Harem

by Barbara Nadel

  As he entered the aircraft, Hikmet felt himself start to cry. What a nightmare! What a mess! In attempting to please people he couldn’t understand, he’d succeeded in killing or corrupting so many. When he’d first found Zhivkov, he’d nearly been murdered himself. Why had he done such insane things? Because he wanted to be famous? Because he wanted to get one over on Hollywood? But then he was Hollywood, wasn’t he? He was American, now. He’d managed to get rid of the Turk inside him – except that he hadn’t. Hikmet Sivas had a harem, Hikmet Sivas got work because he had a harem. Ali Bey, the Sultan – laughable. A naive Turk in American clothing, taking pictures he’d never had to use. A man with a harem needs nothing beyond the jaded lust of others to ensure his continued survival. Why hadn’t he realised that? Why did he have to go just that little bit further? He’d tried to put it right. That’s why he’d called G, to get help. It was G who had organised this bloody operation, who had ‘fixed’ it all so decisively. But was G going to ‘fix’ him too now? There had to be some kind of punishment. He’d known that as soon as he’d contacted G.

  ‘We’re taking you back to the States.’

  The man was tall, fair and possessed an indeterminate accent.

  ‘Why?’ Hikmet asked, knowing what a stupid question that was.

  ‘Because it’s where you belong,’ the man replied. ‘You always wanted to belong there, didn’t you, Hikmet?’ He smiled, a cold thing. ‘Money, Hollywood, the dream. The Turk is dead isn’t he, Mr Sivas? Just like you wanted.’

  The man took Hikmet’s elbow and led him, past Bassano and the others, towards the back of the plane.

  He went willingly, as if in a daze. That was it. What this man had said, that was it. Killing the Turk. Doing what they wanted, always, in order to kill that thing that always held him back. Kill the Turk and replace him with a cardboard sultan. Do it because it sells. Sells like the comfortable, compliant Ottoman fantasy girls, like the vision of something that had disappeared, like a bad, bad movie. And all the time he had been invading their privacy, snapping something men would kill for, just to keep that dream alive, just to make sure that the Turk remained where he was, in his unloved grave.

  As Hikmet and the man sat down, side by side, the man’s smile widened.

  ‘When we get to LA,’ he said as he buckled himself into his seatbelt, ‘you will take me to those photographs.’

  ‘And if I won’t?’

  ‘You’ll do it or I’ll kill you, Hikmet,’ the man responded simply.

  Hikmet looked into eyes that were indeterminate in colour. It was a nondescript face, pale, smiling, completely unreadable.

  ‘What exactly is your interest in the photographs?’

  ‘It’s nothing personal.’ He settled himself comfortably into his seat and closed his eyes. ‘That mutual friend you called when you were in trouble, the one who organised tonight’s little party, wants me to burn them,’ he said. ‘Or rather one in particular. I’m sure I don’t have to spell it out to you, Hikmet.’

  Hikmet Sivas looked down at the floor with haunted eyes.

  ‘That way,’ the man continued cheerily, ‘we can all go on just as before, which will be very nice, I’m sure you’ll agree.’

  At first Zelfa thought that the ringing sound was part of her dream. One of her teachers from school, Sister Immaculata, was, for reasons that were totally incomprehensible, getting married to Burt Reynolds. Church bells were ringing to celebrate this momentous occasion which, amazingly, seemed to please Burt greatly. Burt and the nun, in full habit and without a scrap of make-up, were just about to kiss when Zelfa realised that the ringing came not from bells but from the telephone beside her bed.

  With some difficulty she opened her eyes just enough to allow her to locate the phone, which in the hot and heavy darkness of her bedroom looked not unlike a strangely animated bone. Her hands, which were clumsy with sleep, dragged the handset from its cradle and then held the thing shakily to her ear.

  Someone said something odd in a foreign language.

  ‘What?’ she croaked thickly in English. ‘Speak fucking sense, will you!’

  ‘Zelfa, it is Ali, Ali Ozakin.’ The man spoke in heavily accented English.

  Zelfa frowned. The name was familiar.

  ‘We have worked together some few times,’ he said. ‘I practise neurology.’

  ‘Oh, yes, Ali,’ it was all coming back now, ‘at the Admiral Bristol. The woman with aphasia . . .’

  ‘Damage to Broca’s area, yes,’ he said. ‘You referred her for therapeutic intervention. She is making some progress.’

