Celal could hardly open his eyes. The swarm of flies was getting thicker with each passing second, flying in for the attack again each time that Karachiyano let go. A rat scurried through the grass towards Celal and started snapping at his feet. Celal bellowed, scratching at the swarm of creatures attacking him. He felt as though the flies were trying to burrow into his ears, and he started pounding his head against the damp ground. So sure was he that the rat had gnawed off his entire left foot that he didn’t even realize that he was lying on his back.
“It is said that the natives in America smoke a peace pipe to settle disputes.” True, and they also sprinkled dried angel’s trumpet into the tobacco and drove the white man mad… The rat vanished, and the flies, too, were disappearing.
“If you can’t win with your fists, use your wits. A trick is only a trick if you’re already strong enough to win in a brawl.” Süleyman had said that. And he was right. Of course he was right. That’s why he had the best pocket knife around. If he hadn’t deserved it, the big boys would’ve taken it away.
As Karachiyano was circling around him, Celal muttered: “Rat, rat, this is what you get / We’ll throw you from the minaret / There’s a bird up there with silvery wings / And uncle’s pockets are full of shiny things.”
3
Checkmate!
IT WAS JUST A CHEST. A wooden chest, covered in travel stickers that had been varnished over, becoming one with the surface, albeit with some difficulty you could still make out the names of ship and train companies. Celal stared at it, still disorientated.
It was just a wooden chest. A hefty old chest. Then again, all chests come into the world at a ripe old age and with a ponderous appearance. You’d never expect the handles on the sides to start flapping, or for the chest to take to the air. Candelabra, on the other hand, can suddenly take flight, flitting here and there despite their weight. That is, except for those in churches.
As for vases, people always want to pour their woes into them, especially if they have broad mouths. At the bottom of such vases, words circle around, chasing their tails like trapped fish.
A good chair should resemble a colt standing on trembling legs. Most of the time they do. That’s why people sitting on chairs think differently from people sitting on settees.
It was just an old wooden chest. No candelabra, vases or chairs would be packed inside it. The masterfully crafted bookcase, the bed with its ornate headboard, the bed sheets, the water scoop at the hammam and the marble-covered walls of the hall would all stay just where they were.
Shame cannot be left at home. Nor can you lock it away. If you try to hide shame in a vase, any flowers you put in there will wither and die.
That feeling of shame will grunt and roar like a vicious gorilla. Trying to keep it quiet is one thing, but getting rid of it is quite another.
You have no choice but to fill your pockets with your shame and leave. You’ll be so weighed down that all you’ll be able to carry with you is an old wooden chest.
Plunged into thought, Celal was sitting on his bed with his feet placed on a wooden chest. Of course, he could have just shot Karachiyano. Or, if he’d told the men at the wrestling lodge what had happened, they would’ve taken matters into their own hands. But he couldn’t go against what he’d believed in when he’d saved himself by pissing in the face of the shop owner. In the end, Karachiyano’s trick was the work of a divine hand restoring the balance of things. Celal accepted what had happened as his fate and kept his word. Boarding a mail ship, the hull of which still bore the traces of bulls’ horns and Arif’s rowing boat, he left Istanbul, setting off down the Bosphorus strait like an ox fleeing a cloud of tormenting gadflies.
*
Throughout the journey Celal merely sat and stared at the ship’s billowing smokestacks, hardly speaking a word to anyone.
It wasn’t for naught that such vessels were called “steamships”. The thick steam poured back over the cluttered deck and slowly dissipated into the blue of the sky and sea. Celal imagined himself suspended in that scalding cloud, and then his red-hot body plunging into the sea in a hissing puff of steam.
The trip was so tedious that he was almost pleased when the police took him into custody the moment he set foot on the wharf.
“Celal Bey, our ships are fast but telegrams are even faster. We were all pleasantly surprised to see your name on the passenger list. For a long time now we have been hoping that you would come, so this is a happy day for us. I know that this is nothing like the tobacco you have back home but please, help yourself.”
From where he remained standing, Celal leant over to pick up the cigarette rolling towards him across the Commissioner’s desk. He caught the match that the Commissioner tossed to him and lit the cigarette, taking a deep drag.
Gesturing to a chair, the Commissioner said, “Forgive my rudeness, please have a seat. First of all, let me say that I’m not really a fan of your work. But I’m certain that if I were to search the desks of the officers working at this station I’d be sure to find a few copies. Truly banal stuff. Wouldn’t you say that it’s degrading, in a way?”
Celal sat down.
“I hope that you won’t be offended if I tell you that I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said.
“Please, Celal, let’s not deceive ourselves. It’s clear that you’re on a little vacation. The only thing preventing you from getting out of here and spending the night in your comfortable bed at your hotel in a way befitting the books you write is you. Believe me, the sooner that we can solve this dilemma, the better off we’ll all be. You’re probably wondering how we identified you, so let me explain it all so that you won’t go on embarrassing yourself by denying the truth of the matter.”
