Istanbul Noir

by Mustafa Ziyalan

  When Cemile Abla got down to the shore, she found four fishermen settled in front of one of those hollows in the Hisar walls covered by iron bars; they were conversing in low voices, their eyes turned to the waters painted orange by the moon-light. When she reached them they greeted her as joyously as ever; she accepted their invitation to join them and sat down on the edge of a blanket. They chatted about this and that as she sipped the rakı in her tea glass. For a moment her eyes met those of Captain Hasan. Cemile Abla turned her head before anyone noticed, and began telling a funny story about her father. She was sure that the captain understood.

  When she got home, she began trying to tape the cover back onto an old book, just to pass the time. It was an hour before sunrise when she heard the light knock at her door.

  “You’ve got some packages that need to go down, Cemile Abla?” Captain Hasan asked. His cheeks were red from the rakı.

  “I hate to trouble you …”

  “No reason for you to come out, I’ll take care of it.”

  Because she knew that he was too bound by the rules of etiquette to come inside, Cemile Abla dragged the bags to the front door herself. She was in a cheerful mood, relieved at not having to climb repeatedly at the crack of dawn. When she went to the living room to open the curtains, a tiny glinting object caught her eye. She had picked up the tea glasses, plates, forks, and knives earlier, but the wedding ring was still there on the edge of the coffee table. She thought about what she would tell Nalan. She was sure her telephone would ring before the clock struck noon; in fact, she wouldn’t be surprised if Nalan came all the way over here just to gossip face to face.

  “I guess I’m just not meant to marry,” she’d tell her friend. “They all just slip right through my fingers. It’s as if, just when it’s all about to happen, poof, they evaporate into thin air, just like that. Don’t get me wrong, I’m not taking you for granted, but please, let this be the last one,” she’d say. “Don’t introduce me to anyone else. Really. You think I’m not saddened by this, but really, it weighs so heavily on my conscience.”

  ALL QUIET

  BY JESSICA LUTZ

  Fatih

  Privileged, that’s what I am. I pray in the Conqueror’s Mosque, the most honored one in the whole of Istanbul. Look at its simple, vast courtyard. There’s nothing to distract a man from his mission, just the sober beauty that reminds one of the Greatness of God. Of why I have to perform my difficult duty.

  At the fountain I have just completed my ablutions, a ritual that soothes me. A little cat came up and licked the water drops off my bare foot. I thought it to be a good omen even if I had to wash again. I love cats. I thanked God when I was praying inside, surrounded by the thick walls laced with five rows of arched windows that support a dome so high, it must have been a miracle half a millennium ago. Fatih Mehmet, the Conqueror, built this tribute to Allah after the greatest city of the infidels surrendered to the relentless blows of his army. Our army! We, the Muslims, arrived, and Constantinople became Istanbul. Some claim the architect failed to make the first mosque of Istanbul higher than the infidel’s biggest church, the Hagia Sophia. They say the Sultan ordered his hands to be cut off, but I think that’s just malicious slander invented by the infidels.

  I must go now. No time to linger. I’m quiet inside, focused. I have the address written on a piece of paper, but I don’t need it. I know where to go. I leave the outer courtyard of the mosque through the gate at the right, which brings me into Darüafaka Avenue. Isn’t that a beautiful name, Abode of Dawn? I walk past Wednesday Market with its small shops. Dried fruits and nuts, frilly dresses for little girls, a toy shop—didn’t have those when I was small—the tulumba shop. Maybe I could stop for some of those sweet syrupy balls. I’m sure my assistant would like to. But no, I mustn’t indulge.

  Evil tongues say I know little mercy. That’s not true. My assistant will testify that I find my task hard. He’s a reliable young man. But it must be done. God’s soldiers must be tough. We cross the Yavuz Selim Avenue straight into the Manasyazade Avenue past the smail Aa Mosque. I know that at the back of its courtyard, the old medrese is still being used for teaching. One of our finest Quran courses is given there. Perhaps on my way back I could pay a visit. The teacher is a friend of mine.

