On the Bone

by Barbara Nadel

  General Kavaş picked the phone up and put it back on its stand. ‘People should be warned,’ he said.

  ‘People? What people? Our son is dead!’ she said. ‘I don’t care about anything else. I don’t even care that he was found with human flesh in his body!’

  ‘Keep your voice down!’

  ‘Why?’ She’d been ripping at her own face with her fingernails, like a peasant. It disgusted him.

  ‘Take control!’

  Through her tears, she laughed. ‘Take control? Take control of what? Take control of my life, which is now childless and entirely without meaning?’

  ‘You have—’

  ‘I have nothing!’ she said. ‘They can find a way to take this apartment away from us at any time. But then again, you don’t mean that, do you, Abdullah? You mean that I still have you. The problem with that is that I don’t want you. I have never been unfaithful to you and I never will, but I don’t want you either. You are a bull-headed man who has brought misfortune to this family, and I cannot and will not find it in my heart to forgive you.’

  He looked at her for a moment, his face blank and colourless. Then he struck her so hard she collapsed on the floor.

  It was the same boy. Long black shirt, black şalvar trousers, kufi on his head. If he’d covered his face, he would have looked like an IS militant. As it was, he always appeared to be a bit half-hearted and slightly embarrassed. But he still managed to unnerve the residents. Including Birgül.

  She opened a window and shouted down to him. ‘What do you want?’

  He looked up at her with an expression of incomprehension on his face. He never spoke.

  ‘Look, if you can’t speak Turkish, I can’t help you,’ Birgül said. And then Barış began to cry, so she shut the window and went to him.

  Moving into the Art House squat had been the right thing to do, even if it had happened only a few days after she’d given birth. But İsmet had proved to be a great father. She’d always known he would be. They shared the childcare just as everyone in the house shared chores.

  Birgül picked her son up and smiled at him. He stopped crying. Such a good little boy! But then there was so much to interest him in the squat. Not only did he have other children to watch, but the place was always buzzing with people creating art and making music. Everybody loved him, especially Uğur, İsmet’s father, who had found the building and started the squat. He was a textile designer and had created the most beautiful wall hangings for what had become the new family’s room. Birgül’s only sadness was her parents’ disapproval. Her father was a member of the Republican People’s Party and an avowed secularist who believed that political protest should only be expressed via traditional methods. That meant, in his case, some sort of military intervention. The residents of the Art House, some of whom were practising Muslims and Christians, didn’t want that. Military coups belonged to the old Turkey, and Birgül didn’t want to go back there.

  She cradled Barış in her arms and went back to the window. The boy was still out there. She wondered whether he was one of the refugees from Syria who had come to the city to escape the war. One of the covered girls had gone out to try and talk to him once, but he’d run away. Sometimes he appeared with a couple of other boys, who shouted abuse. They were definitely Turkish, but of the religiously obsessed variety, calling everyone ‘infidel’.

  She walked away from the window, sat down and began to feed her son. Samat in the café, who gave them soup and bread, had come over and told Uğur that Ümit Kavaş had died. They were going to have a little memorial to his life later on. It was very sad. She hadn’t known Ümit well, but she knew that he and a couple of the other squatters had been close. Ümit’s father had been in prison for a while, which had given him something in common with several people in the Art House. Even Ahu, one of the covered girls, had a brother in prison. He too had been in the military.

  Samat had told Uğur that apparently Ümit had died from a heart attack. But then he’d also said that the police had come to talk to him about Ümit, which seemed strange if he’d died from natural causes. Maybe it was because Samat’s place was opposite the Art House? The police did periodically sniff around, but they never did anything. Uğur said that Samat had told them nothing about Ümit’s involvement with the squat. Apparently they’d tried to connect his death with so-called rowdiness that had taken place in the street. In Uğur’s opinion they were just fishing. But Birgül had noticed that he’d put a sign up in the meeting room about visitors. They were to be carefully vetted.

  Cetin İkmen had not been to the Imperial Oriental Hotel since its refit in 2012. He’d never been to it before that either. But Süleyman had.

  ‘It used to be like the Pera Palas and the Londra,’ he said.

