10 Minutes 38 Seconds in this Strange World

by Elif Shafak

  ‘Come on,’ said Humeyra, drawing a deep, shuddering breath. ‘It wasn’t like anyone broke into this flat. Leila-jim was out on the street late at night. Witnesses saw her getting into a car – a silver Mercedes. All the victims were killed the same way, you know that.’

  ‘So? Does that mean you’re out of harm’s way? Or do you assume that just because one of you happens to be small and the other –’

  ‘Fat?’ Humeyra blushed. She took out her inhaler and held it inside her palm. Experience had shown her that she used the inhaler more often when Nalan was around.

  Zaynab122 shrugged. ‘I’m fine with whatever word you use.’

  ‘I was going to say retired and depressed.’ Nalan waved a manicured hand. ‘My point is, if you ladies assume that Leila’s murderer is the only psycho in this city, good luck! Leave your door open. Actually, why not just put out a doormat: Willkommen Psychopathen?’

  ‘I wish you’d stop taking everything to extremes.’ Humeyra scowled.

  Nalan considered this for a moment. ‘Is it me or this city? I wish Istanbul would stop taking everything to extremes.’

  Zaynab122 pulled at a loose thread on her cardigan and rolled it into a ball. ‘I only nipped out to buy a few things and –’

  ‘Well, it only takes a few seconds,’ said Nalan. ‘To get attacked, I mean.’

  ‘Please stop saying horrible things …’ Humeyra’s voice trailed off as she decided to take another Xanax. Maybe two.

  ‘She’s right,’ Zaynab122 agreed. ‘It’s disrespectful to the dead.’

  Nalan held her head erect. ‘You want to know what’s disrespectful to the dead?’ With a quick jerk of her hand, she unfastened her clutch bag and took out an evening newspaper. Opening it to the page where Leila’s picture jumped out amid local and national press reports, she began to read aloud:

  The Deputy Police Chief told the press, ‘Rest assured we will find the perpetrator in no time. We have employed a special unit to deal with this case. At this stage, we ask the public to share with law enforcement any suspicious activity they may have seen or heard. However, citizens, especially women, do not need to be alarmed. These murders were not randomly committed. One particular group, without exception, was targeted. All the victims were streetwalkers. Normal female citizens have no need to worry about their safety.’

  Nalan refolded the newspaper along its creases and clucked her tongue as she always did when in a temper. ‘Normal female citizens! What this jackass is saying is, All you goody-goody ladies, do not worry. You’re safe. The only ones butchered on the streets are whores. Now that’s what I call being disrespectful to the dead.’

  A feeling of defeat settled on the room, acrid and thick, like a sulphurous smoke that clung to everything it touched. Humeyra held her inhaler up to her mouth and took a puff. She waited for her breathing to slow down; it didn’t. Closing her eyes, she willed herself to sleep. A deep, drugged slumber of forgetfulness. Zaynab122 sat ramrod straight, her headache getting worse. She would soon begin to pray and prepare the concoction that would help Leila’s soul on its next journey. Not yet though. She lacked the strength right now and perhaps, just a little, she lacked even the faith. And Nalan, shoulders stiff inside her jacket, stayed silent, a hollowness to her features.

  In a corner Mr Chaplin, having finished his last delicacy, licked himself clean.

  The Silver Mercedes

  Every evening a red-and-green boat called Güney – ‘the South’ – could be found moored on the shore of the Golden Horn, opposite the road from the Intercontinental Hotel.

  The vessel had been named in honour of the Kurdish film director Yilmaz Güney, and had featured in one of his movies. The present owner didn’t know this, and even had he known he wouldn’t have cared. He had bought it years ago from a fisherman who no longer went to sea. The new owner had built a tiny galley and installed an iron grill to make köfte sandwiches. Soon grilled mackerel joined the menu, garnished with shredded onions and sliced tomatoes. In Istanbul, success for a street-food vendor depended not so much on what you sold as when and where you sold it. Night-time, though risky in other respects, was more profitable, not because customers were more generous but because they were hungrier. They poured out from the clubs and bars, alcohol coursing through their veins. Not quite ready to throw the towel in, they stopped at the boat stall, bent on one last indulgence before heading home. Ladies in shiny dresses and men in dark suits perched on stools by the dock and tucked into their sandwiches, tearing away at the coarse white pitta that in daylight they would have turned up their noses at.

