Baksheesh (16 page)

I didn't manage to leave Ä°nci as early as I'd intended. As a result, I arrived home too late to call Lale. I needed her to get Ä°smet Akkan to contact me.

While I made some green tea, I prepared myself to listen sympathetically to the latest developments in Pelin's life. Every so often, whether we like it or not, it's necessary to take an interest in those around us. After all, we humans are social beings.

 

When I awoke in the morning, I felt as if the wrinkles around my eyes had decreased. Occasionally, a good night's sleep can have that effect. Standing in front of the mirror, I massaged cream into my face with tiny circular motions and took more care over my make-up than I had for days. If I called in at the hairdresser's, there would be nothing to stop me looking as gorgeous as ever.

I called Lale before leaving home. She said she'd find someone who knew Ä°smet Akkan. Her interview with the advertising company wasn't until the following afternoon, so she could spend time phoning around that day.

I had a blow-dry, manicure and pedicure at my local hairdresser's. Even after all these years, whenever I go to a salon or encounter one of those immaculate women in the street, I feel grateful to be living in Istanbul where prices are so reasonable.

The shop was heaving with customers. People were saying the economy was moving, thanks to pre-election spending by the political parties and last-ditch efforts by MPs. So even I had good reason to put up with the plastic flags sporting party logos that were fluttering in the streets. I spent the whole day dealing with customers and recommending books.

Because of the volume of business, it was evening by the time I had an opportunity to go to the building where Osman was killed. I found that when I stood on the marble steps leading from the main door to the street I could see the corner where the old lady used to sit. Therefore, as I'd guessed, it was extremely likely that she had seen the killer. I sat down and stared at the basement window, trying to recreate in my head what had happened. I didn't know what time the murder was thought to have taken place. Ä°nci had said the police asked her where she was between seven-thirty and nine-thirty on Thursday evening. Did that mean they thought the murder was committed between those times?

There was nothing for it but to phone Batuhan. He said he was driving and couldn't speak for long. Still, he could have at least given me that much information. He didn't. Apparently, it was forbidden to discuss cases that were still ongoing. I'd become used to his inconsistencies long ago, so I didn't even get riled.

 

Pelin invited me to go along with her and her friends to a rock bar that sold cheap beer. Out of courtesy, I think. She must have known better than I did that, in my current state, I could never go and sit in a rock bar. Anyway, I had other plans for the evening that didn't entail putting on a jacket and tying my hair back.

I prepared myself some muesli with yoghurt. Not because I thought it was the best thing to eat on evenings I spent at home alone, but it does no one any harm to live healthily occasionally. I sat with my dish of muesli in front of the computer and went
to the Turkcell Superonline homepage. I'm not ashamed to tell you what I was about to do. They always say, “If it makes you feel ashamed, don't do it,” don't they? Well, I wasn't ashamed or embarrassed. What was there to be ashamed of?

I was going to try and find the password for Selim's email account. To find out what was happening with regard to me. Naturally.

The password was the problem. Not being an ace hacker, I would have to do it by trial and error. I decided to try numbers first, then words. I had a few possibilities in mind.

First, Selim's year of birth: 1950.

Second, his university graduation year: 1976.

Third, his favourite and most studied historical event: 1789.

It was none of those.

I looked up the dates of the Magna Carta and the Bill of Rights in an encyclopaedia, thinking they might appeal to a lawyer who liked history. It was neither of those. Midnight passed and desperation was setting in when I entered Tarkovsky, the name of his favourite film director. Then, barely able to keep my eyes open, I tried both
diabolo
and
diabolos
, followed by
veritas
,
vino
and
justitia
. I went on to the names of his beloved Kant, his favourite author Stephen King, his mother, father and siblings. By this stage I'd decided I would abandon him for ever if his password turned out to be the name of a more distant relative. I tried the brand names of the cigarettes, cigars and cologne he used. I had thought that anyone who worked as hard as Selim was bound to choose an easily remembered password, but it seemed I was wrong about this. As about so many things. I tried to think once more of all the things Selim would find easy to remember. He would never remember the date we first met. If we were married, maybe he'd remember the date of our wedding. I would have tried my own birth date, except that he'd forgotten it the previous year.

As I sipped some foul-smelling herb tea, it occurred to me that I hadn't tried my own name. At least he had so far not forgotten my name. So why not? Kati. I typed it in.

Trrrt. Selim's incoming emails opened up in front of me.

His password was my name. The four letters of my name.

Oh, my darling. Bless you. My one and only darling.

I can't tell you how emotional I felt. How many men use their girlfriend's name for their password? I felt I should hang my head in shame for the rest of my life, atoning for all the past and present wrongs I had inflicted on that dear man. My romantic Turkish man. My King of Hearts.

Teardrops were running down my cheeks and dripping onto the computer keyboard. While I'd been thinking how
diabolo
might be a suitable password for him, it turned out that he'd chosen the name of his angel, which was me. Did I deserve such a man? An intrinsically wicked woman like me?

