Baksheesh (17 page)

 

I woke up to find rays of sunshine trying to filter into my room, the beautiful sunshine that follows a day of continuous rain. It's awful how people's morale is so subject to the weather. One day without a glimpse of the sun and we sink into depression and feel we've aged overnight. There then seems little point in forcing down the muesli, foregoing coffee to reduce cellulite, applying rejuvenating creams, face masks, or even trying to give up cigarettes. I decided to have a morning coffee to celebrate the sunshine. To compensate, I would apply cellulite cream after my shower. It said on the packet that for best results it had to be used regularly, but if it was good for my psyche it was bound to do something for the cellulite.

I shook Pelin to wake her up and told her to go and open the shop. She proclaimed that ever since she had been staying with me she had opened up the shop on her own every single morning. I replied that I was on the verge of old age and already greatly distressed by cellulite and the wrinkles on my face, that there had been no word from my lover in case she hadn't noticed, that I didn't have friends to help drown my sorrows by taking me to rock bars serving cheap beer in the evenings, that life was cruel to women of my age, and that our situations were totally different. She appeared convinced and left, dragging her heels. I went off to the hairdresser's to have my hair coloured. Not the local one this time. Once a month, I ventured out to a salon in Nişantaşı for colouring. Actually, Nişantaşı wasn't far from Cihangir. But going to that district was such a tiresome manoeuvre that I always felt as if I was travelling miles. I couldn't bear how the women there dashed about with their expensive highlights and designer-label carrier bags. They unnerved me. Lale said the reason I found them
intolerable was that subconsciously I was afraid of becoming like that myself, or rather that I recognized the potential.

Oh well.

 

After leaving the hairdresser's, I went to Karaköy before going to the shop. This area had lots of street stalls selling all sorts of strange things, from Vitamin E tablets to condoms. Behind the stalls were shops that were almost completely hidden from view, and one of these was a retailer of guns and hunting gear. Or it had been when I was last there two or three months previously.

It was still there. I sighed with relief to see its shop window display of guns and cartridges. Inside were three people serving and four customers. I stood outside looking at guns in the shop window until two of the customers had left.

“I'd like to look at a revolver,” I said to the young lad at the counter, as if I'd come to buy a crew-necked sweater. He stared at me blankly.

“Were you looking for something in particular?”

Obviously, I needed to know a bit more about guns to maintain my pose as a proper customer.

“Well actually, I wanted some information. I wanted to find out about the special features of a revolver,” I said, with a smile engaging enough to revive even a corpse. Moreover, my hair was orange.

“Please, take a seat,” said the lad, pointing to a stool next to the counter.

He placed a gun on top of the glass counter, the sort used by people who play Russian roulette in films. It had a moveable section where the bullets went.

“This is a revolver,” he said. “What did you want to know?”

“Is this weapon chambered for 9mm-calibre bullets?” I asked, afterwards realizing that might have sounded a bit funny. A bit too technical perhaps. The young man scratched the back of his
neck and smiled. He was clearly trying not to be rude but could barely stop himself laughing.

“Madam, why do you…” he waved his hand in the air.

“I'm reading a book. A detective story. Something happens that… Your shop was on my way… I was just curious so I came in. If you don't have the time, I can come back later,” I said. If I'd prepared myself beforehand, I might have managed to utter a single whole sentence.

“I'm a big fan of detective stories, but I don't have time to read. I'm more into films. I've seen all the James Bond films. Loads of times. Others go to football matches at the weekend, but I go to the cinema. Every week.”

“In that case, you'll understand me,” I said, almost warbling with pleasure.

“You'd be hard pressed to find anyone who understands you better than me,” he said. “Would you like a tea? Or a coffee?”

“Tea would be great,” I said.