  ‘Good . . .’ Although why he would telephone her about this unfortunate woman at what she saw from her clock was nearly one o’clock in the morning, Zelfa couldn’t imagine.

  ‘Ali . . .’

  ‘Zelfa, I’m calling because your husband has been admitted to the Admiral Bristol.’

  ‘Mehmet!’ Suddenly and shatteringly she was awake.

  ‘There is no cause for alarm.’

  Stupid, stupid, stupid job! Hadn’t she told him it would be like this one day? Hadn’t she always feared that one night would bring fear and gut-grinding bloody torture! No cause for alarm, indeed!

  ‘Inspector Süleyman has sustained a wound to the head,’ Dr Ozakin continued calmly. ‘Not of a serious nature.’

  Which meant? ‘What do you mean? Is his skull cracked? Is he conscious? What?’ Her heart was hammering so fast now she could barely breathe. Mehmet! She’d been such a prize bitch to him the last time they’d been together! Oh Jesus, Mary and Joseph!

  Ozakin cleared his throat. ‘His skull is not damaged,’ he said. ‘But he is not conscious at the moment. He will regain consciousness.’

  ‘Oh, yes? And how do you know that?’

  ‘Well,’ he cleared his throat noisily once again, ‘I have a lot of confidence—’

  ‘I want to see him for myself,’ Zelfa said determinedly. ‘Now.’

  ‘Zelfa, that is not going to be possible.’

  ‘I’m his wife!’

  ‘Ah, yes, but . . .’

  Even in her distress Zelfa was certain that something, possibly a hand, went over the mouthpiece at Ozakin’s end. She even thought she heard the sound of muffled voices somewhere beyond the obstruction. Muffled, angry voices. Cutting a patient out of a conversation was of course something that doctors did sometimes, or perhaps the neurologist was communicating with one of his colleagues. But if he was, he should allow her, Zelfa, as a fellow professional, some input, even if the patient was her husband.

  ‘Ali,’ she said sharply. ‘What’s going on?’

  A few more moments of muffled sounds passed before Ozakin spoke again.

  ‘Come and see him in the morning,’ he said. ‘He will be able to talk to you then.’

  ‘No, I want to come now!’

  ‘You will not be permitted to see him,’ the neurologist replied tightly. ‘I am in charge of his care and that is my decision.’

  It was, Zelfa knew, useless to argue with a clinical decision like this. She had done the same with relatives of her patients on many occasions. But it still rankled, and it hurt too. Mehmet was injured and she wanted to be with him, whatever his state of consciousness.

  ‘Was he alone when he was brought in?’

  ‘I cannot comment upon his admission,’ Ozakin said, Zelfa felt, a little snottily. ‘But he is safe and he is stable and you will be able to see him in the morning.’

  Zelfa sighed. ‘OK.’

  ‘Now I must return to my work. Goodnight, Dr Halman.’ And before she could reply he cut the connection.

  Mehmet injured. How? Well, in any number of ways, Zelfa knew that. Christ, the man was a policeman in one of the most populous and edgy cities in the world. The place was rife with all sorts of tensions – ethnic, drug-fuelled; just living in the damn place created tension, what with the overflowing buses, the choking traffic and the ever present threat of earthquakes. And then there was İkmen. Mehmet had gone out with him
, working, to somewhere unspecified to do something unspoken. Not that there was anything unusual in that. But the older man did have a propensity for getting himself and others into awkward situations. İkmen, much as she liked him, made Zelfa angry – anyone who took Mehmet’s attention away from her made her angry. Her eyes grew wet with the beginning of tears; automatically she looked through the darkness towards the door of the little room where Yusuf İzzeddin lay sleeping.

  ‘I do hope this isn’t what I think it is,’ İkmen said as he cast a stern eye over the figures of two young people on the sofa.

  Hulya, her eyes large and bright like those of a small animal caught in a car’s headlights, sat up.

  ‘Dad!’

  ‘The very same,’ her father replied. He flung himself down into a chair and rubbed his forehead with one weary hand.

  ‘You look terrible,’ Hulya said, moving herself as quickly and as far away from Berekiah Cohen as she could.

  ‘Yes,’ İkmen responded curtly.

  ‘What—’

  ‘I have no desire to get into the where and with whom of my evening,’ he said. ‘Yours and Mr Cohen’s, however, I could find fascinating.’ He caught Berekiah’s doe-like eyes in his hard gaze.

