Arabesk

by Barbara Nadel

  'She's still not going to be able to marry him though, is she? I mean,' he leaned forward in order to whisper, 'if he's one of those then .. .'

  'No. Yezidis don't marry out This won't do a lot for Erol's career either.'

  Orhan Tepe sniffed. 'Well, if he's one of those he doesn't deserve a career. They do disgusting things, those people.'

  'Oh, bollocks,' Zelfa Halman exploded, briefly slipping back into her native tongue. 'Yezidis don't really rape everything in sight and eat their own young, you know! They're not evil or—'

  'But they worship Shaitan!'

  Zelfa Halman took a long gulp from her glass before she said, 'Their own conception of him, yes. But in their canon Shaitan has been restored to goodness by God and so the idea that they are evil is preposterous. Anyway, we don't know that people will hold it against him. I like to think the Turkish public are more intelligent than that.'

  ‘I still don't like it,' Tepe said darkly. 'It makes me feel uncomfortable.'

  'Well, that's your problem,' the doctor replied. She leaned back in order to fan her hot face and caught sight of Suleyman. She waved to him.

  As he walked towards the table, the tired young inspector smiled. ‘I hadn't realised it was quite so hot,' he said farming his body with the edges of his jacket.

  Zelfa Halman passed her glass of Coke over to him with a ghost of a smile.

  Tepe who like so many of his fellows possessed more than a sneaking suspicion as to what existed between this pair, started to move up and away from his chair.

  'Oh, are you going?' Zelfa asked.

  'I'd better,' Tepe said looking across at Suleyman. 'Sir.'

  'You don't have to go, Tepe.' 'I think I'd better,' the younger man replied. 'Reports and...'

  'Well, don't bother to pay when you go,' Zelfa said with a smile. 'I'll pay for your tea.' 'Oh, well, er, thank you, er . . .' 'It's OK.'

  As Tepe threaded his way out of the tea garden, Suleyman slipped into what had been his seat. 'Hello,' he said to Zelfa sitting opposite him.

  'Hello.'

  Although weary, her face was set in an expression not without humour. Suleyman, consequently, smiled.

  'I haven't come to beg,' he said, placing her glass carefully back in front of her, 'but if you have decided not to return to Ireland ...'

  Zelfa Halman leaned forward, a quizzical expression crossing her face. 'Yes?'

  Suleyman sighed with what appeared to be some effort. 'Well, I would quite like to, sort of, well. . .'

  'I'm not going to help you with this, Mehmet,' she said, just the tinge of a twinkle beginning in her eyes. 'If you want something from me, you're going to have to ask for it.'

  'Well

  'Yes?'

  He leaned forward across the table and took one of her hands in his. She did not resist which, he thought, was a good sign.

  ‘Now that Cengiz Temiz has been returned to his family and—'

  With, to Suleyman, quite frightening rapidity, Zelfa's expression changed and she pulled her hand roughly from his. 'If this is about that report—'

  'No, no, no! No!' he said, almost desperately, 'this is about, well, it's about you and me and about how now that I, er . . .'

  'Mehmet,' she said as she replaced her fingers slowly under his, 'if this is about your wanting to take me out for a meal accompanied by large amounts of alcohol and dancing . . .'

  'Yes.'

  She smiled, 'Well, I might think about it.'

  'Oh.' As the register of his voice dropped, so did his gaze. Suleyman stared at the top of the table with deep and obvious disappointment.

  Zelfa Halman viewed him wryly. What a child her dashing young prince could be at times. And how delicious it would be to string out her torture of him for just a little bit longer. But then, possibly because her name was Zelfa and not Latife, she could not allow her spite to have rein over her any longer.

  'Oh, OK then, yes,' she said with a dismissive wave of one hand.

  His head literally sprang up from his musings. 'You mean it?' he said, looking even more like a little boy than he had before.

  She laughed. 'Yes, I mean it, I do!'

  He reached over and, despite the crowds all around them, Mehmet Suleyman pulled Zelfa Halman's face towards his and kissed her hard upon the lips. When he did finally release her from his embrace he saw that she was smiling.

  'So’ she said, after a somewhat breathless pause.

  'To return to Cengiz Temiz . . .'