  ‘Faded opulence.’ İkmen adjusted the napkin the waiter had draped dramatically over his lap and looked around. The new Imperial Oriental restaurant was very modern. Comfortable but minimalist, it was decorated in matt white and patent black and was full of the type of people who dressed for dinner. This did not include Cetin İkmen, who rarely made concessions to dress codes. But his companion had made an effort.

  ‘New suit?’ the older man asked.

  ‘No, just don’t get to wear it very often,’ Süleyman said.

  İkmen drank some water. ‘I’m not comfortable with this,’ he said.

  ‘This place?’

  ‘No. Well, yes, of course. But I’m not happy about being given this man’s food. We should pay.’

  ‘Then we will.’

  ‘Have you seen how much this tasting menu he wants us to eat costs?’ İkmen said. ‘I’m still paying for the central heating my wife had put in. I can’t afford this!’

  Süleyman smiled. ‘I’ll put it on my credit card.’

  ‘Oh yes, and you’re loaded, aren’t you! When are you going to pay it off? When you’re dead? Why this bastard won’t talk to me unless I eat his food …’

  ‘That is Boris Myskow,’ Süleyman said. ‘He’s obsessed.’

  ‘He’s mad.’

  A waiter arrived. Smiling, he said, ‘Gentlemen, are you ready for your tasting experience?’

  İkmen looked at Süleyman. ‘I’m ready for my dinner …’

  There were sixteen courses on the tasting menu, each one accompanied by an appropriate wine. The first three dishes were apparently starters and, as the waiter solemnly explained to them, the entire menu consisted of Ottoman-inspired modern Turkish molecular gastronomy. Cetin İkmen was tempted to ask ‘What the fuck is that?’ but managed to restrain himself.

  Dish one, like all subsequent offerings, came with an explanation. Something hot and, by the smell of it, spicy in the middle of a vast plate was described as ‘Albanian calves’ liver in sumac, red, green and black pepper topped with a hummus foam’.

  İkmen picked the whole thing up on his fork and shoved it into his mouth. Süleyman cut his tiny morsel into even tinier morsels and practised restraint.

  When he’d finished chewing, İkmen said, ‘Delicious. Don’t know what the foam added, but very nice. What a pity the partially sighted would never be able to find it.’

  ‘That’s why we’re having sixteen courses.’

  İkmen drank some wine. ‘Thank goodness for alcohol.’

  The second course was beetroot soup, which came in a tiny white jug and which they were instructed to pour over their ‘textures’ of beetroot – three different-coloured slices of the root vegetable at the bottom of a vast bowl. Tiny star-shaped filo pastry börek followed, filled with tulum cheese and mallow leaves. İkmen was just about to declare that ordinary when a tiny middle-aged man approached their table and Süleyman’s eyes widened.

  ‘Inspector İkmen?’

  If anything, Boris Myskow was even thinner than İkmen, although he was far better dressed. He looked at least sixty, in spite of extensive plastic surgery, and had dyed black hair and hands that looked way too big for his body.

  İkmen stood up, but Myskow waved h
im down. ‘Please don’t,’ he said. ‘I never shake hands.’ Then he saw Süleyman and smiled. ‘Ah, your guest …’

  ‘Inspector Süleyman,’ İkmen said.

  ‘Hello.’ Myskow sat down.

  Süleyman smiled. İkmen resumed his seat and said, ‘It’s very kind of you to invite us for this, er, experience, Mr Myskow.’

  ‘Everyone needs educating about food, Inspector,’ the American said. ‘Even the police. Now your friend here, he speaks English?’

  ‘Yes,’ Süleyman said.

  ‘Ah, good, because I’ll be honest with you, Turkish is beyond me. My wife tried, and went running back to Los Angeles a broken woman. But the food, tell me about it. Tell me how it made you feel. People report that the textures of beetroot teamed with the soup make them think about soil and what it consists of. The liver is iron, it’s metal, industrial. With the chickpeas in the hummus there is some rooting back into the earth again, but in the form of a cloud that elevates an essentially humble ingredient to something quite nebulous, almost ethereal. Yes?’

