Petrified

by Barbara Nadel

  ‘No, not yet, sir,’ Çöktin replied.

  ‘And this man . . . ?’

  ‘No.’

  Father Giovanni put his hand down to one of the numerous potted plants that filled the floor of the courtyard and gently stroked its leaves. ‘Let us hope that God took them naturally,’ he said softly, ‘and without pain.’

  ‘It would be nice to think so,’ Çöktin replied.

  The priest looked up into the young officer’s face and said, ‘İnşallah, as you Turks so rightly say.’

  ‘Yes . . .’

  ‘Putting all things in the hands of the Almighty is not a bad way to live,’ Father Giovanni continued. ‘I’ve often thought how both attractive and sensible your Islamic philosophy of total submission to and reliance upon God is. You learn acceptance, which is a hedge against both greed and disappointment. The trouble with Christianity and I think with Judaism too is that we’re encouraged to believe that we can influence our own destinies, which is most dangerous. The older I get the less I believe in the freedom that desire and choice are alleged to bring. We can’t be anyone we want to be or have anything we want to have any more than we can stop ourselves from dying.’

  Çöktin, who had toyed with the idea of mentioning that not every Turkish citizen was Muslim, decided against it. How did one explain the Yezidi faith to others? They were branded devil worshippers by those who knew no better, their philosophical stance on the nature of Satan, a deity they called the ‘Peacock Angel’, being entirely unique. He did, however, have to say, ‘I don’t disagree with you, sir, but I must say that I think that some Turks can be just as greedy and anxious as anyone from Western Europe.’

  But Father Giovanni didn’t reply. Now looking really rather sadly at the vine-covered wall in front of him, he just finished his coffee and then sighed.

  ‘I must leave you now, sir,’ Çöktin said as he rose from his seat. ‘Thank you very much for your help and the delicious coffee.’

  The priest looked up and then rose to his feet.

  ‘You’re very welcome, Sergeant. I’m sorry I haven’t been able to be of more assistance. Had I had Veli’s sister’s address . . .’

  ‘That won’t be difficult to find,’ Çöktin said. ‘If, as you say, she isn’t married, she must have the same name as her brother. Anyway, we’re still looking through Mrs Keyder’s things.’

  ‘Mmm. And there is, of course, her funeral to consider.’ Father Giovanni opened the door that led back into his house. ‘I know she would want a Catholic funeral.’

  Çöktin entered the priest’s living room. ‘Yes, although we’ll have to try and contact her sister-in-law and any relatives she might still have in Argentina first. The story will hit the newspapers tomorrow. That may jog somebody’s memory. But I’ll tell our doctor to keep you informed.’

  They walked through the building, past many pictures and statues of saints, to the front door.

  ‘It’s fortunate, under the circumstances, we don’t have any time limits on the burial of our dead,’ the priest said as he opened the door on to the street. ‘You Muslims have to be in the ground within twenty-four hours, don’t you?’

  ‘Yes, although in circumstances like this that isn’t always possible,’ Çöktin replied as he stepped across the threshold. ‘Thank you again, Father Giovanni, for your help and your hospitality.’ He smiled. ‘Your courtyard is delightful. It’s like being in a little corner of Italy.’

  Father Giovanni laughed. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘it’s designed to be. I love it here but I do miss my home – if you can understand that.’

  ‘Yes,’ Çöktin said, ‘I understand that.’

  And then he left, his mind suddenly possessed by images of his village home that he could only dimly remember. A place where everyone was Yezidi and there were no silences where the truth should be. But there wasn’t, then or now, any work, any money or any hope. Only the strange and harsh beauty of eastern Turkey and the certainty of the closeness of the Peacock Angel, the Yezidi image of the miraculously restored and benevolent Satan.

  They were not an overtly unusual couple. Lots of men and women had sex in doorways and deserted courtyards after dark in this part of the city, especially Russian women – like her. Voluptuous and blonde, she was quite different from the man whose hands were on her. He was obviously local. He wasn’t, however, her usual type of customer. Tall, well groomed and very handsome, he looked like a lawyer or a doctor, someone who could afford far better than her. He curled his long arms round her back and whispered in her ear.

