Baksheesh (8 page)

“Well, actually, I didn't want to make a recording—”

“What do you mean? You didn't actually want to, but would if I insisted?” He laughed chirpily again. To himself of course, because I had no intention of joining in with anyone's laughter.

“No. I wouldn't, not even if you insisted.”

“Then what's your problem, darling?”

“I was going to ask you if you remembered a singer who was on the scene three or four years ago.”

“Well, that sounds like an excellent question.”

I read out the lyrics and added, “She sang this song wearing a mermaid outfit. They said her name was something like Rüya or Hülya.”

He burst out laughing.

“No, sweetie. It wasn't Rüya or Hülya. See how wrong people can be? Never mind, they can't help it. The poor girl's name was Eftalya. Don't you remember her? Eftalya the Mermaid?”

I thought I'd heard the name.

“Eftalya the Mermaid was a stage name. Such a shame the song was so awful. The idea wasn't bad. But what a waste! Bad production, embarrassing song. That was clear from the start. Her real name is… Oh, it's on the tip of my tongue. I even know where she is at the moment. She runs a guest house at Mount
Ida. Way out in the country, not far from Troy. Called Goose Mountain nowadays. What on earth is her name? Wait a minute. Rauf will remember.”

I think he put his hand over the handset, because I could hear him talking to someone, but not what they were saying.

“Her name was Habibe Büyüktuna. Isn't Rauf splendid? He remembers everything. Never forgets. Like an elephant. Splendid. Absolutely splendid.”

“Yes, he sounds really splendid. Are you certain about the guest house at Mount Ida?”

“Of course I'm certain. She's not bad, Habibe. That is, compared to others in this business.”

“What's the name of the guest house?”

“You're a demanding girl, aren't you, darling? Let's see if Rauf knows that too. I have a terrible memory for names. By the way, what was your name? I didn't ask, did I?”

“Kati.”

“Kati?” I waited for his response. Or at least a question.

He didn't ask. This time he spoke to Rauf without covering the handset. When he finished, he came back to me.

“Did you get that, sweetie?”

“Yes, I did. Many thanks. You've been really helpful.”

“Oh, absolutely my pleasure.” The last thing I heard was that frightful laugh.

 

I called up directory enquiries and spoke to a weary-sounding woman. There was no telephone number registered for the Zeus Guest House.

“Can you try another number for me, registered in the name of Habibe Büyüktuna?” I said.

“Is it a Burhaniye number too?”

I said I thought it was.

“Ah yes. I've found it. Have you got a pen?”

An automatic voice slowly dictated the number.

I called it immediately.

If only someone would pick up…

But no one did. Typical! I'd had more than my share of disappointments over the last few days, don't you think?

I went back to directory enquiries. This time, I asked a different switchboard operator if there was an Istanbul number registered in Habibe's name.

There was. It was on the other side. You don't really need to know this, but the city of Istanbul is split into two parts, on the Asian and European sides of the Bosphorus. I'm a European and live on the European side, which is why I refer to the Asian side as the “other side”.

I called the new number straight away. I would have been amazed if anyone had answered.

Never mind, life isn't always amazing.

 

There are few times when you can wear jeans and still present the image of a woman who follows fashion. Well, that year they were definitely in. I tied back my hair, which had begun to spiral out of control through neglect, put on a pair of jeans with a denim jacket, and went out. I hesitated for a moment, twiddling my keys in front of the car, wondering whether I should drive. I was so much on edge that I was afraid I might actually run over any pedestrians who annoyed me. Yet if I took a taxi, there was a very good chance of ending up at the police station with the driver. People who take taxis in Istanbul have to be prepared to brave that risk. However, in my current situation, I thought that might be a risk too far.

I was no longer free to roam the city at will! I seriously considered walking to Beşiktaş and taking a motorboat from there to the other side. I suppose it wasn't impossible, walking through all those exhaust fumes to Beşiktaş.

