Hotel Bosphorus (19 page)

“Oh my God, I'm so sorry, Miss Hirschel. What's wrong with her?”

That's how Turks are. They always try to join in any problem, whether it's necessary or not.

“I don't know yet. They've taken her to hospital, but I couldn't get through by phone. I'll find out when I get there,” I said, trying to keep things brief. “How late are you open? I'll come and collect the ticket,” I added.

“There's no need to come here, you can pick it up at the airport tomorrow. You have enough on your plate at the moment, so don't bother coming here. I'll have your ticket left at the Turkish Airlines desk in the airport.”

“And the money? How will I pay?”

“We'll sort it out when you get back, don't worry about it, ma'am.”

“No way, I'll transfer the money to your account. Tell me how much 450 dollars comes to in Turkish lira.”

“The banks are closed on Saturdays, Miss Hirschel.”

“I'll send it via the Internet,” I said. The agent's respect for me went up a notch when he heard I did Internet banking and, after he had told me about his daughter, who was a third-year medical student and had become an Internet hotshot, he gave me his account number.

I was to fly the next day.

I returned to the balcony, where I found Yılmaz buried in the newspapers.

“Your Mumcu has been arrested again,” he said when he saw me. “But it's not in connection with the murder this time,” he added.

I didn't enquire why he'd been arrested, but merely asked, “When did that happen?”

“Yesterday evening. They raided Mumcu Transport after a tip-off and found two unlicensed weapons. He spent the night in the cells. This time Mesut's had it. His bail conditions mean he'll probably go back to jail,” he said.

“Who knows? Maybe,” I said, trying to sound indifferent. But I immediately created an excuse to escape to the kitchen. “Shall we have some coffee?” I asked.

Yılmaz looked at his watch.

“I can't. I have to be at the office at one o'clock. There's a meeting today. We're working like crazy.”

“Have there been any redundancies yet?” I asked. The last time we'd spoken, he'd said they were going to start letting people go.

He appeared irritated by my question and headed for the door. I followed him.

“So far they haven't got rid of anyone, but we all have the sword of Damocles hanging over us. I've lost the taste for this business. If I hadn't sunk all my savings in the stock market, I'd have settled down in a village on the Aegean long ago. I'm too old for this sort of thing.”

He wished me a safe journey, kissed me on both cheeks and hurried off.

I made myself a large cup of Turkish coffee and sat at my desk. First, I went onto the Internet and transferred the rent money to the landlady's account and the money for the airline ticket to the travel agent. While on the Internet, I tried reading what the papers had written about Mesut, but the computer was so slow I soon gave up. It made more sense to go and buy a paper from the shop.

After I'd finished on the Internet, I called Petra. She wasn't in her room, so I left a message. I was just thinking about who else I should be calling when the telephone rang.

“Are you still angry with me?” asked Lale.

“No, I'm not angry,” I said curtly, and blurted out what had happened to my mother.

“So, you're going tomorrow. What time's the flight?”

“Thirteen forty-five.”

“Shall I take you to the airport? Would you like that? I can go to the office from there.”

“You mean you'll go to work at two o'clock in the afternoon?” She was at work by eight every morning, including Sundays. She only took one day off a week, which was Saturday.

“Yes,” she said.

“What's happened?” I asked anxiously. Her closest friend's mother being in hospital was not reason enough
for Lale to be late for work. There was definitely something else.

“Nothing's happened. Or maybe it has. Perhaps I've been smitten by the curses of all those people I've sacked over the last four months on the pretext of an economic crisis. I'm fed up of this business, Kati. I've had enough. I wish I'd never come back from New York.”

“Why don't you come over to my place and we can go out somewhere together,” I said. I'd never heard her say she regretted coming back from New York before. She was clearly at the end of her tether.

“I can't come over, I have to sort out my study. Everything's piled up all over the place. I must have some order. When my head's so mixed up, at least my surroundings must be in order. You come over to me.” I could tell that she didn't want to be alone. I was used to Lale's only-child idiosyncrasies.

“I need to get ready for my journey tomorrow, and I want to see Petra. It's not possible for me to come there,” I said.

“In that case, let's meet early before we go to the airport; it'll give us a chance to talk.”

As soon as I put the receiver down, the phone rang again. This time it was Petra.

“I'm in the pool. You called me. What lovely weather, hot and sunny. I really needed a holiday like this,” she said. She spoke as if she was glad that Müller had been killed.

“What are you doing today?” I asked.

“I'm not doing anything in particular during the day. In the evening, I'm going out for dinner with the film crew.”

I told Petra that my mother had been taken to hospital and I was going to Berlin. Cunningly, I added, “I'll come and join you and the film crew for dinner this evening, so I'll see you there. I haven't got time now because I have to pack.”

“Well, I don't know. Might it not seem a bit strange?” she said.

“Are you invited to someone's house?”

“No, we're going to a typical Turkish restaurant.”

“So what's strange about that? Restaurants are public places, anyone can come,” I said.

Everyone was going to meet at seven o'clock at the Noel Baba Hotel in Tarlabaşı where they were all staying, except for Petra. “Come over to me if you like and we can go there together. The hotel is very close to where I live,” I said, and told her to write down my address.

It took half an hour to spell everything out letter by letter to her. “Why is this address so long?” she asked, sounding bored.

“Because it's not just the address, I've given you directions as well. You can give that piece of paper to the taxi driver.”

“Why do I need directions? You only needed to give me the address,” she said with German naivety.

“What do you think Istanbul taxi drivers are? Unless you're going to a mosque, police station or hospital, you won't get anywhere in Istanbul by just giving them a street name. Taxi drivers don't even know the name of the district they live in,” I said.

“Don't be ridiculous,” she said.