  Look at the pretty ladies in the sun, their faces framed by headscarves and reddened by the icy wind that’s blowing. I disapprove of those young, slender girls who wear their long coats so tight that a man needs no imagination to know what’s inside. They send my blood racing. Very bad. They’re asking for something to happen to them. We’re nearly there, I think. Left off Fethiye Avenue, at the end of this street we go right, and then left again.

  Here’s the place. First on the left after the big grocery. Its stands of vegetables nearly blocking the pavement. As I expected, a decent, modest street. Is it surprising? If you remember, back in the Conqueror’s time this was the first neighborhood of the city that was populated by Muslims. No fancy houses, no showcases for wealth, just as God commands. Behind these metal-framed windows live good folk. My assistant knows the address too; he’s spotted the door already. I let him press the bell. He likes that.

  “Who’s there?” I recognize Zekeriya’s drawling voice.

  My assistant announces our arrival. It takes awhile before the buzzer sounds. I’m not worried. I know our friend will let us in. He has erred, but he’s not lost. I’m here to bring him back to the flock. Third floor. My assistant presses the button. He likes that.

  I suspect Zekeriya hesitated before opening the door because he thinks little of me and my assistant. There are some who think the boy is retarded, but I can tell you he’s not. And of course Zekeriya’s wife hates me. I guess she’s at home. She once criticized me for my black beard that makes me look much older than her husband, even though I’m ten years younger. She said I was faking, despite my skull cap, my pious robe. She said I’m not a real Muslim. The nerve.

  I showed her what a woman’s place is. She’s never said a word to me again, but her eyes tell me enough. Ha. I laugh at her.

  I bet it’s she who has persuaded Zekeriya to leave the brotherhood. She would, with her poisonous tongue. She can expect something from me too. But my priority is Zekeriya. He is, after all, a good Muslim. I know he prays at the little mosque we passed on our way here, an old Byzantine church with its typical flat dome. No better place to be reminded of our superiority. Yes, he’s a good Muslim all right.

  There he is. Look at him, wringing his hands by the door. He clearly doesn’t want to let us in, but of course he will. What’s he saying? Oh, his oldest daughter came home today. She’s in her first year at university. Just finished her first term. They were about to sit down for a special meal.

  No, don’t worry, we won’t join. In fact, we won’t be long. Tell your womenfolk to eat. I’ll have a little word with them later, but you don’t need to know that.

  On our way to the living room, past the kitchen, I catch a glance of his wife. Her frown makes me smile.

  Yes, Zekeriya, shut the door behind us.

  Bang!

  Ha. He didn’t expect that. I must say, my assistant does a great chop. It always takes them by surprise. Poor Zekeriya. On his knees. I bet it’s all black before his eyes. He’s not moving while my assistant ties his hands behind his back, but I can see he’s coming to. Time for me to examine the bookcase. What have we got here … wise sayings of the Prophet, may God’s blessing be upon Him. Wise sayings of the Prophet Jesus. More wise sayings. Ah, and now he’s about to say something himself. Time for me to leave.

  Through the door I hear his surprised yelp.

  “Hey, what is this … all … about?” The last words he whispers, because the kid has put a knife on his midriff. I know. We’ve been through this routine before. The sun must be reflecting on the blade as he presses its sharp tip through Zekeriya’s clothes. Very gently at first. Then he’ll twist it slowly. A hole in Zekeriya’s sweater. It looked new. Perhaps he’
s wearing it for his daughter.

  I’ll check out the ladies in the kitchen.

  Hmmm. No daughter in sight. Where is she? Gone to visit a friend, says the bitch. Too bad. But I must concentrate on what I’m here for. I pick up an ashtray and some matches. That’s all right, isn’t it? Of course it is. I knew it. No. No tea yet. See you later.

  Poor Zekeriya. He looks at me with such hope when I enter the room again. He’s trying to move away from my assistant’s hand, but it follows him, keeping the knife firmly in place. I wonder if he has already pierced his skin. I see no blood yet.

  “If I push up …” he hisses, and pushes, “I could pierce your heart. Open your mouth.”

  “Please,” Zekeriya says, looking at me. I smile back, while my assistant stuffs a rag into his mouth. He always carries a piece of towel in his bag. You never know what you might need it for.

