. Despite all the high-factor sun cream I used, I spent little time in the sun because I had no intention of developing premature wrinkles. Still, looking at my bikini line, I'd clearly developed quite a tan.

When we returned to Istanbul after three weeks away, it was clear that Pelin had really taken to the shop. Everything had gone like clockwork in my absence, proving that I wasn't essential, even if it was my shop.

Lale didn't resign from
Günebakan
, but was dismissed with compensation for her hard work and length of service. She's thinking of going to Cuba for a while and has no intention of going back to journalism when she comes back. God knows what she'll do.

There were some redundancies at Yılmaz's advertising company, but he succeeded in being one of the
“essentials” who was kept on. I heard they'd reduced his salary, but he doesn't talk about that. The Istanbul stock market must be on the way up, because last Saturday it was he who ordered the teas at the café in Firuzağa.

And Fofo? He's still in love. In my absence, he took away his belongings and left his key with the landlord. Rude fellow, to treat me like that.

When I returned, I found a voicemail from Batuhan. I was terrified Selim would ask, “Who's that man?” You can never tell how these Turkish men will react.

I didn't call Petra again. And she didn't call me. A few days after our return from Morocco, Selim read out a news item over breakfast stating that the film crew was still in Istanbul. My new man is an avid reader of newspapers.

I guess Mesut will be in jail for a long time yet. When he comes out he'll have forgotten about me anyway. Still, it would be cool if he called to say he was sorry he couldn't make our date, wouldn't it?

Selim has been in Adana for three days. On a business trip. One outcome of companies declaring bankruptcy and banks going under is that his secretary sees more of him than I do. The work of lawyers increases at times of crisis, because more people are unable to pay their debts and the number of thieves, bribe-takers, blackmailers and divorcees increases.

Don't think I'm complaining about Selim being away. Brief separations are good for a relationship and, to be honest, I'm rather good at amusing myself when I'm alone. However, for once, even the orange-coloured shiny patent-leather shoes that I bought recently in a sale didn't, and don't, bring a little smile to my face. There's something that keeps troubling me… Like a huge caterpillar that is gnawing away inside my brain.

You might ask what can be done about such irritations and I don't have a satisfactory answer. I have a good job, a lover I wouldn't be without, and friends with whom I can share my ups and downs. What more could a woman in early middle age want? OK, not quite so many wrinkles, a bit less cellulite perhaps. But I'm not the sort of woman to spend my time gazing at wrinkles
and cellulite in this city of Istanbul where retaining one's beauty in later life has become an obsession.

…I'm not, whatever anyone says.

But why was I saying that? I realize you're waiting for an explanation.

It's all linked to Juan Antonio Pérez-Dominguez, or Fofo for short, who was the hero of my life until recently.

I think I should go back ten days and explain what happened.

As you know, during the time between the end of winter and the onset of summer, which this year was so short I barely had time to say the word “spring”, Fofo fell in love and disappeared, and I'd heard nothing from him until last Tuesday.

That day, that ill-starred Tuesday at about five o'clock, when the shop was crowded with people, that is, Turks who chose to ignore any talk of a crisis and were still buying detective novels, I looked up and saw Fofo standing in the doorway.

You can guess how pleased I was.

Fofo had moved into Alfonso's house on Büyükada, the largest of the Prince's Islands. Apparently, he hadn't been to see me because he didn't come over to Istanbul very often. For those who don't know, I should explain that Büyükada is in the Marmara Sea, not the Mediterranean, and it takes a mere thirty minutes by sea bus to reach Istanbul. Actually, I would never board one of those claustrophobic things called sea buses even if it was only a ten-minute journey. I would rather sit on the deck of a ferry, sipping tea in the Marmara breeze.

Of course, having found Fofo, I wouldn't let him go. I called Selim immediately and asked him to make a
reservation for that evening. We'd all have dinner together. Knowing that Selim loved to go to kebab restaurants in miserable areas of Istanbul like Eminönü, I made a point of saying I wanted to go to a proper restaurant.

