Land of the Blind

by Barbara Nadel

  ‘She’s got a doctor. You could ask him.’

  ‘We could but we think that . . . Lokman, someone will have to tell Madam that Yiannis is dead and—’

  ‘I can’t do it! I can’t!’

  ‘But who else can? If we tell her the shock may be too great. You are at least a relative of—’

  ‘Call her doctor! I don’t know how she’ll take it! We were never close, not like her and Dad. Why won’t she speak to him?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Does he?’

  ‘He won’t say.’

  Lokman shook his head.

  ‘I’d ask you to speak to him, but—’

  ‘No. No, I’ll see him but I can’t make him say what he won’t. I can’t make him do anything. I never have. He’s always only thought about her, Madam. I don’t matter, Inspector. Not really.’

  The smart policeman sighed. ‘Well, Lokman, then can you tell what, if anything, you know about a woman called Ariadne Savva?’

  Lokman felt bile rise in his throat. It made his denial sound fuzzy.

  ‘Are you sure you’ve not heard that name? From your father or from Yiannis Negroponte?’

  ‘No.’

  It wasn’t cold in that room but Lokman felt chilled. And he had to wait a long time for the policeman to stop looking at him, which was hard. But eventually Inspector Süleyman said, ‘OK. Now are you all right looking after Madam for the time being?’

  ‘As long as I don’t have to be the one to tell her that Yiannis is dead, yes,’ Lokman said.

  ‘I understand.’

  Did the policeman see that his brow was slathered in cold sweat?

  Mary had to tell Kelime that her father had died. She had to explain what death meant. But the girl didn’t understand. In the end her Uncle Semih told her that Ahmet had gone away on business. She wouldn’t see the funeral, none of the women in the family would. It wasn’t done in pious circles.

  Mary cried. Kelime’s aunts watched with dead eyes as the girl played while she went to her room and wept into her pillows. Semih Bey had said that she could stay on as Kelime’s nanny for as long as the house remained under Öden family ownership. He’d have to discuss what would happen next with his sisters after the funeral. But for Mary every light had gone out of her life. Ahmet Bey had gone and all she was left with was hate for that awful family who had killed him. Why Semih Bey had decided not to buy and then knock down that wretched house, she couldn’t imagine. But he’d sent a letter to the old woman whose terrible son had killed Ahmet Bey, telling her that he didn’t want to buy her home any more. Why had he done that?

  Mary couldn’t understand why he didn’t go there and kill her.

  It was difficult to see how the old woman took the news. Speech was so difficult for her. Only her eyes showed her pain, which was dry and without hope. Her doctor, an Armenian called Zakaryan, held her hand. He spoke to her in Greek, which Süleyman only partly understood. He told her that Yiannis had died and asked her if she wanted to see Hakkı, but she shook her head. How Zakaryan persuaded her to let him take some blood, Süleyman couldn’t work out, but he did. Lokman watched from the hall outside.

  When the doctor had gone, Süleyman asked Madam Negroponte if she wanted anything and told her that Lokman, who had gone to the kitchen, would soon be bringing her a drink. But she wouldn’t let him go. She pulled his sleeve, remarkably forcefully.

  For a while they just looked at each other and, although he was tempted to speak, Süleyman didn’t. In the end she said, ‘Hakkı . . . buried Nikos.’

  ‘Your husband is buried in Şişli, yes,’ he said. ‘Hakkı Bey rescued you.’

  She clenched her teeth. ‘He . . . killed . . .’ She coughed, clenched her teeth again. ‘He killed one Turk. Then . . . killed . . . my husband.’

  Her brain was damaged and she’d just had a shock. But she’d accepted Yiannis’ death, as far as Süleyman could tell.

  He asked, ‘How?’

  ‘Again. Buried . . . alive.’

  ‘In this house?’

  He looked around the room, he didn’t know why. What did he expect to see? A ghost? But his whole body was cold now.

  ‘N-no . . .’

  ‘Madam Anastasia, your husband Nikos Bey died in 1955. He’s buried in Şişli Cemetery. I really don’t understand. How could he have been buried alive?’

  And then she sat up, suddenly and very quickly, and she said, in perfect Turkish, ‘Because I saw Hakkı carry Nikos’ body away. I watched him and his eyes sprang open. I heard him trying to get out for years.’ She screamed. Süleyman heard Lokman run up the stairs. ‘I remembered. I remembered.’