  It was food. What there had been of it had been nice. But İkmen knew that he couldn’t condemn with faint praise. Not with this man. It would be better to say it was vile. He took a deep breath and said, ‘Yes.’

  For a moment he wondered whether Myskow had heard him. But then the American said, ‘Yes, what? Yes, those descriptions have resonance for you, or the food made you have different experiences, or what?’

  İkmen looked at Süleyman, whose English was not as good as his own. He appeared bemused. Panic started to set in, but then İkmen had a brainwave. Make it up. Myskow obviously did, unless of course he was indeed deranged.

  ‘The soup, for me, was about … well, the miracle of the natural world. The nobleness of growing vegetables and herbs and … It was visually stunning.’

  Thank goodness Fatma watched food programmes on TV!

  Myskow said nothing.

  İkmen’s panic came back. He’d have to say more. ‘As for the börek, well, this is a food I grew up with. The mallow leaves inside grow everywhere here in Turkey. The poor take them from the side of the road. But with the cheese, it becomes luxurious. A poor man and a rich man in a blanket of wonderful filo pastry.’

  The American shook his head and İkmen felt his heart sink. But then Myskow smiled. ‘You know, that is exactly how I feel about those dishes,’ he said. ‘All that BS about the soil … It’s all about elevation. Elevating the humble, marrying the luxurious to the everyday. Food democracy, as you have so insightfully put forward. If I shook hands, I’d shake yours.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘And now, pork.’ Myskow changed the subject. ‘That’s what you wanted to talk about, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Yes, Mr Myskow. How you store, cook, present the meat.’

  ‘I could give you some to try, but of course it isn’t on the Ottoman tasting menu. Here I’m going for an almost central Asian vibe. You know, the steppes where you people come from.’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘So it’s gonna be meat you won’t have heard about here a whole lot. Kind of a Turkish–Mongol fusion. I was so excited when I was told we could source yak meat. New food experiences just jazz the hell out of me. But basic, you know. Peasant food.’

  ‘Like pork in Christian countries,’ İkmen said.

  ‘Oh yeah, the pork, right. So do you want to come and see it now, or when you’ve completed your food journey?’

  İkmen said, ‘Well now if it’s not too much trouble, Mr Myskow. Then we can come back to our meal with our job done and really concentrate on your food.’

  ‘Perfect!’

  In spite of all the assurances he’d been given, he’d always known that somebody would come. What he hadn’t counted on was that it would be the police. Wouldn’t it have been more logical to send someone from the health ministry?

  ‘I keep all the paperwork associated with pork products separately,’ he said.

  ‘Good.’

  The policeman called İkmen smiled. The other one didn’t. Nor did he speak. Were they doing a good cop, bad cop routine on him?

  ‘I buy everything from Mr Zarides.’

  The paperwork was immaculate. It gave him confidence. But would they actually want to know what was in the fridge? Or the freezer? Would they want to examine it? Weigh it? He soon found out.

  ‘We’ll need to check your paperwork and your stocks,’ İkmen said.

  ‘You want to look at the meat?’

  ‘Yes. Inspector Süleyman will inspect the paperwork.’

  Boris knew he’d coloured up. He always did. His face was like a Mexican carnival and he could see that they’d noticed it.

  There wasn’t much paperwork. Invoices and receipts from Tayyar Zarides, the Imperial Oriental’s licence to sell pork products. Zarides was always careful to accurately record the cut of meat provided, together with its weight.

  Boris hadn’t asked what this was about. Now he said, ‘Is there a problem with my pork licence?’

  ‘No.’

  He led them into his office and pulled out the correspondence from Zarides.

  ‘And your licence?’ the younger cop asked.

  ‘It’s in with the receipts,’ Boris said.

  ‘May I sit at your desk, Mr Myskow?’

  ‘Yeah. Of course.’

  Inspector İkmen put a hand on Boris’s shoulder. He winced. ‘Let’s see the meat.’

