Belshazzar's Daughter: A Novel of Istanbul (Inspector Ikmen series Book 1) Page 9

  However, in the 1960s things again started to change. There was a fresh confidence in the air and fashionable retailers moved back into the area. A new generation, this time largely Turkish, discovered the delights of Istiklal Caddesi, the quaint bars of Çiçek Pasaj and the candle-lit mysteriousness of a dozen Baroque and Gothic churches. Soon tourists arrived, and the occupants of the old Embassies, demoted to Consulates in the wake of Atatürk’s reforms, found themselves busy once again.

  The mean alleyways and wide boulevards of Beyoğlu came back to life, but not exactly in the image of its previous imperial incarnation. The prostitutes, the cheap cinemas and the tawdry bars remained. Tastelessness and class side by side: the strip club and the grand Imperial Lycée, school for the sons and daughters of the rich and famous; poor peasants selling flowers on the street, the glitter of brass and gold from the windows of antique shops; packs of scavenging cats eating from dustbins outside the Armenian Orthodox High School.

  Robert Cornelius loved Beyoğlu, it was his favorite part of the city. It amused him that within the space of sometimes as little as fifty yards, you could purchase a Sachertorte or a new tire for your car, see a pornographic movie and visit the Russian Consulate.

  As he alighted from the tram at the end of Istiklal Caddesi, he experienced an overwhelming contentment. It was good that Natalia lived in Beyoğlu, good that he was finally going to meet her family, good that it was summer. The street was alive with noise, color, the laughter of happy couples and families on their way to the picturesque little bars and restaurants. A welcome early evening breeze puffed gently up from the waters of the Golden Horn, ruffling the sleeves of his shirt and drying the thin line of perspiration down his spine. The dark fears and anxieties of the previous two days seemed now like bad dreams from an embattled and distant continent.

  He walked back down the street, tracing with his steps the tram-lines along which he had just traveled. Karadeniz Sokak was not far; according to his map it was the second turning on the left. The map. He’d spent most of the day looking at it, stealing glances at the area marked Beyoğlu while his students labored, or not, at their exercises. The day had flown, he’d even managed to enjoy some of it, but now the real business was about to begin.

  Robert was elated, but he was nervous. Because Natalia had always been so secretive about her family, he had no idea what they might be like. He didn’t even, he realized when he thought about it, know how many of them lived with her. Would it just be Natalia and one aging relative? Or would there be dozens of names to remember: brothers, sisters, cousins, grandparents? He walked past the calorie-packed window of a pâtisserie and looked at the cakes. His sweet tooth excited, he drooled. It had been a long time since lunch and he was hungry. What sort of food had the Gulcus prepared for him? Whatever it was, he hoped there was a lot of it.

  The second turning on the left was just beyond the pâtisserie. A slight gap in the endless procession of shop windows showed Robert where it was. A dark and noisy shoemender’s kiosk stood on the left-hand corner, a ladies’ underwear shop on the right. Robert paused.

  Karadeniz Sokak was a long, narrow alley. It was old; tall Victorian buildings packed tightly on either side, some of them galleried, top-heavy, leaning toward each other as if attempting to kiss across the middle of the street. It sloped downward, falling away from the main thoroughfare toward Meşrutiyet Caddesi and the green and white confection of the Pera Palas Hotel. As he made his way forward, Robert could just see the front entrance of the famous building, the Art Deco canopy suspended over the revolving doors of the front entrance. Blackened with age, the structures on either side of him looked very mournful. Some were uninhabited, their broken windows echoing to the sound of his footsteps as the other more joyful noises of life on Istiklal Caddesi receded into the distance.

  Number 12, Karadeniz Sokak was halfway down on the right. Like the other buildings in the street it was tall; Robert counted four storys plus basement. Unlike its neighbors it was not galleried and, strange in an area of solid brick and stone buildings, number 12 was made entirely of wood. It had been very badly neglected. Though in places decorated with beautiful and delicately carved panels, the house as a whole presented a ravaged face to the world. Rot had invaded every plank, green mold and even grass grew on the windowsills and around the edges of the black front door. Although barely discernible, the bottom half of the house was at a completely different angle to the top, as if the structure had twisted five degrees at the waist. It was still very hot, despite the slight breeze, but all the windows were closed and shuttered. There was not a sound on the street, or from inside the house. A knot tightened in the pit of Robert’s stomach. Was this sad and neglected shell to be the scene of some cruel, deceitful joke? How could anybody live in it?