  'Well, he's back with his family again, as I said. But he'll have to give evidence when the case comes to court,' Suleyman replied, a small frown now disrupting his previously ecstatic features. 'After all, he did technically take the Urfa baby unlawfully.'

  'But then surely his lack of capacity to reason in the normal way will protect him from actual charges, won't it?' Zelfa asked.

  Suleyman sighed. 'It should do, after all he didn't hurt Merih, did he? And with Sevan Avedykian on his side he shouldn't have any trouble. Although, as to whether his parents will ever let him out alone again, I think the future there may be less certain.'

  Zelfa looked down at the table and murmured. 'Poor Cengiz. All he ever really wanted was a little love.' She looked up at him and smiled.

  Suleyman smiled back. 'Lucky, aren't we?' he said softly.

  She took one of his hands and squeezed it tight. 'Are you saying . . .'

  'That I love you? Yes,' he said simply. 'Yes, I think I do. And you? What do you feel?'

  Zelfa looked briefly at the other people around them before she said, 'Well, I think I've a lot more passion in my soul than any of this lot, don't you?'

  'Yes, but that doesn't answer my question, does it, Zelfa?'

  'No.'

  Frowning now, he asked again, 'And you, your feelings? Well?'

  She sighed and then, once again, slowly smiled. 'Oh, I love you right enough, Mehmet,' she said. 'Even though it scares me to death.'

  And then, with uncharacteristic urgency, she took a handkerchief from the pocket of her dress and dabbed at the moisture that was collecting at the corners of her eyes.

  Although Cohen left the confines of the Aya Triyada Kilisesi as soon as Kleopatra Polycarpou's funeral was at an end, Ìkmen, who was indeed accompanied by a moodily awkward Bulent, remained behind to talk to the old woman's priest, Father Yiannis.

  'Kleopatra was never an easy woman, Mr Ìkmen,' the cleric said as he walked with the Turk and his son towards the front gate. 'And, in all honesty, I did know that she was having difficulties with Murad Aga prior to his disappearance all those years ago. Not, of course, that I ever imagined she might have killed him.'

  'What sort of difficulties?' Ìkmen said, as he lit the cigarette that was dangling from his hps.

  Father Yiannis sighed. 'Well, apparently, the eunuch or so she told me, was being unfaithful to her. I know that sounds extraordinary but—

  Ìkmen smiled. 'Not quite as odd as you might think, Father.' And then lowering his voice in order to prevent his son from hearing, he said, 'A friend of mine who comes from an old Ottoman family assures me that some of these creatures were not unskilled, shall we say, in the bedroom.'

  'Oh,' the priest reddened. 'Oh, I see, er .. . That would, I suppose, explain, in part—'

  'Precisely.'

  'Ah, well. But tragic anyway. And what with the poor man being so far from his native lands.' He sighed. 'There will not be a soul to claim his corpse now.'

  Ìkmen frowned. 'But I thought that Murad was Turkish. At least I always took if for granted.

  'No, actually,' the priest said gravely, 'he was of your mother's race. An Albanian. When he "left" all those years ago, I assumed it was to return to Albania.' And then he added, slightly bitterly, 'The old empire never emasculated its own, you know. Your Ottoman friend, at least, should know that.'

  Ìkmen shrugged. 'I guess my mother would have known him then.'

  'I should imagine so,' Father Yiannis replied. 'But it was all a very long time ago now,
Mr Ìkmen.' Nodding in the direction of Bulent, he added, 'We must look to the future and, especially, to the young.'

  Noticing that Bulent was now squinting in the harsh sunlight, Ìkmen wordlessly passed his sunglasses over to his son who put them on.

  'Yes, that's true, Father,' Ìkmen said, smiling.

  'You do know, of course, that the haman has been left to Mrs Arda?'

  'Semra?' Ìkmen shrugged. 'Well, that's good. Whether she sells it or gets it going again, it means that the extra money will enable that daughter of hers to leave the streets.'

  The priest frowned. ‘I understand that Mina is still in your cells right now though, Mr Ìkmen?'

  'Yes,' Ìkmen said gravely. 'We cannot overlook attempted abduction charges. I mean she did intend to keep that child even after she discovered her identity. And there are drug charges too, involving her pimp who is a foreign national. It's complicated.'

