Land of the Blind

by Barbara Nadel

  Fatma had just laughed.

  ‘And your laughter at such an absurd idea just goes to prove my point,’ İkmen had said. ‘I’m not like them and you couldn’t cope with me if I was. Fanatical religion is all very well and good as a notion, Fatma. But at heart, you’re just too liberal. If you’re not I don’t know why we’re still married.’

  Then he’d slammed the apartment door behind him. But the altercation, plus lack of sleep, had left him agitated. Now that Gezi had moved far beyond Taksim and out to every open space across the city, the police had been ordered to move in again. There had been altercations in the night and Çetin and Fatma’s son Kemal hadn’t got home until the early hours of the morning. He’d had a bruise on his back the size of a dessert plate. Çetin didn’t ask him who had made it. He knew a plastic bullet bruise when he saw one. All he’d done was tell the boy to go to the doctor to get it checked. But Kemal had said, ‘There’s loads of doctors at Gezi, Dad. I’ve already had it looked at. It’s fine.’

  But it wasn’t. Çetin had hoped that maybe the younger children would grow up in a country not plagued by factional violence. Now that military coups were a thing of the past that should be possible. But clearly it wasn’t. Gezi was an amazing phenomenon and he could only applaud its liberal, ecumenical spirit, but he feared for it and everyone associated with it.

  He switched his computer on and looked through his e-mails. Another request from Mr Savva to take his daughter’s body back to Greece. He’d only spoken to him the previous day to tell him about the baby the Erol girls had found. His response had been one of pessimism, which was probably for the best. Results from the IT investigators were inconclusive on the source of Aylın Akyıldız’s threatening e-mails. And then there was one from Professor Bozdağ at the museum. It just said, ‘Re your looking for as yet undiscovered Byzantine structures in the Old City. Shows where some of the old tunnels might be.’

  There was an attachment which when opened revealed a map of Sultanahmet. Hand-drawn, indistinct and small, it was written in French and was dated 1895.

  They tried to stall him by first offering him lemonade in that hot, ikon-stuffed salon of theirs and then they took him upstairs to go into the old woman’s bedroom. He didn’t want to see her. He could hear her breathing and he wished she wouldn’t. With her gone it would be so much easier. But standing by her bedside table, full of her brushes, her pills and her very modest bits and pieces was a good opportunity and one he hadn’t imagined he would get. He’d never dreamed they would let him see her.

  Then he said, ‘I want to go downstairs. You must know that.’

  ‘I offered you a tour of my house and so that’s what you’ll get.’

  Yiannis Negroponte was enjoying making him wait. He knew what was down there and so did that old Hakkı who followed him everywhere like a dog.

  Three more bedrooms, a hamam and old man Negroponte’s study had to be gone through before they descended to the basement. Then it was the toilet, a cupboard full of jars of preserved fruits and vegetables from decades back, and then, finally, they walked into the kitchen.

  Ahmet Öden held his breath. For a moment he couldn’t move his head at all. Frozen in a forwards position, even his eyes couldn’t move from a scene that was entirely not as he had remembered it. And then when he could move, what he saw was even more alien. Where had the great stone blocks in the walls gone? Where was the entrance arch on the left? The step down just in front of it, the door that had been made out of rough plasterboard, just open enough for him to see . . .

  ‘Where is it?’ he said.

  ‘Where’s what?’ Yiannis replied.

  ‘You know!’

  He saw Yiannis and the old man exchange the quickest of glances and for a moment he felt his head swim. ‘I don’t have to tell you! You know!’ he roared.

  ‘Know what? This is my kitchen, which you wanted to see. I’m showing it to you.’

  He put a hand up to the wall and scratched it with his fingers.

  Yiannis Negroponte pulled his hand away. ‘Please don’t damage my kitchen, Mr Öden.’

  Ahmet paced. Backwards two steps, forwards, sideways. Whichever way he moved, it was still the same. It wasn’t right.

  ‘What have you done?’ he hissed. ‘Have you destroyed it yourselves? Have you covered it up somehow? Where have you hidden it?’

  ‘Hidden what?’

  His blood pressure had to be through the roof. He knew they knew, even if they wouldn’t say it. And he couldn’t. The words were in his head but they just wouldn’t come out of his mouth. He leapt forwards to grab that faux Greek’s neck, but he sidestepped him.