  He mounted the steps up to the front door. He looked down into the litter-filled well of the basement. Two pairs of rodent eyes stared back at him. He tapped the heavy metal knocker twice and waited.

  For at least thirty seconds nothing happened. The rats continued to stare; the silence closed about him like a straitjacket and Robert Cornelius felt the first stirrings of despair, followed quickly by anger.

  Then, suddenly and without the usual warning noise of approaching footsteps, the door swung open. “Efendim?”

  He was a man in late middle age, tall, bearded, very erect. His bright, almost smiling blue eyes seemed to sparkle with vigor. Dressed in what must have been an extremely hot three-piece woolen suit, he looked much more like an Englishman than a Turk.

  “Er…” Robert’s Turkish temporarily deserted him. Clumsily, he pointed his fingers toward his chest and tapped. “Robert Cornelius.”

  The tall man’s face broke into a gracious smile and he held out his hand in greeting. “Ah, good, you have come. I am Natalia’s Uncle Nicholas.”

  Robert took the proffered hand and shook it vigorously. He was relieved. The release of tension showed on his face. “Hello. Nice to meet you.”

  “Please come in, young man.” The man’s voice, like Natalia’s, was heavily accented, but his English was better, more free flowing and natural. “Natalia has been waiting for you.”

  Nicholas stood to one side and Robert entered a plush, lavishly decorated hall. It was all very red. Wallpaper, lampshades, carpet …

  * * *

  Suleyman sighed deeply. It had been a long day and now he wanted to go home. Very little progress had been made and he felt dissatisfied. True, he’d managed, without too much difficulty, to make an appointment to see Reinhold Smits, but tracking down Meyer’s derelicts had been quite another matter. Assuming, quite wrongly as it turned out, that the landlord, Mr. Dilaver, would know who these people were had proved a waste of time—the latter only angering Suleyman by his constant questions regarding when he might be able to let the dead man’s apartment again.

  Frustrated by Dilaver’s lack of knowledge, Suleyman had then driven back to Balat where he had performed two totally fruitless interviews: firstly with Meyer’s friend Mrs. Blatsky and secondly with an insane-looking old woman who lived on the ground floor. Neither woman spoke more than the most elementary Turkish and with his own complete lack of Ladino, progress had been impossible. He had, just before he left Balat, come across one possible contender for the term “derelict” lying across the doorway of the neighborhood hamam, but the man in question, as well as being covered in his own vomit, had been so drunk as to be unintelligible in any language. It was at this point that Suleyman had decided that searching for derelicts would be a job most usefully delegated to his Ladino-speaking colleague, Cohen. When the Jewish constable returned for duty the following morning he would now find instructions to that effect on his desk. Suleyman pulled a sour face. Cohen would no doubt hate him for that.

  Ikmen had not had an easy time either. Probably, Suleyman thought as he looked at the late hour indicated on the face of his watch, he still wasn’t. His interview with Leah Delmonte had indeed gone ahead although Suleyman was, as
yet, ignorant of the outcome. This was because Ikmen and Suleyman’s boss, the somewhat explosive Commissioner Ardiç, had summoned the Inspector as soon as he had returned from the hospital. That had been, according to Suleyman’s calculations, nearly four hours ago. This did not, either by the length of time involved or by prior experience of Ardiç, bode well. And although Suleyman should really have left for home over an hour before, he didn’t feel able to go until he knew what was going on. At the very least, Ikmen would need someone to rave and shout at after his ordeal. And at the very worst? Suleyman didn’t even dare think about that. Ardiç, as even the humblest constable knew, could be contrary to the point of lunacy.

  The office door opened slowly and Ikmen staggered through it, back bent, arms hanging limply at his sides. His weary face wore an expression of patience stretched to the limit and beyond. “That man’s lack of vision is so profound it’s almost clinical.” His words were spoken automatically, almost as if he were too tired or bored to inject them with any emotion.

  “Bad time with the Commissioner, sir?”