  'When she is released she will however have somewhere to go, though,' the priest said.

  'Which is good, yes.' Ìkmen smiled.

  'Yes,' Father Yiannis agreed. Then he shook hands with both Ìkmen and Bulent and returned to the confines of his church. The Ikmens, for their part, walked the short distance back up onto istiklal Caddesi and then turned left.

  'Do you want some tea before we go home?' Ìkmen asked his son as they walked past a tram that was headed for Taksim Square.

  'No, I want to get this suit off’ Bulent replied in his customary mumbling tone.

  'It looks good on you. Smart,' his father observed. 'It's Orhan's.'

  'Yes. But if you would like one of your own . . ‘

  'Suits aren't really my style.'

  This effectively killed the conversation and the two continued walking in silence, the tall son slouching along in front of his much shorter father, Ìkmen tried to divert himself from his son's mood by looking into the windows of shops and restaurants as he went but eventually he felt that he had to speak again, he had to try. In spite of the heat and his own lack of fitness, Ìkmen speeded up until he drew level with Bulent's bowed shoulders.

  'What is your problem, Bulent?' he asked, attempting but failing to catch his son's eye.

  'What do you mean?' ,

  'I mean, why is it that you can behave so well with others, like you did in the church just now, and yet when it comes to myself and your mother and indeed anyone who has authority over you—'

  'I don't want to talk about it'

  'No, you never do.'

  'Look,' the boy turned to face his father now, an almost violent expression crossing his eyes. 'You're not at work so don't try to come on to me like a policeman, OK?'

  ‘I’m not'

  'You are.'

  Resisting, for once, the urge to fly into a rage and men justify it with his authority over his son, tactics which so far had not worked, Ìkmen took a deep, calming breath before he spoke again.

  'So is it my job? Does it bother you that I'm a policeman? Is it that I'm an establishment figure?'

  The boy just shrugged.

  'I mean that could explain your drinking and—' 'No.'

  'Then is it your older brothers and sister?' Ìkmen asked, now quite desperate for some sort of explanation from his son. 'Are you jealous of their achievements? Do you feel that you have to try and live up to them?'

  'What, be a doctor?' Bulent sneered. 'Not likely!' 'Well what than?'

  1 don't want to talk about this any more.' Thrusting his hands deep into the pockets of his brother's suit, Bulent walked off rapidly.

  'Bulent!’

  Once again Ìkmen found himself chasing, breathlessly, after this miserable boy - a boy who, if he wasn't too careful, was going to cause his father to have a heart attack.

  'Bulent!'

  The boy stopped and then rounded on his father with an expression of such naked animosity that for a moment Ìkmen was rendered speechless.

  'What?'

  'Bulent...' And then he saw that a trickle of water was dripping from underneath the sunglasses he had given his son. 'Bulent, are you c—'

  'No!' He turned away quickly in order, it was easy for Ìkmen to see, to wipe the tears from his eyes.

  'Oh yes you are,' Ìkmen said and then quickly changing to a far older strategy, he firmly took hold of his son's arm and steered him into a small and shady side street.

  'Now, what’s the matter, Bulent?' he said sternly. 'No more games, no more guessing. Just tell me what is going on in your brain and tell me now.'

  'I can't.'

  'Yes, you can’ his father said, watching all the time to check that the small group of headscarfed women opposite did not take too much notice of them.

  'Why do you have a problem with authority? Why can't you keep the simplest job? You're not stupid! Why are you drinking?'

  'Well, if I'm going to die in the very near future then why not!'

  For a moment the world and everything in it came to a halt as Ìkmen attempted to come to terms with what his son had just said.

  'Die?'

  'Well, I'm going to the army soon, aren't I?' Bulent spat venomously. 'Same thing!' He dropped his voice. 'And if I don't get killed then I'll go mad like Yusuf

  Cohen and that terrifies me. As soon as I heard about him I just lost it, you know: It's not that I'm afraid to fight because I'm not But I don't want to kill people: Some of my friends' families came from the east Why should I want to kill them?'

