Baksheesh (9 page)

“Darling, you mean there are still people who remember?” She continued as if talking to herself, “It gives one faith. Such a long time ago.”

The woman must have been about ten years younger than me, so for her four or five years seemed like a long time, whereas, for me, four or five years was beginning to feel like just yesterday. How awful.

“You're not an easy woman to forget,” I said. I wasn't just saying that in the hope that a compliment would soften her up.

“That's an interesting comment for a woman to make.”

“Actually, it's important for women to make comments like that.” When I get going, I can be very good at bullshit. My problem is that I soon get bored and can't keep it up. However, it clearly had some effect because Habibe Hanım slammed her glass down, spilling cold tea that gradually spread over the table and would leave a sticky mark.

“Why on earth do we drink this stuff? It's nothing but sugared water, for God's sake,” she exclaimed, as she went to open a cupboard underneath the television. “What would you like instead?”

I leant sideways to see the bottles inside the cupboard. I chose a whisky, with ice and soda of course.

We'd covered a lot of ground by the time we got back to talking about Yücel Bey. My dinner with Lale had gone completely by the board. What could I do? It was a matter of life and death for me.

 

Lale was still up when I returned to Kuzguncuk in the middle of the night. Ever since she'd been unemployed, she'd given up going to bed early. I found her sitting in the garden, smoking a cigarette.

“What was she like?” she asked.

“Very unappealing to begin with. I almost turned round and came straight back. Then—”

“Then you set fire to your chair with a cigarette and somehow struck up a friendship.”

I don't like people knowing me and my little quirks so well. I don't like it at all.

“The glass slipped out of my hand onto the floor.”

“Hey, well at least it was something different,” said Lale, and she stormed off to bed with an accusing expression on her face as if I'd stood her up.

 

I hadn't learnt much from Habibe. However, the evening hadn't been completely wasted because she'd had the grace to share with me the name and telephone number of Osman's current girlfriend. Habibe knew her. When speaking of her, she'd turned bright red and started fanning herself with an old newspaper.

I phoned the new girlfriend the next day around noon.

“May I speak to Ä°nci Hanım, please?”

“I'm her assistant. Ä°nci Hanım is sleeping. You can leave your name with me.”

“She won't know me. My name is Kati. I'll call again later. What time will she wake up?”

“In three or four hours,” said the assistant, and put the phone down.

I called back after three hours. I had nothing better to do, so I wasn't going to forget. The assistant's response had obviously been designed for people with full diaries and agendas. But there are still a few people like me who rely on their memory.

This time, a different woman answered. I thought it must be İnci Hanım herself.

“Ä°nci Hanım?” I asked.

“Yes, that's me.”

“My name is Kati Hirschel. This morning—”

“Oh yes, you called while I was asleep. Hafize told me. If you're trying to sell me something, I can tell you straight away that I'm
not interested. And I don't want to take part in any telephone survey.”

“No, no. I'm not selling anything,” I said, thinking it was the first time I'd heard of surveys being conducted over the phone. “I just want to talk to you about a matter concerning Osman Bey.”

“Osman? Did he owe you money? Look, I've never got involved in Osman's business. Go and ask his brothers. If you don't know where they are, I'll give you a phone number.”

At least she hadn't started to sob on hearing Osman's name.

“It's not to do with a loan. It's quite… How can I put it? It's complicated. Shortly before Osman was killed, I had a quarrel with him. I have a shop in Kuledibi.” Was I making any sense to someone who didn't know what had been going on?

“So? Hurry up with whatever it is you have to say.”

“Because Osman Bey was killed after that quarrel with me, they think I killed him.”

“Who does?”

“The police,” I said, “and his brothers.”

“I don't know about the police, but it's a bit strange for the brothers to believe that.”

There was a short silence, then she added, “Is this some sort of practical joke?” This woman's brain seemed to work pretty well.

“It's hardly a joking matter, is it?” I said.

There was another silence. I was biting my lips, a habit that I hate.

“How did you find me? And what do you want?” asked the woman finally.

“I thought you might be able to help me find the real killer. I got your phone number from Habibe Hanım.” I couldn't recall Habibe's surname.

“Habibe?” she said. Another silence. Meanwhile, Habibe's surname came back to me.

“Büyüktuna,” I said.

“Yes, I know who she is,” she said. “How do you two know each other?”

“I met her because of all this,” I replied. A long silence.

“Ä°nci Hanım…” I started, but was unable to finish my sentence.

“I'd like to find the killer even more than you would. But I don't think I know anything that's of any use to you. More's the pity,” she said with a deep sigh. “You said you had a shop in Kuledibi. What do you sell? Chandeliers?”

“Crime fiction,” I said, thinking she would dismiss this as stupid.

“You're not serious? I adore crime fiction. I love Lawrence Block's burglar. Who is your favourite?” Her voice was rising with excitement and I now recognized it as a voice that could only belong to a crime-fiction fan. Was this conversation all a dream? Or was I really talking to a gangster's moll who loved detective stories?

“Mine? At the moment, my favourite is Minette Walters, but it's always changing.”

“Minette Walters? I haven't read any of hers,” she remarked, her voice rising in pitch to that of a spoiled little girl. “Well, in that case, bring a Minette Walters with you when you come, and let's see if I like it.”

Before putting the phone down, she said something else. Actually, it was a prophecy.

“You know, I sense you're going to solve this crime. My senses are very powerful. When we meet, I'll do a tarot reading for you.”

 

She had said she wanted to meet somewhere where we could sit outside, so that we weren't exposed to cigarette smoke, and I had asked her whereabouts she lived. The only open-air place I could think of in her area was the Bebek Café. Selim and I had been going there for breakfast recently, so perhaps it wasn't the best choice for me. However, it was a good place for İnci and me to meet, even if it risked reviving memories of happier days.

