Belshazzar's Daughter

by Barbara Nadel

  Suleyman turned round to look at the young constable. “The Angel of Death?”

  The boy shrugged. “Like so many of them, sir, away with the bloody djinn! Sir, I can manage here if you want to get off.”

  Suleyman looked at the constable. The boy was attractive; he was very young too, just starting. He suddenly felt very jealous and very old, but he didn’t show it. “All right, Constable, you’ll take care of, er…”

  “Metin, sir. Yes.”

  Suleyman half-heartedly saluted the constable and made his way back down the steps.

  Sad, sad people. But Suleyman didn’t dwell on Metin and his deceased friend for long. A big, ripe gypsy woman walked toward him carrying a large bundle of white linen on her head. Her strong face bore an expression of deep arrogance. He stopped and watched her, hands on hips. She didn’t deviate one millimeter from her chosen course, but as she passed him she swished her long, filthy skirt against his leg. Noticing this, she turned just for an instant and looked at him, but then with a deep, throaty laugh she continued on her way.

  * * *

  Because it had been so unexpected, he couldn’t get it out of his mind. He felt vaguely sick. To start the day like that … It seemed like an omen. One heavy blue body bag and the van from the morgue holding up all the traffic crossing the Galata Bridge. Everybody else on the bus had gawped out of the windows, pressed their faces up against the doors—except him. Some of them had even laughed when the skinny young policeman had dropped what was probably “its” legs. But not Robert.

  It was hot and he knew that the body, although safely encased in plastic, was already crawling with flies and infected with the hideous larvae of maggots. Death was like that. How the Victorians could ever have thought it glamorous was beyond him. Death through the eyes of someone like Rossetti was dignified, erotic and smelled of musk and sweet summer roses. A lie. He thought of Natalia and her death. He looked around his half-empty classroom and tried to imagine how her face would slacken and sag as soon as rigor mortis disappeared. Like that awful, ugly picture of Marilyn Monroe on the mortuary slab he’d once seen in a book. But then why should she die? Unless she had an accident or someone killed her, it was mad! Unless, of course, she had killed somebody herself and then …

  He picked a sheet of paper up off his desk and held it aloft for the students to look at. It was a picture of Big Ben and the Houses of Parliament. Miraculously the sky behind the famous monument was blue. Even to himself, Robert’s voice sounded as dead as his morbid thoughts. “Who can tell me what this is?”

  His question was answered by a small sea of open mouths and vacant faces. If the four Syrian boys and the Egyptian girl who made up his morning class knew, they weren’t telling. Perhaps they’d all perform brilliantly when it came to the exams, but Robert didn’t really think that was very likely. For the lads, at least, there were just too many distractions in sinful old Istanbul. “Well?” he asked again. “Anyone know? Any idea in which city you would find this building?”

  The five teenagers looked hopelessly around the room for inspiration and, finding none, looked at Robert. He articulated slowly, as if to the inmates of an asylum, “It’s the Houses of Parliament and it’s in London.”

  He put the picture down and reached for another. Then, suddenly, and quite out of the blue, he wondered what Ikmen was doing. His heart jumped as his hand touched a small black and white photograph of Buckingham Palace. Natalia had rung and told him the policeman had been sniffing around again, talking about him and what he might have done behind his back. His poor darling had been so scared that at first she’d tried to bring their relationship to an end because of it. Robert had done well to persuade her not to do that to him—this time. But if Ikmen were to go there again … Was it perhaps going to be his last visit? Or was he perhaps coming for him now? On his way to the school right now? Robert shuddered and held the second picture up to the class. He hid his head behind it and scowled. He hadn’t shaved again and his shirt smelled of old sweat. Rosemary had completely ignored him in the corridor. She wasn’t alone either.

  “What is this building?”

  Again the silence from the class rose up and broke across him like a miserable, gray North Sea wave. His students’ brains were as dead as that body the police had taken away from the Yeni Mosque. Useless things, fit only to be driven away to the morgue and subjected to undignified surgical procedures. He wondered whether Turkey was one of those countries that permitted compulsory dissection of executed criminals. He imagined some awful Dr. Mengele-style surgeon touching her dead breasts with his cold, rubber-clad fingers.

