Baksheesh (27 page)

I'd noticed on my previous visit that it said CONCIERGE next to the bottom bell. Did this poor man have no name? Ahmet or Mehmet, for instance? I pressed the concierge bell at the main door. The door opened immediately. Almost before I'd taken my finger off the bell. Of course pressing the buzzer to open doors is one of the basic functions of a concierge. Nobody opens a door faster than a concierge.

My heart was pounding as I went down the steps. Concierges always live in the basement. Everyone knows that, whether they have a concierge or not. I wasn't sure if his family would know Hafize Hanım. Nor was I sure how I was going to play this scene.

I knocked on the basement door. No one was waiting to open the door for me, so clearly it hadn't occurred to whoever let me into the building that the person who rang the bell upstairs would actually be coming down to see them.

As the door opened, a smell of poverty pervaded the air: fried onions, suet, over-brewed tarry tea, socks with holes in, nylon slippers, print skirts with elasticated waists, winceyette underpants from the market… I tried not to inhale through my nose, which was impossible, of course.

The door was opened by a young man. He had a dark complexion and brilliant blue eyes.

“Are you the concierge?” I asked. Didn't this poor man have a name?

“Yes, miss,” he said, bowing his head in greeting.

“I'm looking for Hafize Hanım. She used to work for someone in this building, but I think she left.”

“Kadriye, come here,” he called out. “Someone's asking about your sister-in-law Hafize.” He pronounced his wife's name with a ‘G' instead of ‘K', but that's irrelevant.

Kadriye came towards me, rearranging her headscarf. They had still not invited me inside which, for Turks, was not normal behaviour at all. Standards decline when people migrate from their villages to the cities.

“Were you asking about my sister-in-law?” said the girl. She was still no more than a young girl. Her skin had a radiance which, after a certain age, can only be achieved by using very expensive creams.

“Yes,” I said.

“They don't live here,” she said.

“I know. I wanted to know how I could find her,” I said.

“She left her job,” she said.

This time, I said nothing and just looked at her.

“I can give you her phone number, miss,” said her husband.

“Yes, we can do that,” said the girl.

Great, just what I wanted!

“Why are you asking for Hafize?” said the girl.

“I'm looking for someone to work for me,” I said.

“I saw her go to number thirteen a few times,” said the husband. As expected, number thirteen was the apartment where Ä°nci lived.

“Are you a relative of Miss Ä°nci?” asked the girl, her face lighting up as she mentioned Ä°nci's name. Ä°nci probably gave them her barely worn Escadas.

“No, I'm not,” I said, offering no further explanation.

The man wrote a number down on a piece of paper and gave it to me.

“Hafize lives nearby. They also take care of an apartment block,” he said.

“Thank you,” I said.

I let myself out into the street.

Obviously in Etiler, like Cihangir where I lived, all the concierges and their families were related in some way and from the same village. The system worked like this: one concierge and his family start working in a district, then gradually their relatives fill up the basements of neighbouring apartment blocks. People who live in Turkish villages are almost always related to one another. Even if they aren't relatives, they are
hemşeri
, which has no equivalent in Germany. People born in the same village, district or even the same city call each other
hemşeri
. They provide each other with support when they migrate to big cities. A number of associations have been formed in Istanbul for this purpose. For instance, the people of Malatya, Sivas and Erzurum each have their Solidarity Association. There is also the İğdir Enhancement and Conservation Association and the Azeri Cultural Promotion Community. This concept of
hemşeri
has clearly rubbed off on Germans as well. I hear that an association of German women married to Turks has been formed. I've no idea what sort of activities they get up to – I haven't been married to a Turk, so far. Actually, I haven't been married to anyone.

 

After seeing Hafize Hanım, my mobile rang as I was returning home. It was Selim. He wanted to tell me that it was his mother's birthday the next day and thought I might get cross if he left it any later. Actually, I get cross when I'm called on my mobile while I'm driving. Whatever the reason, I was feeling cross.

There was, of course, the problem of finding a present for Selim's mother. It's hard enough choosing a present for a close girlfriend, let alone a fussy old woman. Actually, the poor woman wasn't fussy at all. My mother was the fussy one. She'd turn up her nose at anything I bought unless it was a diamond ring, as if my life overflowed with diamonds that I concealed from her.
Selim's mother appeared to be a woman who was happy to receive a bunch of flowers. I say “appeared” because I'd never actually bought her anything before, so I had no idea about her attitude to presents. As for me, I'm polite enough to feign pleasure, even if I'm given a CD of ethnic music. And that's the sort of behaviour I expect from others.

Buying a present for a lover's mother is a sensitive matter. If you buy something valuable, you're suspected of trying to ensnare their boy. Get something trashy, and they think you're saying, “Who do you think you are, you old bag? Your son loves me now, you're nothing to us.” You therefore have to find something good but not too good, so as not to upset the balance.

I spent all evening thinking about this. At such times, I wish I were a painter. Then I wouldn't have to buy any presents. I'd just dash off an ink drawing of an owl and wrap it up. Of course, it would have to be like Picasso's owl. An owl that had a profound effect on mankind. But I couldn't even draw a straight line. Whatever I drew would come out cockeyed.

Maybe if I were a composer it would be better. I'd jot down a little ditty, say a birthday song. But no, better to be a painter. Because the recipient could hang the present on the wall. A composition would only be a birthday present when performed. At other times, it would simply be a piece of paper sitting on top of the piano.