The Commissioner took off his jacket, hung it up, and lit a cigarette. After sitting back down, he went on: “I don’t have a problem with the books you write. For twenty-six years I’ve been solving murders. I’m not concerned with banning your books just because a few priests don’t like them. I truly couldn’t care less. In any case, we brought you in for something that is far more important. I wish that I could give you good news. At the murder bureau, the best news we can give goes along the lines of ‘Ma’am, we found your husband’s murderer.’ Those aren’t the sort of glad tidings you deliver with bells ringing in your voice! ‘Bells ringing in your voice’—that’s rather good isn’t it?… You see, I’d like to write a book of my own, but not the kind that you write. I’d like to try my hand at proper literature. The real thing. If I were to write about the murders I’ve solved, I’d have a complete oeuvre. These days newspapers publish novels in series. Which is fine, and they pay as well. But it’s hard work. And then there’s the matter of the proverbial grindstone. I just don’t have the time. ‘Bells ringing in your voice’… I’m fond of metaphors. What do you think? As matters stand, however, I’m not going to be able to write those books.”
“Commissioner, please get to the point.”
“Indeed, let me get to the point. Your pen pal, Jean…” He shuffled through some notes on his desk and went on: “Jean Vergez. He was killed on the same day you set out on your journey here. Shot in the head several times. Clearly it was a crime of passion. We searched his home in an attempt to find some clues and we found an envelope postmarked from Istanbul among his documents. It contained a chapter from one of Şerif Efendi’s books. When we discovered that the chapter hadn’t been published yet, it was a simple matter of putting two and two together: the notorious author was from Istanbul. There was no return address on the envelope, so we did some digging around to find out whether Jean had any Turkish acquaintances and we came across your name. The two of you studied at the same high school. By a happy coincidence, you decided to fulfil your longing to visit our country again, and so here we are. It’s quite simple, isn’t it?”
Celal listened coolly to the news of Jean’s death. After being duped by Karachiyano, he had been expecting that everything would take a turn for the wo
rse. He had even hoped it would. His gaze lingered on the floor. The parquet was buckling up along the edge of the carpeting, rounding into curves that began to take on the shape of a dog’s head that undulated along the floor until it reached Celal’s foot, where it looked up at him and sadly winked. As the Commissioner hoarsely went on speaking, the mournful dog’s head suddenly deflated like a balloon.
Celal replied, “It truly is simple. Primo, and may God Almighty forgive your error, you have no proof that the person who sent Jean that envelope was me. Secundo, no connection can be made between me and Şerif Efendi’s books. Tertio, let’s suppose that I did write the books and was sending them to Jean. You are not an officer of the moral police, so you have no right to intervene. And, since I was in another country when the murder was committed, you cannot charge me with anything. The simplicity of a matter does not mean that the analysis or solution will be simple as well. As a clever, experienced detective you should know that better than anyone else.”
The Commissioner silently got to his feet and walked over to the coat stand. He grabbed his jacket and stood there for a moment, deep in thought. Then he walked towards the door and, with his back to Celal, said, “Quite right, sir. I do not have the right to detain you. But there is a very good restaurant just down the street. If you’ll allow me, I’ll have your chest sent to a nearby hotel where you can relax after we’ve dined. But you will be my guest, and I won’t accept any objections.”
The restaurant had a few long tables that were arranged in rows. It was an unremarkable place, the kind frequented by labourers, petty officers and poor students. There was a common belief that such restaurants always had at least one dish that outshone the food served in the finest restaurants, but Celal was in no mood for such trivialities; so he ordered steak with mashed potatoes, while the Commissioner asked for two boiled eggs. They drank the house wine, which was served up in pitchers set out on the tables.
Twirling his moustache, the Commissioner looked at the eggs that were brought to him. First he cut one of the eggs in half and then into quarters, and then he sprinkled it with pepper. After draining his glass in a single gulp, he popped one of the quarters of egg into his mouth. He chewed it for a moment and then, still rolling the egg around in his cheek, said, “I know who you are. If I so desired, I could have you arrested for the books you write and get back to work on the murder case. But in doing so, I would incur your animosity, which is the last thing I want, because I’d like to work with you on something…”
Celal took a sip of wine, which was so sour that it seared his tongue, and nodded for the Commissioner to go on.
“We have evidence proving that you are the writer who goes by the pen name Şerif Efendi. I hope you realize that we wouldn’t launch an investigation based on an envelope without a return address. That was just a clue. And what good is a clue if it doesn’t lead anywhere? Of course, as you know the word for ‘clue’ in Turkish means the end of a piece of thread—the idea behind the metaphor being that if you follow the thread, it will lead you back to the beginning. Naturally, I don’t speak your language. But you see, I have a certain occupational illness that has led me to become fascinated by the etymology of the word ‘clue’ in particular tongues. Let me confess that I take notes on such matters, as one day I will write my own books. In French, the word for ‘clue’ is indice. It comes from the Latin word meaning ‘to point’. So we followed the thread of the clue in your language and looked where it pointed.”
With his tongue Celal was trying to dislodge a piece of gristle stuck between his teeth. The way that the Commissioner seemed to be bluffing, yet revealing critical details at the same time, made him uneasy.
