Divorce Turkish Style (28 page)

“My father's short. He calls himself a stunted Anatolian boy,” said Jasmin. “But he always goes for tall women – at least, the two I know about. My mother was at least ten centimetres taller than he is, and so is his current wife.”

“So does Tamaşa Hanım wear flat shoes?” I asked.

“I don't know if it's to please my father, but I've never seen her in heels,” said Jasmin.

“You don't really know her well at all, do you? I take it you've never lived with them,” I said.

“After my mother died, I went to a school near my grandparents' house in Germany, but used to come to Istanbul in the holidays,” said Jasmin. “How else do you think I learned Turkish? Of course I know her well, and a lot better then she thinks. She's so egocentric and self-absorbed that she has no idea just how well I know her.”

“And you've known Cem since he was an infant,” I said.

“Of course.”

“But you don't speak to him.”

“No, we're not on speaking terms,” said Jasmin. “We haven't spoken for six years. After that incident, everyone cut me off.”

Was the tremor in Jasmin's voice caused by regret? I wasn't sure.

“Do you have regrets?” I asked.

“Regrets?” she said, covering her face with her hands and taking a deep breath. “Yes, I have regrets. Deep regrets. I lost my father for the very stupid reason that I couldn't come to terms with him as he was, with all his shortcomings. It made me so angry to see how he trusted that woman.”

I looked sadly at Jasmin's face and saw tears running down her cheeks.

“Tolerance doesn't come easily to us,” she said. “I used to think Germans were more honest than most, but now I see that it's…
es ist eine Tugend
. What is
Tugend
in Turkish?”

“Virtue,” I said.

“A virtue,” she repeated. “There's no need to sanction every kind of human behaviour, but we should be tolerant of each other. It makes people happier. We don't choose our families, and we don't always share the same beliefs, but it's very important to try and get along with them.”

The three of us sat in silence, staring into space. Perhaps each of us was thinking of people in our own families that we had issues with.

“You asked me how she dresses,” said Jasmin, pulling herself together and wiping away the black streak of mascara that had run down her cheek.

“Yes,” I said.

“She has a good figure and dresses well. She usually wears trouser suits during the day, and classic tailored dresses for evening.”

That was not what I wanted to hear.

“Does she ever buy labels that young people are into?” I asked.

“Such as?”

“Sportswear?”

“I don't know. What kind of sportswear?” asked Jasmin.

I didn't want to mention the brand because it was confidential information.

“I don't know where she goes shopping these days. She hasn't always worn tailored suits and proper shoes. She used to go around in jeans and trainers, but they had to be the latest trainers, of course. Yes, she dressed well,” said Jasmin, glancing down at her own shoes.

“What size shoe do you take?” I asked, realizing that my question was somewhat abrupt, but I had my reasons, as you know.

“Size forty,” said Jasmin. “When I was young, Tamaşa Hanım used to get furious with me for wearing her shoes.”

“Tamaşa Hanım takes size forty too?”

“My dress size is thirty-six and she's a thirty-eight, but we both take the same size in shoes, even though she's taller than me. I'm a mixture of both my parents – not as tall as Mother and not as short as Father.”

“So you think Cem married Sani to hide the fact that he's gay,” I said, struggling to find the logic in what Jasmin had been telling us.

“It was all planned by his mother,” said Jasmin. “I know exactly how that woman's mind works. The only thing she thinks about is money. Money's the be-all and end-all of life as far as she's concerned. She just assumed that Sani, an ambitious little village girl, would be unable to refuse a marriage that would change her life. Most people would, I suppose.”

“They might assume it, but to put a plan like that into action requires a little more than an assumption,” I said.

“Well, whatever that ‘little more' is, she had it,” said Jasmin. “She was always very protective towards her darling son. When Cem was little, she used to wash him in bottled water, claiming that tap water was unclean and would give her baby germs. Bottled water used to be delivered to the house by the cartload. Yet they labelled me crazy without batting an eyelid!”

We fell silent again.

“Do you believe me?” asked Jasmin.

“Believing isn't enough. We need proof,” I said.

“Have you spoken to her?”

I'd noticed that she avoided referring to Tamaşa by name, but now I wasn't sure who she meant.

“Spoken to whom?” I asked.

“That woman.”

“We haven't spoken. So far there's been no good reason to contact her.”

“Never mind finding a reason,” said Jasmin. “You're private detectives. I'm sure she'd agree to see you immediately. She loves trying to outsmart and manipulate people. She'd give you an appointment, even if it was just to see if she could fob you off with a couple of lies. Yes, definitely. Trust me. Call her and you'll see that I'm right.”

“Is Cem aware of any of this?” I asked.

“Any of what?” asked Jasmin, making me think that either her Turkish wasn't as good as I thought, or that her concentration came in waves.

“That his mother was involved in Sani's murder,” I said.

Jasmin Gil looked shaken at hearing the word “murder”, which was the reaction I'd hoped for. However, I knew that Sani hadn't been the victim of murder.

“Did you say ‘murder'? Just a minute… How did Sani actually die?” gasped Jasmin. Finally, it had occurred to her to ask a question.

“The papers said nothing about murder. I assumed she'd committed suicide,” she said.

It was now becoming clear. Jasmin believed that Tamaşa had “killed” Sani as she'd “killed” her mother. Finding common terms can be difficult, even when people speak the same language.

“It wasn't murder, actually,” I said. “Someone was in the house with Sani when she died. That person – whoever it was – could have saved her, but did nothing.”