I'm sure I'd find some creative solution if I were a jewellery designer or a potter. But I had to accept that I was merely the proprietor of a bookshop selling crime fiction, and there was no way I could ever come up with a creative marvel to give as a present.

In the end, I decided to take a book from my own bookshelves: a selection of Lord Byron, published in 1946. This ticked various boxes. It was:

When I awoke the next morning and saw the book by my bed, I felt pleased with myself. At least I wouldn't be spending the day searching for a present. I woke Pelin and packed her off to the shop. If I hadn't had so much to do, I'd have gone to the shop myself instead of struggling to wake her up. I was finding her very wearisome. Since breaking up with her lover, Pelin was no longer the diligent person of happier days. It needed a winch to get her out of bed.

Without wasting any time, I went to the telephone and called Batuhan. I wanted to learn what he'd found out about Ä°smet Akkan, and also to pass on my new information. Goodness knows why, at my age, I was still trying to work with the police. People who knew me found it incredible. But life blows people in different directions, and their obsessions know no bounds. I'd developed a passion for detective work. I couldn't help it.

Batuhan answered after the first ring.

“Have you got time to meet?” I asked.

“Yes, but not until later this afternoon. I'll come and pick you up. Shall we have dinner together?”

I didn't want to say that it was my lover's mother's birthday dinner that evening. It's always better to keep people's hopes alive, especially if they're in a position to help with the things you're obsessed about.

“I have a date this evening. I'm going to the cinema with a girlfriend,” I said.

In men's eyes, going to the cinema is the most harmless social act two women can do together. Even if you say you're going to watch television with a cup of hot chocolate, men imagine that you're arranging an orgy.

“What time are you going?” he asked.

“We're going to the seven-forty-five performance,” I said. I wasn't sure if there was a showing at that time, but I was certain that Batuhan knew no more than I did about such matters.

“In that case, I'll come to your shop at five,” he said.

 

It wasn't even nine o'clock in the morning yet, so I still had hours ahead of me to devote to my research. Before going out, I planned what I would wear that evening. You can't leave these important matters until the last moment.

 

An hour after my phone call to Batuhan, I was standing outside the door of the basement where the old woman had been killed ten days before. On the way, I'd made up some new excuses for being there. I rang the bell. It didn't work, so I knocked on the door.

The woman who opened the door was obviously Figen's mother. They were as alike as two halves of an apple. I hoped this similarity was only physical. I didn't have the stomach for another woman with the ability to dissolve into floods of tears at will.

“Who do you want?” asked the woman. What a nice reception! Had “hospitality” become just a slogan used on advertisements for drawing tourists in to Turkey?

“We're neighbours. I have a bookshop near here. I'm so sorry for your loss,” I said.

“May she rest in peace,” she said, still not inviting me inside.

“I lent Figen a book,” I said.

The woman straightened her spectacles, twisted the ends of her headscarf and tied them behind her ears. She was clearly surprised that I knew her daughter.

“Figen's at school. I know nothing about a book of yours. Come inside and look for yourself,” she said.

I wasn't going to miss that opportunity! I tossed my shoes off inside the door and went inside. The woman looked slightly uneasy, as if she might change her mind about letting me in. I entered and, remembering the room from my previous visit, walked over to sit by the window where the old woman was supposed to have always sat. This divan was higher than the other two. When I sat on it, my head was level with the window, which meant I could easily see out into the street.

“My mother-in-law always used to sit there,” said Figen's mother, following me into the room.

“You can see the street from here, so you'd never get bored,” I said.

“Not even Süleyman the Magnificent managed to remain in this world. Now she too is gone, turned to dust. Happens to us all in the end,” she said, staring vacantly. “Shall I make some tea? Or I have Nescafé if you'd prefer it.”

“I don't want to put you to any trouble,” I said, like a good Turk. In coded Turkish conversation, this means that you would like something to drink.

“No trouble, my dear. Tea or Nescafé?”

“Tea, if it's not too much trouble,” I replied.

She went into the kitchen and I followed her.

There had been no change to the kitchen decor since my last visit. The same posters adorned the walls.

“Do you work for the party?” I asked, obviously referring to UEP.

“Not at the moment, actually. I took some time off. What with my mother-in-law dying. She was sick, so it was expected.
But not like that. God give us strength. It's been very hard on all of us. She suffered terribly. But if it's God's will, what can you do?” she said, shaking her head. “Come through and have a look at Figen's books, if you like. Take whichever one's yours.”

“The book's not important,” I said. “Figen can call in at the shop one day and drop it off.”

The woman looked at me questioningly. She was obviously wondering why I was there. Still, there's no need to respond to unarticulated questions.

We returned to the sitting room and I went back to the old woman's place.

As I turned to ask Figen's mother a question, I noticed a picture on the wall. It was hanging next to a party poster showing the little girl praying with tears in her eyes – like the one in the kitchen. It showed four men posing in front of the beautiful pink Beyoğlu Council building. Beneath the picture, in large letters, was written:
Council Chairman and Senior Engineer Hayri Tokçan and advisors – United Endeavour
. My eyes began to twitch. Probably from excitement.

“Who are those people in the photo?”

“The Council Chairman and his advisors,” said the woman. I'd seen that much myself.

“Is Temel Bey among them?”

“Yes,” she said, pointing to one of them. “Do you know Temel Bey? He's a very good man. He got my husband a job at the Council. Thanks be to God,” she said, handing me a framed picture that was standing on top of the television. “That's him with Temel Bey. He really likes my husband. ‘There's always a need for an honest man,' he says.”

I was speechless. I looked at the photo for some time without saying a word.