  It couldn’t happen. It wasn’t a loud voice that entered his head, but it was insistent. It couldn’t happen, none of it. He was going to be OK, she was going to be OK, they were both going to be together, forever. He’d do anything. He even looked up toward the ceiling and promised a God he didn’t believe in that he’d do anything. Weird half-formed thoughts and ideas started crashing around him creating confusion. He knew this feeling. He hung on tight to the photograph of Buckingham Palace, but he felt sick and sweaty. He remembered that he hadn’t eaten again, but knowledge did not make what he was experiencing any easier to bear. He felt so ill, so full up with the heat, the flies, the rich and meaty smell of death. He tried to hang on. “What is this building?”

  His head rolled. Underneath the photo he just caught a glimpse of his students’ white, frightened faces as his chin descended toward the desk. His fear went and was replaced by a sort of donnish curiosity. Then everything went blank and silent.

  * * *

  “Look, if you don’t want to marry this woman, then just say so!” To Ikmen it all seemed very straightforward. Suleyman’s mother wanted to marry him off to his cousin. Suleyman was not impressed. All he had to do was put his foot down with his mother. End of story.

  “I wish it were that simple.” The young man sounded morbid and self-pitying and Ikmen instinctively lashed out at him.

  “It is! You tell your mother politely but firmly ‘no,’ and then you get out there!” He pointed toward the office window. “You get yourself a big blonde bit who goes like a shit-house door during August and find true fucking love and a measure of happiness!”

  “Sir—”

  “Just do it, Suleyman! Like most aristocrats your family don’t have so much as a Kuruş with which to feed themselves, so what do you have to lose?”

  “I—”

  “Your mother, you can’t stand! Your henpecked father, you can’t respect! Your brother’s already made the break and married a Greek! Just follow his example!”

  “But—”

  “No!” He’d already wasted quite enough time on Suleyman’s pathetic little problem. Sometimes people were so stupid and petty, Ikmen wanted to scream. Arranged marriages were easy—you just didn’t. He hadn’t! And besides, he was in a bad mood—he was sick of absolutely everything about the Meyer case. And he was especially sick of his total lack of progress. He changed the subject. “I’ve decided to bring Robert Cornelius in again,” he said. “I’m fed up with all this seeing what will happen nonsense.” He raised one hand in anticipation of any protest. “And before you say anything, Suleyman, yes I do know that the notion of being easy on the Englishman was entirely my idea and was contrary to what the Commissioner wanted. However, unlike the Commissioner, I am always willing to admit my mistakes.”

  Suleyman couldn’t help smiling—ruefully—an expression not lost on Ikmen.

  “And whatever you may think, Suleyman,” he continued, “I am now going to do what my nasty old superior wants and become a total bastard. And after all the games we have been party to over the past few days, none of the players involved in this farce can complain that they are not getting what they richly deserve.”

  Suleyman, his mind at least temporarily diverted from his own personal troubles, lifted his chin in assent. “So what now, then?”

  Ikmen sat down and, placing a pen between his teeth, began to “sm
oke” it for a while. “I want you to go to the Londra Language School and give Mr. Cornelius the chance to clear his conscience of his own volition.”

  “And if he refuses?”

  “If he refuses then you tell him that we are going to check every typewriter in the school against the letter about Reinhold Smits. I think it would be instructive for him to know how foolproof this method is.”

  Suleyman smiled. “Yes, sir.”

  “Oh, and Suleyman, take Cohen with you too. I think that a little show of force, albeit of a shabby nature, may be advisable.”

  Suleyman gathered together the various pieces of equipment that he might need: keys, notebook, pens, ID …

  “What about Ferhat?” he said.

  Ikmen took the pen out of his mouth and replaced it with a real cigarette. “I’ll deal with that, unless of course you see him. And if you do, get him to call in.”

  “OK.”