  Chapter 34

  It was the dead time of the morning. A day of strikes by five trade unions in support of the Gezi protests had failed to bring the country to a standstill and İstanbul’s police cells were still full of demonstrators. Old Hakkı Bey remained incarcerated too. But at least he was in the relatively sanitary surroundings of an interview room. He’d asked to be there and he’d asked for İkmen and Süleyman very shortly after he’d been told of Yiannis Negroponte’s death.

  ‘I killed Ahmet Öden,’ he said. ‘I lured him to the house, disabled him and then buried him behind a false wall. Yiannis had nothing to do with it.’

  ‘Why did you do it?’ İkmen asked.

  ‘To stop him. He wanted the house. He wasn’t going to be dissuaded.’

  ‘And why wasn’t he going to be dissuaded, Hakkı Bey? Was it because he knew about the Red Room and he wanted it?’

  ‘He knew about it. His grandfather had seen it. He saw it too. He was just a builder years ago. He and some others came to the house to do some work. The family always tried to give the Ödens work because of what Bacchus Bey did.’

  ‘By letting your grandfather have the gardening job?’

  ‘Yes. Although I never told Yiannis that. He would’ve gone mad. It was all wrong. Bacchus Bey was sorry for my grandfather, but it was when he saw my grandmother who came to give him his lunch that he made up his mind. He wanted her and he had her. You know the rest. Taha Öden, Ahmet’s father, always bore ill will to the Negropontes. He was a bigot and a racist. I know that Ahmet Öden wanted to destroy the Red Room and I am glad he’s dead so he can’t do that.’

  ‘You confess to his murder?’ Süleyman said.

  ‘Yes. Me alone,’ he said.

  ‘Oh come on, Hakkı Bey!’

  ‘Me, alone!’ He raised a finger. ‘Not Yiannis, me. Do you want a confession or don’t you, Çetin Bey?’

  ‘I want the truth.’

  ‘The truth is, I killed Öden and I killed his mistress too,’ Hakkı said.

  ‘Aysel Ocal or Gülizar?’

  ‘When Öden began persecuting us, I began to study his habits. I waited for him to go out one night and then I went to Moda and I killed her. I knew that eventually you’d point the finger at Öden. I thought that would stop him.’

  İkmen frowned. ‘How did you know that Öden had a mistress in Moda?’

  ‘As I told you, I watched him.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘I killed her! Write it down. I confess. You’re Turkish policemen, aren’t you? Don’t you like confessions?’

  ‘We like the truth.’

  ‘And that is what it is.’

  The two men looked at each other for a moment. Then İkmen said, ‘And Dr Ariadne Savva?’

  ‘I don’t know who that is,’ he said.

  ‘You’re sure?’

  ‘I’m certain.’

  İkmen, who was as stiff as a tree after a long, hot day punctuated by corpses and his colleagues’ incompetence, said, ‘And what about Nikos Negroponte? Did you kill him?’

  The old man’s face flushed. ‘What?’

  ‘Nikos Bey, your old employer,’ İkmen said. ‘Did you kill him during the 1955 riots? I know, and I’m not alone in this, that you have loved Madam Anastasia all your life. I can imagine how galling it must have been to you, to all intents and
purposes a relative just like Nikos, to have not even been considered as marriage material. Did you think that if you killed him in the madness of the riots you could have Anastasia for yourself?’

  For over a minute, no words were spoken. The old man sat with his mouth open, his breathing coming short and ragged. His throat full of phlegm, he said, ‘I would never have killed Nikos Bey. Never! Madam loved him! Where did you get such an idea?’

  ‘From Madam Anastasia,’ Süleyman said. ‘She finally remembered.’

  ‘Madam . . .’

  ‘You had to kill a Turk to protect her. But before you took her out of the shop on İstiklal Caddesi, you removed Nikos Bey.’

  ‘Yes . . .’

  ‘You threw him over your shoulder like an old sack, like something discarded, that you had no care for.’

  ‘I did care for him! I took him out of there and I buried him—’

  ‘Alive!’ Süleyman said. ‘You buried him alive!’

  For a moment it was as if he didn’t understand. Then he said, ‘Those animals were burning the dead, violating them. I ran with his body to the school and I covered him with earth to protect him from them.’

