Belshazzar's Daughter: A Novel of Istanbul (Inspector Ikmen series Book 1)

by Barbara Nadel

  Still breathing deeply she opened her eyes and stared into and beyond the thin meniscus that covered the surface of the water. All was gone now: the bar, Çetin sitting opposite, the faint sounds of the grieving alcoholics. There was just water where Samsun was, completely still like the lens of a camera, giving her access to, at the beginning, strange jumbled images.

  As if printed on rags the edges of these images were feathered and frayed. Without noticeable movement one gave into the other, melding like soft clay from shape to shining shape. For just an instant she saw Çetin’s face, his eyes clamped tightly shut, his brows knitted as if in great distress or pain. But then it was gone, replaced by a small group of children running down the road which leads from Aya Sofia to the Eminönü Docks. Samsun saw her own young face among their number, a sharp-tongued boy of twelve.

  High up. She didn’t know where but above the roofs of the city, the sun burning on the back of her neck like a torch and beneath her feet … beneath her feet was hot too. It hurt, just like the pavement had done against her bare feet when she was a child. The image didn’t go and although she knew she didn’t want to Samsun looked down.

  Below was a street, very narrow and winding like a twisted vein on the back of an old man’s hand. There were people down there and a car. They were all looking up, but she couldn’t really see their faces clearly. Some were quite still, but a few, including one in a fine gray suit, were waving up at her and shouting. Although she tried very hard she couldn’t say what they were shouting, but they were afraid.

  And then she wasn’t alone in her high place anymore. Turning her head to the side she saw a young man. He was dark and quite beautiful in a feminine, beardless sort of way and she was gripped by the most horrible feeling of dread. Something red spread out across her feet and lapped against the legs of the young man and he smiled. His mouth was like a door and through it she saw the picture of a woman falling down a wall, her blood searing and staining the plaster behind her, forever.

  Then with one short bound the young man was gone, flying through the air like a rocket, hovering for just a second and then descending. Down there. And a beautiful sight it was too. The young man was so graceful as he swooped and dived onto and away from the currents of air that blew to and fro between the gaps in the buildings. For an instant the sight quite bewitched Samsun’s mind until she saw where the falling and suddenly now limp body was plummeting. Down below, on the ground, another young man, gray-suited, familiar, rushed forward, right into the path of the other’s descent. Samsun wanted to call out to warn him but she knew he wouldn’t hear her. It wasn’t real. It was just waiting, that was all—preparing to be real.

  Samsun’s eyes flew open. She licked her lips. “It’s tomorrow.”

  Çetin’s hand shook as he took a cigarette out of his packet and put it between his dry, cracked lips. He averted his eyes from Samsun’s. “And?”

  “You’ll be all right, little cousin.”

  Çetin turned back to face her and she looked him straight in the eyes. “But only if you’re alone. You mustn’t under any circumstances take that young sergeant with you. Do you understand?”

  * * *

  It wasn’t that Rabbi Isak didn’t enjoy these occasional meetings he was obliged to attend together with other members of the local clergy, it was just that there were problems. The priests, both Roman Catholic and Orthodox, liked to accompany the proceedings with a convivial glass of wine or two. Of course the wine wasn’t kosher, which meant that he and his colleagues had to bring their own if they wanted to indulge. However, the Imams were not comfortable with it and he had always felt that it created a barrier between them and the rest of the party. Rabbi Şimon said that it didn’t matter and the Imams understood and were quite happy with the arrangement, but then he was a foreigner. Rabbi Şimon, although well meaning, didn’t understand the Middle East anymore than he understood old age. Accompanying him through the streets indeed! Who did the young puppy think he was! These were his streets, even if he were blind he couldn’t get lost in them, but then the man was a Pole and therefore couldn’t possibly understand. Rabbi Isak knew his way home and if he was attacked, well, it was God’s will. Europeans didn’t understand that; if something was written it was written and there was nothing he or the whole Turkish army could do that would change it.