“The monster!” cried Jasmin. “A young woman died before her very eyes and she didn't even call an ambulance! That's outright murder! What else would you call it?”

“Well, technically it isn't,” I said.

“Technically?” she yelled. “What a vile woman. She simply got rid of Sani as soon as she'd served her purpose.”

“Do you think Cem knows about this?” I asked.

“Cem? No, definitely not. Cem isn't the type to commit or commission a murder. You'd never believe that he's her son. He takes after his father. Very kind-hearted, even a bit naive.”

Well, well! Someone else claiming that Cem was a good person. Which was all very well, but…

“I heard that you portrayed Cem as a harlequin with a sword stuck in his gut,” I said.

“Have you actually seen the picture?” asked Jasmin.

I shook my head.

“It wasn't a sword stuck into his gut. It was his mother's fingernails. The poor boy was struggling to maintain a smile as he bled to death.”

“And did you know that Cem had arranged for the nightwatchman to keep an eye on Sani's house?” I said, thinking that could hardly be called the behaviour of a naive person.

“The watchman?”

“Yes. He was paid to tell Cem about anyone who went in or out of Sani's house,” I said.

“That must have been his mother's idea. Cem would never think of spying on anyone,” said Jasmin dismissively, adding with a wistful smile, “He's like a child. An innocent child bathed in bottled water.”

“We must go,” I said, noticing that it was nearly six o'clock and wondering if Sinan had been to the shop. “Have you decided yet whether to leave tomorrow?”

“I don't think I can. It doesn't feel right. But you never know.”

“You've obviously been here a while. When did you arrive in Istanbul?” I asked, as if it was of no significance. I'm capable of
playing the part of a private detective, even if I'm not actually allowed to do the job.

“Two weeks ago. It's been six years since I spent such a long time in Istanbul.”

“That's a long time,” I said. “A very long time.”

So, Jasmin Gil was in Istanbul when Sani died.

11

I was still trying to make up my mind as we jumped into a taxi to take us back to the shop. Should I stop off at the hairdresser's for a blow-dry? Or could I make do with a ponytail?

“What do you think, Fofo?” I asked, trying to see myself in the driver's rear mirror.

“I think that, if Cem is really gay, they couldn't possibly have kept it totally secret,” said Fofo.

“I wasn't asking about that. I'm talking about my hair,” I said.

“What about your hair?” he said, giving me a quick glance. “What's the matter with your hair? It looks very nice.”

“You haven't even looked.”

Fofo gazed at me blankly. “I'm looking now, and I see a pretty face with quite a cute ponytail.”

The cute ponytail was the problem.

“Shall I go and get a blow-dry? Sort of Eighties style? What do you think?” I asked.

Fofo gave an exasperated sigh and said, “I'm not coming back to the shop. I'm going to Cihangir to see if I can pick up any gossip about Cem from the boys.”

“But Sinan's coming,” I said.

“So? What's it to me?”

“I thought you liked Sinan.”

“Are you suggesting we should fight over him?”

“I just think it would be better if you didn't leave me on my own with him,” I said.

“Am I supposed to hold your hand while the two of you flirt?”

“Oh, all right then, go to Cihangir,” I said, thinking how irritating Fofo could be sometimes.

Before getting out of the taxi at Tarlabaşı, Fofo said, “Let me know if you don't want me to come back to the apartment tonight.”

“I'm not that fast a mover,” I said.

“I don't want to know,” said Fofo, suggesting that he knew more about me than I realized.

As soon as I reached the shop, I sent Pelin home. It was past six o'clock and Sinan had neither been in yet nor had he phoned. Maybe our appointment had slipped his mind. This thought made me feel more at ease, if a little demoralized, because it meant I'd escaped a potentially sticky situation. I'd actually been feeling terrified, not just because of Sinan's age, but at the idea of a new relationship, a new person in my life.

Had I really been reduced to this since splitting up with Selim? Did I still miss him? Would it be betrayal if I started a new relationship? No, I was being stupid. Yet feelings could be stupid. It wasn't my fault if I didn't always think logically, was it? Obviously I intended to act like a mature person.

It was ages since we'd split up, and Selim probably had a new woman in his life by now. The problem was that we had no mutual friends to keep us in touch with each other. What was he up to? Was he living the dream with a new girlfriend, or still working every weekend and falling asleep on the sofa?

I'd forgotten the smell of his skin. However, I remembered how I used to lean my head on his shoulder and breathe in that smell. I'd kiss him in his favourite places while he was talking,
which would annoy him because he'd think I wasn't listening to what he was saying. But instead of getting cross, he'd look happy. He was naive enough to think that I couldn't tell that he liked it. He'd sulk and go and sit in another chair, put on his glasses and pretend to read the paper as if he'd fallen out with me, not realizing that I knew he was putting on an act. Selim was so sweet.

For some reason my heart still raced whenever I thought of the happy moments we'd shared – in the mornings, evenings and at night.

When I was a child, if I cried because of a bad mark at junior school, or my classmates teased me for bragging or I missed my friend Behice back in Istanbul, Father used to say, “You'll have forgotten all this when you're grown up.” He was right. Our minds are programmed in such a way that by the time we're adults we only retain good memories. My father was a good example. He'd managed to put all the bad things in his life behind him, including the painful knowledge that his aunt and two little cousins had died in a concentration camp. According to him, memory was a positive thing and it was contrary to human nature to remember negative things.