Hotel Bosphorus (3 page)

I hadn't taken account of the fact that my long-time friend was a star of sorts and the crew clearly hadn't expected that Petra might have a half-witted friend like me in Istanbul, because they had a limousine waiting for them. When I saw the limo, there was no way I was
going to say, “Don't go with these brutes, I'll go and get my car.” My '82 Peugeot would have cut a pathetic fıgure next to that awesome limo. In the end, I yelled out, as she was being bundled into the car, that I'd see her at the hotel. Petra waved at me to signal OK, the chauffeur put his foot down and they sped off.

I drove along the coastal road from the airport to the hotel, with the Bosphorus opening out into the Marmara Sea on one side and a mixture of lower- and middle-class neighbourhoods with their tall ugly buildings on the other. The traffic wasn't too bad for a Friday and I was even able to drive at full throttle. It was perhaps the first time since coming to Istanbul that its frenzied beauty, which had survived both indifference and efforts to destroy it, did not play on my mind. I was thinking of Petra. For a moment, that expression on Petra's face… As if her heart needed recharging, as if she couldn't cope with life, as if she was broken in some way… There is a kind of sadness that can permeate people's faces and expressions that is not visible in photographs… No cream or cosmetic surgery can eliminate it… It is a deep, dark, incurable sadness.

 

Eventually I got stuck in traffic at Sarayburnu, by which time the sun was setting over the Golden Horn. I needed to phone Pelin to tell her not to wait for me, but to close up the shop and go home. I had left saying I wouldn't be long, but that was hours ago. I hadn't taken account of the Friday-evening traffic and I was battling against the sort of traffic chaos that a true
Ä°stanbullu
would avoid at all costs. If I went to the shop, I would be late for Petra at the hotel; if I didn't go to the shop, Pelin would be left waiting there for me.

It was a moment when a mobile was essential, utterly indispensable. I could have parked the car and looked for a phone booth, but even if I'd found a parking space, it was unlikely that there'd have been a phone nearby. I was about to explode with frustration when I had an ingenious idea. The driver in the car next to me looked like a good local family man, so I called out to him.

“Excuse me, do you have a mobile by any chance?”

The poor man was surprised by my question, of course. These days, even primary-school kids have mobiles, so why was I asking?

“I need to make a really urgent call. I didn't reckon on the traffic being this bad. May I use your mobile?”

After I'd finished, I didn't know how to turn it off, so I gave it back to him still on and offered to pay for the call. “No need, ma'am,” said the driver.

To demonstrate his contempt for me, he bit his lower lip, leaned his head to one side and raised his hand, saying:

“Don't mention it.”

 

I arrived at Petra's hotel in a real state. My poor mangled body was sweating profusely, my legs were stiff from constantly pressing the accelerator, brake and clutch, and my face was a grimy yellow from all the cigarettes I had smoked to fend off exasperation. I was much later than my worst estimate. They must have arrived long before me. It was ridiculous to think of that enormous limo negotiating the traffic, don't you agree?

When I asked the lad on reception to call Petra's room to tell her that I'd arrived, I couldn't understand why he was looking at me with such respect and wonder, until I
realized he thought I was one of those “rich celebrities”. In spite of the state I was in!

Petra was staying in a suite with a magnificent view; it was almost larger than my apartment. This time, we had a proper reunion scene. There was nothing exaggerated about it. Any two Germans who had not seen each other for years would have had this sort of reunion. Imagine you are in a Schlöndorff film: Schlöndorff is the best at German reunions. For instance, there was just such a scene in
The Legend of Rita
, which I saw on my last trip to Berlin: two female Red Army militants go on trial together, and then go to Palestine where they kidnap a man from prison and kill a policeman… You'd think that facing such dangers would make even these soulless individuals close, wouldn't you? But no, not them. Anyway, years later these two women meet by chance in East Germany. There they have a proper reunion, a real German reunion, exactly like the reunion between Petra and me: handshakes, and a reluctant brush of the cheeks. That's all. No embraces, no hugging, not even any mutual stroking of backs… As you see, despite my aversion to clichés about nationalities, I sometimes have to concede that certain German stereotypes do in fact reflect the truth.