  But the meeting had gone well. As usual the Moslems had been the least forthcoming and the Christians the most, but then that was just life. Islam disliked change as much as Orthodox Judaism, mainly because neither faith really needed it. The synagogues and the mosques were always full, unlike the churches. So he supposed the priests had to do something: build more orphanages; try to persuade the Pope to visit again. Turkey was such an outpost of the Christian world he had often thought that it could not be easy. But then was it easy for anyone? Strange fierce-eyed men with beards had been seen on the streets for some time now. Many of them came from the east and the doctrine they preached had little to do with the traditional tolerance the natives of Balat had come to expect. All over the world, it seemed, people were embracing extreme ideologies again, willingly. War in Yugoslavia; Fundamentalist violence in Egypt; the resurgence of Fascism in Germany. Manifestation of this last phenomenon had even appeared on their own doorstep. That old Russian tortured, his wall daubed with a swastika not two minutes away! Şimon for one was very worried, but then his parents had been in the camps. He didn’t understand Turkish Judaism and was fearful that old Meyer’s death was only the beginning. Isak smiled and turned slowly into the tiny back alley that ran behind the houses of the street on which he lived. Şimon was, in his opinion, taking one isolated, if insane, incident and blowing it out of all proportion. Vile though the act undoubtedly was, it meant little as far as Isak could see, beyond the fact that somewhere in the city a lunatic was at large. Things such as this had and always would happen where a lot of people lived in close proximity to each other. The real issues didn’t involve old alcoholics being done to death in filthy apartments, they involved Governments and the manipulation of nationalist or religious fervor by Governments. There was nothing of that nature happening in Turkey, at least overtly, apart from the situation with the Kurds of course. But then, rightly or wrongly, that was their affair and so long as their admittedly sad situation did not impinge upon his own community, Rabbi Isak was content simply to forget about the Kurds, poor souls! But … but most countries had situations of that sort with which to contend.

  He passed along behind the back yard of Mr. Zarifi’s garden and glanced briefly at the wide-spreading branches of his lemon tree. It had taken a lot to get that thing to grow in the rough and exhausted soil of the inner city, but Zarifi had done it.

  It was as he was taking his leave of Zarifi’s lemon tree that Isak heard the singing. Although instantly recognizing it as a drunken lament he was incapable of saying what the tune was or even which language it was being sung in. That it was even one song was also impossible to deduce as the singer periodically stopped and mumbled angrily before continuing. The only thing he could be sure of was that it was coming from that part of the alleyway directly in front of him, the bit he had to travel down in order to reach his home.

  Isak didn’t like drunks but he didn’t actively dislike them either. In his long life he’d seen too much poverty and suffering not to understand the sweet oblivion and even relief a full bottle of rakı could bring. Sometimes he’d even resorted to it himself, although he’d never actually been blind drunk. That was a terrible state to get into. Drunks were a nuisance, they pissed into gutters and vomited on buses. Poor creatures.

  With a sigh Rabbi Isak set his feet in the direction of his house. The singing was louder now and as he peered into the thick darkness he fancied he saw a figure, its long limbs swaying close to the ground like an ape, lurching past the outhouse at the bottom of the Cohens’ yard. But he couldn’t be sure. Maybe he was alone in the alley, but maybe he wasn’t. In reality it made little difference, he still had
to get home and if he was obliged to pass some stinking drunk along the way then so be it. From the sound of the singing, the person, whoever he was, was almost certainly too inebriated to do him any harm. Rabbi Isak took his keys out of his pocket and whistled a little tune to himself. The old songs from his youth were always a comfort when he was alone. Suddenly, however, the status quo changed very quickly and with deadly intent. A limp hand flew out from nowhere and touched him lightly on the chest.