  ‘Why should I believe you, Masha? There’s no body. For all I know Vladimir could just be a figment of your imagination.’

  ‘But he isn’t!’ she hissed. ‘I told you, Inspector Suleyman, he was my love and now he’s gone. Killed by that animal Rostov! I want, I need justice!’

  Inspector Mehmet Suleyman took his head away from her ear and stood straight and tall in front of her. There was no one about: he could afford to be a little less cautious, just for a moment.

  ‘Look, if Vladimir came into the country illegally, I can’t even prove that he was ever here,’ he said. ‘Beyond your belief that Rostov’s heavies tied him into a sack and threw him into the Bosphorus, I’ve got nothing to go on.’

  ‘Yes, but Vladimir said he feared they’d kill him just before I saw him for the last time!’ Masha said, her hands resting pleadingly against Suleyman’s chest. ‘And drowning is how Rostov kills people. If you cross him or take what’s his, he drowns you. There’s so much water here, it’s easy.’

  Suleyman sighed. Valery Ivanovich Rostov was one of several incredibly powerful Russian Mafia bosses who had settled in İstanbul since the fall of the old Soviet Union. A known, if unproven drug baron, Rostov had friends in high places amongst the local crime families and, it was alleged, within the Turkish Establishment. A bachelor, Rostov surrounded himself with violent but attractive young Russian men, which led many to suspect he was homosexual. And if this Russian prostitute was to be believed, her boyfriend, this Vladimir, had been one of Rostov’s boys – even though she claimed he’d never shared the boss’s bed. He’d just carried Rostov’s drugs to wherever they were ‘needed’ until the temptation of what he was holding became too much for him – or so she said. Suleyman knew he had to be careful. Russians like Masha who’d spent most of their short lives in İstanbul almost always worked for one or other of the mobs. It was very probable she actually worked for Rostov. It had, after all, been she who had sought him out that first time and not vice versa. Just like now, she’d pulled him into a doorway – he was going to arrest her for unlawful soliciting – until she mentioned Rostov – the man he’d been after for nearly six months. How had Masha known? But then if she wasn’t on the level, Suleyman couldn’t as yet work out quite what game she was playing or to what end. However, if she were telling the truth . . .

  ‘There must be something of Vladimir’s in Rostov’s house,’ Masha said mournfully. ‘He was always there in recent months. There has to be an item of clothing or . . . I could identify anything of his, I remember it all.’

  ‘No,’ Suleyman flicked his head back to indicate his disagreement, ‘it would be your word against his and that’s not good enough. Rostov is too well connected. I need independent proof that this Vladimir existed.’ Then, hearing voices approaching down the alleyway opposite, he said, ‘Kiss me!’

  He reached down and took her lips between his. Horribly, even with her cold junkie’s eyes looking over his shoulder, it felt really good. And although he did manage to stop himself from reaching out towards her almost naked breasts, he couldn’t prevent the erection that made itself very obviously apparent. Once the small group of late-night revellers had passed them by, Masha took her lips away from his and placed her hand on the front of his trousers.

  ‘I can make that feel so much better,’ she said as she toyed provocatively with his zip.

  For just a fraction of a second, Suleyman hesitated. He loved his family, adored
his wife, but ever since she’d given birth to their son nearly a year ago sex had been uncomfortable for her. And even though he knew exactly what this Masha was . . .

  ‘No,’ he pushed her hand away roughly, ‘I can’t search Rostov’s house on a pretext as whimsical as this.’

  ‘So what do you need, Inspector?’ she said provocatively as, yet again, she placed her hand over his crotch. This time he didn’t stop her.

  ‘I need some proper evidence of Vladimir’s existence and of his involvement with Rostov. So many young men come and go from that house . . .’ He looked down just as she slipped her hand inside his zip and took his penis between her fingers. ‘I . . .’

  ‘You’re a very big, attractive man, Inspector,’ she pouted. ‘I can give you so much pleasure.’

  ‘No!’ He tore her hand from his penis and pushed himself away from her. ‘No.’

  ‘What?’ She shrugged, watching bemused as he fastened the front of his trousers. ‘I don’t understand. I’d do you for free. You’re hot and, anyway, you’re helping me, aren’t you? I have to give you something.’

