whose only customers were his police colleagues. Normally, I leave the business of choosing a place to the man; if it turns out to be awful, Iâm as good as the next woman
at expressing my views through facial expressions and gestures.
I did a quick mental scan of all the possible places we could go to and finally settled on a kebab restaurant in YeÅilköy.
Although YeÅilköy is on the European side of Istanbul, it is quite a long way from the triangle of BeyoÄlu, Cihangir and Kuledibi where I lived and worked; in fact itâs a long way from anywhere. To give readers who donât know Istanbul an idea of the distance, Atatürk Airport, where I went to meet Petra the other day, is in YeÅilköy.
YeÅilköy is also on the coast of the Marmara Sea and is one of the outlying districts of Istanbul where you see some greenery, and houses with gardens. Of course, for that reason, house prices there used to be at a premium. I say âused to beâ because that was the case until the Marmara earthquake. Although it hasnât been proved that the ground in that district has little resistance to earthquakes, anyone in a position to move away from YeÅilköy and the surrounding area has done so. Now, YeÅilköy consists of kebab restaurants trying to evoke memories of better days, and widows and pensioners who donât have enough money to move out.
Â
We left the shop and Batuhan ran ahead to open the door of his red Renault. I thought this choice of car was rather colourful for a policeman, or at any rate for a murder detective.
We hardly spoke as we drove along the road from Kuledibi to YeÅilköy. I took advantage of not being the driver to think about the last four days. It was only four days since I had driven along this road â with completely different thoughts in my head.
The Saçıkara kebab restaurant in YeÅilköy was still standing, and it was open, thank God. I hadnât visited it for years, and now I couldnât even remember why I had gone there then.
The inside was like a vast hangar. Under the fluorescent ceiling lights, even rosy-cheeked Turks looked like pasty Scandinavians. For some reason I canât fathom, Turks really love fluorescent lighting. Iâve never liked its glaring brightness, or the restaurantâs overweight middle-class regulars. The ventilation unit was working full pelt to cool all those strange people who eat kebabs in the heat of summer, myself included. At that moment, I didnât like the place at all, or perhaps I should just say I wasnât crazy about it.
I practically ran to the most distant table.
We ordered a couple of meze dishes, a kebab with aubergine, and rakı . I donât care much for kebabs made from fatty meat and, to be honest, I donât really like rakı either; the mere smell of it is enough to turn my stomach. For that reason, I spent the whole evening raising my glass and just pretending to drink.
Thinking that our conversation was not going to venture beyond types of kebab, detective stories, problems of the police profession, or Turkish politics, I raised my rakı glass once again and, feeling nausea in my throat, asked hoarsely, âWho do you think could have murdered Müller?â Just like that, out of the blue. âEarlier today at the shop, you said you suspected that Müllerâs main job was not that of film director, butâ¦â All of a sudden, I couldnât decide how to finish the sentence. I didnât want to scare off Batuhan, yet I didnât know how to put the question indirectly. Perhaps my Turkish was not as good as I thought. Or? Or it was
simply a personal characteristic of mine? All my life, Iâve been a direct person. I wasnât going to change suddenly just because I wanted Batuhan to talk. In any case, this game of talking round the issue was beginning to get tiresome.
âInspector,â I said. I slid my backside
at expressing my views through facial expressions and gestures.
I did a quick mental scan of all the possible places we could go to and finally settled on a kebab restaurant in YeÅilköy.
Although YeÅilköy is on the European side of Istanbul, it is quite a long way from the triangle of BeyoÄlu, Cihangir and Kuledibi where I lived and worked; in fact itâs a long way from anywhere. To give readers who donât know Istanbul an idea of the distance, Atatürk Airport, where I went to meet Petra the other day, is in YeÅilköy.
YeÅilköy is also on the coast of the Marmara Sea and is one of the outlying districts of Istanbul where you see some greenery, and houses with gardens. Of course, for that reason, house prices there used to be at a premium. I say âused to beâ because that was the case until the Marmara earthquake. Although it hasnât been proved that the ground in that district has little resistance to earthquakes, anyone in a position to move away from YeÅilköy and the surrounding area has done so. Now, YeÅilköy consists of kebab restaurants trying to evoke memories of better days, and widows and pensioners who donât have enough money to move out.
Â
We left the shop and Batuhan ran ahead to open the door of his red Renault. I thought this choice of car was rather colourful for a policeman, or at any rate for a murder detective.
We hardly spoke as we drove along the road from Kuledibi to YeÅilköy. I took advantage of not being the driver to think about the last four days. It was only four days since I had driven along this road â with completely different thoughts in my head.
The Saçıkara kebab restaurant in YeÅilköy was still standing, and it was open, thank God. I hadnât visited it for years, and now I couldnât even remember why I had gone there then.
The inside was like a vast hangar. Under the fluorescent ceiling lights, even rosy-cheeked Turks looked like pasty Scandinavians. For some reason I canât fathom, Turks really love fluorescent lighting. Iâve never liked its glaring brightness, or the restaurantâs overweight middle-class regulars. The ventilation unit was working full pelt to cool all those strange people who eat kebabs in the heat of summer, myself included. At that moment, I didnât like the place at all, or perhaps I should just say I wasnât crazy about it.
I practically ran to the most distant table.
We ordered a couple of meze dishes, a kebab with aubergine, and rakı . I donât care much for kebabs made from fatty meat and, to be honest, I donât really like rakı either; the mere smell of it is enough to turn my stomach. For that reason, I spent the whole evening raising my glass and just pretending to drink.
Thinking that our conversation was not going to venture beyond types of kebab, detective stories, problems of the police profession, or Turkish politics, I raised my rakı glass once again and, feeling nausea in my throat, asked hoarsely, âWho do you think could have murdered Müller?â Just like that, out of the blue. âEarlier today at the shop, you said you suspected that Müllerâs main job was not that of film director, butâ¦â All of a sudden, I couldnât decide how to finish the sentence. I didnât want to scare off Batuhan, yet I didnât know how to put the question indirectly. Perhaps my Turkish was not as good as I thought. Or? Or it was
simply a personal characteristic of mine? All my life, Iâve been a direct person. I wasnât going to change suddenly just because I wanted Batuhan to talk. In any case, this game of talking round the issue was beginning to get tiresome.
âInspector,â I said. I slid my backside
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