“Well, try it this evening when you come to me. Just say Tavukuçmaz Street to the driver, and let's see if he can get you here,” I said. “But be careful, if you cross the
Bosphorus Bridge to the Asian side, it takes a long time to get back.”

“That's exactly how you used to be, you haven't changed at all. You love to exaggerate.”

“OK, you'll see whether I'm caricaturing taxi drivers, or whether they do that for themselves,” I said, confident that I'd be proved right.

“We'll see,” she said resolutely.

 

Going out for dinner that evening meant that, before I left for Berlin, I would have spoken to the only suspect on my list and also seen the other crew members: I felt like a girl of ten, or perhaps fifteen.

Next I called Pelin. I was going to have to leave my business completely in her hands during my absence.

“Don't worry, I'll manage. The important thing is for your mother to get better,” said Pelin.

I asked her what she wanted from Berlin. It's a Turkish custom. You always ask friends if they want anything whenever you go anywhere. And even if they're really hankering after some duty-free perfume, the friends will reply, “You just come back in one piece, that's all I want.”

Pelin was exactly the same.

After clearing up the breakfast things and filling the dishwasher, I went into the bedroom to pack my suitcase. I was about to put in T-shirts and shorts, but suddenly realized I had no idea what the weather would be like in Berlin. All I knew was that it was unlikely to be as hot as Istanbul. I went back to the study to look up the weather forecast for the next few days.

As I thought, the weather in Berlin was dreadful and set to continue like that. There would be a couple of
sunny days towards the end of the month but I had no intention of being in Berlin that long, if things went to plan.

I threw aside the T-shirts and shorts and pulled out my red jacket, some sweatshirts and a pair of velvet trousers from the back of my wardrobe. I didn't need to dress as smartly in Berlin as I did in Istanbul. In the metros over there most people look as if they've run away from a nuthouse.

Once I'd packed my large bag of cosmetics and my suitcase, my travel preparations were complete. Petra wouldn't arrive for another two hours, provided she gave the written directions to the driver. It would be four hours if she didn't.

I went out to buy a newspaper.

 

Page three of the magazine section, which was devoted to news of disasters, was covered with photographs of Mesut in the company of various singers. The accompanying reports told me nothing that Yılmaz hadn't already read out to me. It suddenly occurred to me to call the reporter who worked for Lale's newspaper, but I immediately thought better of the idea. It would only get back to Mesut. However, I had a burning desire to phone somebody, in a way that only an
Ä°stanbullu
would understand, so I dialled Batuhan's mobile number.

He didn't sound pleased to hear my voice.

“Hello,” he said coldly.

“How are you?”

“I'm working. I'm very busy.”

“Then I won't disturb you.”

“Good.”

I put the telephone down.

I wasn't surprised at his reaction. I was old enough to have experience of, and even theories about, the behaviour of rejected men. The biggest difference between men and women facing rejection is that men waste no time in showing their true nature. On the other hand, women maintain their composure for a while, thinking that maybe he hasn't really rejected them, that there's merely some misunderstanding… The result is that women only reach the revenge stage after the fourth rejection has been confirmed, whereas men become vindictive at the slightest setback.

Also from experience, I've learned that you can't take revenge on someone who doesn't care about you, whereas it's easy to take revenge on someone who loves you – all you have to do is commit suicide.

Take Batuhan for example. How could he take his revenge on me, given that he was incapable of making me feel bad enough to commit suicide?

1. He could wake me up with telephone calls in the middle of the night and then put the phone down without speaking.

2. He could put a dead mouse in front of my shop and leave a note saying “Dirty infidel, get out of our country”, and follow this up by throwing stones through my shop window.

3. He could claim that I'd murdered Müller and have me arrested.

4. He could plant a bag of heroin in my apartment, car or shop and report me to the police.

The most realistic of these, actually the only realistic one, was the first. But I'd received at least six different kinds of silent phone calls, so one more wasn't going to cast a shadow over my life.

All Turks, regardless of class, age or gender, are used to taking revenge with silent telephone calls, and everyone has their own style. One will put the telephone down the moment you lift the receiver and before you can even say “Hallo”. Another will wait until you make yourself hoarse from shouting “Hallo” down the phone. There are other types who make you listen to music, whistle tunes down the line or fake orgasms… Anyone wanting to live in Turkey has to get used to these strange Turkish customs. I've become used to them. I always unplug the phone before I go to bed, provided I'm not blind drunk or involved in solving a murder.

The telephone rang as I waited in the kitchen for the water to boil to make myself some green tea. I ran to the study. I keep talking about the telephone, so I should explain that the only one in my apartment was in my study.

“Is Miss Hirschel there?” It was a man whose voice I didn't recognize but who, according to my friend Mithat's theory about Kurdish accents, was probably from Diyarbakir.

“Yes, it's me.”

“Sorry to disturb you. I'm ringing on behalf of Mr Mumcu.”

“Yes?”

“He said he'd promised to see you… But some urgent business came up and he couldn't make it. He wanted me to let you know; he'll call when he can.”

“Thank you,” I said.

Surely Mesut must have realized I'd see the news about his arrest? I went into the kitchen repeating to myself, “Some urgent business came up.”

Having someone like Mesut, who could talk with such ease about having people killed, loose on the streets was no good to anyone. The sooner he was locked up, the more lives would be saved. And from my point of view, it was a good thing he'd been sent back to jail before we went out for dinner.

Just then the doorbell rang. I burned my hand as I took the kettle off the stove. I hate being in a rush!

I ran to the sitting-room window sucking the scalded little finger of my right hand. Petra was standing in front of the door to the apartment building. She'd arrived early. I hadn't even had the chance to drink a peaceful cup of tea.