Free Baksheesh by Esmahan Aykol Page B

tea?” This had become fashionable in Turkey. But having read the ingredients on the carton, I think it’s a most disgusting drink. However, it’s rude to refuse everything offered by a Turkish host, especially if you’ve only just met and are trying to establish a relationship.
    â€œThat would be lovely,” I said.
    Habibe Hanım put two cartons of iced tea and two glasses on a tray and turned towards the sitting room. It wasn’t far. The kitchen and sitting room adjoined each other.
    The sitting room was crammed with furniture: a huge dining table, a glass case of neatly arranged tableware, a television, a few marble-topped tables of different sizes and a three-piece suite that looked most uncomfortable. I sat down on one of the chairs and she sat on the sofa. As soon as she sat down, she lit a cigarette.
    â€œSo, do you want to tell me what happened?”
    â€œWell, actually…”
    â€œHow on earth did you find me? Tell me that first.”
    â€œWell, Osman Bey…” It sounded odd to me. Should I have said “the late Osman Bey”? Or would that have been too hurtful? I stopped indecisively.
    â€œYes?” Her small but pretty-coloured eyes were sizing me up, waiting impatiently for me to continue. I decided that she didn’t really care how I referred to Osman. It was a bit odd really. Was this really the same woman who had wailed at the mention of Osman’s name on the telephone?
    â€œAnd?”
    â€œOn the floor below Osman’s office, there’s a packaging workshop. The owner is someone called Yücel Bey. You may know him. A tall, elderly man.”

    She shook her head. Clearly my description wasn’t very good.
    â€œYes?” she said again, this time almost ordering me to continue. Had I been capable of steering the conversation, I would have asked questions about the rent of her apartment, her fuel costs and whether people at the Mount Ida guest house got on with each other. However, never mind steering the conversation, I couldn’t even control my arms and legs. When I tried to take hold of the glass of iced peach-flavoured tea, it slithered between my fingers like a fish onto the ugly factory-made carpet.
    I jumped up.
    â€œShow me where you keep your floor cloth and I’ll wipe it up,” I said.
    The woman didn’t bat an eyelid.
    â€œOh for God’s sake, sit down. The cleaner’s coming tomorrow,” she said, pointing to the chair where I’d been sitting. “Did it spill over you?”
    I felt my trousers. Fortunately they were bone dry; otherwise it would have been an expensive evening, because they were part of a trouser suit.
    â€œNo,” I said, “but what about the carpet?”
    â€œNever mind the carpet. I’ll fetch you another tea.” She went back into the kitchen. You’d think that at least I should have been spared having to drink that synthetic iced tea with its chemical peach aroma, wouldn’t you? But no.
    She waltzed back into the room with a carton in her hand and plonked it on the table.
    â€œSo, what did the man downstairs say?”
    â€œHe mentioned you. He didn’t know much about you, but he remembered your Mermaid Eftalya act on TV.”
    She leant back in her chair and laughed at this. A lovely, seductive laugh. I have to say it was the last thing I expected to hear in that apartment, sitting by a factory-made carpet with a former mistress of that thug Osman.

    â€œDarling, you mean there are still people who remember?” She continued as if talking to herself, “It gives one faith. Such a long time ago.”
    The woman must have been about ten years younger than me, so for her four or five years seemed like a long time, whereas, for me, four or five years was beginning to feel like just yesterday. How awful.
    â€œYou’re not an easy woman to forget,” I said. I wasn’t just saying that in the hope that a compliment