Bebek is one of the districts along the European shore of the Bosphorus, in my view the loveliest. If I were richer, or if rents were lower, I would definitely live there. Selim lived in a beautifully renovated old house on one of the hills just behind Bebek. I didn't like using the past tense for him, but I had to face up to reality. He was now relegated to my past. I was feeling pretty adamant about that.

 

I couldn't face opening up the shutters and struggling with the locks again in order to pick up a Minette Walters from the shop, but I didn't want to take her a used book from home. She might not have appreciated that. I, on the other hand, love books that have already been read by others. You sometimes find things between the pages. I don't mean anything romantic like a pressed flower, but maybe a tea stain or a cake crumb. It amuses me, especially if someone I know has read the book.

I went to Candan's shop. She was also an avid reader of crime fiction and kept a good collection. She was bound to have some Minette Walters in her shop. Sure enough, I found them as easily as if I had put them on the shelves myself.

I set off for my rendezvous a little early and drove fast to allow time for tea and a cigarette before İnci Hanım came. It's quite reasonable for people to have cigarette intolerance. For someone whose mother has died of lung cancer, even smoking at the next table can be intolerable. I've certainly come across people like that.

By the time she arrived, I'd smoked not one but two cigarettes in succession. That wasn't because she was late, but because I was an expert at getting through cigarettes. However, I suspect that isn't something I should boast about, either to my friends or my readers. Oh, what the hell!

I'd described myself to Ä°nci Hanım, but she hadn't said a word about her own appearance. If she had, “I'm pregnant” would
have been enough. Obviously that was the reason for her cigarette avoidance, rather than a mother who died of lung cancer. Despite her condition, or perhaps because of it, she was very beautiful. She resembled the woman in
The Big Sleep
– Lauren Bacall, if I'm not mistaken.

She looked at the cigarette packet on the table.

“I used to smoke a lot. It was difficult to give up and I'm amazed I haven't started again with all that's happened,” she said, toying with the collar of her shirt. She was wearing a frilly shirt, covered in large red flowers with green stems, and black trousers. In my book, it was a perfect maternity outfit.

“When I was thinking about having a child, the hardest part was the thought of giving up cigarettes,” I mused. “Not to mention finding a man who would make a good father, of course.”

“You're right there,” she said, with a smile that revealed all her teeth. “I was just making the best of what I had.” She shrugged her shoulders and added, “Now he's gone, there's nobody left.”

She didn't really look sad at all, but was merely stating a fact objectively.

“Is it Osman Bey's?” I asked, indicating her belly with my chin.

She nodded.

“I had an appointment with my solicitor today. That's where I was before I came here. See what I've been doing, with Osman's body barely even cold?” she said. Raising her eyebrows, she added, “Don't think it's easy. But I have to protect my child's rights. I'm not giving up on the inheritance.”

“Were you married to Osman Bey?”

“It's because we weren't married that I went rushing off to the solicitor. I'm trying to make sure my child gets his share of the inheritance.”

“But he had a wife, didn't he?”

She opened her palms upwards.

“God knows. He married a relative, of course, but he told me it was never made official. He married very young and said they never got around to having it officially registered. I don't know, maybe he just said that to lead me on.”

“You mean they were married by an imam?”

She shrugged.

“Lots of people do it. Istanbul's migrant districts are full of couples married by imams.” She looked me up and down and added, “But how would you know what goes on out there?”

Actually, every district in Istanbul, including Cihangir, was brimming with couples married by imams.

“Does a religious wedding mean the wife and children by that marriage can't inherit?”

“Well, that's the crux of the matter. According to the solicitor, any children considered to be Osman's, that is if he is registered as their father on the birth records, can be beneficiaries of the will. But the wife can't inherit unless she has an official marriage certificate. And that's the position I'm in,” she said, passing her hand through her blow-dried hair. “I couldn't care less what happens to the others. All I want is for my child to have his inheritance.”

My face probably showed how strange I found the way she said that.

“Don't get me wrong. I loved Osman as much as this child I'm giving birth to – and that's a lot. But I've had enough of big promises. I try not to raise my expectations so that I don't end up being disappointed. That's all.”

“How long had you known Osman?”

“Didn't Habibe tell you?”

“She didn't really tell me much. Anyway, it doesn't concern me. I'm just trying to save my own skin,” I replied.

“You're right. Why should it concern you? When I think about what she did, I can't help getting worked up. I don't know what she told you, but that tale about me stealing her lover is…”

“Tale?”

“Just as I thought. Oh, that woman. I wish I understood her problem. She says the same to everyone. Did she really tell you that?”

“She said that she was once Osman's lover and that she introduced you to Osman,” I said, wondering if it had been a lie. “Anyway, it's not important,” I added.

“Now he's gone, it's not worth fighting. Is that what you mean?”

“Something like that.”

“But what she says is all lies. Habibe didn't introduce us. Osman picked me out himself because he liked me. I was at high school and I was a good student. We used to live near Osman's family, in the same neighbourhood. He used to see me going to and from school. I wasn't the sort of girl to be dazzled by people with luxury cars and stacks of money. Don't get me wrong, we were very poor, but that's another matter. As soon as I was out of school, I'd do piecework, sewing sequins on sweaters. The money I made was my contribution to the household expenses. I thought Osman might provide me with a way out of that life. That's all. I'd long since given up on fancy ideas like ‘only you can save yourself'. Youth is supposed to be innocent, but mine was like falling down a deep, deep well, where after a certain point every ray of hope disappears, yet still you continue to fall.”