Hotel Bosphorus Read Free

newspapers during the week, so this is something different for me on Saturdays. And change is good, isn’t it?
    It’s become a habit. Yılmaz always arrives before me, exactly on time. He never passes up an opportunity to berate me for my lack of punctuality, especially as I’m German. I retaliate by saying that Turks always assume Germans are punctual, hard-working cold fish, and then insult Yılmaz by saying he’s no exception. As you might guess, the worst insult for Yılmaz is to be told that he’s just like everybody else.
    I can’t let this pass without mentioning some strange prejudices that Turks have about Germans. For instance, Turks are amazed to see a smiling, cheerful German. They love it when I laugh, because they think I’ve become really integrated into the community. I haven’t yet convinced anyone that I used to laugh when I lived in Germany, even if only occasionally, and that it didn’t mean I was excommunicated from society. I even know people who think the reason I came to live in Istanbul was that I couldn’t remain in Germany because I was too cheerful.
    The fact that my name is Kati seems to suggest to Turks that I’m a different kind of German. You might not believe this, but I’ve actually met Turks who think
there are only two German names: Hans for males, and Helga for females. Why? I have no idea.
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    I had been in the café for fifteen minutes and Yılmaz still hadn’t made any jibes about punctuality and being German. He was probably too preoccupied with his work. The advertising company where Yılmaz worked was in the midst of a financial crisis, like many companies in Turkey. People were apparently going to be laid off. I suggested that if this happened to him, he could take the job that Fofo was probably going to give up. He looked at me as if I was joking. So what? Was I supposed to feel bad if I couldn’t pay him a monthly salary of ten thousand dollars?
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    Petra had said she would call me again when her dates were confirmed, that is to say when the Turkish Cultural Ministry and the producers had completed their paperwork. Two weeks passed while I waited for Petra to let me know when she was coming. Naturally, I wasn’t idle during that time. I found Fofo and told him in no uncertain terms that I would replace him if he didn’t come back to the shop. I had no intention of working myself into the ground. Actually, there aren’t that many people who want to work in a crime-fiction bookshop, but I expected to find someone eventually.
    Fofo dithered and couldn’t give me a straight answer. He was starting to get on my nerves so I interrupted, “In that case, I’ll take on a temp for three months. You can use that time to decide what you want to do. Are you going to spend your whole life going after some boy or other, or are you going to learn to stand on your own two feet?!”

    After this meaningful and important speech, I slammed the door and left. I don’t think Fofo had ever heard anyone talk to him like that, or had a door slammed in his face. He was infatuated with Alfonso. However, I also had pride that had to be salvaged.
    A few days later, I went to see my friend Candan, who has a large bookshop in Beyoğlu. I wanted to find someone who would be right for my shop. Candan was great at that sort of thing. Whenever I put a request to her, she would provide exactly what I was looking for. And it happened again. She called up four or five places on her mobile and, one hour later, a pleasant-looking girl was sitting opposite me: Pelin.
    Pelin was a student at Istanbul University, studying English language and literature. She was from Ä°zmir and had come to Istanbul to attend university and get away from her family. For seven years, she had been both studying and working, which was why she had been at college for so long.
    â€œI’ve no problem with that,” I said. In fact,