Free Hotel Bosphorus by Esmahan Aykol

during her tour of the historical peninsula the day before. But I interrupted her: I’d spent the last thirteen years, as well as my first seven, in Istanbul and had had frequent visitors who all told the same stories, with the same expression of enthusiasm and wonder. I found it nauseating. Also, I preferred to talk about the fight between Ayla Özdal and Petra over the starring role, and about the love affair between Müller and Petra.
    â€œDid you know you were about to be sacked?” I asked as my first line of attack.
    â€œNo, I heard it for the first time this morning from you,” she said. She rummaged around in her handbag for a packet of cigarettes. “What are the papers saying?”
    I had to satisfy my own curiosity before answering Petra. After all, I’d had to put up with that endless chat about stupid German films all the way from the hotel.
    â€œDo you know Ayla Özdal?” I asked. I pushed a newspaper with a photograph of the woman towards Petra. She pulled the paper towards her and studied the photograph.
    â€œThis woman? No, I don’t know her.” She rummaged in her bag again and produced a lighter.
    â€œAre you sure?”
    â€œYes, I’m sure. Definitely,” she said. “What are the papers saying?” she asked huskily as she lit her cigarette.
    â€œThe papers are saying that your former director Müller wanted to give your part to that woman. Or rather, that woman claimed at a press conference yesterday that Müller would have given it to her, if he hadn’t died.”
    â€œWell, that’s interesting. You must be wondering why she would say a thing like that.”

    â€œYes,” I said, “that’s exactly what I’m wondering.”
    I was just pondering that Petra’s interest had clearly been aroused by the Ayla Özdal incident, when she said, “Give me your mobile for a moment.”
    My friends think I’ve assimilated well in most respects, but I’ve never seen anyone fall in line with Turks like Petra, and she’d barely been in Turkey for a week.
    â€œIs this the time to talk on the phone?” I said, rolling my eyes.
    â€œDon’t you want me to find out whether or not I was really going to be sacked? I’m going to ring the Turkish producer and ask him. If all the papers are writing that I’m to be sacked, they can say it to my face.”
    It was a rare moment when a mobile could have been of use and I was unable to enjoy it. Without even finishing our tea and simits , I dragged Petra towards the nearest telephone, which was at the hotel because of course we couldn’t call from a public booth in Ortaköy.
    I decided to put off telling Petra that I knew about her relationship with Müller until later. Whatever happened, that was to be my main striking blow.
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    It was not at all easy to reach the Turkish producer. First, Petra spoke to the person who answered the office number she had been given. She had no need of any help from me because it was obviously someone who spoke German. This person said they couldn’t give out the producer’s mobile number, because he was on holiday and didn’t want to speak to anyone. Looking annoyed, Petra put the phone down and dialled the number of the film company in Germany. It took at least five minutes to get the producer’s home number from the secretary. By then, I’d forgotten all about Ayla
Özdal and was worrying about the phone bill, especially after the increase in telephone costs since the economic crash. Of course Petra wasn’t bothered about bills or financial crashes; her hotel bill and expenses were all being paid for by the men she was trying to contact.
    She dialled the number the secretary had given her. As far as I could tell, the person who answered was the producer himself.
    Without allowing him to get a word in, Petra summarized that day’s news in the Turkish press at lightning