  Isak gasped, but more out of shock than fear. It had happened so suddenly that it made his heart jump and for a second he felt quite breathless. The hand slid down his coat and as he bent toward it he could clearly smell the sharp reek of cheap rakı-laden breath. Although he couldn’t see him Rabbi Isak knew that his singing drunk was lying just in front of him, stretched out across his path like a human carpet. A sad state to be in and one that required him as a member of the clergy to assist. He bent his old back low and as he descended he became aware of a pair of small but glittering eyes staring bewildered into his.

  Rabbi Isak put his hand out toward the creature and lowered his voice to a gentle whisper. “Oh dear, you poor thing. Let me help you.”

  * * *

  “What the hell are you doing out of bed?”

  As usual when he was in one of these states he wasn’t so much angry at her as he was at himself. Çetin Ikmen drank but actual drunkenness was a rare occurrence. It usually meant that he was very depressed or worried about something, although even those excuses cut little ice with Fatma. It was gone two o’clock in the morning and he was drunk. Her eyes cold, she snapped back at him.

  “I’m out of bed, Çetin, because I found your performance of ‘looking for my key’ at the front door just too absorbing to miss.”

  He peered at her through blurry half-closed eyes and stabbed the air in her direction with his finger. “Very good, Fatma, a reply worthy of a born Ikmen.”

  She turned her head away from him and muttered, “Well if you’re going to be insulting…”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean anything, Fatma! It’s”—he took off his jacket and flung it across the back of a nearby chair—“it’s because I’m having a bad life. First this case, then bloody Suleyman—”

  “Mehmet?” She turned back to face him again, her brows knitted. “What’s he done?”

  “Oh, it’s not what he’s done.” He moved one hand awkwardly to emphasize his point and then sat down. “I went to see Samsun for a—you know, and he said—”

  “I don’t believe you!” Fatma moved forward, hands on hips, and stood furious in front of him. “Samsun! A great authority that is! Honestly, Çetin, I thought you’d done with all that occult nonsense. If our friends knew—”

  “I know! I know!” He put his head in his hands and rubbed his brow vigorously with his fingers. “It’s just that it’s all been so terrible recently.”

  “And you think that peering into bowls of oil or shuffling cards is going to make any difference? And Samsun too! The man is unglued, Çetin, not to mention immoral!”

  “Oh, I—”

  “And Samsun of course means the Bar Paris, doesn’t it! Lovely! My husband down among the pimps and the prostitutes! My husband the police inspector no less!”

  He took his hands away from his face and looked at her. He had to make her understand—somehow. It was late and he was drunk but what Samsun had told him hadn’t lost its awful power during his long and tiring walk home. “Something’s going to happen and I can’t take Suleyman with me. It’s too dangerous and—”

  “Rubbish!” Her burning eyes as well as her voice shouted at him and he cringed. “Some ridiculous member of your family says that something is going to happen, but it isn’t! Honestly, Çetin, for an educated man you can sometimes be so stupid! You’ll believe anything these weird people tell you! As long as they are mad or they’re filthy dirty or known to be a ‘witch’ or—”

  “I’ve solved cases before with the help of—”

  “Yes, you have, or rather think you have!” She pursed her lips and regarded him silently with deep distaste.

  The telephone started to ring. The shrill, almost ghostly sound hurt Çetin’s ears and he groaned. This time of night it could only mean one thing and, judging by the exasperated expression on her face, Fatma knew that too. He reached across to the coffee table and picked up the offending instrument.

  “Ikmen.” The word was said with such a heart-rending and despairing tone that for a second the caller didn’t reply. He or she must have wondered what awful event or disaster the call had interrupted.

  “Inspector?” It was Cohen’s thick, phlegmy voice, which, although it came as no surprise to Çetin, did not fill him with joy either.

  “What is it, Cohen? What do you want?”

  “There’s been another murder, sir, in Balat. Just behind my Uncle Zav’s house actually, a—”

  “Oh no.” Çetin could already hear the recriminations that Ardiç would throw at him, the fierce sound of his cigary voice beating and raging against the white walls of his office. “Jewish?”