  As the younger man made to leave, Ikmen rose from his seat. “Good luck, Suleyman,” he said. “If we can get Cornelius to offer up whoever it was gave him the information about Smits, we might still get somewhere.”

  “And if he doesn’t offer up anyone?”

  Ikmen pondered for a few seconds before answering. “Well,” he sighed, “if the typewriter business doesn’t persuade him then I think that a full review of his work permit might be our next step. I mean, if that is not totally in order then it could be necessary for him to come and spend a little time with us.”

  Suleyman raised his eyes toward the ceiling and grinned just a little. “I see.”

  “Well, off you go then,” said Ikmen and, sitting down again, proceeded to light his cigarette.

  * * *

  The last person Robert had wanted to meet was the School Director. Unfortunately, however, Mr. Edib wanted to speak to him quite urgently. There had been rumors, a couple of complaints and now this—fainting in class. Not that Edib would be heavy, that wasn’t his way. No, a nice friendly chat in his office. He ushered Robert through the door and they both sat down.

  Edib immediately assumed a professionally concerned expression. “You are feeling better now?”

  Robert mumbled. “Yes. Nothing to eat this morning. Had a bad stomach for a while. You know how it is.”

  Edib didn’t but he agreed with a small, sympathetic grunt anyway. “An unfortunate event, but one, I must say, of several over the past, I think, two weeks.”

  Robert sighed heavily. “Yes.”

  “A very public argument with another member of staff, the matter of your appearance. I myself have noticed that in class you are less than—”

  “Yes, I know. I’m sorry, Director.” Robert raised his head and looked at his employer. He could feel that his eyes were very red and watery. “I’ve no excuse…”

  “Perhaps.” Edib clasped his hands together underneath his plump chin. “But I am bound to ask whether anything is wrong, Robert. If you have trouble maybe I can help. There is no question of disciplinary action at this time. Please do not be afraid.”

  But Robert was, although for none of the reasons that were passing through Edib’s mind. “I suppose I’m a bit run down…”

  “The curse of the dedicated disseminator of knowledge!” Edib smiled as pleasantly as his greedy, unpleasant face would allow. “And the students are not always easy. I know.” He laughed. Trying to be one of the boys. “But we must go on, Robert! These young people are placing their trust in us!”

  And their parents’ cash in your pocket! thought Robert spitefully. “Yes, I know,” he said. “I will try to—”

  “Good!” Edib smiled again; it was horrible. “I knew there was nothing serious. But really these things cannot happen again. You do understand?”

  “Yes.” There wasn’t much not to understand. Smarten up, stop having rows, toady to the horrible children and eat occasionally. It wasn’t a massive agenda and Robert knew that he had to do it if he wanted to remain gainfully employed. If he did. Of course, the ideal scenario would be for himself and Natalia just to pack up and run away to England. But …

  “You know,” Edib continued, “we all have problems. I myself have a lot of difficulty in my life.” He took a cigarette out of his shirt pocket and lit up. “Since that Inspector Ikmen came here with all his rude, arrogant policemen, I have had nothing but questions from the parents. Why were the police here? What did they want? On and on!” He held his arms up and shrugged. “What I have done?”

  But Robert’s attention to Edib’s words had switched off after the word “Ikmen.” Then he thought about that stupid, stupid letter. The one he knew, but then again, didn’t know whether he’d touched with his fingers. He’d written it right here. Used the information she had given him. Planned it.

  “You look a little green again, my friend.” Edib had walked around the desk and placed his hand on Robert’s shoulder. Odd he hadn’t noticed him move. “Perhaps you should take the rest of the day off. Get some food, some fresh air.”

  “Er…”

  “I really think that you should. Start fresh again tomorrow, eh?”

  Tomorrow. Yes, if there were to be one, that is. Robert licked his parched lips and nodded his assent. Go home. Think. But then perhaps not, no. Perhaps it was best to go out now and divert his mind for a while. Possibly—or, more accurately, definitely—with the help of alcohol.