  ‘His eyes were open,’ İkmen said. ‘Madam Anastasia saw them open as you lifted him on to your back. You buried him alive so you could have her for yourself!’

  ‘No. No!’ He stood up.

  ‘Sit down, Hakkı Bey!’

  ‘No!’ He walked over to İkmen.

  Süleyman stood.

  ‘No, Çetin Bey, Madam is wrong.’

  ‘She remembered when she saw you walking out of her bedroom two days ago,’ İkmen said. ‘Your back bent, your—’

  ‘No! He was dead! If his eyes came open it was because that is what happens with corpses sometimes, you must know that! He was dead. I took him to the school then I came back for her and I took her to the hospital. But her mind had gone. I was too late . . .’ He walked back to his chair and sat down again. ‘I went back later and I buried him properly. He was dead.’

  ‘In the Galatasaray grounds?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘So who is buried in Nikos Negroponte’s grave in Şişli?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ he said. ‘There were dead bodies everywhere. Madmen were ripping the faces from them. It could have been anyone.’

  ‘So why didn’t you tell the authorities where Nikos Negroponte was buried after the riots were over?’ Süleyman asked.

  ‘As a Turk? They were all very sorry for the Greeks by that time. They would have said that I had killed him. I had to leave him where he was.’

  ‘You know that he was found, don’t you?’ Süleyman said. ‘I’ve seen him. A skeleton with very complicated dental work.’

  ‘Nikos Bey always had bad teeth. He liked cakes too much . . .’

  İkmen looked down at his notes. ‘Madam Negroponte says that she heard her husband trying to free himself from his premature grave.’

  ‘She couldn’t have!’

  ‘No,’ he said. ‘And we have to accept that the poor lady is brain damaged, but Hakkı Bey, we also have to find the truth.’

  ‘I’ve told you the truth! I didn’t kill Nikos Bey!’

  ‘And yet you have loved Madam Anastasia all your life, haven’t you?’

  His face fell and he cried. ‘Of course I have,’ he said. ‘I would do anything for that woman. She is my blood. I would even let an imposter into her life, if it made her happy.’

  ‘Are we,’ İkmen said, ‘talking about Yiannis Negroponte, her son?’

  ‘One day he came from Germany with little Turkish and no name,’ Hakkı said. ‘But he made her smile and he loved her more than his own life. How will she live without him now, Çetin Bey?’

  He just stood. A young man in casual clothes, in Taksim Square in front of the Ataturk Centre, facing the portrait of the great leader. Hands in his pockets, he contemplated the features of the man who had brought the Ottoman Empire to an end and moved Turkey into the modern world. Soon others joined him.

  ‘He’s just standing, they can’t do anything to him for that,’ Samsun said. She took Madame Edith’s arm and began to move her towards the man. ‘Let’s join him.’

  Madame Edith moved with difficulty. Her ribs had been broken and she was always in pain.

  Pembe Hanım said, ‘Edith, I’ve got some morphine if you want some.’

  ‘No, no.’ Edith waved a hand. ‘That’s Sinem’s. I don’t want to deprive her.’

  ‘She’s OK at the moment and Kerim is getting some more from the pharmacy tonight.’

  ‘No. No.’

  ‘Come on, you silly bunch of old fruits,’ Samsun said. ‘Look at all these people joining the standing man.’

  A lot of people had joined the man, silently. Only the small group of transsexuals were making any noise.

  A young man in front of them turned. Fearing he’d disapprove of the commotion they were making, Samsun said, ‘Sssh!’

  But the young man smiled. ‘Auntie Samsun?’

  ‘Kemal?’

  Kemal İkmen came and joined them. ‘What do you think of this, eh?’

  ‘Well, I preferred the carnival atmosphere of the old Gezi,’ Samsun said, ‘but I have to admit that, as an act of defiance, this is genius.’

  ‘Passive resistance. What’s to attack?’

  ‘Passive?’ Madame Edith grimaced. ‘I went that route and look what happened to me.’

  ‘You were on your own,’ Pembe said.

  ‘So was he. Once.’

  ‘But not any more.’

  ‘I wonder when we’ll be able to stand and get people to join us,’ Madonna said. ‘I wonder when people will come out on the streets for chicks with dicks.’

