Ilyas stood now a little embarrassed beside Ergün. A gentle sea breeze stoked his face. He thought of how he and his friends had sat in the Internet café, dreaming of a life beyond the mountains. How they practiced their English. Tossed hellos and how-nices to each other, so eager they could leave the stagnant existence with the old people and the goats and the spinsters, the ones that were never married off, and who had no choice but to bend to the life offered them. But the friends had Istanbul in their sights, or one of the larger resorts on the south coast: Alanya, Antalya, or Side.
His friends’ faces fluttered past. He wondered what had become of some of them. He had mail contact with two, who had made it no further than Diyarbakir. It all hinged on getting a job. They had boasted about relatives around the world who would give them the world’s best opportunities. They surfed the net and whipped up their dreams as soon as they had a little money to their names.
In the summers they arrived. The relatives, the ones who’d made it. They sat behind the steering wheels of glistening cars without dents or scratches in the bodywork. Mercedes, Audi, the latest Volvo. They’d driven through Europe, from Germany or Scandinavia. Home to their village to show themselves off.
Ilyas had hardly dared to even breathe that he wanted to venture further than one of Turkey’s cities. He was looking at the USA or Germany. Or Sweden. Not Switzerland. Up there in the north he had relatives. It was good there, they’d said. Peaceful and clean and nice and most people had their own car. He might even be able to study at a university if he came up, said his cousins in Sweden.
“I want to go to Sweden,” he suddenly heard himself say to Ergün. Talking about going to the USA would still be taking things a bit far.
Ergün looked at him from the corner of his eye, as if skeptical.
“Oh yes, and how do you think that’ll happen?”
“My cousin Miro who lives in southern Sweden says it would be a good place for me to live.”
“If you say so…”
“He’s got a sister, who’s also a cousin of mine and she’s really pretty,” continued Ilyas eagerly.
“Really,” said Ergün. “And you’re counting on getting married to her?”
Ilyas fell silent. He wasn’t the only one to have thought of that. That the two of them would be a good match, but that probably didn’t interest Ergün, he thought, and dropped the entire line of reasoning, which didn’t really interest him that much, anyway. He didn’t feel like getting married at all right now.
Everything depended on the English, he’d been led to understand. Without English you’d get nowhere. He worked hard at it, practicing on the tourists on the ferry. Naturally, he stumbled along and had to search feverishly for words, but most things resolved themselves with a good laugh, and he was quick to laugh. He noticed that people liked him. Making contact was therefore easy.
He was a good tea seller. One of the best they’d ever had on the ferry, joked Ergün, but he mainly said that to ingratiate himself. A little over three months had passed since he’d arrived in Istanbul. Three whole months in the heart of the action.
“You’ve at least got the water now,” said Ergün, spitting over the railing.
“Hmm…”
It was true. He had the water. The Sea of Marmara and the Golden Horn and the Bosporus, through which he’d passed so many times by now that he’d lost count. The busiest straits in the world, which separated Europe and Asia and which even cleaved the throbbing city in two. The ferry made six stops on its route into the Black Sea before turning back. The boat trips were packed with tourists, his bread and butter, the ones that bought tea.
The engines eased off further. The gulls screeched in flocks overhead, the city din neared: streetcar wheels squealing, car horns blaring, and engines roaring, propelling themselves uphill.
Ergün had finished his cigarette long ago and flipped the butt overboard. They had remained standing.
“I guess we’d better get back to it,” said Ergün at last.
They separated. Ilyas continued to bustle around, picking up tea glasses that people had left behind on seats and tables out on the deck and in the lounges.
He was grateful for the job. He really was. One day, after a long, slow month living partly off his sister and her husband out in the suburb, a relative had stepped in and offered it to him. For almost two months, he’d glided around among the tourists with his round tray balanced high on one hand, the tea sloshing around in tulip-shaped glasses, each on its own little saucer accompanied by a sugar cube. Piping hot China or apple tea, which were very popular here in Istanbul.