  ‘What have you done?’ he said. ‘How have you concealed it? Is it one of your tricks? An illusion? Or have you truly bewitched me with your ungodly magic? If you have bewitched me, I will make sure that you are pursued to your death as a false prophet!’

  ‘I have neither . . .’

  He sweated. They were laughing at him. Like a pair of hook-nosed demons. Ahmet wanted to kill them.

  ‘Whatever you thought you were going to find in my kitchen isn’t here,’ Yiannis said.

  ‘Which implies you know . . .’

  ‘I don’t know anything. My kitchen is my kitchen. As it is, as it always has been.’

  ‘This is true,’ the old man said.

  Was he going mad or were they really toying with him? The fact that the faux Greek had invited him in at all had to indicate the latter. But what could he do about it?

  ‘I’m sorry my kitchen hasn’t lived up to your standards,’ Yiannis said. ‘But then you don’t have to buy the house. It’s not even for sale. There’s no obligation.’

  He wanted to throw himself on the man and rip his heart out. But he couldn’t move again. Instead he spoke, ‘Well, don’t get too comfortable, “Yiannis”,’ he said. ‘Because in a few days’ time I will know exactly who you are and so will everyone else.’

  For the first time Yiannis Negroponte’s face tensed. ‘I am Yiannis Negroponte, I am—’

  ‘Remember that night we talked sitting outside your gate?’ Ahmet said. ‘When I took your hand and dug my fingers into your flesh?’

  Yiannis didn’t reply, but he had to remember it.

  ‘You probably thought that was just spite, but you were wrong,’ Ahmet said. ‘I took your blood and the flesh that was inside my fingernails and I sent it off for DNA analysis. You know they can tell everything these days from DNA. They can even tell what race you belong to.’

  Was it just his imagination or did the room move just a little then? But Ahmet Öden didn’t stop to find out. He turned away from Yiannis and the old man and he left.

  ‘He came out half an hour later,’ Süleyman said.

  ‘Then what did he do?’

  ‘Got in his car and drove off towards Sirkeci.’

  Süleyman and Ömer Mungun were in Çetin İkmen’s office with the inspector and Kerim Gürsel.

  ‘You didn’t follow him?’ İkmen said.

  ‘I’d had a call from Teker by then,’ Süleyman said. ‘The biggest “back off” I can recall.’

  ‘He’s an important man,’ Kerim said.

  ‘Who lies!’ Süleyman shrugged his shoulders. ‘When we left him he was so worried about his daughter he implied he could barely leave her side. But within minutes he’s on his way to the Negroponte House.’

  ‘Who let him in?’ İkmen said.

  ‘A middle-aged man. Sallow, unhealthy looking.’

  ‘Yiannis, Madam’s son.’ İkmen frowned. ‘Why?

  ‘You mean because they’re at odds,’ Süleyman said. ‘I’ve no idea.’

  ‘I’ll call them,’ İkmen said. ‘Yiannis knows we’re watching his house and Öden. What did Öden look like when he came out? Did he look pleased? Defeated?’

  ‘Angry, I’d say,’ Ömer Mungun said. ‘His face was red, and when he got into his car, he slammed the door behind him.’

  İkmen put his phone on speaker so they could al
l hear the conversation and dialled the Negropontes’ number. Yiannis answered.

  ‘Yiannis, it’s Inspector İkmen. Noticed that Ahmet Öden was at your house this morning. Is everything all right?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘Fine.’

  ‘Just a little curious as to why he would be inside your house,’ İkmen said. ‘Did he pressure you to let him in?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Then . . .’

  ‘You know how much in need of repair this place is, Çetin Bey,’ Yiannis said. ‘He’s been offering such enormous sums of money I thought that if he saw the state of the place he might go off the idea.’

  ‘And did he?’

  ‘No.’ He sighed.

  ‘It’s the location, Yiannis. In the heart of the Old City,’ İkmen said.

  ‘I know. I know.’

  ‘But you and Madam and Hakkı are all right?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ he said. ‘Mr Öden came, he saw and he still wanted to buy and I still turned him down. He wasn’t happy when he left here.’

