Divorce Turkish Style (25 page)

Fofo looked disappointed that I already knew this. I think he'd hoped to be the first person to tell me.

“So, that's your amazing bit of news!” I said, upsetting him even more.

“But you haven't yet heard the real bombshell,” said Fofo.

“And what's that?”

“Well, it's like this—”

“Yes?”

“Her father went off with another woman, which made Jasmin hate her father and his new family. But it wasn't normal hatred. One evening, she attacked Tamaşa Hanım with nitric acid just as they were going out for dinner. If the bodyguards hadn't been quick off the mark, her face would have been completely ruined, as you can imagine.”

I wondered what size shoes Jasmin wore.

“Did she hate Cem too?”

“What do you think? She hated him most of all. She stuck a photo of Cem on to the face of one of her harlequins that had blood gushing out of his stomach where a sword had been inserted. But she hates the whole family.”

“So she probably detested Sani.”

“Jasmin's pictures have been exhibited in several galleries in Turkey as a result of family pressure. However, the art critics ignore her, while she's hailed as a genius abroad. Apparently her paintings are very powerful.”

I wasn't remotely interested in whether she was a genius or not, only in whether she could be the person we were looking for, that is whether she wore a size forty shoe. And it was looking more and more as if this woman might be the sort of person prepared to watch someone die.

“Did you manage to find out where we can find this Jasmin Gil?”

“As you said, she lives in Bodrum. Her partner's a hack musician who sings in bars. His mother still lives in Istanbul and they come here frequently. If we're lucky—”

“Did you get her mobile number?”

“Mobile number, email address…I have the lot.”

“Bravo, Fofo!” I said, patting his knee.

“Worth my weight in gold, aren't I?” bragged Fofo.

The phone call I'd been waiting for finally came when I was in a taxi heading for Bebek.

“I'm calling from solicitor Remzi Aköz's office,” said a girl. “Remzi Bey has an hour free between seven and eight this evening.”

“Fine,” I said, knowing there was no option but to accept this appointment. “But I don't have the office address.”

Unfortunately, I had to admit to having no pen with me, which I found extremely embarrassing. A sleuth without pen and paper was like a rocket salad without lemon – not impossible, but pointless.

“I'll text the address to you,” said the girl.

Thank goodness for practical people like her.

Fofo had told me to get out at the Bebek taxi rank, look across the road and Lucca's would be right there. I found it easily enough. In fact I was ten minutes early, so I popped into a stationer's to buy a pen.

Fofo of course had made a huge sacrifice by agreeing to take care of the shop instead of coming with me to meet Sinan. However, the universities had now reopened and Pelin had to attend an afternoon lecture, so there was no one else to run the shop.

I entered Lucca's exactly on time, intending to find a corner table away from prying eyes, but nobody came to a place like this for privacy. The tables were arranged in such a way that every customer was visible to people passing in the street as well as everyone else inside the restaurant. I chose a table and sat down. After fifteen minutes, I'd had enough. Being a little unpunctual was one thing, but this was inexcusable. He could at least have phoned! I called the waiter, paid for my tea and left.

Outside, I was trying to decide whether to get a cab home straight away or spend a little time at Gloria Jean's Café enjoying its wonderful view, when someone touched my arm. And what a touch! It was more like a caress. When I turned, I found myself face to face with Sinan.

“There was an accident and they'd closed off the road,” he said.

I looked at my watch. Another fifteen minutes had now passed. What with asking for the bill, paying, and deciding whether to go home or to Gloria Jean's, it was nearly half past three.

“You're half an hour late,” I said.

“It'll never happen again,” said Sinan.

Again? Was he intending to make a habit of summoning me to random places to make a confession?

“Shall we go to Gloria Jean's Café? This place is a bit…” I said, searching for the right adjective. “It's more for young people like you.”

All the nice street-level tables at Gloria Jean's were taken, so we went down to the lower ground floor, which had the appeal of being at sea level. I particularly liked it in springtime when it was warm enough to sit outside but not yet so hot that you fried if you sat in the sun. However, early October was too cold for that, so we sat inside.

“What were you going to tell me?” I asked.

“You don't waste time, do you? Are you trying to get everything out of the way quickly so that you can leave? I'd hoped we could have a bit of a chat,” said Sinan, with a touch of reproach.

My goodness, was this boy coming on to me? I didn't know whether to be happy or sad. It certainly stroked my ego that such a handsome young man wanted to spend time with me. He seemed totally unaware that fit young men with a hint of grey at the temples could be extremely attractive. Thankfully, we were living in liberal times when it was not considered unreasonable for a middle-aged woman like me to be courted by a young man. It was no secret, moreover, that young men have always been attracted to “mature” women. I remembered how at high school, while the girls were going crazy for the boys in our own class, the boys were ogling Frau Fischer during Latin and Frau Koch in biology.

“Don't worry, if you don't have time. You said you have another appointment anyway,” said Sinan, looking a little hurt.

“I'm not in that much of a rush,” I said.

“Last night, I started reading a thriller by Elmore Leonard that I borrowed from my mother. It's good. I think I'll come to your shop and buy something else sometime. What do you recommend?”

Was he asking what I liked?

“I don't know what kind of novels you like,” I said.

“Why don't we draw up a reading list together?” suggested Sinan.