  This evening, the first customers appeared at seven o’clock – much earlier than usual. That’s what the vendor thought when he saw a Mercedes-Benz pull up at the pier. He yelled at his apprentice, his nephew, the laziest boy in the city, who was slumped in the corner, watching a TV series as he cracked roasted sunflower seeds between his teeth with utter abandon. Beside him on the table was a growing pile of empty shells.

  ‘Move your butt. We’ve got customers. Go and see what they want.’

  The boy stood up, stretched his legs and filled his lungs with the salt-tanged breeze blowing in from the sea. After a lingering look at the waves lapping against the side of the boat, he grimaced, as though he had been set on solving some mystery but had now given up. Mumbling to himself, he stepped on to the pier and dragged his feet towards the Mercedes.

  Under the street lamp the car glowed with polished confidence. It had tinted windows, a sleek, custom-made spoiler and grey-and-red chrome wheels. The boy, a fervent admirer of luxury automobiles since childhood, whistled in admiration. He himself would rather drive a Firebird – a steel-blue Pontiac Firebird. Now that was a car! He wouldn’t drive it, he would fly it at a speed of –

  ‘Hey, lad! Are you going to take our order or what?’ said the man in the driver’s seat, leaning out of the partly opened window.

  Jerked out of his reverie, the boy took his time to reply: ‘Yeah, okay. What would you like?’

  ‘First off, some politeness.’

  Only then did the boy lift his head and take a proper look at the two customers. The one who had been speaking was raw-boned and bald. He had an angular jaw and a pinched face pitted with acne scars. The other man was almost the opposite: pudgy and ruddy-cheeked. And yet they looked somehow related … perhaps it was the eyes.

  Curious, the boy edged even closer to the car. The interior was as impressive as the exterior. Beige leather seats, beige leather steering wheel, beige leather dashboard … But what he saw next made him gasp. The colour drained from his face. He took the order and rushed back to the boat, walking as swiftly as his feet allowed, his heart thumping frantically in his ribcage.

  ‘So? What do they want? Köfte or mackerel?’ asked the vendor.

  ‘Oh, köfte. And ayran to drink, too. But …’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘I don’t want to serve them. They’re weird.’

  ‘What do you mean, weird?’

  Even as he posed the question the vendor sensed he would not get an answer. He sighed with a shake of his head. The boy had become the breadwinner in his family ever since his father, a construction worker, had plunged to his death from a scaffolding tower. The man had been given no proper training, no safety equipment, and the scaffolding, it was later revealed, had not been erected correctly. The family had sued the construction company but nothing was likely to come of it. There were too many cases for the courts to deal with. As areas in Istanbul saw rapid gentrification and steep rises in real estate, the demand for luxury apartments soared, leading to a staggering number of accidents on building sites.

  So the boy, still in school, had to work nights, whether he liked it or not. Yet he was too sensitive, too taciturn and too stubborn, clearly not suitable for hard labour – or for Istanbul, which in the end amounted to the same thing.

  ‘Useless lad,’ said the vendor, loud enough for his apprentice to hear.

  Ignoring the remark,
the boy placed the meatballs on the grill and started to prepare the order.

  ‘Leave it!’ said the vendor with a grunt of dissatisfaction. ‘How many times do I need to tell you to oil the grill first?’

  Snatching the tongs from the boy’s hand, the vendor waved him away. Come tomorrow he was going to get rid of him – a decision he had postponed to this day out of pity, but enough was enough. He was not the Red Crescent. He had his own family to take care of, and a business to protect.

  With a swift and agile hand, the vendor raked the glowing embers, kindled the fire, grilled eight pieces of köfte and stuffed them into half pittas with some sliced tomatoes. Grabbing two bottles of ayran, he placed everything on a tray and headed towards the car.

  ‘Good evening, sirs,’ the vendor said, his voice oozing politeness.