His white shirt was sticky under the arms and his collar chafed, but the fabric stayed clear of his body since he had put on a thin vest underneath. It was his sister who one morning threw him a bunch of freshly laundered cotton vests that would soak up the worst of the sweat. His sister was keen for him to look neat. He was as well, as far as this was achievable given the hectic job that he had.
He’d been to the barber’s and tidied his neckline, but hadn’t yet used the pass for a rather seedy gym near where his sister lived out in Avcilar. It pained him to fork out a bunch of money that they could only dream of back home in his village. He didn’t have the heart to use the card, even though he liked to keep in shape. Carrying trays wasn’t enough, even if his legs were taken to the limit of their endurance by his working the deck from morning to night.
They berthed at last. He watched the backs of the last passengers disappearing up the quay. And then a brief calm descended, before the next human cargo boarded.
But then he spotted a lingerer, a man sitting slumped on a bench that ran along the port guardrail, apparently asleep. He’d probably drunk too much raki or beer in the heat. It was easily done for some people, Ilyas had learned, and he sauntered off to wake the passenger up.
The man was seated as far aft as was possible on the long wooden bench, next to a frapped lifeboat, against which he was leaning like a sack of potatoes. A well-groomed gentleman, he looked like a German, with sunburned fair skin and thin ash-blonde hair, neatly trimmed at the neck. His head had lolled forwards and his slumber looked heavy. He was wearing light summer trousers, a beige poplin jacket, and a pair of brown shoes of a sporty design that few men of his age wore in Turkey.
All this was storing itself in Ilyas’s memory while he hoped that the loiterer was not too drunk to prop up along the gangway and tip onto the quay without his taking it upon himself to tumble into the water. At worst, as he was already planning, he’d have to ask some of the sailors for help carrying him off. This wouldn’t be the first time. There was always an element of reluctance in this task, mostly because the sight of these drunken gentlemen who were unable to grow old with dignity was both embarrassing and pathetic. The last one he’d helped off had even urinated in his pants. He would never get like that! he thought.
At that moment he saw something else far more worrisome. He had just lifted the tourist’s arm to shake life back into him when his eyes landed on the breast of the man’s pale blue shirt. A cascade of dark red blood had drenched virtually the entire shirtfront.
Ilyas blinked and snatched his hand back as if he’d just burned himself on a hot pot. At least five long seconds passed. Perplexed, horrified, and appalled, he stood as erect as a pole while his heart pounded.
But he didn’t vomit. He controlled himself and leaned carefully forwards to clumsily lift one of the man’s hands, which lay lifeless against his pant leg, in order to feel for a pulse. Perhaps he was still alive? The gulls continued to circle them. With nervous, damp fingertips, Ilyas squeezed the man’s wrist and tried to remember if it was the upper or underside of his arm where the pulse could be detected. At least his hands were warm, as if living. Whatever it was, it wasn’t right. He felt his flesh crawl, he had to get help. And those accursed birds were cawing and flapping ever more obtrusively.
His eyes, thought Ilyas. He’d managed to avoid looking at the man’s face so far, but n
ow he forced himself, with a curiosity polluted by disgust, to drop onto his knee so as to be able to look the man in the eyes.
And he was greeted by a pair of steely blue irises. But barely. For the gaze he was seeking had gotten stuck half way, and there was something at once moving and implacable in it. Ilyas dropped the hand as if it had the plague.
Everything then happened very quickly. The engines had dropped yet another tone, and the ferry lay still, but the screams of the gulls had reached such an ear-piercing level that Ilyas hardly dared leave the man’s side.
Just then, he caught sight of a rectangular envelope poking out of the inside pocket of the man’s jacket. Ilyas pinched one of the corners and managed to slide it out without getting blood on him. He squeezed it between his fingers. It was thick and unsealed. He inserted a finger into the opening and peered inside. His heart leapt. Without checking himself he quickly pulled in his stomach and stuffed the envelope under the waistband of his trousers, making sure to adjust his shirt to cover it.
