Arabesk

by Barbara Nadel

  Ìkmen smoked three cigarettes one after the other on his way back to his office from {he cigarette kiosk. Some people, like Erol, didn't much like a lot of smoke around their small infants and so he had to make sure he had a big hit before going back in with him. He also felt that he needed to fortify himself a little too. There were some questions, or rather points, he wanted to put to young Urfa that were not going to prove easy, especially if Suleyman, whom Erol seemed now to trust on some level, had not yet returned.

  When Ìkmen re-entered the station it was evident that Suleyman was still absent. He went into his office and saw that the child was asleep and the man was standing at the window, apparently watching the sun set. The sinuous strains of the evening call to prayer started to spin their slim tendrils towards the station and its occupants.

  Ìkmen sat down at his desk and watched as the younger man looked at the descending crescent of the setting sun.

  'I take it you're not a religious man, Mr Urfa,' Ìkmen said.

  'No.' He neither moved nor acknowledged in any other way that he was paying anything more than cursory attention to what Ìkmen was saying.

  'Like me,' the policeman said with a smile. 'It may indeed say Muslim against religion on my identity card but that is only for the sake of form.'

  Slowly, Erol Urfa turned just a little-so that he was at an oblique angle to the policeman, Ìkmen noted with, interest that although he could now talk more easily to him, he could still not see Urfa's eyes.

  'So what are you then, really, Inspector?' the singer asked.

  'Oh, I'm absolutely nothing with regard to religion,' Ìkmen said. 'But I do accept that others have beliefs and I don't much care what they are provided they don't commit offences in the name of their faith. You can worship Allah or a tree or even a large bird with very bright, tail feathers, it's all the same to me.'

  Whether Erol Urfa experienced fear or relief or shock during the frozen moment that then passed between the two men, Ìkmen would never know. Outwardly impassive, it was only his words that gave any indication that he had both heard and understood the. meaning of what had just been said to him.

  'How did you know?' he asked, still looking out of the window, still seemingly listening to the exhortations of the numerous muezzins of the countless imperial and other mosques of old Stambul.

  'Chicken and beans are such unusual things for such a young child to be noticeably allergic to,' Ìkmen said. 'I suppose that for a man of faith like yourself, you had to take the risk. But then you were coming to commit "professional suicide", to use your manager's words, with Inspector Suleyman, weren't you?'

  'Yes. When I heard that Tansu was no longer here I did briefly reconsider, but. . .'

  'What bearing does Miss Emin have upon this?’ Ìkmen said with a frown.

  He just managed to make out a sad smile on Erol Urfa's lips. 'I only married Ruya because of the needs of my religion. We never marry outside. And so if Tansu did kill her I am partly to blame for that I wanted two women and that is wrong.'

  'Did Tansu know about your religion?'

  Erol shrugged. 'I don't know. I never told her myself.'

  'And yet the words of some of her songs . ..'

  'Yes,' he turned now to face Ìkmen who noticed that his eyes were wet with tears. 'The peacocks, the bitterness towards them ... I have asked her about that, albeit obliquely. She's always said she liked that image. That's all.'

  'Did she actually write those songs?' Ìkmen asked.

  'She says she did. She is credited with them.'

  'And yet if she did, and deduced the reason for your concern, then surely she would have enough knowledge to realise that you could never marry any woman who is not Yezidi - assuming of course that she is not'

  'No. She is Kurdish, but not. . .' He bit his bottom lip thoughtfully and then moved across the room towards Ìkmen's desk.

  Ìkmen sighed. 'So who else, apart from your manager, knows about your religion? Here in the city, that is.'

  Erol sat down in the chair opposite Ìkmen's desk. 'I only told Ibrahim today’ he said. 'But there is also my friend Ali Mardin and. . .' The curtailment of his speech was quite sudden, but also quite deliberate.

  Ìkmen rubbed his chin and considered carefully before he spoke next. 'Ìsak Çöktin,' he looked across at Erol at this point, 'risked his career by continuing to see you when Inspector Suleyman had specifically instructed him not to, which might lead me to certain conclusions.'

  'I have nothing to say on that matter.'

  Although Ìkmen did think about pressing this point, he decided in the end that it probably wasn't worth the aggravation. After all, Erol's refusal to discuss Çöktin told him everything he needed to know about the matter.