  Suleyman breathed deeply. ‘Not that,’ he said thickly, ‘information. If you’re serious about wanting to avenge this Vladimir’s death then you have to give me something I can work with.’

  ‘But—’

  ‘Look, I’ve got this feeling I’m finding very difficult to shake off that you work for Rostov.’ He moved back towards her once again. ‘I know, I can tell that you’re addicted to heroin. We have good reason to believe that Rostov gives his girls heroin. Now if you can take me to that—’

  ‘No!’

  ‘Masha!’

  ‘No!’ She looked up, her eyes glazing into his. ‘No, look, all right, I do work for Rostov – how else would I have met Vladimir? But I’m not prepared to go on record with that, and as for drugs, I can’t give you . . .’

  Suleyman moved away. ‘Well, then I can’t help you,’ he said. ‘Don’t bother me again. If you do I’ll arrest you.’

  He turned and began to walk towards the light emanating from the still busy Yeniçeriler Caddesi.

  ‘But what if I can get you what you want? What if it could be possible for me to get closer to Rostov for you? Maybe sometime in the future . . . ?’

  He resisted the temptation to turn back and look at her. He knew all about her long blonde hair, thick lips and even thicker breasts.

  ‘If it’s information I can substantiate, then maybe,’ he said, flinching as one of the city’s thin street cats ran across the front of his shoes.

  ‘Maybe I’ll get it then,’ she called. ‘For Vladimir I’ll perhaps take that risk. And for you.’

  Impulsively he turned back, just to see her cheap sexiness one more time. But she had gone, leaving only the sound of her voice drifting down the stillness of the hot, dark alleyway.

  ‘I’ve always wanted to fuck a prince,’ it said.

  Suleyman put one hand into his jacket pocket and shakily took out his packet of cigarettes. How did she know that? Not that he was a prince, but he was the grandson of a man who had been. Like Rostov, Suleyman’s ancestors, the Sultans of Turkey, had tied those they didn’t like into sacks and thrown them into the Bosphorus. But then perhaps that was why Masha had ascribed that particular method of execution to Rostov – so it would be familiar to Suleyman, so he’d feel something about it. Allah, but these people, like Rostov, had eyes in every place, even, seemingly, his own bedroom. To tempt his sex-starved body with that full, luscious body! Oh, it had to be! She couldn’t possibly be serious about this ‘Vladimir’ – girls like that didn’t love anyone. It had to be a set-up.

  But then this wasn’t the first time he’d thought this way. Before, on the first and only other occasion she’d pulled him into a doorway to whisper stories of Vladimir into his ear, he’d been convinced she was lying. And yet he’d gone back for more. He’d arranged to meet her here tonight. Nothing she said could be substantiated. Why had he come?

  He lit a cigarette, inhaled and then exhaled slowly. He’d nearly ejaculated in her hand when she’d reached inside his trousers. The thought of it now made him want to be sick. He, a married man with a son, with a wife, not to mention a career. Masha was a junkie, one of Rostov’s junkies, and she was setting him up for something. Somehow, Rostov and who knew what other crime bosses – there seemed to be so many of them now – had learned that Suleyman, İkmen and another colleague, İskender, had taken it upon themselves to tackle the gangs whenever they could. This was not police policy. When Zhivkov, the all-powerful Bulgarian boss and his men had been dealt with, that had, officially at least, been the end of the matter. But since Zhivkov’s death a lot of people had come forward as contenders for his crown. Rostov, renowned for his intelligence as well as his brutality, was one of them. Miserably Suleyman wondered who Rostov had ‘bought’ in his department and just how close that person was to him. It had to be someone who knew how vulnerable he was at this time, someone who had detected his unhappiness. He hadn’t after all told anyone about his personal problems, not even İkmen. Perhaps it was written on his face, that growling, inner hunger?

  One thing that was for certain was that he had to forget all this now. Rostov wasn’t going to allow himself to be offered up easily and so Suleyman had to go back to what he’d been doing before Masha appeared: gathering evidence, such as it was, and waiting. He was, he thought bitterly, as the vision of his wife, Zelfa’s, face flashed briefly into his mind, good at that.