Meanwhile, the gulls had grown almost feral, fighting over the meat. Human flesh from a body still warm. Perhaps still alive, what did he know? Powerful wings almost swept him over, and he had to throw his arms over his head for protection as he ran to fetch help.
At that very moment he realized that the man’s killer could still be on board. His eyes swam as he flung himself toward the stern lounge and Ergün, who was standing behind the counter.
“A dead German!” he gasped.
“A dead German?” repeated Ergün, looking inappropriately jocular. “We must notify the captain!”
“I’ll stay here,” stammered Ilyas, who was scared of the captain.
Ergün set off for the wheelhouse. Ilyas paced up and down by the dazzlingly clean counter as if walking barefoot over hot coals. He realized, in spite of his nerves, that he had to hide the envelope so that no one would find it. Otherwise he’d be in big trouble. He almost regretted taking it.
The coast was clear, so he dashed swiftly over to his own little nook. He knew a good hiding place: under the table top, which was loose and tended to slide during heavy seas so that he had to hold it in place as he poured the tea.
But now he hastily moved the tray of glasses onto the floor, realizing that his bottom was sticking out through the door as he bent down. He had to hurry so that no one would see him. He lifted the little marble top and hid the envelope. But it was too thick and made the top wobbly, so he had to remove all the banknotes, euros all and of such high denominations that he became glassy-eyed with excitement. The marble slab now sat nicely in place, and he picked up the tray and set it down on top. He checked to make sure there was nothing poking out and went to look for Ergün.
Luckily, they didn’t have to deal with the captain. It was the helmsman on his way down from the bridge who received the news. That was enough, and shortly afterwards there wasn’t a member of the crew who didn’t know what had happened. As they waited for the police to arrive, the diminutive captain set everyone to searching every corner of the boat. They had to make sure that no unauthorized person was hiding on board.
A man was detailed to guard the gangway so that no one could sneak off, or on, unseen.
The MS Tirowor would not be departing any more that day.
CHAPTER 5
CHIEF INSPECTOR CLAES CLAESSON strode into the shoe store, daughter in hand. They had gone first to the toy store and bought a jigsaw puzzle and a metal princess’s tiara. She’d cast a longing eye at the pink princess dress, but after a while she swallowed her disappointment. They had then gone to the camera store to buy a new camera case and then to the sporting goods store to look at sandals, but there were none there to Klara’s liking.
Adventures of this kind – sandal purchases for a child – he otherwise avoided; that was Veronika’s department. But now Klara was so touchingly serious and determined about the task at hand that he was even grateful that the errand was his. A sallow sales clerk in her mid-twenties appeared immediately to help them. Perhaps he looked as awkward as he felt. Klara, on the other hand, did not dither one second. She found what she was after, and tore from the wall a pair of sandals that she declared loudly she wanted him to buy her.
They were pink. Claes wondered just how gender-inherited children’s taste in colors actually was while turning over the sandals in his hand, mainly to give himself a little time to think. Should he let her get her way? Should he choose a different quality? Thicker soles and less plastic?
The clerk, clad in black jeans and a white top, was equally white-faced and raven-haired, dyed, with sooty rings around her eyes. Like a ghost, or like Snow White, if one wanted to be kind, for she was very much human, and smiled broadly, revealing a magnificent tongue stud that sparkled in her mouth. Klara stared at it.
“Daddy, I want one of those in my mouth, too,” she said.
The clerk laughed and squatted obligingly to help Klara try the sandals on. She opened the straps with deft fingers, fastened them and said that there was just the right amount of room at the toes for them to grow during the summer, but not so much that she’d keep tripping up. Dumbfounded, Klara studied her broad feet in stripy socks that were now encased in marzipan pink straps.
When they paid at the counter, she watched with equal concentration as the shoes ended up in a bag that was then ceremoniously handed over to her.