  'Anyway,' he said at length, 'interesting though your revelation has been, you do know that if Tansu Hanim is guilty of murder, it will not make the slightest difference to her fate.'

  'She is still under suspicion then? Even though you have let her go?'

  'Yes. We still have doubts which, I imagine, you share.' Ìkmen smiled. 'Otherwise why would you have so wanted to tell Inspector Suleyman your secret? A secret you know could damage you and little Merih in so many ways.'

  Erol bowed his head, as if he were bending under the weight of some awful, crushing presence. He took a deep breath and then let it out on a sigh. 'You will, of course, report the falsified information on my identity card.'

  'Oh, I only deal with homicide, sir,' Ìkmen said and attempted to ape normality by shuffling papers across his desk. 'Anything political is quite beyond me.'

  'But you will report this to others who . . .'

  Ìkmen smiled. 'I tend not to take too much notice of information I receive that doesn't actually impact upon the case I am working on. I am reliably informed that, contrary to popular belief, your people don't actually dance naked around the bodies of Muslim virgins, so I have no problem with you. In a sense you are no different from me. I've got Muslim on my ID card and that is a blatant lie. So there's little to choose between us, is there?'

  'You know, where I come from policemen are not like you.'

  'Are they not?' Ìkmen said. 'Some would say that was a good thing.'

  'Not me,' the singer said with an intense look at the policeman. 'I would say that you are one of the most decent men I have ever had the good fortune to meet'

  Although Ìkmen was not one to be easily embarrassed, he did now feel more than a little awkward and so he just grunted his thanks while turning his attention, and his eyes, to the mess on his desk once again. Before Erol could become any more effusive in his praise, there was a knock at the office door. 'Come!'

  The door opened to reveal Suleyman with a rather excited light in his eyes. Somewhat incongruously, to Ìkmen's way of thinking, he was holding a large jar of dark yellow liquid.

  'Oh, Çetin, I saw the light on and, er,' as his eyes lit upon Erol Urfa, he looked surprised. 'Oh, Mr Urfa, I . . .'

  'Mr Urfa came to give you some information he thinks might be pertinent,' Ìkmen said as he spared a brief thought for the pleasure he was going to get out of telling Suleyman that he had been right about the singer.

  'Ah .

  'I have actually spoken to Inspector Ìkmen,' Erol said, then turning to Ìkmen he asked, 'Do I have to go through it all again with Inspector Suleyman?'

  'No,' Ìkmen replied. 'I will tell him and as I've said, if this proves to have no bearing on the case . ..'

  Suleyman's mobile telephone started playing the latest tune he had chosen for it, the beginning of Beethoven's Fifth. Still in the dark about what had been happening between Ìkmen and Erol Urfa, Suleyman put the jar down on the floor and turned aside to answer his phone.

  After a brief glance at the sleeping Merih, Erol rose from his seat 'I had better get my child home now,' he said, 'if that's all right with you, Inspector Ìkmen.'

  'I have no problem with that,' Ìkmen said with a smile even though his attention was now distracted by the sound of
what appeared to be an urgent conversation between Suleyman and somebody.

  Erol picked the baby up and prepared to leave.

  'All right,' Suleyman said into the telephone, 'I'll meet you there. Let me know as soon as you know. Yes. Yes.'

  As Erol moved towards the door, Suleyman held up one hand to stop him.

  'Right,' he said into the phone and then, 'OK.' He pressed the end button and put the telephone back into his pocket.

  'What's the problem?' Ìkmen asked as he looked at Suleyman gravely considering the face of Erol Urfa.

  'While there is no need to panic,' Suleyman said, 'I do have to tell you that Tansu Hanim and her sister have been involved in a minor road traffic accident.'

  Erol's face lightened serveral shades, Ìkmen moved quickly forward to take the baby from the singer's arms.

  'Neither lady is noticeably injured, but they should both be taken to hospital for observation and treatment for shock.'

  'I must go to her.'

  'I don't think that would be a particularly good idea at the moment,' Suleyman said. 'As I told you, Mr Urfa, she is not hurt The best thing you can do is go home. We can, if you wish, arrange for Miss Emin's family to call you. Do you have your car?'