  ‘Çetin Bey—’

  ‘Dad, I asked Berekiah to come over when you didn’t come home,’ Hulya put in forcefully. ‘I tried ringing your mobile, but it was off. I rang Berekiah because I was scared for you and I didn’t want to be in this place on my own. I’ve never been on my own before and I don’t like it.’

  İkmen sighed. Allah, but he was tired, tired and confused and, it had to be admitted, scared too. Even though whoever they had been at the palace had cleared up after themselves, he knew the odour of blood when he smelt it and the air had been thick with it. All those men, gangsters, policemen, Vedat Sivas, gone, replaced by the metallic tang of blood . . .

  ‘So I take it that your brother, Bülent, is out?’ İkmen asked, returning to what was becoming his second nightmare of the evening. Hulya and Berekiah alone in the dark, on the sofa, the unmistakable sound of kissing reaching his ears as he had turned the light on.

  ‘He went to Sami’s,’ Hulya said, ‘hours ago. Thought you’d be back, I expect. Not that you’ve been around that much lately.’

  ‘If you,’ İkmen said, turning his attention now exclusively to Berekiah, ‘have taken advantage of my daughter—’

  ‘That is not the case! I swear to you, Çetin Bey!’

  ‘Well, I hope so, Berekiah, because both your father and I would be deeply disappointed if we thought you had lied.’

  ‘We didn’t have sex!’ Hulya spat, her face a picture of disgust. ‘But only because Berekiah said that we shouldn’t!’

  ‘Hulya!’

  ‘No, I’m going to tell him!’ she said imperiously to Berekiah and then turning to her father she continued, ‘I would have liked to but he said that it was wrong, that we should wait. Wait for what, I don’t know, because nobody wants us to be together.’

  ‘Hulya . . .’

  ‘And anyway, Dad, I was really frightened. You still haven’t caught Hatice’s killer and I was here, a girl on my own!’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes.’ İkmen put his head in his hands and closed his eyes. These two were more serious than he’d thought, his Hulya and the Jew, Berekiah Cohen. Son of a friend, nice, nice boy. One of many. He’d searched high and low for Süleyman and İskender among the undergrowth of Yıldız Park, but he hadn’t managed to find them. Where were they? Why wasn’t he down at the station trying to find out? Because they, like Berekiah, were somewhere they shouldn’t be. He had been where he shouldn’t have been – talking to a movie legend about something that sounded like a cross between a spy story and a snippet from the Arabian Nights.

  ‘Çetin Bey, if I could only court Hulya in the usual way . . .’

  İkmen raised his head. The boy looked so worried, so earnest.

  ‘I do love her.’

  And he did. Even through his tiredness and the sounds and smells that kept returning to assault his mind since his experiences in Yıldız, İkmen could see that Berekiah was completely genuine. He loved the girl and despite the difficulties İkmen knew lay in wait for this couple, mainly in the shape of her mother and his father, he knew that he at least should give them a chance. He had, after all, always said that he would never stand in the way of any of his children if true love were involved. In fact not long ago, admittedly during the course of a row, he had told Fatma that the children could all marry gibbons so long as the apes in question were kind, employed and didn’t smell too bad. But whoever the suitor was, now was not the time to be discussing such matters. He had to sort out his thoughts about what had just happened first. At present he couldn’t even remember how he’d managed to get out of the park, much less try to work out what it had all been about.

  ‘We’ll have to talk about this another time,’ he said gently.

  ‘Oh, so that you can side with Mum and Mr Cohen.’

  ‘No!’ İkmen made a conscious decision to lower his voice. ‘No. So that I can be quiet and get a little rest, Hulya.’

  ‘Have you been having some problems tonight, Çetin Bey?’ Berekiah asked in that serious, understated way of his.

  ‘Yes.’ İkmen finally smiled. ‘Yes, you could say that, Berekiah.’

  Identifying exactly what those problems were was another matter. The Harem went far beyond just the servicing of a few bored businessmen. It seemed that those who ran the world went to Hikmet Sivas to have their secret and shameful appetites satisfied. And Sivas, clever man, had recorded everything, photographing the great and the good abusing little girls. Pictures that could change the world. İkmen tried to get to grips with what he’d rather clumsily stumbled into.

  ‘I think it best if I go.’ Berekiah rose to his feet.