  ‘Where’s that lazy apprentice of yours?’ asked the man in the driver’s seat.

  ‘Lazy, yes. You got that right, sir. My humble apologies if he has done anything wrong. I’m going to kick him out any day now.’

  ‘Not a moment too soon, if you ask me.’

  Nodding, the vendor handed the tray through the half-open window. He sneaked a glance at the inside of the car.

  On the dashboard were four figurines. Angels with halos and harps, their skins splashed with blobs of reddish-brown paint, their heads bobbing almost imperceptibly now that the car was still.

  ‘Keep the change,’ said the man.

  ‘Much appreciated.’

  Even as he pocketed the money, the vendor was unable to tear his gaze from the angels. He began to feel sick. Slowly, almost despite himself, it dawned on him what his apprentice must have noticed right away: the stains on the dolls, the stains on the dashboard … those reddish-brown spots were not paint. They were dried blood.

  The driver, as if he had read the vendor’s mind, said, ‘We had an accident the other night. I bumped my nose, it bled like hell.’

  The vendor smiled in sympathy. ‘Oh, that’s too bad. Geçmiş olsun.’

  ‘We need to have it cleaned but haven’t had a chance.’

  Nodding, the vendor took back his tray and was about to say goodbye when the car door on the opposite side opened. The passenger, who had remained silent until now, stepped out, the pitta in his hand. He said, ‘Your köfte is delicious.’

  The vendor glanced at the man, noticing the marks on his chin. It looked like someone had scratched his face. A woman, he thought, but that was none of his business. Trying to quell his thoughts, he said, his voice pitched higher than usual, ‘Well, we’re pretty well known. I have customers coming in from other cities.’

  ‘Good … I take it you are not feeding us donkey meat,’ said the man, laughing at his own joke.

  ‘Of course not. Only beef. Top grade.’

  ‘Excellent! Make us happy and you’ll be sure to see us again.’

  ‘Any time,’ said the vendor, pressing his lips into a thin line. He felt content, almost grateful, despite his unease. If these men were dangerous, that was someone else’s problem, not his.

  ‘Tell me, do you always work at night?’ the driver asked.

  ‘Always.’

  ‘You must be getting all kinds of customers. Any immoral ones? Prostitutes? Perverts?’

  In the background, the boat bobbed up and down, disturbed by waves from a passing ship.

  ‘My customers are decent people. Respectable and decent.’

  ‘That’s nice,’ said the passenger, getting back into his seat. ‘We don’t want indecent people here, do we? This city has changed so much. It’s so filthy now.’

  ‘Yes, filthy,’ said the vendor, only because he did not know what else to say.

  When he returned to the boat he found his nephew waiting with his arms akimbo, his face taut and troubled. ‘So? How did it go?’

  ‘Fine. You should have served them. Why am I doing your job?’

  ‘But didn’t you see?’

  ‘See what?’

  The boy squinted at his uncle as if the man were shrinking in front of his eyes. ‘Inside the car … there’s blood on the steering wheel … on the dolls … it’s everywhere. Shouldn’t we call the police?’

  ‘Hey, no police around here. I’ve a business to protect.’

  ‘Oh right, your business!’

  ‘What’s wrong with you?’ snapped the vendor. ‘Don’t you know there are hundreds out there who’d die to have your job?’

  ‘Then give it to them. I don’t care about your stupid köfte. I hate the smell anyhow. It’s horse meat.’

  ‘How dare you?’ said the vendor, his cheeks aflame.

  But the boy was not listening. His attention had swung back to the Mercedes-Benz, a cold and imposing form under the darkening sky that now hung low over the dock. He murmured, ‘Those two men …’

  The vendor’s expression softened. ‘Forget them, son. You’re too young. Don’t be so curious. That’s my advice for you.’

  ‘Uncle, aren’t you curious yourself? Even a bit? What if they’ve done something wrong? What if they’ve killed someone? Then we’ll be accomplices in the eyes of the law.’

  ‘That’s it.’ The vendor banged down the empty tray. ‘You watch far too much TV. All those half-baked American thrillers, and now you think you’re quite the detective! Tomorrow morning, I’m going to talk to your mother. We’ll find you a new job – and from now on, no more TV.’