But let's get back to what I was saying. Petra apologized profusely, saying that she hadn't realized her arrival would create such a stir and wished she'd told me not to come to the airport.

We were both too exhausted to wander round the streets, so Petra suggested ordering food from room service and abandoning any idea of going out. I must admit I felt grateful to her for this.

It had been so many years, yet during our first ninety minutes together we spoke little about our past lives.
However, I couldn't rid myself of the dark thoughts that had been with me since I first saw her at the airport. Petra had become much more reserved. We hadn't been very close before, but I had never felt she was quite so distant. Usually when I meet up with friends after a long gap, we comment on how much has happened since we last met and how we won't lose touch again. But this was totally different. I couldn't say why, but the tension I sensed was not merely because we hadn't seen each other for years. Something was missing. It wasn't to do with me, and it wasn't our relationship. Petra had lost something. Was she seeking what she had lost in me?

I left her draped over the sofa, weak with exhaustion. Several thoughts were swirling round in my head. “Like a cooking pot”, as Turks say. My head had become exactly like a cooking pot. I collected my car from the hotel car park. The Friday-evening rush had even reached Ortaköy, but I set out into the traffic once more, towards the bridge that would take me across to the Asiatic side of the city. I was going to see Lale. I didn't want to spend this Friday evening sitting at home all alone.

 

When I opened my eyes the next morning on the sofa bed in Lale's study, the first thing I did was to phone Yılmaz. I told him I couldn't make our customary Saturday-morning rendezvous. Next I phoned Petra… She said she'd woken up ages ago and had even had breakfast; she was about to find out what the day's programme was, and would call me straight back.

We were drinking coffee over the empty breakfast dishes in the garden at Kuzguncuk when the telephone rang. It was Petra. She was calling to say that we couldn't meet until dinner that evening. They were very much
behind schedule and the director wanted to start work right away without losing any more time.

I felt pretty fed up, but I didn't let Petra know that. Anyway, it wasn't her fault. It was nobody's fault, but what was I supposed to do on this lovely Saturday?

Lale was in an even more depressed state than I was. And it was the only day she didn't go to work. We spent half an hour wondering what to do and finally decided to spend the day at the beauty salon. At least after a day investing in your beauty, you come out looking reasonable, especially if you're a middle-aged woman on the lookout for a cute guy.

I got back home in the early evening feeling tired but relaxed, and I looked wonderful. One of the things I like best about Istanbul is this grooming business. Here it's a part of everyday life; people go to hairdressers and beauty salons as a matter of course. In Germany, most people, or rather all but my mother and her friends, trim and colour their own hair. And as for manicures, pedicures and skin treatments, well they're out of the question. That's why the streets are full of people you'd really rather not set eyes on. Munich is different. There you find people with some sense of beauty, but the hordes of sluts in Berlin discourage you from going outside. The specimens you encounter on the metro and in the streets disgust me.

Actually, the most stylish people in Berlin are Turks, but only second- or third-generation Turkish girls in headscarves. These headscarved girls are unbelievably stylish. Of course, when I say stylish, they're not wearing the latest Jil Sander creation. They create their own fashion and stick to it: fashionable platform shoes, black nylon trousers that look cheap but have a modern cut, artificial
leather coats… Headscarves in the latest colour, long jackets that tone with the colours in the headscarf…

The first generation of headscarves in Berlin was completely different, however. I think headscarved people understand this difference between the two generations better than anyone. When I was a child, we used to say “penguins” for the first generation of headscarves. They were all from the same mould, but a tasteless mould. In their grey smocked coats, those short fat women waddled from side to side just like penguins. They were a world apart from the young girls of today, even though they all wear headscarves.