Actually, it's not fair to use the word miserable to describe Eminönü, so I'll explain. Istanbul's most splendid open space is in Eminönü, but it's become victim to the Istanbul Municipality and Turkish city-planning, and now serves the nation as a central bus station. But that's another matter.

 

We'd arranged to meet Alfonso and Selim at eight o'clock at the Japanese restaurant in Elmadağ. I wanted to leave the shop early, go home, shower and change for dinner… I ask you, that was a very normal wish, wasn't it?

However, Fofo insisted that, instead of going home, I go across to the tea garden opposite the shop for a chat. He didn't just insist, he persisted until he got his way. He then proceeded to work himself up into such a rage that he ended up hurling insults at me. And what insults… If I had to go out to dinner in my work clothes, so what! Those middle-class ways of mine were pretty intolerable anyway. Didn't I realize there were more important things in life than my clothes, my sagging chin and my withering skin? At a time when the world was talking about the terrorist attack on the Twin Towers, when a serious war could break out at any moment, what did I spend my time worrying about? Did I have any idea how tedious I'd become? Was it no longer possible to have any sort of proper conversation with me?

As you've guessed, Fofo received an abrupt answer to that last question. There was no going out for dinner that night, and no introduction to Alfonso.

 

No, the sullen expression on my face had nothing to do with my row with Fofo. Nor the caterpillar that was eating away at my brain. I'd never force anyone into friendship; at my age I can't change, and I can't be bothered with people who are rude, vindictive or hateful.

My jumpiness had nothing to do with my approaching period, as Selim liked to claim at every opportunity. There's an international group of men, including my lover, who insist on the “menstrual theory” for anything relating to women that is irresolvable. Actually, I like men like this…

Anyway, to get back to this caterpillar business… Ever since I was a child, I've had a way of manipulating conversations in order to avoid subjects I don't like. I'm living proof that people don't change, aren't I?

 

So, for the last time. To get back to this caterpillar business…

The truth is I've had difficulty explaining the reason for the caterpillar.

… (short silence)

Maybe there are caterpillars like mine roaming around in the heads of some of you. If that's so, you understood me long ago. As for the rest of you… Don't bother trying to work it out. I won't waste your time; I'll just say what I have to say. The problem was this:

It had been accepted that Petra planned and carried out a perfect murder, yet she had never admitted it, and my uneasiness about it all was turning into a huge caterpillar that was gnawing away at my brain.

 

(A note to my dear reader: Those who don't like the caterpillar metaphor should email their suggestions for alternatives to [email protected]. Suggestions delivered personally at the shop will not be accepted.)

 

When I entered the shop the following morning, my face had the tired but determined expression of someone with a mission in life. I hadn't slept the previous night, or for several nights before that. I went straight to the phone and called Muazzez
Hanim
, who could put me in touch with Jean. Muazzez
Hanim
was Selim's secretary.

Five minutes later, Jean was on the other end of the line.

“Of course I remember you,” he said, cutting short my self-introduction.

“I… I called you to ask you something… It might seem stupid to you, but…”

“Shall I be honest with you?”

Honest about what?

“Say it,” I said.

“Nothing could seem so stupid to me as a woman like you being with Selim.”

I coughed and cleared my throat.

“You remember we talked about the child murders at dinner that night… As far as I understand, you have information about all the children and their families.”

“Hmmm.”

“I was going to ask if you could fax me that information.” I realized it was a strange request.

“I'm not going to ask why you're so interested in that case. It's up to you whether you tell me or not,” he said in a serious voice.

“If there's no objection to you giving me the information I want, I'd rather not say,” I said. I have to admit that, even after so many years, I would have found it difficult to construct that sentence in Turkish.

There was a moment's silence. I held my breath and waited.

“OK, I'll give you the file. But…” he said.

“Yes?”

“But it would take too long to fax. Our files are all kept on the computer. If you give me your email address, I'll send them to you.”