Hotel Bosphorus (8 page)

As soon as the waiter left us alone, Petra started relating what she had done the day before. It was the first time since she arrived that she'd had an opportunity to look round Istanbul and, like all normal tourists, she had visited Sultan Ahmed. Until that city tour, my friend had probably thought the beauty of Istanbul consisted of the view of the Bosphorus she could see from her hotel window. She started to describe with surprised excitement the wonders of Topkapı Palace, Ayasofya, the Underground Reservoir and the Sultan Ahmed mosque,
which she had visited during her tour of the historical peninsula the day before. But I interrupted her: I'd spent the last thirteen years, as well as my first seven, in Istanbul and had had frequent visitors who all told the same stories, with the same expression of enthusiasm and wonder. I found it nauseating. Also, I preferred to talk about the fight between Ayla Özdal and Petra over the starring role, and about the love affair between Müller and Petra.

“Did you know you were about to be sacked?” I asked as my first line of attack.

“No, I heard it for the first time this morning from you,” she said. She rummaged around in her handbag for a packet of cigarettes. “What are the papers saying?”

I had to satisfy my own curiosity before answering Petra. After all, I'd had to put up with that endless chat about stupid German films all the way from the hotel.

“Do you know Ayla Özdal?” I asked. I pushed a newspaper with a photograph of the woman towards Petra. She pulled the paper towards her and studied the photograph.

“This woman? No, I don't know her.” She rummaged in her bag again and produced a lighter.

“Are you sure?”

“Yes, I'm sure. Definitely,” she said. “What are the papers saying?” she asked huskily as she lit her cigarette.

“The papers are saying that your former director Müller wanted to give your part to that woman. Or rather, that woman claimed at a press conference yesterday that Müller would have given it to her, if he hadn't died.”

“Well, that's interesting. You must be wondering why she would say a thing like that.”

“Yes,” I said, “that's exactly what I'm wondering.”

I was just pondering that Petra's interest had clearly been aroused by the Ayla Özdal incident, when she said, “Give me your mobile for a moment.”

My friends think I've assimilated well in most respects, but I've never seen anyone fall in line with Turks like Petra, and she'd barely been in Turkey for a week.

“Is this the time to talk on the phone?” I said, rolling my eyes.

“Don't you want me to find out whether or not I was really going to be sacked? I'm going to ring the Turkish producer and ask him. If all the papers are writing that I'm to be sacked, they can say it to my face.”

It was a rare moment when a mobile could have been of use and I was unable to enjoy it. Without even finishing our tea and
simits
, I dragged Petra towards the nearest telephone, which was at the hotel because of course we couldn't call from a public booth in Ortaköy.

I decided to put off telling Petra that I knew about her relationship with Müller until later. Whatever happened, that was to be my main striking blow.

 

It was not at all easy to reach the Turkish producer. First, Petra spoke to the person who answered the office number she had been given. She had no need of any help from me because it was obviously someone who spoke German. This person said they couldn't give out the producer's mobile number, because he was on holiday and didn't want to speak to anyone. Looking annoyed, Petra put the phone down and dialled the number of the film company in Germany. It took at least five minutes to get the producer's home number from the secretary. By then, I'd forgotten all about Ayla
Özdal and was worrying about the phone bill, especially after the increase in telephone costs since the economic crash. Of course Petra wasn't bothered about bills or financial crashes; her hotel bill and expenses were all being paid for by the men she was trying to contact.

She dialled the number the secretary had given her. As far as I could tell, the person who answered was the producer himself.

Without allowing him to get a word in, Petra summarized that day's news in the Turkish press at lightning speed.

As you know, I hadn't seen her for years and she had never been my closest friend, but one didn't really have to know her very well or be a connoisseur of human nature like me to understand that Petra was sparing the man at the other end of the line nothing as she vented her rage.

I looked for a place where I could get away from Petra's escalating voice. The only place was the bathroom. It wasn't a luxury suite as she'd had previously, but nevertheless a luxury hotel room, a twenty-five-square-metre, tastefully furnished room.

 

By the time Petra had finished her conversation and was knocking on the bathroom door, I'd read the directions on all the cosmetics in the bathroom and was about to move on to the lists of ingredients.

What she told me was that Mr Franz, the German producer, had said the sacking story definitely couldn't be true; he would find out who had started that gossip and why, and call Petra back in a little while.

Actually, I found it strange that Petra had suddenly become so irate, because I'd been convinced by the
impression she'd given of being unconcerned about losing her job.

“What's happened?” I asked. “Before, you didn't seem bothered that you might be sacked. Why are you so furious now?”

She picked up an envelope that had been lying on a side table and waved it under my nose.

“They gave this to me when I collected my key, didn't you notice?”

I had noticed. What's more I'd seen her biting her lip in irritation as she read the contents of that envelope in the lift but, unusually for me, I'd thought better of asking too many questions.

“Yes, I did. What does it say?” I said.

“It was sent from the production company. Mr Franz knew nothing about it. If only I knew what this Turkish producer has been up to… Apparently they're not going to pay for this room. Straight after the murder, they said the suite was too expensive and now they're saying the cost of
this
room is too high. They've found a cheaper hotel they want me to move to. Costs have shot up because of the extra time we have to spend in Istanbul and they can't meet the costs of a hotel in this price bracket…”

“Wonderful!” I thought. In that case, would she be paying for that phone call?

I thought of suggesting that Petra should move to my apartment, but immediately had second thoughts. I wasn't sure if I could bear to share my home with anyone other than Fofo just yet. The best solution would be to recommend a hotel with a view that was in my neighbourhood.

