Baksheesh by Esmahan Aykol Page B

police arrived within ten minutes and they wouldn’t let anyone inside. A crowd of locals had got into the building but the police sent them all packing. It wasn’t a film set, after all. There are so many idlers in this country. All the local tradesmen were here. You’d think they’d have better things to do, wouldn’t you?”
    â€œDid any of the police speak to you?”
    â€œYes, a young one. I told him what I knew. But I don’t know a great deal, as you see.”
    â€œYou’ve known the family for a long time though.”
    â€œYes, fifteen years is quite a long time. You could almost say I brought Osman up. He used to serve tea at the café I went to in Tophane. He was just a child then. I knew his father too. He was a porter. I used to give him work when I could. The poor man died young, and the children were left without a father. They lived around here in those days, but later moved to the Bağcılar area where they had friends and relatives. Or that’s what Osman said. Oh yes, there’s another thing. When the father died, their mother married an uncle, the father’s brother. I thought at the time, ‘What sort of tradition is that?’ I say uncle, but he was only a boy, barely older than Osman. Not a day over fifteen. Within a year, Osman was also married, to a cousin on his father’s side. They never marry their daughters off to strangers. We were invited to the wedding, but didn’t go. My wife doesn’t like crowds, especially if they’re people she doesn’t know. To be honest, I didn’t feel like going either. I don’t know
why. Basically, they’re good boys. Deep down, they’re all right. Very polite and respectful. People from the east are like that. Always respect their elders. They were the ones who found this workshop for me. I used to have a place in Tophane until about ten years ago. Osman was a hard-working lad. He worked his socks off as a waiter at that café. Old Abdül Efendi, the café owner, took a real shine to him. Dear, dear, he’s passed away too,” said Yücel Bey with a deep sigh.
    â€œThe old man had a son who became a heroin addict and died,” he continued. “One day, I found the son in my workshop basement. He’d bound a rag around his arm and was injecting himself. I said to him, ‘Do you have any idea what you’re doing to your father, my boy? This addiction will kill you.’ But his eyes were all glazed. Dear God, I feel terrible just remembering that scene. He died not long after. Tall and slender, like a willow branch, he was. There was no colour left in his poor face because of that poison. People said he used to beat his father to get money out of him. But I never saw that. Poor Abdül Efendi, what could he do? After his own son was dead and buried, he treated Osman as a son and gave him the café. Osman worked very hard and paid back every penny. ‘My debt’s all paid off, Uncle Yücel,’ he said to me. He used to call me Uncle Yücel. For a while, things went well for him after he took over the café, but somehow or other he got involved in some shady deals. They say a water bottle breaks on the way to the spring, don’t they, dear lady? I said to him, ‘Don’t misunderstand me, son; we’ve known each other for years and I feel like a father towards you, but the things you’re getting involved in never end well.’ Osman said, ‘What can I do, Uncle Yücel? I’ve got fifteen mouths to feed.’ That uncle turned out to be a layabout and Osman was having difficulty keeping everything going. So the poor boy was forced to get involved in these shady deals.”
    â€œDo you mean the car-park business?”

    â€œHe started with little things, before the car parks. He bought the car park six years ago. Or rather, they burned down that building. We arrived one morning and that huge thing