  'Bulent, you don't even know where you'll be sent yet And anyway, it's not for a couple of years. You might not—'

  'Dad, I'm not going in as an officer. Boys like me are just gun fodder.'

  Ìkmen put his hand gently on his son's shoulder and led him over to a small table that stood in front of a tiny kebabci. 'Let's have some ayran and cool down a bit,' he said.

  After settling Bulent into a seat, Ìkmen went up to the window and bought the drinks. When he returned, his son was looking disconsolately at the ground.

  'Bulent,' Ìkmen said, sitting down opposite the boy, 'service is, I fear, just part of life. I did it, your brother Sinan has served . . .'

  'Sinan went in as an officer.'

  'Because he has a university degree, yes.'

  Bulent downed his ayran in one gulp. 'Some boys get bought out and I did think of asking Uncle Halil to do that for me but then I thought that was unfair. He's always bankrolling this family. And anyway he would think I was a coward. Others disappear to other countries, but . .. but I couldn't do that because of your job. How would it look if a senior policeman's son ran away from his duty?'

  Ìkmen sighed. So this was it, was it? All this trouble was about Bulent wanting to live a little before he died - if he died, Ìkmen could not even begin to think about an easy answer to Bulent's conundrum. The boy was right, if he deserted it would look bad for Ìkmen himself and with all the mouths he had to feed, that was not a prospect he wanted to face. Not that he would express this to his son. And then Bulent's thoughts about the action that was not really a war, that raged year in and year out in the eastern provinces, accorded with Ìkmen's own opinions. Although he would never have voiced his thoughts in public and despite the fact that Ìkmen believed that a lot of the PKK fighters were just common murderers, he knew some Kurdish nationals, liked many and was naturally averse to killing anyone or anything. But none of this was any help to his son.

  If it's any comfort,' he said as. he placed his half-finished ayran back onto the table, 'I don't think that you're a coward. I think your aversion to killing people is commendable.' He smiled. 'I know I've never been a very good example to you with regard to bad habits, getting you to go and buy alcohol for me and . . . But your mother and I must have done something right to make you think like this. When you kill, even for the security of your country, you have to live with that knowledge for the rest of your life and that's not easy.'

  For the first time that day, Bulent smiled. 'Thanks for understanding, Dad.'

  'Not that I can help you at all,' Ìkmen sa
id with a shrug. 'I can't'

  'If I knew I was going to be drafted to Cyprus, I'd be OK,' Bulent said, frowning down at the ground once again.

  'As you know, my son, I am not a religious man,' Ìkmen said, placing a warm hand on his son's shoulder, 'but perhaps just this once we should trust to Allah or whoever or whatever controls the universe. There is nothing we can do but wait and see and, as your mother would say, Insallah you will go to Cyprus.'

  'Yes.' Bulent took his cigarettes out of his pocket and offered one to his father. 'Sinan says that as Turks we sit uneasily in this world. We live so much like the Europeans now, well in the city we do anyway, and yet we still need our women to be chaste, we still go out to fight in what Sinan calls a tribal war.'

  Ìkmen, declining on principle his teenage son's cigarettes in favour of his own, lit up and smiled. 'Sinan is right and not so right at the same time. Even in civilised England, they engage in their own tribal war in Northern Ireland. Dr Halman can tell you something about that if you wish. But there are no absolutes anywhere, Bulent, absolutes are impossible.

  In this so-called Turkish city of ours we live alongside a lot of anomalies. A so-called enemy can join and care about the forces of law, a Greek can marry a castrated relic of the old Ottoman system.' 'And then kill him.'

  'For her own reasons, yes. But the human condition, whether one is Turkish, American, Greek or whatever, is nothing if not entirely idiosyncratic. And when your papers arrive to call you to arms, you and you alone will have to make a decision about that. And you will have to do that without reference to either me or your family or even your country. It's your life, Bulent, and whatever values inform your soul will be all that can and will count And whatever your decision, I will always love you, just as my father always loved me, even after I joined what he always liked to call the "fucking bastard" police.'

  But Bulent didn't speak after that. Just a tiny breeze was blowing up from the Bosphorus now and he had closed his eyes in order to enjoy fully the coolness on his body and face. Responding to that which all humans share, the need for a moment of peace.