  He could almost hear Cohen shrug in that distinctly Jewish way of his. “It’s Balat.”

  “Know who the victim is?”

  “It’s actually Uncle Zavi’s rabbi, sir. Rabbi Isak, seventy-eight years old, native Balat.”

  Another old man! Younger than the last and a different type of Jew than Meyer—as if that mattered. Çetin looked morbidly into the telephone receiver and wondered where the murder of Rabbi Isak would leave his arcane and convoluted theories about Meyer and Smits and the Gulcu family and old, old crimes. He didn’t know and for the time being he couldn’t even think about that. What he had to do now was sober up fast and get down there.

  “All right, Cohen,” he said. “Get a car over here to pick me up and I’ll be with you.”

  “Haven’t you got your own—”

  “Cohen, I’ve been out half the night, I haven’t been to sleep yet and I’m drunk! Just get me a driver and a car—”

  Cohen giggled. Ikmen knew they all secretly sniggered about his love for the bottle, but to have it done openly like this enraged him. It wasn’t on and he snapped, “Just get the car laid on, Cohen, you disgusting animal!”

  He heard the still giggling reply “Yes, sir” as he replaced the receiver with a bang. He could feel the muscles in his face were very strained and taut and for a few moments he neither spoke nor moved. Through the alcohol-soaked haze in his head he tried to think. Of course this killing might not be connected with Meyer’s at all, but he feared that it was. The victim was a rabbi! How the man had died he wouldn’t be able to tell until he got to the scene, but he had a bad feeling. It was like the first time, late, late at night. There were differences, of course; this time he was drunk and this time it was not Suleyman who had called him but Cohen. For that and that alone he was grateful.

  If it had been Suleyman he would have felt bad. But Suleyman was safely, he hoped, tucked up in his bed at home and if Çetin had anything to do with it that was where he would stay. He had, somehow, to give Suleyman the day off, but then he knew his sergeant wouldn’t wear that. Suleyman, like Fatma, couldn’t believe. They’d both worked hard at being “modern” people, they both had the kind of religious belief that refuses to admit even the possibility of other kinds of forces in the universe. Blinkered. It wasn’t a nice thing to think about two people for whom he cared but they were. Fatma particularly. No evidence, however watertight, was good enough for her.

  He got to his feet and retrieved his jacket from the back of the chair. “I’ve got to go out, Fatma, I’m—”

  “Yes, I know.” She looked tired, resigned and frighteningly pregnant. “I try to understand, Çetin.”

  “Will you be all right if I leave you?”

  “I always have been before.”

  He put his hand in his pocket to make sure he really had replaced his keys. His fingers found them immediately. So he was drunk? But he obviously wasn’t that drunk, wh
ich was a relief. He got legless so seldom it was sometimes difficult to remember how he was with it, the kind of things he was liable to do.

  He put his hand down to Fatma, offering to help raise her to her feet. “You should get back to bed, darling.”

  She pushed his hand away, but she did it gently and without malice. “No, I’ll stay here now, Çetin. It makes little difference anyway now. Bed, chair, they’re all the same—painful. The baby’s resting on my back this time and it’s like having a permanent slipped disc.” She looked up at him and managed a half-smile. He looked so pathetic in his dirty, rumpled suit, his face thin and ghastly with tiredness. “You need some time off, Çetin Ikmen. You look older than your father lately.”

  Çetin let a little laugh escape from the back of his throat and he took one of her hands in his. “Timür will outlive us all, especially me. But I know what you’re saying and one way or another I’ll finish this case and then I’ll take some time off. A long time.”

  “You will?” She gave him a look of such sweet tenderness that he bent rather unsteadily over her and kissed the top of her head.

  “I promise. It will all work out, you’ll see. The case will close, the baby will come. I might even take you out, who knows?”

  Through her tears she laughed. “I’d like to see that!”

  He patted her hand before he let it go and walked toward the door. “I’d better wait downstairs. If any of my men come up here they’ll wake the whole block.”