Free River of The Dead by Barbara Nadel Page A

underneath the sugar and the butter that was really quite unpleasant. What it was, Bülent couldn’t imagine, beyond knowing that it was organic in some way. Something of rot or mould . . .
    ‘That you are having the opportunity to visit so many places is very nice for you,’ Fatma said. ‘But also you must be careful too, Bülent. In some of these places . . .’
    He knew full well what this was about. ‘Mum, in Amsterdam I did not, I promise you, use either drugs or women of easy virtue,’ he said. To use even the word ‘prostitute’ would have outraged her. That said, he wasn’t lying. He’d got very drunk in Amsterdam but he hadn’t done anything else beyond look at what others got up to. ‘I’m not stupid, you know. Not now.’
    When he was a teenager, Bülent had had the odd brush with drugs, but nothing, Fatma knew, on the scale of Bekir’s involvement. What had happened to her third son and what he had done as a result of it was unique within the İkmen family. Only the day before she had learned that there had been a period in Bekir’s life when he had begged for money for drugs. Then, apparently, he had been literally on the street. Cold in spite of the fierce summer heat, he had pulled at the clothes of rich European and American tourists to get their attention. Then he’d asked for money for some mythical child’s life-saving operation, money he would later use to buy heroin.
    ‘I think I’d feel better if at least some of my children paid attention to religion,’ Fatma said. ‘I know your father doesn’t care for Islam but you know, Bülent, at times, for me, my religion has been the only thing that has sustained me. I—’
    ‘Oh, Mum, not religion.’ The voice was tired, smoke-scarred and lazy. Bülent looked up into the tanned and rather amused face of his errant brother.
    Fatma, instantly on her feet and alive with what could have been anxiety, said, ‘Bekir, my son, do you want a glass of tea? I’m cooking baklava for you, and—’
    ‘Mum, calm down!’ Bekir said as he watched Bülent light up another cigarette. ‘Can I have one of those, brother?’
    With a shrug Bülent tossed a Marlboro across the table. Fatma almost ran towards the samovar.
    ‘Mum, it’s OK,’ Bekir said. ‘There’s no hurry. You don’t need to fuss.’
    But she did and Bülent at least knew why. His mother was afraid that if she didn’t do exactly what Bekir wanted, he’d leave again. The first time he left, apparently, it had been because he wasn’t getting his own way all the time. But he’d been a teenager back then.
    ‘So, Mum, are you ready for the dentist?’ Bülent said once his mother had given his brother some tea.
    ‘Dentist?’
    Bülent rolled his eyes. ‘Mum, that’s why I’m here,’ he said. ‘You’ve an appointment at midday over in Beyoğlu, remember?’
    Fatma put a hand up to her mouth and said, ‘Oh, my . . .’
    She had forgotten. ‘You’re always frightened and one or other of us always takes you,’ Bülent said.
    ‘Oh, Bülent, I . . .’
    ‘Oh, well, no harm done,’ he said. ‘Get your coat and we’ll go. There’s time.’
    At first she didn’t answer. She was thinking about something that very soon, and to Bülent’s intense irritation, became apparent.
    ‘Bülent, I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘but I can’t go to the dentist today.’
    ‘Mum, you have toothache, or you had it last week,’ Bülent replied. ‘You’ve got to go.’
    ‘Oh, but . . .’
    ‘Mum, if you have toothache you must go to the dentist,’ Bekir said.
    She put a hand on his arm. ‘Bekir, darling, I have so much washing to do. And then there’s baklava baking . . .’
    ‘Do the washing another time,’ Bekir said. ‘And if you tell me what time to take the baklava out of the oven, I can do that for you. I’m not going anywhere today.’
    But Fatma was adamant. ‘No, no,’ she said. ‘I can’t have you doing that, Bekir.’ She looked across at Bülent.