  ‘They have. They did,’ Samsun said. ‘I don’t know whether this is all over and done with now, but I do know that this is a good country with a lot of good people. If we haven’t got what we want this time then we will next time or the time after that.’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Well I do, Lady Madonna,’ she said. ‘Have faith.’

  ‘In what?’

  ‘In whatever you like, but mostly have faith in this country. Anywhere that can produce someone like him,’ she pointed at the big portrait of Ataturk, ‘can’t be all bad. Now Kemal, dear, have you told your father you’re a gay boy yet?’

  Kemal, ashamed, put his head down. ‘He’s been busy . . .’

  ‘And you’ve been cowardly.’ Samsun lit a cigarette. ‘Get it done.’

  ‘Yes, Auntie.’

  Someone in front said, ‘Sssh!’

  ‘Sorry!’

  Madame Edith held on tight to Pembe’s arm and whispered, ‘Will you be with Kerim tonight, dear?’

  ‘No, he’s spending some time with his wife,’ she whispered back. She clearly forced herself to smile. ‘Why?’

  ‘Well, can I come home with you then? I’m so frightened by just about anything these days.’

  Pembe put a hand on her shoulder. ‘Of course you can. Stay as long as you like.’

  ‘Thank you, dear,’ Edith said. ‘You are a love.’

  Two Weeks Later

  ‘My cousin and my son are in there somewhere,’ Çetin İkmen said as he finished his glass of beer and called for another.

  He and Mehmet Süleyman had a good view of İstanbul’s Gay Pride march from their vantage point outside a small cafe on Zambak Sokak.

  ‘I’m just glad it seems to be going off without incident,’ Süleyman said. ‘Given recent events. How is Fatma Hanım about Kemal’s, er, sexuality?’

  ‘Entirely ignorant,’ İkmen said. The waiter brought his beer and he took a sip. ‘Which is best for all concerned.’

  ‘Ah, but Çetin, secrets fester.’

  ‘You refer to the Negropontes,’ he said. ‘I wonder who Yiannis Negroponte really was?’

  ‘Well, no relation to Madam Anastasia, that’s for sure.’

  ‘I wonder how he found out about the family? And where the real Yiannis Negropon
te is? Or even if he survived the events of 1955?’

  ‘Who knows? But the fake Yiannis was a magician, remember.’ Süleyman smiled. ‘Those people know things.’

  ‘They do.’ He lit a cigarette. ‘You must be pleased to know who your body in the garden of the Lise is.’

  ‘I am. But who is in Nikos Negroponte’s grave at the moment, eh?’

  ‘A homeless person? An unfortunate tourist?’

  A group of boys dressed in rainbow coloured tutus ran into Zambak Sokak and performed a small spontaneous ballet. Everyone eating and drinking outside clapped.

  ‘We still don’t know who killed Ariadne Savva or where her baby is,’ İkmen said. ‘That Greek tragedy continues. That makes me sad. You know, Professor Bozdağ now thinks that the skeleton she thought was the last Byzantine emperor is actually too modern. The sword, on the other hand . . .’

  ‘Could be genuine.’

  ‘Could be. But he’s just happy to have the Red Room all to himself.’

  ‘Is Madam Negroponte all right with that?’

  ‘Now she’s got Lokman and his family looking after her, she’s happy for the archaeologists to have their fun. She’s changed her will to leave it all to Lokman, you know.’

  ‘Well, he is family, I suppose. Do you think the Red Room will ever be opened to the public?’

  İkmen shrugged. ‘If Aya Sofya becomes a mosque again, probably not,’ he said. ‘But what do I know? It’s easy to judge conservative people and put them all in the same box with those who believe in djinn, celestial virgins and holy death. But look at Semih Öden – just made peace with Madam Negroponte, said he’d leave her alone, even wished her well.’

  ‘I wonder if his brother killed Ariadne Savva?’

  ‘I wish I knew,’ İkmen said. ‘Maybe it would give her family some peace. I think that Ahmet had more contact with Ariadne than he said. I think she may have tried to barter the body of Palaiologos for homes for the Gizlitepe rubbish pickers. If he didn’t send those threatening letters to the forensic lab, I can’t think who did. I mean, she can’t have really believed that a Byzantine prince still lived in this city, can she? But I do wonder where her porphyry room was. Red. If it wasn’t the Red Room, underneath the Negropontes’ house, then where the hell was it?’