  Hulya began to protest but was halted by her father’s stern upheld hand.

  ‘Yes, I think that’s a very good idea, Berekiah,’ he said. ‘We’re all too tired and, for our own reasons, upset to talk about any of this now.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Çetin Bey, to have—’

  ‘Just go home and get some sleep, Berekiah,’ İkmen interrupted. ‘See your guest out please, Hulya.’

  As soon as the young people had gone, İkmen put his head in his hands once again. What a mess! Not knowing where Süleyman and İskender might be, not knowing where Tepe was, for that matter, or even how he could find out was driving his over-strained mind to the edge of craziness. This could be how I really fuck up, he thought, where I place everyone in danger because I always have to know what I shouldn’t. Why do I do that? What compels me to want to dig and dig like some ghastly psychological excavator?

  ‘I really think that we should talk now, Dad.’ Hulya was standing in the doorway, her hands stroppily braced against her hips.

  İkmen sighed. ‘I disagree,’ he said wearily. ‘You—’

  The ringing of the apartment telephone cut off any further conversation. İkmen picked up the receiver while Hulya, still standing, fumed silently.

  ‘Hello?’ İkmen said into the receiver. Frowning, he added, ‘Zelfa? What?’

  During the course of the conversation that followed İkmen’s face drained of any colour it may have had previously. And Hulya, despite her earlier petulance, soon became alarmed. As he continued with his conversation she came and sat down on the floor in front of him, hooking her hands across his thin knees. He stroked her hair as if comforting himself with its softness.

  Chapter 26

  * * *

  ‘I’ve told you that the patient is unconscious and cannot receive visitors,’ Dr Ozakin reiterated to the small, raving figure in front of him.

  ‘Yes, and as I’ve told you, Doctor,’ İkmen answered through tightly gritted teeth, ‘I’ve seen him. You yourself opened the door just now, and he’s awake!’

  ‘It’s three o’clock in the morning.’

  ‘Not the perfect time for a social call, I’ll gran
t you,’ İkmen said, ‘but I don’t really care.’

  ‘I have asked you to leave . . .’

  İkmen slid a hand inside his jacket and produced his gun, which was as usual unloaded. ‘You either let me see Inspector Süleyman or I shoot you.’

  The small nurse, a woman in her early fifties who until that time had stood beside ‘her’ doctor, edged herself away.

  ‘This is a hospital!’ Ozakin cried, his voice trembling with fear.

  ‘I know,’ İkmen said and pushed the door to Süleyman’s room open and placed a foot across the threshold, ‘Well observed.’

  ‘I’m going to call your superiors!’

  ‘Good.’

  İkmen let the door swing shut behind him and then turned, his gun still in his hand, to look at the pale but conscious figure lying on the bed.

  ‘Doctor?’

  İkmen made his way over to the bed and sat in the chair beside it.

  ‘No, it’s Çetin.’

  ‘Çetin?’

  ‘Yes.’

  Süleyman, though conscious, looked appalling. His face, which was white to the point of green, was covered with a lot of small, surface bruises which made him look uncharacteristically dirty. But it was his eyes that were the most disturbing feature of his countenance; eyes that rolled around in his head, sometimes disappearing completely.

  ‘Look, I haven’t got long,’ İkmen said breathlessly. ‘What happened?’

  ‘What . . .’

  ‘Mehmet, you’ve got to tell me!’

  ‘I . . .’ The eyes rolled.

  ‘Look at me!’

  But he couldn’t. There could be no doubt that he was trying, but something was preventing him.

  ‘Mehmet!’

  Ozakin would have called for assistance now and it wouldn’t be long before it arrived. İkmen had had to negotiate his way past two half-asleep uniforms in the reception area and he knew he wouldn’t get away with it again.

  ‘Mehmet! Please!’

  But the eyes continued to roll, and occasionally Süleyman’s tongue lolled, thick and dry, out of the corner of his mouth. İkmen felt himself begin to descend into despair. What had happened to Süleyman? The official line was that he had been beaten, which was possible, but İkmen could see no sign of any wounds serious enough to cause disconnection like this. And why had the doctor lied? His insistence that he could not see his friend seemed rather more zealous than the usual doctor/patient relationship warranted. Süleyman sighed and then moved one of his arms out from underneath the bedcovers. The top of the arm was bandaged. Süleyman moved his head in uncoordinated jerks towards it.