  Ikmen squeezed around to the back of his desk and sat down. “You know that bastard actually wanted to take us off this case!” He lit a cigarette.

  “Why would he want to do that?”

  “Because it has political overtones. The Israeli Consul is, apparently, very keen to keep an eye on developments. Ardiç, the Consul and the Mayor seem to have formed the opinion that we are dealing with a full-scale Nazi pogrom. The fact that it could just as easily be one lunatic working alone seems to elude them.”

  Suleyman felt crushed. “So, are we off the case then, sir?”

  Ikmen dismissed the question with a casual flick of the wrist. “Oh, no. It took a while, as you probably noticed, Suleyman, but I eventually managed to persuade the stupid bastard.” He sat forward in his chair and peered through the leaning towers of paper.

  “He was only going to put Yalçin on it!”

  Suleyman looked surprised. “I would have thought that Inspector Yalçin was a bit old—”

  “Old!” Ikmen was coming very loudly back to life again. “Yes, he is, but it’s not his age I object to. The man’s a cretin: finding the lavatory taxes his small brain! Ardiç said it was because of his ‘considerable experience in the political field,’ he didn’t have the guts to say that it was really about my well-known penchant for fine brandy!”

  “Everybody knows that you like a drink, sir.”

  “Precisely. Everybody also knows that I don’t get drunk! What did the stupid man think I was going to do? Go up to the Israeli Consul and vomit all over him?”

  “So how did you manage to persuade him to let you stay on then, sir?”

  Ikmen stubbed out his half-smoked cigarette and lit another. “I told him the truth. Yalçin is an unintelligent idiot who doesn’t get results. If he is given the Meyer case I will resign and so will you.”

  “Sir!”

  Ikmen laughed at his deputy’s white-faced indignation. “Yes, I’m sorry about that, Suleyman. I wasn’t going to bring you into it, but it just sort of happened in the heat of the moment. Anyway, who cares? It worked. He saw sense in the end. He knew all along I was the only man for this job.” He smiled unpleasantly. “I think the Mayor must have put pressure on him. A great admirer of proper behavior, our Mayor! The sort of person the boys over in Vice frequently catch with underage hookers of indeterminate sex. Anyway”—he banged his fist on his desk—“down to business. What and what has not been happening here?”

  “No luck with the derelicts, but I’m going to put Cohen on to that.”

  Ikmen smiled. “Didn’t speak Turkish too well, eh?”

  “No.”

  “What about Şeker Textiles?”

  “I’ve fixed up for us to see Reinhold Smits at his house in Bebek tomorrow at ten.”

  “Good lad!” He paused, and then eyed Suleyman shrewdly. “I suppose you want to go now?”

  “Well, sir, if there’s nothing else…”

  Ikmen felt mean. The boy was a hard worker and it was already seven-fifteen, but there was something else, and it was important. Like Suleyman, Ikmen felt dissatisfied with their lack of progress. He desperately wanted to achieve something, to prove to himself that the day had not been an utter waste of time.

  “How do you fancy paying the woman in Beyoğlu a visit? Maria Gulcu.”

  “Now?”

  “Yes.” He stood up. “I’ve this nagging fear that she might be a relative. If she is it could look as if we’re dragging our heels. Come on, let’s do some proper work before we go home and fossilize in front of the television. Show Ardiç that we’re keen.”

  Suleyman sighed. “All right, sir.” He put his car keys in his pocket and rose wearily to his feet. “Oh, by the way, what happened at the hospital this morning?”

  “Ah, yes. Leah Delmonte.” Ikmen chuckled softly, but his eyes were sad. “She danced for me.”

  Suleyman looked confused.

  “I think it was supposed to be flamenco. Lots of arm-waving and suggestive looks. It was poorly executed and quite terrible. Her doctor was appalled.”

  “But what did she say, sir? About Mr. Meyer?”

  Ikmen looked down at his badly scuffed shoes and shrugged. “Nothing. She said nothing. Hers is a pointless line of inquiry.” He looked up sharply and changed the subject. “Come on, Suleyman, let’s go and see what Maria Gulcu can tell us.”

  * * *

  Robert found the food mostly pleasant, but strange. In attempting to accommodate his English palate the Gulcus had succeeded in creating a culinary confusion.