  ‘Let me know if he comes back and if you need help,’ İkmen said.

  ‘Thank you, Çetin Bey.’

  İkmen put the phone down. ‘He appears to be in good spirits.’

  ‘Öden was in his domain,’ Süleyman said. ‘Whatever designs he may have on that house, it belongs to Yiannis and his mother and they have the power.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘Öden however had the power when Ömer and I went to see him this morning,’ Süleyman said.

  ‘About his dead mistress in Moda?’

  ‘Indirectly.’

  ‘We think that his alibi for that night is unsound,’ Ömer Mungun said.

  ‘Who or what is his alibi?’

  ‘His daughter’s nanny,’ Süleyman said. ‘I have an unpleasant notion that she may be in love with him.’

  İkmen shook his head. ‘It never ceases to amaze me the people other people fall in love with,’ he said.

  Süleyman looked away.

  ‘I even wonder whether Öden could be the father of Ariadne Savva’s child,’ İkmen said. ‘She was supposedly his enemy but I don’t see any other men in her life and, if that did happen, she wouldn’t be the first woman to fall in love with a man she thinks she hates.’

  ‘Maybe he raped her,’ Kerim said.

  ‘That too is possible.’ He turned to Süleyman. ‘I imagine you’ve heard that we’ve found a baby boy who may or may not be Dr Savva’s child. DNA and time will tell. What would also be useful is a sample from Mr Öden.’

  Süleyman grimaced. ‘Ah.’

  İkmen shook his head. ‘Yes, of course you haven’t been allowed to get that far, have you? Any forensics from other people possibly at the scene?’

  ‘One partial fingerprint, not on our records, and some as yet unidentified hair strands. But they could be Öden’s.’

  ‘Which means you’ll have to take DNA eventually.’

  ‘When I’m allowed, yes.’

  İkmen nodded. ‘I think that we both need to go and see the Commissioner to make our need for Mr Öden’s compliance known,’ he said. ‘Not that I think for a moment she isn’t aware of it. I’m sure she is, and I’m also sure that she has already done everything those above her are permitting her to do. We’ve always lived in strange times because this is Turkey and strange is what we do. But I must admit that much of what is happening now makes me more fearful for the future than I have ever been. And yet the nation has never been so economically powerful.’ He smiled. ‘Is it the country or me who is wrong, do you think?’

  Ahmet Öden put his phone down and walked out of his office, down a flight of stairs and into his kitchen. His cook, a Chechen, looked at him with expressionless eyes.

  ‘Cook for Miss Mary and my daughter as usual tonight,’ he said. ‘But not for me. I’m eating out.’

  ‘Yes, Ahmet Bey.’

  He left. On the stairs back to the first floor he met Mary Cox. He noticed that she blushed.

  ‘Ah, Mr Öden . . .’

  ‘Mary.’

  ‘I’ve, er, Kelime is watching TV and wants some ice cream. I’ve come down to, er . . .’

  ‘Oh, please . . .’

  He stepped out of her way.

  Mary moved past him.

  He said, ‘You know I can’t tell you how much I appreciate what you’re doing for me and for Kelime, Mary. I am sure that your consulate will complain about Inspector Süleyman in the strongest terms.’

  She looked up at him and smiled. ‘It’s nothing,’ she said. ‘You’re innocent. You told me where you were the night that woman died, Mr Öden, and I believe you. But I also understand why you can’t say any of that to the police. I couldn’t believe how set against you they are.’

  ‘I am successful and I am a man of faith,’ he said. ‘The old police guard don’t like that. But times are changing. The police are changing.’ He began to walk away. ‘Oh, and thank you for having measles for me.’

  ‘It’s no problem. I know you’ll do right by me, Mr Öden. Always.’

  ‘Of course.’

  He saw her smile and he smiled back.

  But once back in his office, Ahmet Öden’s smile faded. Could he trust her? Probably, she was besotted with him. But what had she meant by “always”?

  Chapter 20

  The dervish was slim and tall and so he was probably young. He wore a gas mask which covered his head and face, shrouding his identity. But it was his entari, the wide-skirted robe that all Mevlevi dervishes wore, that was most dramatic. Unlike the traditional white entari, this one was green and made of velvet, and as he turned in the dying evening light he was followed by an ever growing crowd of photographers, grizzled academics, children, students – and Samsun Bajraktar, Çetin İkmen’s cousin.