I explained that I was opposed to reading lists and hated saying “you must read this”; that novels shouldn't be read as if preparing for an exam; that nothing equalled the pleasure of reading; that no one was forced to read novels but that I held readers to be better people than non-readers; and that my views were unimportant, anyway.

“They're important to me,” said Sinan.

Then we spoke about music and he passed on his wisdom to me. His taste in music ranged from rock to classical. We talked about our favourite dishes and the towns we'd visited. I confided that if all the cigarettes I'd ever smoked were put end to end they'd encircle the world several times. We spoke of other things too: films we'd seen, faces we'd noticed, walks we'd taken.

“What time was your appointment?” asked Sinan.

“Seven o'clock,” I said, looking at my watch and noticing that it was already six.

“You should go. Shall I drop you off? Where are you going?”

“To Nişantaşı. But I don't want to bother you, especially in the pre-dinner traffic.”

“Don't worry. I'll call in on some friends. What time will you finish?”

“The appointment's from seven to eight.”

“Why don't we meet afterwards and have dinner together?”

I didn't reply. Rushing into a relationship with a guy, whatever his age, always made me nervous.

“I had something to tell you,” persisted Sinan.

“Were you going to tell me that you waited outside Sani's door on the Sunday before she died?”

“How did you find out?” said Sinan, looking startled.

“You aren't the only person I've spoken to,” I said. “Why did you hide that from me at our first meeting?”

“Who knows?” said Sinan, looking down at his tightly clasped hands. “I suppose I didn't want you to know that I was still chasing Sani after so much time had passed.”

Then he looked up at me and added, “Do you understand?”

“I understand,” I said, fully aware that it would be a matter of pride for a young man of his age. “You don't need to come all the way to Nişantaşı. We'll meet up another time, all right?”

“As you wish,” said Sinan dejectedly.

While he was getting out his wallet to pay the bill, I bent down and looked beneath the table at his shoes. As Lenin said:
Vertrauen ist gut, Kontrolle ist besser
– “to trust is good, but to check is better”. Sinan's shoes must have been at least a forty-three. They were enormous, anyway. Of course, a person as tall as him would have had trouble remaining upright in size forty shoes.

Sinan insisted on walking me to the taxi rank.

“Will you call in at the shop tomorrow,” I asked as he opened the taxi door for me, “to pick up the reading list?”

“I'll collect the list as soon as possible so I can get started on it,” he said with a smile as he closed the door.

As you might expect, I thought of nothing but Sinan all the way to Nişantaşı. My head was spinning with excitement and crazy thoughts. But I'd never been a slave to madness. In fact, the
moment I awoke the next morning, new suspicions were forming in my mind, which I'll explain to you in due course.

The taxi dropped me in front of the building that housed Remzi Aköz's office. I was only five minutes late, which could have been worse, given the traffic. I rang the bell and gave my name to a woman over the intercom.

“Go up to the third floor,” she said, and pressed the buzzer to open the door.

“You made a big impact on my wife,” said a man behind me.

Had I passed this person in the street, I'd have known immediately that he was a lawyer, having met so many of my ex-lover Selim's friends. He could have been nothing else. I couldn't help wondering if they were selected by type while at university or whether they grew to resemble each other during the articling phase.

“Let's go into my office. What would you like to drink?” he said.

“Nothing for me, thank you,” I said.

“Whisky? Single malt?”

“Oh, in that case, I'll have a whisky,” I replied, thinking it was one thing to refuse tea and coffee, but rejecting a whisky wasn't so easy.

I took a couple of sips and regretted for the umpteenth time that day that I'd given up smoking.

“So, what can I do for you?” said Remzi.

Naturally, I asked about the famous prenuptial agreement.

“It's not permissible for us to give out such information, as I'm sure you know. However, one might say it's in the public interest that the cause of Sani's death be explained.”

Public interest? I hadn't mentioned anything about there being any public interest. However, if a lawyer said there was, who was I to argue?

“The agreement they signed stated that the separation of estates regime would remain valid as long as the marriage lasted. They were bound by a decision that neither party would request compensation or alimony from the other party during or after the divorce proceedings.”

I didn't understand this at all. What did he mean by “as long as”, “during” and “after”?

“Just a minute,” I said. “Let me tell you what I've understood.”

“Of course. Go ahead,” said Remzi.

“Sani was going to divorce Cem without taking a penny.”

“Correct,” said Remzi. “That was in accordance with the agreement.”

“She was to receive no alimony and no compensation. Nothing at all.”

“Yes, that was the agreement. However, these agreements aren't always legally compliant, and theirs was definitely contestable.”

“Could you have won?”

Remzi walked over to the window holding his whisky glass. It was like a scene out of a second-rate Turkish soap opera. All it needed was a peroxide blonde sitting in my place.

“I believe we would have won,” said Remzi.

“On what grounds?” I said, with a blank look.

“There hasn't been a precedent in Turkish law, but…”

Remzi broke off, returned to his desk and attempted to give me a proper explanation.

“The civil law was changed at the end of 2001. Before that, the separation of estates regime was legally binding and anyone who got married was subject to it – unless an agreement stating otherwise had been made at the appropriate time.”

“Separation of estates means that on divorce each party takes any assets registered in their name. Is that right?” I asked.

It was obvious that I didn't have a wealth of experience when it came to divorce.