“In that case, sir, you should have tied that thread around your finger. I fear you may have forgotten what you were really looking for.”
Celal was surprised when the Commissioner appeared to be pleased by what he’d said.
“The fact that you appear calm but are behaving so impatiently is sufficient proof that you indeed are Şerif Efendi. You like irony. We all do. Do you know what sarcasm is? Please forgive my pedantry, it’s only natural that a fan of literature like myself would be somewhat pedantic in the presence of a writer. The word ‘sarcasm’ comes from the Greek sarkazein, which means ‘to strip meat from the bone’. Just like you’ve been trying to do for the last five minutes with that steak which is as tough as leather. The steak here used to be much better.
“In any case, I had you brought into the police station to warn you that the things you’ve written under the pen name Şerif Efendi could land you in serious trouble. I hope you are aware of the fact that it is not customary in my country to drink wine with people who are suspected of having committed a crime.”
“Commissioner, I can only hope that your fascination with literature hasn’t blinded you to certain hard facts. Maybe you have just created a fantasy for yourself as a means of coping with the murders you’ve been dealing with for so many years.”
The Commissioner downed another glass of wine and set about meticulously cutting up the other egg. “That’s possible,” he said. “When you spend so much time in the murder business, you start wanting to destroy yourself little by little. But unfortunately your theory doesn’t apply to the case at hand. Although it would be nice to finish off my career by getting lost in such exotic fantasies.
“Monsieur Celal, I am a meticulous man! I take my job seriously. I didn’t just follow up on the trail of a letter that arrived from Istanbul so that I could see where it would lead me. Your friend Jean was very scrupulous about his private affairs. We were unable to find anything worthy of note concerning his love life. But all the signs were pointing with the fixity of a compass at his pocketbook.”
Celal stopped mashing his lumpy potatoes with his fork.
The Commissioner went on: “We looked into his bank accounts but didn’t find anything out of the ordinary. Then we came upon a joint account. The other holder of the account, an Ottoman subject, was none other than Celal, son of Arif. It would seem that you are a respected figure. That’s why I told you up front not to embarrass yourself by denying the truth of the matter. Checkmate! Or, in Pashto, shāh māt: ‘The king is helpless.’”
Celal called the waiter over. Huffing and puffing, the pot-bellied waiter squeezed his way between the tables and approached. Celal handed him some money and asked him to fetch a bottle of the finest champagne from the wine shop a few streets down, as he knew that the only region that hadn’t been affected by the recent blight was Champagne.
4
The Winged Bats are Right
“JEAN,
Bank,
Fake Celal,
Murder.”
Two bottles of the finest champagne, after some rather uninspiring Burgundy. Steak and mashed potatoes. The eggs that the Commissioner rolled around on his plate. Cigarettes lit one after the other.
The champagne, however, was actually quite good. Toasting disasters with champagne was a proper way to resign oneself to fate. But still, Celal thought as he sat in his hotel room, we should be grateful for what we have…
Celal was rocking back and forth in his chair, making it squeak with increasing rapidity, and occasionally glancing at the notes he’d made on a small piece of paper. Jean had been murdered. Two days before he was killed, he had gone to the bank with someone and withdrawn all the money from the joint account. The bank manager had known Jean for a long time so he hadn’t been suspicious. The passport that was presented by the man introduced as Celal seemed genuine. The age, height and description of the passport bearer were indicated in the document, and the Police Commissioner said that the description of the person who presented it was a perfect match. The passport picture was blurry, as was usual, and in any case bearded Ottoman men tended to look the same.
The small fortune that Celal had been hiding from Sultan Abdul Hamid’s spies was gone.
First of all, they had killed Jean. Then there was the matter of the bank account.
Using a red pen, he connected the words in his notes with lines:
Jean—Bank—Fake Celal—Murder.
As the moustached Commissioner had said, his life could be in grave danger. But no matter how hard he tried, he couldn’t understand what had happened. Slowly he started folding the piece of paper into a crane. As would be expected of a paper crane, it tried to stand up on its twig-like legs. After taking a few steps, it tremulously took to the air. When the crane slammed into the window, which was partially open, it plummeted to the ground.
Celal picked the crane up and placed it on a small silver tray on the table. Pulling the last match from his pocket, he set the tip of one of its wings on fire. The crane suddenly straightened up and then burst into flames.
Taking a deep breath, Celal scattered the crane’s ashes around the room, muttering, “When you’re in a pinch, put your faith in the elements. Earth, water, wind, fire…”
The first thing Celal did was buy a ticket back to Istanbul, which left him with little money. The next morning, as he was going through his chest, he came across a thin notebook. A note written by the Commissioner was attached to it: “This is the draft of a book written by a close friend of mine who is an aspiring writer. When you get a chance, I’d appreciate it if you could take a look.” Celal weighed the notebook in his hand, thinking that it was probably a sly attempt by the Commissioner to show Celal his own work. In the end, he decided to take it with him as he left the hotel.
The Peace Machine Page 3