While waiting for the call from the German producer, we ordered tea from room service, knowing very well
that from now on the film company would not be footing the bill.

 

By the time the telephone rang, I was thinking I'd have to leave if I was to make my four-o'clock appointment.

The person who called was the Turkish producer. Given that the man had abandoned his holiday to make telephone calls, Petra's call to Germany had clearly been productive.

Petra said, “One moment,” in English, and passed the receiver to me.

“We can't understand each other. He doesn't know German. He speaks English but, as you know, I… You talk to him and tell me what he says.”

I introduced myself to him. Right from the start, he talked to me in the familiar style of a Berlin waiter.

“Are you going to translate?” he asked.

“Yes, I am. Petra wants to know whether or not you know anything about the news that came out in the papers today.”

“I've just explained to our German partner. Ayla is just trying to get herself talked about and… I mean, artists do that sort of thing to create a sensation. Miss Vogel should know all about that. Ayla took the opportunity to do it because we weren't in Istanbul. In fact there's no substance to this news …”

I interrupted him: “You mean Ayla has some connection with your company? I don't understand what you mean.”

“Madam, Ayla used to be my wife. I hope Miss Vogel will forgive us; we'll see she's compensated for this mistake.”

“You mean your ex-wife started the rumour because your company was involved. Is that right?” I said, repeating what he'd said in order to be sure that I'd understood properly.

“Yes, yes, that's right. It's not important. Nothing to panic about.”

I twisted my bottom lip and looked at Petra. I think it must be a Turkish trait because she didn't understand what I meant.

“But Petra had a letter from your film company today telling her to leave this hotel because they can no longer pay the bill here.”

“Oh no, she doesn't have to leave. We'll sort it out when we get back to Istanbul. Make a note of my mobile number, and Miss Vogel can call us if she has any problem,” he said.

After putting the telephone down, I laughed cynically. For twenty-four hours, Ayla Özdal had been discussing ridiculous conspiracy theories with various people, including homicide desk inspectors, yet it hadn't occurred to anyone that this woman might have been making it all up.

I conveyed the gist of the conversation to Petra. She calmed down considerably when she heard that the hotel fees were to be paid. With a tranquil smile, she said, “I thought there might be something like that behind Ayla Özdal's stories.”

“You guessed?”

“Of course. Things like this happen all the time; remember I've been in the cinema business for twenty years. Anyway, that woman is too young; she wouldn't have been right for this part. You can't age a woman by thirty years, even with the best make-up artists.”

I was annoyed with myself for not realizing the age issue before. “Yes, she's definitely too young,” I murmured.

“Kurt allowed her to hope that she would have my part. He played her at her own game.” Tossing her hair, she threw back her head and gave a mocking half-smile. “And anyway, who's Kurt? Who's he to sack me?”

I couldn't spend any more time learning about the tricks of people who want to be directors or film stars. It was three thirty.

 

I was fifteen minutes late when I entered the café opposite my shop in Kuledibi where the two reporters were drinking tea and smoking at tables covered with camera equipment. I had rushed there on foot after my conversation with the producer, Ayla Özdal's ex. There was little more I could learn from these reporters, but I didn't want to upset Lale. After all, she'd arranged for me to have a few hours with them.

The crime reporter, who I reckoned to be in his fifties, was a skinny, bald chain smoker with nicotine-stained fingers. The magazine reporter on the other hand looked young enough to be playing truant from school. They made an odd couple.

“Who's this Ayla Özdal?” I asked the youth, after the usual introductions.

“Haven't you heard of her?” he asked accusingly, as if we were talking about Claudia Cardinale. “Ayla was crowned Miss Turkey in 2000 and then went on to become a model. Three months ago she brought out an album, but it hasn't been selling very well. Apparently she's going to have a part in a new TV series due to start broadcasting next season. It was a stroke of bad luck for her that the film director was killed, because a part
in an international production could have changed everything for her. What a shame, a real shame.” I got the distinct impression that this young reporter was one of Ayla's admirers.

“She's supposed to have had a relationship with Mesut Mumcu. Is that true?” I asked. Mesut Mumcu was the name of the Turkish producer who had spoken to me in such a familiar manner.

“Yep, that's the rumour. Some of our colleagues saw them out together a few times… but Ayla says they're ‘just friends'. I think you have to believe they're just friends unless there's proof otherwise. Things get very confused in this business. There's gossip about everyone. Why do you ask?”

“From the way Mesut
Bey
speaks about Ayla Özdal, I get the impression they were married.”

The reporter found what I said amusing. He grinned and said, “In this world, relationships… It's difficult for a foreigner to understand.” Perhaps he thought Germans were from another planet. I didn't disillusion him.

“Mesut
Bey
would have said that to avoid saying she's just a woman he's been sleeping with,” he said, adding with a stupid grin, “Do you understand?”

“You mean they were never properly married? The man just says ‘my wife' out of politeness?” I asked. Was I really from another planet?

“I don't know. Maybe they had a religious wedding ceremony. But I doubt if it was a long-standing or serious relationship. As I said, we reporters were not even sure if anything was really going on between them.”

“I think I should watch a few more gossip programmes,” I said, laughing.

“This business has its own code of practice,” said the magazine reporter. “It's our job to provide society with information about the lives of the rich, but we don't gossip,” he said emphatically.

The crime reporter nodded in agreement. A bit of professional support seemed to be required.

“There wasn't any news about the murder in the papers today. Haven't there been any new developments?” I asked. As you might have guessed, I addressed this question to the crime reporter.

“The police aren't giving anything away. I think they've been investigating something else since the murder. Mesut Mumcu was one of those released in the latest amnesty…”