Istanbul Noir - Mustafa Ziyalan [78]
I felt the rope in my pocket. At first, I was encouraged by the sense that my sadness was shared by Cevat Bey. But then this feeling dissipated and Cevat excused himself to the bathroom.
My parents’ murderer and I were listening to the sound of barking from the street. It was neither close nor aggressive.
“I like this barking sound,” he said. “It has a generous, tolerant ring to it.”
His neck was stiff when he spoke, however, and he was staring at the window with an unnecessary focus of attention. On a wooden table lay his glasses, medicine bottles, and a book. At that moment, he seemed to me such a miserable character, a second-rate hit man who had squandered his life away. The way he stood there so still and kept looking out the window, apparently lost in thought, all the nonsense he was talking, it seemed like it would go on and on until his fear had finally ceased. What he was saying was irrelevant, because what was about to happen would erase it all.
I didn’t say anything.
He continued: “I’m going to make something to eat. Would you help me?”
I wasn’t at all surprised. The fact is, people don’t really seek answers to all their questions. I followed him to the kitchen. It had a small window, which was halfway open. There were some plates lying facedown and a knife with a wooden handle on the marble counter. It was an unsettling image, the only things missing were the body of a murder victim and blood on the small, dirty rug.
I gripped the rope in my pocket. I was getting ready to strangle him, but then in a mad rage I grabbed the knife instead. The man stared into my eyes. He was petrified, his face was ashen, he couldn’t move. He struggled to stand. With his arms he held me in a tight hug. His fear was ferocious. The kitchen reeked of sweat.
That’s exactly how it happened. I heard the knife plunge into him and the moans escaping his mouth, which I had covered with my hand. Everything happened very slowly, yet it was over all at once. The act of killing induced a feeling of power, and nausea.
There is only one thing to do in situations like this. It is hard to pull off, but has undeniable advantages: You have to get out of there without leaving any clues behind. But how can one possibly undo what he has done?
Then Cevat Bey, hulking at the door, said in a cautious tone: “Keep the knife, leave the kitchen, I’ll take care of the rest.” He may have been grieved by this state of affairs, but he looked calm.
I didn’t leave the Pera Palace Hotel for two days. Perhaps the guy was actually innocent. I hadn’t even considered this. Perhaps, but my situation at that point kept me from considering such a possibility at length. I was anxiously awaiting Cevat Bey’s phone call. I had to know what was going on. Whether or not I’d be able to return to Fener or even stay in Istanbul depended on the news he was to deliver. The nostalgia I had felt for the city for all those years had morphed into something monstrous. What was I supposed to do now? That was the question.
On the third day, Cevat Bey and I met. We were walking along the shore and darkness was about to engulf Istanbul. The way he put it, everything was okay. His words weren’t burdened by shame or regret; in fact, they seemed almost poetic.
As the city gradually grew emptier, amplifying the background din, Cevat Bey grew silent and withdrawn. Then, perhaps to quell his own uneasiness, he suggested we go to a meyhane. I agreed and we went to the place where we had first met. For some time we successfully skirted the incident that continued to fan my fears. But then,