Istanbul Noir - Mustafa Ziyalan [88]
When I entered the hotel lobby, my head was spinning from all the noise and the strange melancholy I had picked up on the avenue. The woman at the reception desk greeted me with a smile and handed me the card key to my room.
I was planning to have a cup of coffee in the lobby and then head out to grab a bite to eat. But then I noticed that a man sitting by himself in the lobby was watching me. A blue halo of cigarette smoke encircled his head. When he saw me look at him, he put out his cigarette, stood up, and walked toward me. “Hello Sadık,” he said, with a confident smile on his face.
I gave him a quizzical expression. “Hello.”
The look on his face was eerily distant. He was a big guy—big-boned, that is, though with a bit of a paunch and chubby cheeks; he must have been in his mid-fifties. I couldn’t place him.
He continued to smile as he shook my hand.
“I could imagine you growing up to be just about anything but a police officer,” he said, still polite as could be.
Maintaining my air of formality, I responded to his words—which seemed more an expression of surprise than a compliment—with a slight smile.
“I didn’t expect you to remember me,” he said as he sat down. “My name’s Haldun, I was a friend of your brother’s.”
I tried to look him in the eye. There was something there, something hidden. But nothing about him reminded me of the man from thirty years ago, nothing but a subdued tone of compassion in his voice that made me think of my brother’s funeral.
I just stood there, frozen, while he continued to smile.
“Why don’t you have a seat?”
We sat across from one another. I felt sheepish and guilty, the way you feel when you run into someone, especially someone older than you, and you just can’t place them. Though my body may not have followed suit, I knew that my soul was crouching in some corner.
Haldun Abi and I left the hotel and walked toward the factory stop. He talked the whole time, as if he was desperate for conversation, but I don’t remember a thing he said.
We reached Kanyon, a high-class mall, and he said to me, “I can hardly take someone like you out just anywhere, now can I?”
He passed through security like a ghost, as if nobody even saw him. The security officer walked up to me. I showed him my police ID and he took a step back.
As we walked through the broad corridors of Kanyon, Haldun Abi asked me, “So, how are things in Ankara?” He said it like he needed a breather; tired of kicking the ball around by himself, he decided it was my turn now.
My response added up to less than a minute of trite clichés, and Haldun Abi reacted by giving me an odd expression. Actually, it wasn’t really so much odd as it was angry.
We sat down at a restaurant. I ordered for both of us. Haldun Abi lit a cigarette. I could read the annoyance in the dull look on his face.
“I’m waiting for you to ask,” he said all of a sudden.
“Ask what?”
“Why I came to find you after all these years.”
How could I? I remained silent.
“I talked with lhan. He said you went to see him this afternoon.” He sounded irritated. “That’s why I came to the hotel. I’m telling you this because, even though we haven’t seen each other for years, you’re important to us. No matter how old you are, we have to look out for you; you’re his little brother. You understand?” His questioning eyes were fixed squarely upon me.
I nodded. I could understand him trying to protect me, but protect me from what, I had no idea. If there was anyone who needed protecting, it was lhan, not me.
“With everything changing as quickly as it is, there are certain things we have to do to stay afloat. You’re a policeman, you have certain obligations to the state.”
I’d heard this kind of talk before, and I could sense where it was leading.
The waiter brought us our food. He looked tense for some reason. He left a huge plate of pasta with seafood and a glass of dark beer in front of Haldun Abi. I’d asked for mantı.
Haldun Abi put out his cigarette and started digging