Istanbul Noir - Mustafa Ziyalan [63]
I didn’t ask: Who? The Kurds? He had turned out to be another one of those assholes who thought the city was his own personal property. Maybe out of anxiety, out of fear. After all, fear is one ferocious teacher. We made small talk; we drank tea.
That’s when I saw the blondie for the first time, just as I was stepping out of the store. He wore some fancy, dark-colored jacket; his arms were folded; he seemed to be scratching his chin. In spite of his years, he had the face of a kid. Good-looking fella. He followed me with faintly squinting eyes. Was there anybody else with me? Where were my hands? Perhaps the fact that I was holding the paper in my right threw him off. He smiled, it seemed, ever so slightly. A fleeting thought: Is he making a pass at me or what? Well, there was no harm in that. It once again became obvious to me that I no longer knew the language of the land. The thought gave me an ugly rise. Some sort of fear. For an instant I imagined going straight up to the guy, reaching out with the paper as if to remove some spot of dust from his arm, and then headbutting him square in the middle of his cool smile. I almost took the first step. But then I stopped myself. I winked in his direction. He seemed to be looking elsewhere. I turned around, but made sure not to lose sight of him. I knew as well as I knew my own name that he was keeping me in his field of vision too. So be it. I put some distance between us and turned around for good, and with one ear to the ground listening for steps, started in the direction of Pertevniyal High School. I figured I’d go to the hardware store over there and do some shopping.
* * *
I like hardware stores. They have the remedy for every predicament you can think of. Manning the counter was some boy still wet behind the ears. He did his best to help me out. He found a wire for me, the closest thing he could find to a piano string. I bought some duct tape and a stout hammer handle. A small saw, some sandpaper. I thought of the headline: Scalpel. I didn’t know the first thing about scalpels. What I did know was that long gone were the days when punks who thought they were hot shit packed straight razors in their shirt pockets. I bought a sturdy box cutter; it fit my hand perfectly. I almost bought a blowtorch too, but then I changed my mind. Truth be told, I’d never really liked the smell of burnt flesh.
Pubs crowded the edges of the neighborhood. I thought I saw the blondie again. But I didn’t pay him any mind this time. I went to a pastry shop that had a broken marble counter. I had börek. I went to a greasy spoon restaurant. I had vegetable casserole with meat, rice, and cacık. Then I ducked into a workers’ coffeehouse and ordered rosehip tea. I opened the paper. Let’s see what happened when I wasn’t looking. The headline said, The Scalpel Slays Again! For real. Somebody out there was on a killing spree, knocking off retired civil servants. Nobody had seen or heard a thing. It was almost like some practical joke—saving the retired from their misery! Except it wasn’t a joke. And whoever did this was treating the victims like lambs marked for slaughter during the Feast of the Sacrifice. The person, or persons, might very well be in the business of butchering or medicine, the paper said. Well, there is little difference between a butcher and a medical professional, if you ask me. For lack of visual material, they had printed a huge picture of the scalpel; one had been found with each victim. It was a fancy piece of work: handmade, with some floral ornaments connecting the handle to the blade. Holy shit, look at that! I recall thinking, Are we seeing the beginning of a serial killer fad in Turkey? Of all things …
Days passed. I was getting used to the neighborhood. The neighborhood was getting used to me. I visited the stationery store every once in a while.