  Ah, that assistant of mine is so fast! I hadn’t even seen Zekeriya move—perhaps his shoulder is in pain—but there it is. His hand shot at the knife and with lightning speed stuck its tip in Zekeriya’s nostril. Muffled sounds. Fast breathing. His tongue must be bone dry. He’s getting scared. Good.

  “Get up.”

  My assistant doesn’t help him. He pulls up his legs and rolls over onto his face. Now he can smell whether his wife cleans the carpet properly or not. I feel like kicking that chubby ass up in the air there. Instead I tell him to sit down on the chair my assistant has placed in the middle of the room. Meekly he does so, and then he gives me that begging look again. I smile. He makes a sound and widens his eyes.

  Ah, it’s the knife he sees coming. My assistant slashes downward, rips straight through his sweater. This time his skin bursts. The cut isn’t terribly deep. It might not even hurt. It will though, just you wait. I’ve lit a cigarette and I wave it under his nose. He doesn’t smoke, I know, but he recoils because he can feel the heat of the red cone. I like this bit.

  He tries to move further away from me as I confront him with his betrayal. Don’t you know, I ask him, that you can never leave the brotherhood? And I stab the cigarette butt onto his chest, on the edge of his bare nipple.

  His howl triggers my assistant. The tip of the dagger immediately on the stretched upper lip. Zekeriya closes his eyes.

  Oh, come on, stay with it! Aren’t you listening? I plant the red-hot stab in his ear and I can see his eyes water. And look at those swollen veins on his throat. That’s a scream that wants to come out. Good boy, he’s not uttering a sound. Ooops. But he nods.

  The glistening blade slides upwards on his lip; its cutting edge touches the cartilage between his nostrils. My young friend is clearly angry too, and I inform Zekeriya of this unfortunate fact.

  My assistant nods to the rhythm of the loud jingle from the truck that sells propane tanks. It’s a rather funny sight. The amplified tune penetrates the room. I bet it always comes around the same time. Must be one of the rare neighborhoods that don’t have natural gas yet. I hear a voice call out to the street—the woman next door? I wonder if she hears anything going on in this living room. The thought excites me. Someone calls the elevator. Must be the truck driver’s boy. With a squeak it departs from the floor we’re on.

  What’s that smell? Faintly metallic, familiar …

  Ah. Blood. My assistant is getting carried away. It trickles all over Zekeriya’s front, onto the carpet. That stain will always be there for him to remember. Ah, blood on rugs. No way to get it out.

  I tell Zekeriya I am thinking about letting my assistant cut off his nose for setting such a bad example in the eyes of the community, especially the youngsters. I love the way his eyes widen. Suddenly I think of my father. I shudder. I want to shake off his image.

  Zekeriya gags. He can’t stand blood either. I lift my hand, and my assistant takes the knife away. Zekeriya’s gaze turns to a picture on the end table. His parents. I strike. I hit him so hard he falls over onto his side, chair and all. Bang! That bloody, filthy little prick! He infuriates me! I remember going to his petty stationery shop to invite him over. I sweet-talked him, told him about making the world a better place. I sent customers to him, to prove that God’s brotherhood does good. And now that his business is going well he wants to back out, the selfish coward. He couldn’t stand to share his wealth? Didn’t want to help out the odd apprentice we sent him? Or, ah yes, I remember, he reminded us once that there is no force in Islam, only persuasion. Ha! I’ll teach him what persuasion is. I kick him in his stomach. He pulls up his legs. I kick his shin with the ball of my foot, a little trick I learned from my father. Maximum effect without shoes.

  Zekeriya moans.

  My assistant is quick to silence him, but … what’s that? I hear shuffling on the other side of the door. There’s a soft knock. We all look up. Is it the wife?

  I open the door with a creak. Look at that. A boy, bringing a tray with tea. Thank you, and now get lost. Oh, you want a little peep? I allow him a glimpse before I shut the door. No harm in educating the young.

  I tell my assistant to put Zekeriya upright again and give him his tea. I watch as he undoes the gag and pours the scalding liquid into the man’s mouth. Zekeriya squeaks. What a brilliant idea it was, that tea, whoever thought of it.

