Divorce Turkish Style Read Free Page A

haven’t been introduced,” said the journalist, clumsily pushing his glasses into place on his nose.
    â€œThis is my business partner, Kati Hirschel,” said Fofo.
    When did we become partners?
    â€œHis boss, actually,” I corrected. “I’m Kati Hirschel.”
    â€œDo you have a private detective company? Your name seems familiar, but I can’t think why.”
    â€œIt’s a sideline of mine,” I said, as if I owned a company, or even a chain of companies.
    â€œWhat is it you want from me?” he asked, this time looking directly at me. Actually, his eyes weren’t bad. Brown, flecked with green, which wasn’t obvious unless you looked carefully behind the glasses. I prefer good looks that aren’t immediately obvious, like a fine Riesling that’s best after a few sips. Not that I understand much about wine, but I enjoy it.
    â€œDid you write the piece on the website?” asked Fofo. “The one on Sani Ankaralıgil?”
    â€œMaybe. Why do you ask?”
    â€œCan we keep this off the record?” whispered Fofo to the journalist, sounding like someone in a TV crime series and making me wonder if I was too harsh on him about his Turkish.
    But what was he up to?
    â€œThe situation is this,” continued Fofo. “We’re conducting an investigation on behalf of Sani Ankaralıgil’s family.”
    â€œYes?” said the journalist.
    â€œWe believe there’s something suspicious about the poor woman’s death.”
    I sighed inwardly at the inanity of what Fofo was saying.
    â€œYes?” said the man again, before turning to me and saying triumphantly, “I know why your name’s familiar! Don’t you sell crime fiction in Kuledibi?”
    â€œMaybe. Why do you ask?” I replied, imitating his earlier reply.
    â€œI know you. You’re a friend of Lale Hanım, aren’t you?”
    Fofo and I exchanged glances.
    â€œA German film director was killed in Istanbul five or six years ago. Remember that?” asked the journalist.
    Fofo and I exchanged glances again.
    â€œLale Hanım engaged some of our investigative staff to get information for you,” continued the journalist. They said one of your friends was mixed up in it.”
    â€œYes, that murder was never solved,” I said, with feigned regret.
    Officially, it was recorded in the statistics as “unsolved murder”. However, you dear readers will remember that… But of course, I’m not one to boast.
    â€œYou’d be amazed at the number of crimes that go unsolved,” said the journalist.
    I nodded in agreement.
    â€œI’m going to be open with you,” he said.
    I’d been about to ask for his name, because I was warming to the way he spoke, as I had to his eyes. However, not wanting to interrupt, I remained silent.
    â€œIt’s thanks to Lale Hanım that I got into this business,” said the journalist. “It’s impossible to get into media without a torpil to put in a word for you. It’s the same at every level. Even a tea boy is related to someone’s uncle. This business of torpil s is the shittiest part of the media world – excuse my language. Everyone, right down to the lowliest reporter, is someone’s man, brother, daughter or son. But Lale Hanım never bothers with torpil s. She just demands that people do their jobs properly. She’s a law unto herself, and as straight as a die.”
    As you might imagine, I was delighted to hear these words spoken about my closest friend. I liked this man more by the minute. My first impressions had turned out to be wrong again.
    â€œYes, you’re absolutely right,” I said.
    There was silence for a moment. When I say silence, I mean the silence of daytime Beyoğlu, where the constant drilling was mixed with the cries of people fearing for their lives as they tried to make their way on foot down Ä°stiklal