  'Yes, he does,' Ìkmen put in, remembering the intoxicated manager who said he would wait for Erol in the vehicle, 'although it might be an idea, under the circumstances, if we provide a driver for Mr Urfa.'

  Suleyman agreed that given Erol's state of mind, a police driver might be prudent And so, after a few telephone calls to significant others, the shaken singer and his child were eventually led out of the office and ' into the care of a uniformed driver.

  As soon as he had gone, Suleyman placed the jar of liquid on his desk and said, 'Resat's cyanide,' by way of explanation.

  Ìkmen raised one eyebrow and then, changing the subject said, 'Any idea where Tansu and her sister were going?'

  'No.' Suleyman took his car keys out of his pocket and looked up expectantly at Ìkmen. 'Coming?'

  'Why? It's only road traffic—'

  'Yes, but with a twist,' Suleyman said as he started to move towards the office door. 'Tepe said that just after the car impacted with the other vehicle, he and Çöktin ran over to help. As they approached, he clearly saw and heard Tansu shout "Run" to her sister.'

  'So?'

  'Well, Latife Emin tried to do what Tansu told her but, according to Tepe, her limp was too pronounced to allow her to move very quickly.'

  Ìkmen shrugged. 'But if she'd just been injured. . .'

  'Oh, I agree entirely,' his colleague assented as he held the office door open for the older man, 'but until we go and check it out we won't know, will we?'

  'So which hospital have they been taken to?' Ìkmen asked.

  Suleyman sighed. 'Tepe says that at the moment both women are refusing medical treatment.'

  'Indeed. So what can we do?'

  'Well, I'm just going to speak to my men.'

  'Mmm.' Ìkmen, motionless beneath the door frame, put his fingers to his lips in a gesture of thoughtfulness. 'But they should have medical attention, really.'

  'Oh, yes, I agree, but—'

  'No, I mean that they should really have medical attention, Mehmet,' Ìkmen said with a twinkle in his eye. 'As in we should perhaps take it to them.'

  Suleyman frowned.

  'Look, if we take a doctor with us,' Ìkmen explained, 'she has the perfect excuse to look at Miss Latife's legs unshod.'

  'She?'

  'Well, psychiatrists do have to study anatomy before they specialise, don't they?' Ìkmen moved out into the corridor. 'And anyway, Dr Halman might be very useful should things prove a little bizarre.'

  'Yes, but—'

  'Just get your phone out and give her a call,' Ìkmen said gently. 'The number's programmed in so it's not as if you've got to make an effort, is it?'

  As Ìkmen tripped lightly to the top of the stairs, Suleyman pressed a button and then listened for the ringing tone. His face was taut and strained.

  Chapter 15

  Dr Babur Halman looked across the table at his clever blonde daughter and nodded his head. Forty-six years old and possessed of, to him, a stubborn Irish mind, his girl was not one with whom frail old Turkish men were wont to argue. If nothing else; her kind but firm treatment of her demented patients was strong evidence for this. But she was still his daughter and knowing that she had recently experienced some turmoil with regard to the young man who had telephoned half an hour before, Babur did feel compelled to speak.

  'So your going out is on police business, is it?' he asked as he placed his knife and fork down onto his plate.

  'Yes.' Her turning away from him at that point, Babur knew was significant. 'So not...'

  'Father, I do consult for them from time to time as well you know.'

  Babur shrugged. 'Yes, well. . .'

  She put her hands down on the table and leaned across towards the old man. 'The only thing stopping me from returning to Dublin is you,' she said vehemently, 'and only you.' 'But I would go if—'

  'Oh, yes? And where would we live while I got myself another job, eh? Unless we sold this house, which I know you don't want to do, we'd have to lodge with Uncle Frank at least at first. And you know what that means, don't you?'

  Babur sighed. 'Yes.'

  'Nuns in and out all day. long, not to mention parishioners who'd look at you like you were the devil himself. And that housekeeper of his, well. ..'

  Babur smiled. 'The lovely Mrs Reynolds.'

  'Cooking up all sorts of horrors,' his daughter raved, flinging her arms expressively into the air. 'And she's a stranger to bleach or any other sort of cleaning material, for that matter!'

  'What a colourful turn of phrase you have,' her father said with genuine appreciation. 'So obvious that you are of the soil that bore Yeats, Wilde and Behan.'