  Earlier in the day she’d met up with İkmen’s youngest son, Kemal, who had showed her the deep bruising on his back due to a police issue plastic bullet. Knowing that Çetin’s wife Fatma had to be losing her mind at the thought of what the boy was doing, she’d tried to persuade him to go home. It wouldn’t be long before the police moved in again and she wanted Kemal to be safe. But he wouldn’t go. He’d hung around with her all day, getting ice creams, finding water and talking to her friend Madonna about politics. In her previous incarnation as a bookish young man called Hakan, Madonna had been a student of political science at Boğaziçi University. That had been back in the 1980s, before Hakan had discovered men and drag and become the lady Madonna beloved of several thousand clubbers across İstanbul.

  ‘He’s a lovely movement there,’ Madonna said as they followed the dervish as he whirled across Taksim Square.

  ‘Yes, but he’s probably very religious so don’t get your hopes up,’ Samsun said.

  ‘I think it’s amazing the way people from all across the religious secular divide have come here to do this,’ Kemal said. ‘That’s why I keep on coming back. I wish Mum would come. If she would she’d be able to see that no one here is anti-religion.’

  ‘Except her,’ Samsun said, pointing to Madonna.

  ‘I’m not anti,’ Madonna said. She lit a cigarette and took a swig from a can of coke. ‘People can believe whatever they like. Just don’t try and get me to believe it too. Because I won’t.’

  The dervish stayed in one place, whirling on the spot, his head turned towards heaven, the wide skirt of his entari putting space between himself and those who watched him, ensuring his privacy as he communed with God. And although his performance wasn’t accompanied by music, it was hypnotic. Samsun had even heard somewhere that watching dervishes dance lowered your blood pressure. She hoped so, because hers had been right up for the last few days.

  One of the things that had led up to Gezi had been the issue of lesbian, gay, transgendered and bisexual rights. A lot of people wanted to extend them, and this included elements within the government. But the more conservative members of parliament had been against it and they were in the majority. Samsun didn’t know whet
her Gezi would help the community to achieve more equality or not, but she feared that if the protest was crushed, the hope of more parity would be destroyed along with it.

  As the sun went down, the three of them watched the young dervish dance and felt better for doing so. Arm in arm, the young man with one middle-aged and one old transsexual woman on each side.

  The journey took forever. What with the clubs that lined the Bosphorus, the Gezi Park protest, and all the other, smaller demonstrations all over the city, traffic going into the centre of İstanbul was at times gridlocked.

  When the taxi got to Ortaköy, where there were a lot of clubs, it stopped for over half an hour. Ahmet Öden was glad he’d left so much time to get to his assignation. He looked out of the cab window at a group of barely clad girls waiting for their friends outside a club called ‘Machine’. To him they summed up the complacency and corruption of the secular elite. Much as he disagreed with the kids in Gezi Park, at least they were there for a reason, albeit a misguided one.

  He gave the cab driver an extra twenty lira and told him to try the backstreets when he could. He did, but it didn’t improve things. It still took over an hour to get to Sultanahmet.

  The Hippodrome was dark and almost deserted. What tourists there were wandered in ones and twos and there were no police on duty at all. Ahmet sat down on a bench and looked at the Egyptian obelisk. He found it confusing, always had. When he’d been alive his father had hated it. There were carvings down the four sides that represented false gods. But his grandfather had loved it. His father and his grandfather had not got on. His grandfather had always believed that his father had been converted to an extreme religious ideology by a group of Arabs he’d met just after the Second World War. Refugees from Syria who had come across the Turkish border looking for work, they’d been full of fear and hatred for all the Jews that had been arriving in Palestine. Ahmet could remember his father railing against the Jews when he was a child. He wouldn’t even believe that the Holocaust had taken place at all – a view which, at the time, was considered irrational and mad. Now it was common. Ahmet knew several otherwise sensible people who subscribed to it. He couldn’t. The Jews had died in those camps. Surely people who denied it had to know there was no way the Holocaust could have been a figment of the imagination. Surely even his father had to have known that?