“Hope you get a spring in your step this summer,” said the white-powdered face with yet another metallically glistening grin aimed exclusively at Klara, struck dumb with rapture.
Even the soles were shocking pink, thought Claes. His daughter had gotten her wish. But why not? He smiled at his delighted little child.
Klara held tightly onto the bag as they made their way to the bench where Veronika was resting.
Daniel Skotte was standing in front of her, casually dressed in jeans, t-shirt, and a lightweight jacket. Klara spotted her mother and ran toward her. At that same moment, Daniel Skotte lifted a hand and left Veronika on the bench. They were both surgeons at Oskarshamn Hospital, a small but good hospital, as Veronika liked to say. But the local health authority in Kalmar was undergoing reorganization. Again. It was the natural state of things, and the purpose was, of course, well-intentioned: to provide effective healthcare as cheaply as possible. It was best just to grin and bear it.
Claes had time to nod at Skotte before the man vanished off toward Lilla Torget Square.
“Skotte looks relaxed,” he said.
“Yeah, he’s recharged his batteries,” said Veronika.
As you have, he wanted to say. Veronika and Daniel Skotte, two surgeons at the same clinic that had taken a few knocks over the past year. But life went on.
Veronika kissed Klara on the cheek while her daughter eagerly tried to extract her sandals from the bag. Veronika had put on a pair of sunglasses. The light was sharp, although that was not the only reason, Claes suspected. They suited her but were also convenient for hiding behind, even though the time when Veronika was named and shamed as Doctor Death in every tabloid headline had passed.
The town had a population of eighteen thousand, the entire district almost twenty-seven thousand, including Misterhult, Kristdala, and Döderhult. Small towns had their pros and cons and Claes was a real local Oskarshamnian, self-secure and simple in many ways, even though, of course, the matrix of interacting lives could be suffocating. He was convinced that as long as Veronika remained in Oskarshamn, she’d have to live with the blame of having caused a patient’s death on the operating table, even though it wasn’t true. Denial never had the same impact as calamity. Yet another incident added to all the other stories of crime and punishment, disappointment, embezzlement, and other ill-assorted life destinies that made a place alive, even if most of it faded eventually. At the end of the day, everyone had enough concerns of their own.
Veronika rose from the bench. They were to continue their shopping tour, and then it was time for the garden on this wonderful day. But then she gave
a sudden, violent jolt, doubled up and slumped back onto the bench again.
“Jesus,” she whimpered, sounding winded.
Claes waited for the contraction to subside and it did. But then the screw took another turn, and even worse this time, so protracted and painful that he saw Veronika’s face stiffen into an ashen mask.
At that moment, a slideshow of unpleasant images played out inside his head. Memories of pains and red fluid, blood and goo. Biological and necessary, but not at all to his taste. It had nothing to do with reason, he just found blood repulsive. And scary.
But his mind had run away with him. She wasn’t bleeding now. On the other hand he was thinking of the roads and how it was fifty miles to Kalmar. If he stuck to the speed limit, it would take them fifty-five minutes to get there.
Shit!
The maternity clinic in Oskarshamn had closed down long ago, so the only other option was Västervik, and that was just as far away. And besides, it wasn’t where they’d gone to discuss the planned Caesarean that had been scheduled for a little less than a week from now, barring mishaps. Anything else was off his mental radar. He wasn’t in the frame of mind to be grateful that they didn’t live in the north with at least 125 miles to the birthing room.
He hoisted Veronika up from the bench and relaxed a little when he saw that she was capable of walking on her own two legs. Her waters hadn’t broken and she wasn’t bleeding. Not this time. Not yet. He’d transformed one situation into another in the blink of an eye, as we humans tend to do when in a state of panic. As it was, he knew how he worked and quickly put the brakes on the images that were hurtling through his brain. Veronika was fully occupied, groaning and taking heavy, controlled breaths as he helped her back to the car.
Death of a Carpet Dealer Page 4
