Hotel Bosphorus (20 page)

Grumbling about this, I pressed the button to open the front door.

I was still licking my little finger as I watched Petra pant her way up the stairs.

“Since we're spending the evening over here, I thought I'd spend the day wandering around the Taksim Square area. I'm exhausted. But there was so much to see. I walked as far as your shop. Today's little city tour was more than enough for me.”

“Come inside,” I said, turning back towards the kitchen. The water that had been boiling away was now the right temperature for making green tea. I put tea leaves into a glass teapot, filled it with water and put another cup on the tray. As I walked towards the balcony, the sound of Petra's amazed voice could be heard from the sitting room.

“How big your apartment is. And your street is so lovely…”

“Come onto the balcony, then we can talk without shouting,” I said. The balcony was also the coolest place to sit.

Petra sat on the chair where Yılmaz had sat that morning; I sat opposite her.

“Istanbul is such a tiring city; the crowds are quite overwhelming. Today I found myself wondering what it would be like to live here…” said Petra. She seemed to feel a need to correct herself and added, “But I'm sure if you live here all the time, you get used to it.”

“Even if you get used to the crowds in Istanbul, there are other things that get to you,” I said.

“What for example?”

“Turkish politics, the economic crisis, corruption, bank charges…”

I said this with considerable anger and Petra stared at me in surprise.

I was unable to speak in a normal tone of voice, so I continued in a whisper, “Ever since this morning, I've been calming down friends who want to escape from here. The political and economic problems have hit everyone.” My outburst of anger surprised me also. “It seems to have affected me more than I thought,” I said.

As each new crisis unfolded, I'd thought I was less sensitive than Turks were to Turkey's problems. I'd tell myself that while Istanbul was certainly my city, Turkey wasn't my country. The difference between me and Lale, Yılmaz, Pelin and other friends was not the strength of our feelings but the extent. Once I'd said to Lale, “You love a part of Turkey which is Istanbul, whereas I only love Istanbul. But I do understand you. It's the same as me loving Cihangir because it's in Istanbul… If Cihangir had been in Bonn, I wouldn't have liked it.” My love for Istanbul had nothing to do with Turkey. I loved Istanbul food, Istanbul songs, Istanbul Turkish and the Cihangir district of Istanbul.

Petra hadn't realized I'd become so distracted, and she continued talking.

“I bought a Turkish paper yesterday and it was in German. Turkey's situation looks pretty hopeless, doesn't it?”

“Take no notice,” I said. “I've been living here thirteen years and I've never known the situation to be hopeful.”

I licked my scalded finger once again and poured the over-brewed tea.

“You weren't really in a relationship with Kurt Müller, were you?” I asked Petra as I passed her tea.

“Why are you asking that again? I told you before that I wasn't, didn't I?”

“They say you suggested Müller for that job, that's why…”

“Who's saying that?” Was her surprise at how I had obtained that information, or at how such lies could be made up against her?

“Some people from Mumcu Productions,” I said. For some reason, I didn't want her to know that I'd gone as far as telephoning Mr Franz in Germany.

She fiddled with the cross and chain that hung around her neck and looked at me thoughtfully.

“You mean the man you called from my room?”

“No, someone who works with him. A German called Yusuf.”

“Joseph?”

“He's a German Muslim called Yusuf.”

“Ah, I understand what you mean. I know him. Was that his name, Yossof? OK, so what did he tell you?”

“He said it was you who found Müller.”

“That's true. I found Kurt. But what if I did?”

“Well, you knew each other from before.”

“Yes, we knew each other. But I know a lot of people, Kati. I don't get into a relationship with everyone I know. The producer sent me the screenplay about a year ago. For the first time in years, I saw a part for myself in it. I'm no longer considered young.” As she said this, she unbuttoned her blouse and pinched the spare tyre around her waist.

“As we get older, it's not just the energy that goes; the body deteriorates as well. There'd be no problem if I looked as young as you, but unfortunately I show my age. In fact, I look even older than my age. It must be true when they say blondes deteriorate faster than brunettes. I'm sure you realize that leading roles don't just drop through my letterbox every week. Naturally I did whatever I could to get the film made. They needed an experienced director who wouldn't ask for too much money. I knew someone who fitted that description, so I brought them together.”

What she was saying sounded convincing. In an era when being young and remaining young is exalted like never before, a woman's greatest treasures are a pair of legs without cellulite and skin without wrinkles, aren't they? Whatever her role or profession. So a film star is obviously affected by all that more than the rest of us.

“You mean the reason you suggested Müller wasn't that you were in a relationship with him?”

“How many more times do I have to say it, I wasn't in a relationship with Kurt. He may have liked me, and he may have said so to various people, but…” – she leaned across the table and looked me straight in the eyes – “… there was nothing between us. Anyway, he wasn't my type.”

Her last comment disturbed me. It was the sort of thing a fifteen-year-old girl might say.

“What do you mean, he wasn't your type?”

“Unsuccessful, incompetent even…” If I hadn't interrupted her, she would have said more.

“If he was unsuccessful and incompetent, why did you suggest him for this film? Why did you want him to direct a film that was so important to you if he was no good?”

“The reason's simple. The director wouldn't overshadow me and my name would have top billing. As for the producers…” She laughed like a star posing for the cameras. “They had as much experience as Kurt, but they were looking for someone cheap.”

Yusuf had said more or less the same thing when we spoke. Clearly, the film world was a much stranger place than I could have imagined.

We didn't mention the film or Kurt Müller again until we left the apartment to meet the film crew for dinner.