  In common with most formal Turkish meals, the vegetables were served separately and prior to the meat. They started with fried courgette and roast potatoes. Leg of lamb with rice, again roasted and served with a beetroot and garlic salad followed. Dessert, the most curious course of all, consisted of fresh figs and thin, watery custard. His hosts, Robert observed, disliked the sickly yellow liquid, but they all ate it—for his sake, he supposed. It was very thoughtful of them, but he had difficulty getting it down. It was foul.

  As he popped the last dark, fleshy fig into his mouth, Robert stole a glance around the table. Natalia, her mother and two uncles. They were all nice, they all smiled easily (with the exception of her mother), but they were undeniably weird.

  Uncle Nicholas was a Colonel Blimp character. Bombastic and blustery, he seemed to be, as far as Robert could tell, the head of the household. He, Natalia’s mother Anya and the other uncle, Sergei, were siblings. The subject of Natalia’s absent father had not, as yet, been raised. Her mother, compared to Nicholas, had either aged badly or was considerably older. A small, mousy woman, she spoke little and in very halting English. Most of the time she just sipped her wine in silence, nibbling delicately on her food like a nervous rabbit.

  Sergei and Natalia were, however, the most problematic and disturbing members of the family. Unaccustomed to disabled people, Robert was very conscious of a desire not to stare at Sergei. Or at least not to get caught staring. Thin and wizened, Nicholas’s and Anya’s brother suffered from what seemed to be a condition that twisted and distorted the limbs. His arms were grossly swollen around the elbows and wrists; the flesh was puffed, bruised and painful-looking. Raising his cutlery to his mouth was slow and difficult. But his arms were nothing compared to his useless, wheelchair-bound legs. They had been the first thing Robert had seen as Nicholas ushered him into the dining room. Sergei had introduced himself, smiling; his English was better, if anything, than his brother’s. But all Robert could see was the man’s legs, his knees swollen and twisted like cork-screws, his feet pointing inward and back, limp and without purpose. His ever-present smile and cheery demeanor struck Robert as almost arrogant. Such self-possession in one so disadvantaged didn’t seem right somehow. His own small memory of crippled people involved those he had seen in hospital. Silent stones, hopeless and without personality.

  But Natalia was the oddest of them all. She was
coy, shy even, in this, surely her natural context. Like her mother, she was quiet, perhaps even a little apprehensive. Her eyes hadn’t once met his since he had arrived and she silently conceded to all of her elders’ requests with a grave bow of her head. It was strange for Robert to be with her and yet not dominated by her. It was almost as if she had temporarily diminished herself. Perhaps she was silently wondering what he thought of her family? What they thought of him? As she collected the dessert bowls and disappeared into the kitchen along with her mother, Robert noticed for the first time how small she was. The simple white frock she had chosen for the evening did nothing for her. Natalia needed colors, red, gold, black, to enhance her exotic beauty. White rendered her almost invisible and somehow impotent.

  Nicholas produced two thick cigars from his jacket pocket and handed one to Robert.

  “Smoke?”

  “Oh, yes. Thank you.”

  An elaborate cutter, shaped like the head of a dragon, followed. Robert sliced off the end with surprising dexterity. Beginner’s luck.

  Nicholas reached into his pocket again and produced a small red-gold bangle. He gave it to Robert and then looked around the table furtively. “The women are in the kitchen, I can show you.”

  The scrollwork on the outside edges, curled and cascading like waves of the sea, was unmistakable. An exquisite product from the Avedissian workshop. It was very like the one Robert had sent to his mother just over a year ago, the bangle that had brought him and Natalia together for the first time. The red pigment in the gold glowed warmly against the palm of his hand.

  “Very beautiful,” Robert said, turning the object to catch the shifting patterns of light from the silver candelabra on the table.

  Nicholas drew closer to him. “Natalia got this for her mother, for her birthday. She got it Monday evening, when she finishes work.”

  “She was very tired that day,” said Sergei, as if to underscore the point. He looked at Robert. “The Gold Bazaar is always so busy in the tourist season. Especially at the beginning of the week. Poor Natalia, she hardly has time to breathe.” Robert saw the stern twinkles in the eyes of both men and his blood ran cold.