  ‘Yeah, whatever.’

  And then there was nothing left to say. Neither of them spoke again for a while, a sense of lethargy washing over them. Beside the red-and-green fishing boat called Güney, the sea roiled and frothed, crashing with all its might against the boulders that edged the twisting road from Istanbul all the way to Kilyos.

  The View from Above

  Inside an elegant office occupying an entire floor of a new high-rise and overlooking the city’s fast-growing commercial district, a young man sat in the waiting room, bouncing his leg nervously up and down. The secretary, behind a glass partition, craned her head to glance at him every now and then, a trace of an apologetic smile on her lips. Like him, she found it difficult to understand why his father had kept him waiting for the last forty minutes. But that was his father, always out to make a point and teach him a lesson he had neither the need nor the time for. The young man checked his watch again.

  Finally, the door opened and another secretary announced he could come in.

  His father was sitting behind his desk. An antique walnut piece with brass handles, claw feet and a sculpted top. Beautiful, but too grand for a room so modern.

  Without a word the young man strode towards the desk and placed on it the newspaper he had brought with him. On the page it was opened to, Leila’s face peered out from the text.

  ‘What is this?’

  ‘Father, read it. Please.’

  The older man gave the newspaper a cursory glance, his gaze sweeping over the headline: Slain Prostitute Found in City Waste Bin. He frowned. ‘Why are you showing me this?’

  ‘Because I know this woman.’

  ‘Oh!’ His face brightened. ‘Good to know you have lady friends.’

  ‘Don’t you understand? She’s the woman you sent me. And she’s dead. Murdered.’

  The silence diffused outwards into the air; spreading and congealing into an ugly and uneven thickness, stagnant like algae forming on a late-summer pond. He looked past his father towards the city beyond the window, the sprawl of houses fanning out under a fine haze, the streets densely crowded and the hills rolling into the distance. The view from high above was spectacular, if strangely lifeless.

  ‘It’s all in the report,’ the young man said, struggling to control his tone. ‘Three more women were killed this month … all of them in the same horrific way. And guess what? I know them, too. All of them. They are the women you sent me. Isn’t that too much of a coincidence?’

  ‘I thought we had arranged five for you.’

  He paused, feeling embarrassed in a way only h
is father could make him feel. ‘Yes, there were five, and four of them are dead. So I’m asking you again: isn’t that too much of a coincidence?’

  His father’s eyes gave nothing away. ‘What are you trying to say?’

  The young man winced, unsure of how to proceed, a familiar fear kicking in, a trepidation that went way back, and all at once he was a boy again, sweating in the heat of his father’s gaze. But then, just as suddenly, he remembered the women, the victims, particularly the last one. He recalled the exchange they’d had on the balcony, their knees touching slightly, the smell of whisky on their breaths. Look, darling. I understand you don’t want to do this. I also understand there’s someone you love and you’d rather be with that person.

  Tears welled in his eyes. His lover said he suffered only because he had a good heart. He had a conscience, not something everyone could claim. But that was little consolation. Had those four women died because of him? How could that be? He feared he might be losing his mind.

  ‘Is this your way of correcting me?’ He realized, belatedly, he had raised his voice – almost to a shout.

  His father pushed the newspaper away, his features hardening. ‘Enough! I’ve nothing to do with this stupidity. Frankly, I’m surprised that you’d even think I’d go on the streets chasing whores.’

  ‘Father, I am not accusing you. But maybe it was someone around you. There must be an explanation. Tell me, how did you arrange these meetings? Did someone make the appointments, the calls?’

  ‘Of course.’ His father mentioned the name of one of his right-hand men.

  ‘Where is he now?’

  ‘Why, he’s still working for me.’

  ‘You need to interrogate that man. Promise me you will.’

  ‘Look, you mind your own business and I will mind mine.’

  The young man raised his chin. The taut expression receded from his face as he struggled to say the next words. ‘Father, I’m leaving. I need to get out of this city. I’m going to Italy – for a few years. I’ve been accepted on to a PhD programme in Milan.’