It was eight o'clock by the time I found out that the evening meal Petra had promised me was not going to happen. Apparently it was essential for her to be with the film crew that evening. We chatted a bit on the phone. She was fed up. It was quite clear she would much prefer to be with me. I was really sad, and in fact felt quite anxious for her. I wanted to tell her that she was looking tired and listless, but I held my tongue. It's better not to tell people things like that. If they take you too seriously, it can be harmful.

You can imagine what a crisis it was for me when my Saturday-evening plans collapsed. Everything seemed even more desperate than it had in the morning. I certainly had no wish to sit at home with my manicured nails, blow-dried hair and nourished skin. Nothing could persuade Lale to set foot outside on her single day off, so I didn't even try calling her. I found Arzu on her mobile. Arzu always had something going on, and that evening was no exception. She said she was meeting friends, some of whom I knew, at ten o'clock in the Cactus. They were going to decide what to do
for the rest of the evening when they got there. We said we'd meet in a few hours' time and rang off.

The Cactus Café is an important place in Istanbul. I think its main feature is that all its customers know each other. The regulars are all the same type: journalists, writers, advertising people… A small group of yuppies had recently started to tag along, but I think they must have been given the brush-off, because I haven't seen them recently.

I was about to leave the apartment and was just making a final check of my hair and make-up in the full-length mirror in the entrance hall when the telephone rang. It was Petra. She had managed to get rid of the crew that evening; we could meet if I still wanted to. I just couldn't tell her that I'd made other plans in the meantime.

“I'll pick you up in half an hour,” I said.

It was no problem getting Arzu on her mobile again to tell her I wouldn't be coming. Arzu wasn't bothered about such things.

This time, I was sensible and left the car at home. If you can just grit your teeth and tolerate the drivers, it's cheaper to take a taxi than to pay car-park fees. And you don't have to deprive yourself of a drink. The traffic police are more tolerant towards women drivers but, even so, they have started imposing alcohol limits on Istanbul's nightlife.

It took me less than half an hour to reach the hotel. I called Petra on the internal phone at reception. As I sat in the lobby waiting for her to come down, I thought about where I could take her for a late evening meal. Should we go to a good Turkish bar, or one of the posh or halfway-posh fish restaurants on the Bosphorus? I couldn't decide.

When Petra emerged from the lift fifteen minutes later, it was obvious that we couldn't set foot inside any reasonable restaurant, let alone a posh or halfway-posh place. She had suddenly turned into a middle-class German tourist, wearing exercise sandals with white sports socks, baggy shorts and a T-shirt that, by Istanbul standards, could have been a duster. Asked which of us the film star was, any three-year-old would have pointed at me. So that was why the name Petra Vogel hadn't had the same effect at the hotel reception desk as the previous day. I wondered what she had been doing during the half-hour or so I spent on the journey and in the fifteen minutes I was waiting in the lobby. Once again, I kept quiet because I am not as rude as most Germans, especially Berliners.

I needed to think fast and make a quick decision. So, I had a long-standing friend wearing white socks and exercise sandals, yes. I'd met her after many years and there was still some kind of bond between us, yes. But did I want to announce to the whole of Istanbul on this beautiful night that I had a friend like this? No. I dashed over to Petra, and pushed her back into the lift.

“I don't feel very well. It's so crowded outside… Istanbul traffic, Friday night…” I stopped to catch my breath. “What about sitting out on your balcony and ordering something from room service as we did the other evening?”

“Are you sure you don't want to go out?” asked Petra, looking me up and down in disbelief.

“Definitely,” I said.

The cost per night of Petra's suite was probably equal to six months' rent for my place, but the hotel was worth every penny. Can a hotel room make a person
happy? Well, this one could. I dragged Petra inside, shut the door and was engulfed by a wave of indescribable happiness.

We called room service, ordered some wine and cheese, and settled ourselves on the balcony where we could hear soul music coming from the hotel's famous jazz bar. I had no complaints about my life, and Petra was in good spirits. I became talkative and told her about my past love affairs and what I had been doing with my life.