 

When Petra and I entered the lobby of the Noel Baba Hotel in Tarlabaşı, I looked very young with my hair in a ponytail and no make-up, or that's how they describe such women in novels. Actually it wasn't my intention to appear young, but I just hadn't bothered to take my make-up bag out of my suitcase.

The loud group of Germans in the lobby fell silent when they saw us.

“This is my friend, Kati Hirschel,” said Petra.

One man in the group, who was completely nondescript apart from his almost white blond hair, held out his hand without standing up. “Hallo, I'm Gust,” he said.

The others told me their names without shaking hands and, before long, lost interest in me and continued their noisy conversation. There were nine of them, all men except for two women, neither of whom claimed to be called Bauer.

“Where shall we go?” I asked Gust. I was perching on the edge of the two-seater lobby sofa on which he was sprawled.

“We have a guide for tonight, a journalist friend of mine who lives in Istanbul.” He was clearly proud of his friend's profession.

“Otto has been here for two years. He chose the place we're going to. He's just gone out with Annette to find a chemist.” Gust looked at his watch. “They'll be back soon.”

“Who's Annette?” I asked, hoping that her surname was Bauer.

“Annette Bauer, the film's assistant director.” He quickly corrected himself, saying, “Or rather from today, I should say the director.”

So, Miss Bauer was now officially the director of this film and I was about to meet her.

“Where does your journalist friend work? I might know him because I live in Istanbul too.”

“Otto writes for
Westdeutsche Zeitung
,” he said, as if he was talking about the President of the United States rather than a mere journalist. He looked at me carefully as if he'd only just understood what I said, and added, “Did you say you live in Istanbul?”

“Yes.”

“Are you a journalist too?”

“I have a bookshop that sells crime fiction,” I said.

“Did you come here to sell books?”

“No, I was already living here. I changed jobs a few times before deciding to become a bookseller.”

“Interesting,” he said. “Very interesting.”

“Do you mean being a bookseller?”

“No, I mean living here, even though you don't have to. I don't understand how anyone can live in a country that has a human-rights problem. Don't you worry that something might happen to you? And there's been a big rise in thieving and pickpocketing since the economic crisis. Otto told us to take good care of our bags and money. There isn't a person left in Istanbul who hasn't had their bag stolen.”

“In Germany, a foreigner is attacked about every four or five days and skinheads kill people in the middle of the street, but there are still foreigners living there,” I said angrily.

Instead of answering me, Gust turned away. I studied his profile and decided to soften my words a little. It wouldn't do me any good to get on the wrong side of this man.

“I like Istanbul,” I said.

Again he said nothing, but he turned back towards me.

To change the subject, I said, “When does filming start?”

“This tragic event has shocked us all of course,” he said. I could have sworn that his face showed not the slightest hint of any shock. You'd never have guessed from the loud conversation of this film crew that one of their colleagues had been found dead just a few days before. But that was another matter.

“Of course it has,” I said. I was on such good form that day that I would have been a match for any politician.

“This break has been good for us. The actors have got into the atmosphere of the city, we've got the technical team and extras sorted out, and we've got to know each other…” He smirked and added, “It was decided today that Miss Bauer will direct the film.” He suddenly realized that she wasn't back yet. Turning to the others, he pointed to his wristwatch and asked, “Where have they got to, for God's sake?”

A pink-faced German grinned where he sat in front of three empty beer bottles, and said, “Is there some dark spirit following our directors around, do you think?”

Everyone in the group laughed heartily at this joke. From her chair, Petra was watching me out of the corner of her eye, so I quickly changed my withering look to one of my friendly expressions and laughed too.

“If you find out where we're going, we could leave them a note and go,” I said to Gust. I couldn't wait to get out of that unpleasant lobby.

“I already know where we're going,” said Gust. He stood up and rummaged in his trouser pockets, pulled out a crumpled piece of paper and slowly read out what was written on it.

“Has-seer Restaurant.”

Petra felt compelled to make a statement to the others.

“Kati lives in Istanbul. She knows the city really well.”

One of the women in the group smiled and said, “Oh, how lucky you are. Istanbul is the most beautiful city I've ever seen.”

“Have you seen any other cities apart from Frankfurt?” asked one of the others.

Everybody burst into laughter at this joke.

“In that case, let's go,” I said. “The place we're going to is very close to the hotel anyway.”

Gust's journalist friend had chosen the Hasır Restaurant in Tarlabaşı, a place that is frequented by everyone's tourist friends as a typical Turkish restaurant, or rather café.

“Let's pay the bill,” said a second pink face who was sitting next to the first pink face. He shouted louder than ever in order to get the waiter's attention.

Everyone sitting in the lobby was looking at this man crying out, “Hallo!!! Halloo!!” as if he was gripped by hysteria. The other hotel residents and I breathed a sigh of relief when the waiter finally rushed up out of breath, thinking some disaster had happened.

“The bill,” said the second pink face in German. “Separately.”

“Do you want the bill, sir?” asked the waiter in English.

“Don't you know German?” asked the man, again in German.

The waiter knew enough German to understand this question. “
Nein
,” he said.

I thought it was time for me to intervene.

“They want the bill, and they'll pay separately,” I said in Turkish.

The waiter turned to me, pleased to have found someone he could communicate with.

“We'll put it on their bills, ma'am. They're all hotel clients.”

I translated the waiter's suggestion to the others.

“No way,” said Gust. “My friend said they might cheat us. We'll pay now.”

“They want to pay now,” I said to the waiter, but he didn't need me to translate everything that Gust said.

“Fine,” said the waiter. He told Gust what was on his bill.

“The gentleman had two beers. Five million Turkish lira.”