I was squirming with embarrassment. I wanted to call him straight away and have my wounded spirit tended in his arms. To rest my head on his little paunch and have the badness in my head wiped away. To be loyal to him for the rest of my life and never again hurt his sensitive feelings. To marry him, learn how to make dolma, even his favourite meatballs. To nourish him with meals cooked by my own fair hands. To wake him with kisses and whisper in his ear that breakfast was ready. To iron his underpants. I would never make a fuss about the amount of alimony he gave his ex-wife. I would dye my hair blonde, have highlights if necessary. I would drink tea with his friends' wives. I would greet him chirpily at the front door when he arrived home. I would massage his tense shoulders. I would love him more than any other human in the world, more than all the cats, birds, flowers, insects and children. My darling. Did I really deserve to be loved so much? I was trembling inside. His name was burning my lips. My lips were scalding. My heart was fluttering.

I went into the sitting room, poured a whisky and wandered around the apartment letting the ice clink in the glass. I downed it in one and poured another. You can't become an alcoholic in one night, after all. I finished the second one quickly, too. At some point I would have to be realistic. I had to accept that I was never going to learn how to make dolma, that ironing underpants was not really my thing, and that I had no intention of waiting by the door to greet anybody. I poured a third whisky.

If I changed my password to “Selim”, I would consider my debt repaid. Even in international relations, that would be a sufficient gesture of reciprocity. No more was required.

 

I woke up to the chirruping of the telephone. Or rather it woke me up. I ran to the study where the landline was. It's amazing how one can run so far at the moment of waking, despite bumping into walls. It was Batuhan. He had been driving when I called the previous day, which meant that he'd been unable to talk and so on and so on. He seemed to be having a crisis of regrets. It suddenly occurred to me that he might be married. That when I phoned him the previous day, he might have had his wife with him. The things I think of when I've just woken up! Would a woman who stuffed tomatoes or ironed underpants come up with such a thought? No way. Impossible.

Batuhan was still prattling on. If only he'd stop for just a moment. My head was bursting. So early in the morning. He said he was coming to my neighbourhood that day. To Kuledibi. We could have lunch together. His police salary seemed to be limitless when it came to feeding me kebabs. How could he afford it? Was he trying to compete with my beloved top-tax-bracket lawyer? Aren't the wages of state employees supposed to be low in Turkey? And aren't policemen state employees?

“I'll only come out to eat with you if it's on me,” I said, thinking it was time I made a contribution to the nation's police force. After
all, I lived there and was the bearer of a noble Turkish passport. It was the least I could do for the Turkish police.

I was thinking my usual early morning rubbish. Selim knew that side of me so well.

“Don't be late,” I said. “The place I'm taking you to closes early.”

Outside it was dark and overcast. Likely to rain. The rains that had brought floods two weeks before were obviously going to start again. Pelin hadn't come home the previous night. I called the shop to check if she was there. She told me a German newspaper wanted to interview me for an article. Would Turkey manage to enter the EU? Everyone expected me, as a German living in Turkey, to have an answer to this huge question. The reporter would call again around noon. He definitely had to see me.

Before leaving home, I called Lale again about Ä°smet Akkan.

“My friend hasn't managed to get hold of him yet. His mobile's been turned off. But she's found his brother. If not today, they'll definitely set something up for tomorrow, don't worry,” she said.

I wished Lale all the best for her job interview.

 

I bumped into Recai the tea-boy in front of the shop. He was carrying a tray of teas and staring at the sky with a worried look on his face.

“Not long before the rains come. It's the Americans' fault, miss. They've ruined the world, pulled the stopper out. There are floods everywhere. Did you see the news last night? Houses floating on water. They say it's because of the weapons they use to fight wars with. What happened to those things that can see inside caves so that there's no need to use guns? Did they ever manage to get Bin Laden? All lies, miss, all lies,” he said.

I was trying to get myself inside the shop.

“Your teas are getting cold, Recai,” I said.

“There's no point having tea if we can't enjoy it, miss. People do nothing but complain.” Waving his hand, he went down the narrow street towards the square.

There's no way of avoiding politics. Everyone has at least thirty ideas that they're ready to spout about. Talkative Turkey.

Pelin thrust the telephone receiver into my hand as soon as I entered the shop. It was Günther Schmidt, the correspondent from the
Wochenzeit
newspaper.

“I'm extremely busy at the moment,” I said, thinking that it was time I gave up having boring meetings with German reporters who knew less about the world than Recai.

“I'm in Istanbul for a week. We can meet whenever it's convenient for you.”

“In that case, call me again before you leave,” I said.

The rain had started. Nobody was likely to come in to buy a book in that weather. I can't say I felt sad. And I wasn't sad to cancel my lunch appointment with Batuhan. I spent the whole day slouching around with Pelin, even reading a newspaper at one point. The things people will do when they feel out of sorts!

Pelin cooked dinner that evening: okra and lamb casserole. I still hadn't grown used to the existence of this vegetable. It didn't taste bad, actually. With a lot of lemon and tomatoes. But if I spent forty years without okra, I doubt if I would ever give it a thought. Pelin was amazed that most Germans didn't know what it tasted like. So what? It's possible for a nation to live without eating okra, to grate courgettes into their salads like cucumbers and to think their version of pizza is man's greatest invention ever. Anyway, who can compete with the beautiful variety of Turkish cuisine? Though I can't help thinking that Turks go too far occasionally. I still find it a bit weird to eat animals' intestines and brains.

We were just getting ready to go to bed early when Lale rang. Her interview had gone well and she'd got the job. She'd also made contact with Ä°smet Akkan, who would be waiting for me
at his office the following day at five o'clock. She gave me the address and telephone number. Before going to sleep, I made my plans for the next day, which the weathergirl said would be dry.