 

By the time I left the gun shop, it was almost four o'clock. I had to meet İsmet Akkan at five and I didn't want to be late. I ate an unbelievably greasy pastry at a stall on the street corner. It was something I would spend a week hating myself for, but there was no alternative. I couldn't spend the whole day wandering around on an empty stomach. I collected my car from the car park, turned on some Tanita Tikaram and headed for Mecidiyeköy.

I generally avoided that part of Istanbul unless absolutely necessary, but I found my way without too much difficulty. By ten to five, I was parked and checking the address. It was apartment number twenty-three in a dark-fronted block that had peeling paint and air-conditioning pipes sticking out of the windows. I pressed the bell for Akkan Imports and Exports. The door didn't open. I waited a bit and rang the bell again. This time for longer.

I heard a window being opened noisily.

A woman leant out of the window and called down, “Who's that?”

I stepped back into the street so that the woman could see me.

“I have an appointment at five. My name's Kati Hirschel.”

Without a word, the woman withdrew inside and shut the window. I continued to wait. The door still didn't open. I pressed the bell again. Still nothing happened, so I used my mobile to call the number Lale had given me.

“Akkan Imports and Exports,” said a woman's voice.

“I've been pressing your doorbell down here. The door doesn't open and I have an appointment at five.”

“The automatic door-opener's broken, so I have to come down to open it. But I couldn't because the phone rang. I'm on my own here. Why don't you press a bell for one of the lower floors?”

“Me? I don't want to disturb anyone. I'll wait for you to come down,” I said.

“Ä°smet Bey will arrive soon anyway. He has a key. I'm really sorry. But I'm on my own and the phone keeps ringing.”

“Why don't you throw the key down to me?” I said. That was one solution.

“Ha, I didn't think of that. Wait there.”

She put the phone down. A second later, her head appeared at the window again and she threw the key down.

The building had no lift. Poor woman, she couldn't be blamed for not wanting to climb all those stairs.

She showed me to one of the smelly velvet armchairs opposite her desk in the entrance hall that served as a secretary's office. The accumulated grime of many years made the velvet upholstery appear like suede. The floor was covered in wall-to-wall carpet which looked as if it had once been brown. I tried not to breathe through my nose to avoid the smell of stale cigarette smoke. Even when I breathed through my mouth, I was seized by a feeling that I was swallowing all that filth. I felt sick. But if I threw up, I would
be obliged to visit the toilet there. In desperation, I forced myself to concentrate on something else: green fields, grazing cows, lambs, cherry trees, happy Italian families eating spaghetti… For some reason, I always imagine the typical “happy family” to be Italian. Probably because I know Turkish and German families well enough to know that they aren't happy.

I'd never in my life seen anywhere as filthy as that office. The woman was just as strange and dirty as the office. She was no more than forty kilos for one thing. Her cheeks were sunken, her hair grey and lank. I felt sick again and forced myself to think of green fields.

However, before the woman could offer me anything, the front door opened.

“Ä°smet Bey,” said the woman, jumping up from her seat.

The poor man had aged a lot since his filming days. He was undoubtedly still handsome, and few men could carry off a moustache so well. His whole demeanour was extremely masculine. Macho, I suppose you'd say. Macho men have never interested me. However, I wasn't planning to spend the rest of my life with him. One hour at this office at most. Maybe two. Not even a night. No, of course not. I had my Selim. Or I did have. No, I still did. Anyway, this Ä°smet Bey was at the top of my list of suspects. He could be a murderer.

The beautiful specimen looked me up and down with his deep eyes, as big as hearts, and then walked towards me. We shook hands.

“I've kept you waiting. It was the best I could do on a Friday evening in Istanbul traffic. There were roadworks on the bridge…”

“It doesn't matter,” I said. What did waiting five minutes matter, even in that dreadful place? Especially if I was waiting for him.

“I needed to pick up some papers, which is why I suggested meeting at the office. If you like we can go out and make the most of this lovely weather. They say it's going to rain again tomorrow.
What do you say? Shall we go somewhere on the Bosphorus? We'd be able to talk more comfortably.”

