Arabesk

Suleyman sighed. 'It should do, after all he didn't hurt Merih, did he? And with Sevan Avedykian on his side he shouldn't have any trouble. Although, as to whether his parents will ever let him out alone again, I think the future there may be less certain.'

Zelfa looked down at the table and murmured. 'Poor Cengiz. All he ever really wanted was a little love.' She looked up at him and smiled.

Suleyman smiled back. 'Lucky, aren't we?' he said softly.

She took one of his hands and squeezed it tight. 'Are you saying…'

'That I love you? Yes,' he said simply. 'Yes, I think I do. And you? What do you feel?'

Zelfa looked briefly at the other people around them before she said, 'Well, I think I've a lot more passion in my soul than any of this lot, don't you?'

'Yes, but that doesn't answer my question, does it, Zelfa?'

'No.'

Frowning now, he asked again, 'And you, your feelings? Well?'

She sighed and then, once again, slowly smiled. 'Oh, I love you right enough, Mehmet,' she said. 'Even though it scares me to death.'

And then, with uncharacteristic urgency, she took a handkerchief from the pocket of her dress and dabbed at the moisture that was collecting at the corners of her eyes.

Although Cohen left the confines of the Aya Triyada Kilisesi as soon as Kleopatra Polycarpou's funeral was at an end, Ìkmen, who was indeed accompanied by a moodily awkward Bulent, remained behind to talk to the old woman's priest, Father Yiannis.

'Kleopatra was never an easy woman, Mr Ìkmen,' the cleric said as he walked with the Turk and his son towards the front gate. 'And, in all honesty, I did know that she was having difficulties with Murad Aga prior to his disappearance all those years ago. Not, of course, that I ever imagined she might have killed him.'

'What sort of difficulties?' Ìkmen said, as he lit the cigarette that was dangling from his hps.

Father Yiannis sighed. 'Well, apparently, the eunuch or so she told me, was being unfaithful to her. I know that sounds extraordinary but-

Ìkmen smiled. 'Not quite as odd as you might think, Father.' And then lowering his voice in order to prevent his son from hearing, he said, 'A friend of mine who comes from an old Ottoman family assures me that some of these creatures were not unskilled, shall we say, in the bedroom.'

'Oh,' the priest reddened. 'Oh, I see, er… That would, I suppose, explain, in part-'

'Precisely.'

'Ah, well. But tragic anyway. And what with the poor man being so far from his native lands.' He sighed. 'There will not be a soul to claim his corpse now.'

Ìkmen frowned. 'But I thought that Murad was Turkish. At least I always took if for granted.

'No, actually,' the priest said gravely, 'he was of your mother's race. An Albanian. When he "left" all those years ago, I assumed it was to return to Albania.' And then he added, slightly bitterly, 'The old empire never emasculated its own, you know. Your Ottoman friend, at least, should know that.'

Ìkmen shrugged. 'I guess my mother would have known him then.'

'I should imagine so,' Father Yiannis replied. 'But it was all a very long time ago now, Mr Ìkmen.' Nodding in the direction of Bulent, he added, 'We must look to the future and, especially, to the young.'

Noticing that Bulent was now squinting in the harsh sunlight, Ìkmen wordlessly passed his sunglasses over to his son who put them on.

'Yes, that's true, Father,' Ìkmen said, smiling.

'You do know, of course, that the haman has been left to Mrs Arda?'

'Semra?' Ìkmen shrugged. 'Well, that's good. Whether she sells it or gets it going again, it means that the extra money will enable that daughter of hers to leave the streets.'

The priest frowned. ‘I understand that Mina is still in your cells right now though, Mr Ìkmen?'

'Yes,' Ìkmen said gravely. 'We cannot overlook attempted abduction charges. I mean she did intend to keep that child even after she discovered her identity. And there are drug charges too, involving her pimp who is a foreign national. It's complicated.'

'When she is released she will however have somewhere to go, though,' the priest said.

'Which is good, yes.' Ìkmen smiled.

'Yes,' Father Yiannis agreed. Then he shook hands with both Ìkmen and Bulent and returned to the confines of his church. The Ikmens, for their part, walked the short distance back up onto istiklal Caddesi and then turned left.

'Do you want some tea before we go home?' Ìkmen asked his son as they walked past a tram that was headed for Taksim Square.

'No, I want to get this suit off’ Bulent replied in his customary mumbling tone.

'It looks good on you. Smart,' his father observed. 'It's Orhan's.'

'Yes. But if you would like one of your own.. ‘

'Suits aren't really my style.'

This effectively killed the conversation and the two continued walking in silence, the tall son slouching along in front of his much shorter father, Ìkmen tried to divert himself from his son's mood by looking into the windows of shops and restaurants as he went but eventually he felt that he had to speak again, he had to try. In spite of the heat and his own lack of fitness, Ìkmen speeded up until he drew level with Bulent's bowed shoulders.

'What is your problem, Bulent?' he asked, attempting but failing to catch his son's eye.

'What do you mean?',

'I mean, why is it that you can behave so well with others, like you did in the church just now, and yet when it comes to myself and your mother and indeed anyone who has authority over you-'

'I don't want to talk about it'

'No, you never do.'

'Look,' the boy turned to face his father now, an almost violent expression crossing his eyes. 'You're not at work so don't try to come on to me like a policeman, OK?'

‘I’m not'

'You are.'

Resisting, for once, the urge to fly into a rage and men justify it with his authority over his son, tactics which so far had not worked, Ìkmen took a deep, calming breath before he spoke again.

'So is it my job? Does it bother you that I'm a policeman? Is it that I'm an establishment figure?'

The boy just shrugged.

'I mean that could explain your drinking and-' 'No.'

'Then is it your older brothers and sister?' Ìkmen asked, now quite desperate for some sort of explanation from his son. 'Are you jealous of their achievements? Do you feel that you have to try and live up to them?'

'What, be a doctor?' Bulent sneered. 'Not likely!' 'Well what than?'

1 don't want to talk about this any more.' Thrusting his hands deep into the pockets of his brother's suit, Bulent walked off rapidly.

'Bulent!’

Once again Ìkmen found himself chasing, breathlessly, after this miserable boy – a boy who, if he wasn't too careful, was going to cause his father to have a heart attack.

'Bulent!'

The boy stopped and then rounded on his father with an expression of such naked animosity that for a moment Ìkmen was rendered speechless.

'What?'

'Bulent…' And then he saw that a trickle of water was dripping from underneath the sunglasses he had given his son. 'Bulent, are you c-'

'No!' He turned away quickly in order, it was easy for Ìkmen to see, to wipe the tears from his eyes.

'Oh yes you are,' Ìkmen said and then quickly changing to a far older strategy, he firmly took hold of his son's arm and steered him into a small and shady side street.

'Now, what’s the matter, Bulent?' he said sternly. 'No more games, no more guessing. Just tell me what is going on in your brain and tell me now.'

'I can't.'

'Yes, you can’ his father said, watching all the time to check that the small group of headscarfed women opposite did not take too much notice of them.

'Why do you have a problem with authority? Why can't you keep the simplest job? You're not stupid! Why are you drinking?'

'Well, if I'm going to die in the very near future then why not!'