  The great ochre house belonging to Melih Akdeniz had been owned by his family since long before anyone could remember. And although they were, if somewhat unenthusiastically, a Muslim family now, it was accepted that, like so many of the other original residents of Balat, their ancestors had been Jews.

  Originally arranged over three floors plus cellar, the already tall house had gained much from the enormous glass studio Melih had built on the roof back in the nineteen eighties. And not just because of the views that it afforded. The thing itself, with its ornamental stained-glass windows and warm wooden roof, was – just like the rest of the house – stunning. The large number of antique items of furniture plus the truly gorgeous carpets and kilims were totally in keeping with what was a property of considerable age and stature. The works of art that Melih had embellished the place with were, to some minds at least, another matter.

  ‘There’s a sculpture in the bathroom that’s going to give me nightmares,’ Constable Roditi said to İkmen when the latter joined him in the courtyard beside the house.

  İkmen sat down next to him at the table where, presumably, the Akdeniz family ate during the summer months. ‘What is it?’ he asked.

  ‘Well, he,’ Roditi tipped his greying head in the direction of the house, ‘says it’s the Mother Goddess, whoever she is. Looks like a lump of dough with breasts, if you ask me. And it’s got no head.’

  ‘Idols similar to that have been discovered at Hittite settlements like Çatal Höyük,’ İkmen said as he pulled another chair out for Ayşe Farsakoǧlu. ‘I imagine in that work he was exploring ancient pagan themes.’

  ‘Well, I think it’s weird,’ Roditi continued. ‘He’s weird.’

  ‘Akdeniz?’

  Roditi shook his head as if confused. ‘He’s been up there in that studio all day, doing things with great lumps of material. Not been out to look for those children. He had a row with some woman who came to sympathise with him this afternoon. Shouting out of the window at her as she stood in the street—’

  ‘The bitch had come to gloat,’ a thick, slightly hysterical voice interjected.

  All three of the officers looked round to see a tall, thin figure silhouetted against the light pouring across the courtyard from the kitchen.

  ‘And which “bitch” was this, Mr Akdeniz?’ İkmen asked.

  ‘I don’t know her name,’ Melih replied scornfully. ‘Some woman who fancies herself as an artist.’ He laughed. ‘I upset her once, years ago. I said her work was shit, which it is.
When she heard about my children she used the opportunity to come here and abuse me personally.’

  He joined the officers at the table, sitting down slowly as if in pain. Melih Akdeniz had not aged well. At forty-seven he was thin, wrinkled, and his hair, which reached down to just beyond his shoulders, was almost completely grey. He put a cigarette that İkmen at least hoped was just a cigarette between his nicotine-stained teeth and lit up.

  ‘There are several so-called artists in Balat now,’ Melih continued, ‘all wanting to present traditional artwork in new and original forms. They think that if you make a copy of an İznik tile and skew the pattern thirty degrees to the left you’re making a statement. Wankers!’

  He looked down at the ground with an intensity so fierce that for a moment all three police officers were rendered speechless. Although still hot, it was now, despite the light from the kitchen, almost completely dark – a condition that only served to heighten the ghostly paleness of Melih’s face. Active or not in the search for his children, the artist was obviously a very distressed man. With this in mind, İkmen, notwithstanding his obvious antipathy for the man, proceeded gently.

  ‘Sir, if we may return to Saturday for a moment,’ he said, ‘you were due to take your children over to Sarıyer.’

  ‘Yes, to eat fish.’ Melih’s head was still down, crooked over what had turned out to be, mercifully, only a cigarette. ‘They like fish.’

  ‘Was that you and your wife and the children?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Why?’

  Melih looked up. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I mean,’ İkmen said as he lit up a cigarette, ‘that you’re not a person who, it seems to me, goes out a great deal. You like to work . . .’

  ‘I have to work!’ the artist corrected. ‘Someone has to shake this fucking country out of its stupor!’

  ‘Yes, but what I meant—’

  ‘You meant that I’m a bad father!’ He pointed his cigarette into İkmen’s face. ‘That I don’t care!’ He lowered his voice. ‘If only you knew. I care for my children more than you will ever know or understand.’