He couldn't have had any idea what we were going to talk about. Otherwise, he would have tried to get rid of me as soon as possible instead of suggesting that.

“That would be great,” I said. I didn't want to associate this man with that office. Nor did I want to spend another minute there. “I'll wait for you downstairs by the front door,” I said.

By the time Ä°smet Bey came down, I'd smoked a whole cigarette outside the door. Smoking in the street isn't really appropriate for women in Turkey. I don't do it generally, but that day was an exception. I felt it was justified, having spent a few minutes in that extraordinary office.

“I'd say let's go for dinner, but it's too early,” he said, taking hold of my elbow. A bit familiar, wasn't it? But if I'm honest, I didn't have the slightest objection to his familiarity. “If I'd known, I'd have made our appointment for later.”

“If you'd known what?” I pounced. Sometimes I can be very quick. Only sometimes.

“If I'd known what a charming young lady you are.”

I laughed with feigned politeness, managing to stifle a huge guffaw and producing a sort of whinnying sound.

“Please, get in. We can decide where we're going in the car.”

“I have my car here too,” I said, thinking how cars always create problems in Istanbul. Not only is it impossible to find anywhere to park, you can't even get into the car of a handsome man without having to think twice.

“Leave yours here. I'll have it picked up later,” he said.

This was a real man. Had he been one of my usual educated, house-trained types, the sort who are willing to top and tail beans, he would have said, “Leave your car here and I'll drop you off on the way back.” I ask you, have our years of struggle for independence been in order to hear such words?

His hand was still on my elbow.

“That's fine,” I said.

He didn't even allow the chauffeur to open the door of the monster black Range Rover, but opened it himself. Never mind the concept, the reality of travelling in the back seat of a chauffeur-driven Range Rover was truly exotic. But I was beyond bothering my head with such details. I'd just discovered that there was a need for such macho-type creatures. Only a few years ago, I'd claimed that such men made me sick, yet here I was, feeling an overwhelming desire to inhale the God-given manly smell of the hunk sitting next to me, to swoon in his muscled arms, to bury my face in his hairy chest, to press his head between my thighs. I had no idea whether this was progress or a step backwards for me. If it was a backward step, so what? I was at the time of life for doing whatever I felt like doing and accepting the consequences.

We went to a bar on the Bosphorus.

“We'll have a couple of drinks here and go on somewhere else for dinner,” Ä°smet Bey said, helping me out of the Range Rover. Naturally, I hadn't expected him to ask if I had any other plans for the evening. Still, there was no need to give the impression that I spent my evenings in front of the television with Pelin.

“I'd love to go out for dinner with you, but I already have a date this evening,” I said.

“Cancel it,” he said.

I keep saying how wonderfully macho he was, but actually I'd never met anyone so rude or arrogant before. Perhaps that's all part of the equation. Yet strangely, even his rudeness was somehow attractive. If I hadn't found him attractive, who knows what I might have done or where I might have stuck that macho tongue.

“I'll see if I can cancel it,” I said, as we sat down at one of the tables next to the waterfront. I called Pelin on my mobile and murmured something into it. I didn't miss the expression on Ä°smet Bey's face when I took out my mobile. Probably because
of the model. As soon as I finished speaking, he took the phone from me.

“What's this? Something from the Stone Age?”

“Will you give it back, please?” I said.

“What kind of phone is this? An antique?” he laughed.

“It soon will be,” I said, snatching the phone from him. I switched it off and tossed it into my bag. It was best to switch it off, just in case Selim got it into his head to phone that evening.

He patted my arm to express his pleasure at learning I wanted a whisky with ice. He said that men like women who drink and it had become difficult to find people like me. All the women he knew drank white wine because of its low calories. What's more, they made one glass last the whole evening. God forbid, he'd never go on a diet. He wouldn't have anything to do with needlefish women. Needlefish were all bones with no meat. That's what he called women whose skin clung to their bones. So, what was it I wanted to talk to him about?