Then I stopped messing around and jumped in the car. After all, I was a civilized individual, wasn't I? Yes?

And how civilized. I went down Akyol slope, through Fındık to Beşiktaş, and onto the bridge that took me to the Asian side where I turned off towards Üsküdar. All this without a single wrangle with anyone. I parked the car in front of Lale's place in Kuzguncuk, again without a harsh word to anyone. My self-confidence was back. Thank goodness for friends! Without them, I would never set foot outside Cihangir and mingle with normal people.

Lale was all dressed up, waiting for me.

I think we must have been missing each other. We hugged tightly.

“I've made a reservation. They promised me a table by the water. But families come out in force on Fridays, so we mustn't be late.”

“Fine, then let's go. But just a moment, I need to make a phone call. I tried before I left home and no one answered. She may be back by now. It's that singer whose name I got from your friend Erdinç.”

I dialled the Istanbul number of Habibe Büyüktuna. Someone picked up as soon as it started to ring.

“Good evening. May I speak to Habibe Büyüktuna, please?”

“Who is calling?”

“My name is Kati Hirschel. She wouldn't know me, but…” I stopped, not knowing what to say.

“Why are you calling Habibe Büyüktuna?”

“I'd prefer to explain that to her myself,” I said, thinking I might increase my chances of speaking to her if I made myself sound a bit mysterious.

“This is Habibe,” said the woman.

“Good evening, Miss Büyüktuna,” I said, as if I was just starting our conversation. “My name is Kati. I have a bookshop in
Kuledibi. I met an old acquaintance of yours the other day – Osman Bey.”

The woman let out a wail on hearing Osman's name. If not a wail, a very strange sound.

“My Osman's dead,” she said.

I was astonished. Bad news certainly travels fast.

“I'm so sorry about your loss,” I mumbled. “That's why I'm ringing you. It seems that the family are holding me responsible for his death.” For a moment, we were both silent. “That's not exactly correct, but in a way it is.”

The woman was still absolutely silent, but I knew she hadn't put the phone down because I heard her sniff.

“Oh, grow up. How could you have killed Osman?” she said with no hint in her voice that she had been crying.

“To be honest, that's exactly what I'm wondering. But the police need to be told this. So do the brothers.”

“Where are you?”

“I'm at a friend's house in Kuzguncuk,” I said, thinking Lale would kill me if I didn't go out with her for dinner that evening.

“Good. I'm in Koşuyolu. Write down this address.”

I had no option but to do as she said. There was something irresistible about her voice.

 

Promising Lale I would return within half an hour or an hour at most, I left and jumped into a taxi at the Kuzguncuk rank. Taxis from ranks are a cut above those that roam the streets of Istanbul. At least their interiors don't stink, and the drivers don't insist on filling your head with their ideas on politics and the EU. They also don't drive at such crazy speeds. In other words, you can get into them without having to fear for your life.

“This is it, miss,” said the driver. We'd stopped in front of a group of horrendous-looking apartment blocks. About twenty of them lined up side by side. The balconies served as
storerooms for the people who lived there. Discarded washing machines, mangles, barrels, wooden chests, dilapidated pushchairs, Scandinavian-type chairs without their cushions, a twelve-place Formica dining table – all waiting hopefully in the copper rays of the evening sunshine for the day when they would be taken inside again.

Habibe Hanım lived in E Block, number twenty-four. She had told me the bell had the name Büyüktuna by it. In Turkey, it's not customary to have only a surname by the doorbell. If a woman puts just her surname next to the bell, it indicates that she lives alone but doesn't want her neighbours to know that. Unlike Cihangir, not every district is welcoming to people who live alone.

I took the lift to the sixth floor.

There were four doors on that floor. I pressed the bell of the one that was slightly ajar and, putting my mouth close to the gap, called, “Habibe Hanım?”

“Come in. Come in. I'm in the kitchen,” she said. It was the voice of the woman I'd spoken to on the telephone.