  * * *

  It was an impossible question to answer and even though it was one that a lot of his older patients frequently asked him, Dr. Imad’s necessarily oblique replies did not get any easier.

  “The truth is,” he said as he replaced the old man’s hand on top of the bed-covers, “that I just can’t give you any definite time frame.”

  Reinhold Smits raised his red and rheumy eyes up to the doctor’s face, his expression a mask of both wants and despair. “I appreciate your difficulty, doctor,” he said, “but am I looking at months or years or…”

  “If you continue with the chemotherapy and restrict yourself to a quiet lifestyle there is no reason why you shouldn’t experience quality of life for some time to come. So far, you seem to be responding positively.”

  “But when the end does come, it will be both painful and undignified!”

  Dr. Imad sat down in the chair beside his patient’s bed and then took hold of the old man’s hand once again. “Look, Reinhold, there are enough pain-controlling agents on the market these days to make me almost certain that you will not suffer an agonizing death. You have more than enough money to allow you access to the most powerful and sophisticated drugs and besides, remission is, although unlikely, not an eventuality that can be entirely discounted.”

  The old man laughed. “You’d like that, wouldn’t you!”

  “To see you recover? Well, of course I would!”

  “Yes.” Reinhold Smits looked down at what was left of his frail form under the bedsheets. “Because dead men can’t write checks, can they doctor?”

  The doctor did not raise his voice in reply. He was accustomed to goading of this type. “That’s rather unfair of you, Reinhold.”

  “Yes, I know.” Now he looked sad, almost regretful. But then that was the way of his moods now. “The niceties of life somehow disappear when you stand upon God’s doorstep.”

  “Allah is, if nothing else, merciful, Reinhold.”

  Smits laughed again. It was one of those days, grimly amusing. “What Allah may or may not be is of no interest to me. In case you’ve forgotten, Doctor, I am a Calvinist like my father and believe me, my God will show little in the way of mercy to a person like myself.”

  Dr. Suleyman Imad had been Smits’s personal physician for nearly forty years—plenty enough time to realize that there really was no answer to his last statement. Instead, he simply slipped his stethoscope off his neck and placed it back in his briefcase. Smits was as well as could be expected given his recent experiences and there was little to be gained by staying any longer.

  Smits, seeing this activity, conc
urred. “So, you had better be on your way then.”

  “Yes.” Imad retrieved his jacket from the back of the chair and slipped it on. “I would like you to think about what I said regarding the police though, Reinhold.”

  The old man shrugged. “I may. Although I can’t imagine what it might achieve.”

  “They had no right to harass a sick man like yourself, we can see the result of that strain in your condition now. I would be only too pleased to speak to your lawyer in those terms should you decide to take action.”

  Smits closed his eyes and rested his head back against the pillows. “We will see,” he said. “Could you please send Wilkinson up here on your way out?”

  “Of course.” Imad picked his briefcase up and then smiled at the closed and sightless face before him. “I’ll come by again tomorrow.”

  “As you wish.”

  “I’ll see you then.”

  As soon as he heard the bedroom door close behind the retreating doctor, Reinhold Smits opened his eyes again. God, but he was so awfully tired of it all! He had been tired even before all this Meyer business began, but with that now added in on top of the ghastliness of dying, the whole thing was utterly unbearable. Not least because the most terrible aspect of the whole affair was the one thing that he couldn’t share with anyone.

  The way Leonid’s body and face had looked in death was, without doubt, the most frightening thing he had ever seen—that and the stench, the flies, the terror in blood that almost leaped upon him from that filthy wall. So horrifying, so barbaric and yet so awfully sacred too.

  If only he hadn’t mentioned the swastika to the old bitch. If only he hadn’t been, wasn’t still, so terribly vulnerable. A whole lifetime of being discreet, it now appeared, counted for nothing.

  And just that one tiny bit of thoughtlessness meant that Maria Gulcu could, if she wanted, destroy him. Which was what he knew she would do. He almost laughed when he thought about it now. Leonid would have laughed himself sick.

  A soft tap on his door was followed by the entrance of the butler.