  It didn’t take long. There wasn’t much for the policeman to see. Boris wondered whether İkmen and the other one, whose name kept escaping him, would check what he’d bought against what he’d used. İkmen picked up frozen meat and looked at the bottom of the freezer. Then he said, ‘Forgive me, Mr Myskow, but I didn’t think chefs like yourself used frozen meat. Does it not come in fresh every day?’

  Boris took a deep breath. ‘Yes. Except the pork,’ he said.

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because demand is sporadic. Sometimes we have a lot of guests from Europe and the States, sometimes all our guests are Arabian.’

  ‘I see.’

  Should he ask him what this was about?

  ‘We will need to take copies of your paperwork and samples of the meat,’ İkmen said.

  ‘Samples …’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘You want me to get …’

  ‘I want to take a random sample of my choosing,’ İkmen said.

  ‘Why?’

  He smiled. ‘For testing.’

  ‘What for?’

  Boris knew he was coming across badly. Even he could hear desperation in his voice. Christ knew how İkmen was interpreting that!

  ‘To make sure that the meat is disease-free and of good quality.’

  ‘But don’t you have other police to do this kind of stuff? We’ve had them here before. They’re in uniform …’

  ‘The Zabıta, yes,’ İkmen said. ‘Our market police do usually deal with issues like this. But they are principally concerned with weights and measures, ensuring that the public receive the right quantities of, for instance, pure gold in a jewellery product. I am confident that weights and measures are not an issue at an Istanbul institution like your hotel.’

  ‘So what are you …’

  ‘As I said, Mr Myskow, I am simply making sure that the conditions of your licence are being fulfilled and that the meat you are serving is free of disease.’ He picked up a frozen leg from the bottom of the freezer.

  ‘I’ll take this if I may.’

  Back in the restaurant, a frozen leg of pork resting on İkmen’s feet under the table, the two men were offered something that looked like a pomegranate but tasted of lamb. Once Boris Myskow had received their praise for this dish, he left. Clearly they were all friends again.

  İkmen, smiling, whispered to Süleyman, ‘Did you see how his face coloured?’

  Chapter 4

  Burak and Mustafa Ayan had been his only Turkish friends. He knew they’d always laughed at him, but he hadn’t cared. They could spe
ak Arabic.

  They’d let him hang about with them and they’d asked him lots of questions. They hadn’t thought he was a freeloader. Whenever they’d seen him, they’d always come over and talked. Not like the people in the squat.

  He’d been told about the Art House by a woman he’d met at a local market called Mina. She was Syrian too, but he suspected, even though she’d never said, that she was a Christian. She didn’t cover and she was educated. They were all educated, the Christians. The Turks in the squat were educated and they had given Mina food and a place to stay until she got a room of her own. Now she was working and he didn’t see her any more. Radwan had no business with the squat. But he kept on going there, standing outside, suffering abuse, or so he thought, from the people inside. How could he know what they were saying when he didn’t speak Turkish?

  The Art House people probably did think he was strange. He knew they found him threatening. Boys dressed like him hung around the streets in that area all the time. Mainly they reminded people of their religious obligations. Most of them, like Burak and Mustafa, were Turks from the Fatih district, which was where Radwan stayed, in a park that was in an old empty reservoir known as a cistern. It was quiet there at night and he could generally sleep undisturbed. Burak and Mustafa used to play basketball there most mornings before they all went over to the Karaköy squat. But now they’d gone.

  The last time Radwan had seen the boys had been outside the Art House. There were a couple of covered girls in there who Burak was always keen to speak to. Why were these sisters living in a place of sin where people danced and drew representations of the human body? All three boys had thrown stones at the building until a man had come roaring out carrying a baseball bat. They’d run away, but later they went back. It was then that Burak and Mustafa had disappeared. They’d told Radwan to go and steal some cakes from behind the café opposite, but when he’d come back, they’d gone. He’d looked for them but to no avail. He knew the Art House weirdos had them.

  Beyond knowing that their mother, who they said had been Syrian, was dead, Radwan didn’t know anything much about Burak and Mustafa. He had no idea where they lived or what they did when they weren’t hanging around the streets. They prayed, but he didn’t know which mosque they attended. All he knew for sure was that they were religious and they cared about his country.