  I ask him if he will continue depriving us of his contributions and company. He whispers something that I can’t understand. I slap him in the face. I notice his eyes go to the door, he must have heard something. With one jump I’m there, while he tries to shout, “No!” through the rag in his mouth.

  When I pull open the door a crack, I find opposite me the Mrs. of the house, holding the little brat by the ear.

  My fingers fold around his other ear while I look her straight in the eye. Eavesdropping, was he? She doesn’t lower her gaze as she should. I’ll deal with her in a minute. For now, yes, of course we’d like some more tea.

  When she walks away—I spot a little hesitation in her gait—I drag the boy to the bathroom, take the key from the inside, and push him in. Before I lock the door I tell him how quiet he has to be if he wants his father to live.

  I think I might take a little look in the kitchen. She looks up from wiping off the table when I enter. A shadow darkens her face when she sees it’s me.

  “Is my husband with you?” she asks. I think I see faint moisture appear on her upper lip. It makes me feel good. I tell her we’re discussing business of the brotherhood, but I know she must be wondering why her husband hasn’t come out of the room, why he isn’t here instead of me. It’s quite inappropriate for us to be together in the same room like this, and she should angrily send me away. But I can taste her fear now.

  She’s turned her back to me, to close the window above the counter. Quite right. You don’t want anyone to hear what’s coming, my dear. Through the white nylon curtain I can see the next building near enough. I move forward and stand next to her. She blabbers something about her father-in-law who is asleep. The water boils. She pours it in the teapot. And lets out a cry when I grab her arm. The tea glasses clatter on the tray.

  She tries to pull away, but my grip is like a vice. I can’t help but grin at her feeble attempt to break free and soft laughter escapes my throat. How satisfying.

  “Where is Zekeriya?” Her question comes out as a whisper. Nothing will happen to him if you keep quiet, I say.

  “What have you done to him? What have you done to my son?” She shrieks and scratches my face with her free hand, and she kicks my shin. I love it. I pull off her headscarf and grab her hair.

  When I bring my face close to hers, she spits. I don’t care. I slowly wipe my face with my sleeve and hold her head at the base of her skull. Her eyes become big like saucers while I bring my lips to hers. They’re firm and warm. My tongue finds its way between them.

  Ouch! The bitch, she bit me!

  I slap her face. Anger burns in the pit of my stomach. I shake her head with her hair in my fist. And tell her my assistant is holding a knife to her husband’s throat. All he needs is a
word from me.

  That’s better. Her movements become kind of mechanical, but she follows my hand obediently when I pull her to the kitchen table. She doesn’t move when my hands disappear under her sweater. I feel her skin. Her soft, bouncy breasts. I can’t control my hands. They grab, they squeeze. Pull. Pinch.

  I want to see them. I push her shirt up. Fill my mouth with flesh. Suck. Bite. Smell. For a moment I feel deeply happy. I sigh.

  Then my mind switches on again. I tell her to get ready for me, and watch as she takes off her slippers, her tights, and her panties, and neatly folds them into a bundle. She leaves them on the floor by the armchair in the corner and comes back to me. I push her onto the table.

  There is something sacred about this body that has never been touched by anyone but that misery-guts tied up in the living room. It makes me singe with excitement. I ride. I gallop. To a height I have never reached.

  I can hardly stand on my legs anymore. My chest feels all relaxed. With my eyes closed I quickly say a prayer, although I know I should ablute myself first. Thank you God. Thank you.

  Privileged, that’s what I am. I walk over to the living room, where my assistant is keeping an eye on Zekeriya. The door is wide open. Poor Zekeriya. He has more blood on his face and chest than when I left him. Actually, there’s quite a puddle around him. He doesn’t look too happy. In fact, I’m not sure he’s conscious. My assistant has found another rope in his bag to tie him to the chair, so he stays upright, but his head is hanging to one side. I sit down at a distance on the sofa. I feel good. Look, Zekeriya is coming to. His head jolts back and forth, and he opens his eyes. They’re swollen. Did my assistant punch them? Well, our friend asked for it. He’ll think twice about leaving us again. I’d be surprised if he doesn’t show up at our next meeting. I’ve raised his contribution a little too. That’ll teach him.