  It had been said with such admiration and kindness that Zelfa, for a moment, felt quite deflated. With a sigh she sat back down at the table. 'And you are an astute man whom I shouldn't even attempt to dupe. I'd like nothing better than to go home now . . .'

  'But?'

  She smiled sadly. 'But as you know there is another consideration here.'

  'A young man.' Babur reached out and took one of her hands in his.

  'Too young for me,' she said and lowered her head in order to avoid her father's eyes.

  'Maybe. But then we cannot chose who we love, can we? Many people said that I was foolish to marry your mother—'

  'Well, you did end up getting divorced,' his daughter interjected.

  'True. But at least your mother and I tried We were in love, we gave our love a chance and,' he shrugged, 'well, it didn't work, but had we not tried we would never have known that and I wouldn't now have you who is such a blessing.'

  She leaned forward and kissed her father affectionately on his forehead. 'Oh, Father,' she said, 'how on earth can I be forty-six years old and still behave like a girl of sixteen?'

  'You're the psychiatrist,’ her father said with a wry grin on his face. 'Perhaps your Catholic guilt made you a late starter in the romantic sphere or—'

  A loud knock cut Babur's speech short which, from his daughter's point of view, was probably a good thing. Although completely untroubled by religious affiliations himself, Babur, Zelfa knew, had never been happy about her being educated within the convent system. It had been one of the nails that had sealed up the coffin that became her parents' marriage.

  'I've got to go now,' she said. She picked up her medical bag, already packed with essential supplies, and stood up.

  Babur first sighed and then smiled. 'Well, just be careful, won't you?' he said. 'In all sorts of ways.'

  'I'm a big girl now,' his daughter replied as she walked out of the room, blowing her father a kiss as she went.

  . Babur looked down at his plate and muttered, 'No, you're not,' and then with one last glance towards the place his daughter had vacated, took his eating utensils out into
the kitchen.

  Much as they may have welcomed the kudos that came with treating a major Arabesk star, the staff of the Alman Hospital, which is where Tansu and her sister should have been taken after the accident, were to be disappointed. Neither Tansu nor Latife would agree to any medical intervention. Instead, Tansu screamed at isak Çöktin to phone his 'friend' Erol Urfa for her.

  'But madam,' the officer pleaded as he indicated the large gash on the singer's calf, 'you are bleeding.'

  'Yes, and I will only stop bleeding when you get Erol for me!'

  Tepe, who was standing behind his colleague, a far less involved expression on his face, added, 'But if you don't attend to it, the cut could become infected.'

  'I don't care!'

  'I could clean it up myself for the time—'

  'If I wanted your dirty hands on me, I'd ask you!'

  Tansu snapped as she shuffled herself deep into the corner of her settee. 'As you wish.'

  Galip Emin who had earlier disappeared upstairs with his other sister, Latife, now re-entered the room, his face stern.

  'What are they still doing here?' he said as he flicked his disgruntled head in the direction of Çöktin and Tepe.

  'Well, unless this one,' Tansu stabbed a finger at Çöktin, 'calls Erol for me, then I really do not know!'

  'Why you were outside our house in the first place is a mystery to me,' Galip said as he drew level with the much taller Tepe. 'As if my family haven't had enough of your incompetence already.' Turning from the stone-faced Tepe to Çöktin, Gakp sneered, 'And as for you, Kurdish brother—'

  'So is Miss Latife all right now?' Tepe managed to interject before things took a turn for the worse.

  'She'll live,' Galip answered. His eyes bore relentlessly into Çöktin's.

  'I know that you know what Erol's new telephone number is!' Tansu yelled. 'And you call yourself a Kurdish—'

  Çöktin suddenly and violently snapped. 'That's good coming from Turkey's only true darling who courts the forces that paint our villages red with our own blood!'

  Turning away from Galip to glare at Tansu, Çöktin, or so it seemed to the anxious Tepe, briefly held the whole party in a tense silence. As the large antique French clock ticked ponderously in the background, Tepe wondered if he was alone in wondering whether Çöktin's own position within the police was about to be flung at him. It was something that he knew was a possibility even though he was struggling to understand its implications. Until the singer spoke again, Tepe meandered helplessly in what had suddenly, for him, become a foreign country.