I closed the door and stood indecisively in the entrance hall.

“Don't bother to take your shoes off. Come in as you are. I've been out of Istanbul for two months and the place is filthy,” she called from the kitchen, which was to the left of the front door.

I waited quietly by the kitchen door, listening to Habibe unpacking food and cramming it into the refrigerator. I always feel shy when I'm a visitor in a Turkish home. I feel like a spy intruding on people's privacy. It has something to do with the importance Turks attach to their homes, the very personal way they fill them with scores of knick-knacks, and the little secret details that give away the identities of the occupants. I think I'm a bit afraid of Turkish homes. They make me feel both voyeuristic and stifled by the dread of seeing something I shouldn't, something I will have to try to erase from my memory. I never go right inside unless a member of the household tells me to do so.

That was why I stood like a lemon by the kitchen door, waiting to be rescued by an invitation to sit down.

“Would you like a coffee?” asked Habibe Hanım.

“It's too late for me to drink coffee. I wouldn't sleep.”

“Something cold? Iced tea?” This had become fashionable in Turkey. But having read the ingredients on the carton, I think it's a most disgusting drink. However, it's rude to refuse everything offered by a Turkish host, especially if you've only just met and are trying to establish a relationship.

“That would be lovely,” I said.

Habibe Hanım put two cartons of iced tea and two glasses on a tray and turned towards the sitting room. It wasn't far. The kitchen and sitting room adjoined each other.

The sitting room was crammed with furniture: a huge dining table, a glass case of neatly arranged tableware, a television, a few marble-topped tables of different sizes and a three-piece suite that looked most uncomfortable. I sat down on one of the chairs and she sat on the sofa. As soon as she sat down, she lit a cigarette.

“So, do you want to tell me what happened?”

“Well, actually…”

“How on earth did you find me? Tell me that first.”

“Well, Osman Bey…” It sounded odd to me. Should I have said “the late Osman Bey”? Or would that have been too hurtful? I stopped indecisively.

“Yes?” Her small but pretty-coloured eyes were sizing me up, waiting impatiently for me to continue. I decided that she didn't really care how I referred to Osman. It was a bit odd really. Was this really the same woman who had wailed at the mention of Osman's name on the telephone?

“And?”

“On the floor below Osman's office, there's a packaging workshop. The owner is someone called Yücel Bey. You may know him. A tall, elderly man.”

She shook her head. Clearly my description wasn't very good.

“Yes?” she said again, this time almost ordering me to continue. Had I been capable of steering the conversation, I would have asked questions about the rent of her apartment, her fuel costs and whether people at the Mount Ida guest house got on with each other. However, never mind steering the conversation, I couldn't even control my arms and legs. When I tried to take hold of the glass of iced peach-flavoured tea, it slithered between my fingers like a fish onto the ugly factory-made carpet.

I jumped up.

“Show me where you keep your floor cloth and I'll wipe it up,” I said.

The woman didn't bat an eyelid.

“Oh for God's sake, sit down. The cleaner's coming tomorrow,” she said, pointing to the chair where I'd been sitting. “Did it spill over you?”

I felt my trousers. Fortunately they were bone dry; otherwise it would have been an expensive evening, because they were part of a trouser suit.

“No,” I said, “but what about the carpet?”

“Never mind the carpet. I'll fetch you another tea.” She went back into the kitchen. You'd think that at least I should have been spared having to drink that synthetic iced tea with its chemical peach aroma, wouldn't you? But no.

She waltzed back into the room with a carton in her hand and plonked it on the table.

“So, what did the man downstairs say?”

“He mentioned you. He didn't know much about you, but he remembered your Mermaid Eftalya act on TV.”

She leant back in her chair and laughed at this. A lovely, seductive laugh. I have to say it was the last thing I expected to hear in that apartment, sitting by a factory-made carpet with a former mistress of that thug Osman.