Free Hotel Bosphorus by Esmahan Aykol Page A

speed.
    As you know, I hadn’t seen her for years and she had never been my closest friend, but one didn’t really have to know her very well or be a connoisseur of human nature like me to understand that Petra was sparing the man at the other end of the line nothing as she vented her rage.
    I looked for a place where I could get away from Petra’s escalating voice. The only place was the bathroom. It wasn’t a luxury suite as she’d had previously, but nevertheless a luxury hotel room, a twenty-five-square-metre, tastefully furnished room.
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    By the time Petra had finished her conversation and was knocking on the bathroom door, I’d read the directions on all the cosmetics in the bathroom and was about to move on to the lists of ingredients.
    What she told me was that Mr Franz, the German producer, had said the sacking story definitely couldn’t be true; he would find out who had started that gossip and why, and call Petra back in a little while.
    Actually, I found it strange that Petra had suddenly become so irate, because I’d been convinced by the
impression she’d given of being unconcerned about losing her job.
    â€œWhat’s happened?” I asked. “Before, you didn’t seem bothered that you might be sacked. Why are you so furious now?”
    She picked up an envelope that had been lying on a side table and waved it under my nose.
    â€œThey gave this to me when I collected my key, didn’t you notice?”
    I had noticed. What’s more I’d seen her biting her lip in irritation as she read the contents of that envelope in the lift but, unusually for me, I’d thought better of asking too many questions.
    â€œYes, I did. What does it say?” I said.
    â€œIt was sent from the production company. Mr Franz knew nothing about it. If only I knew what this Turkish producer has been up to… Apparently they’re not going to pay for this room. Straight after the murder, they said the suite was too expensive and now they’re saying the cost of this room is too high. They’ve found a cheaper hotel they want me to move to. Costs have shot up because of the extra time we have to spend in Istanbul and they can’t meet the costs of a hotel in this price bracket…”
    â€œWonderful!” I thought. In that case, would she be paying for that phone call?
    I thought of suggesting that Petra should move to my apartment, but immediately had second thoughts. I wasn’t sure if I could bear to share my home with anyone other than Fofo just yet. The best solution would be to recommend a hotel with a view that was in my neighbourhood.
    While waiting for the call from the German producer, we ordered tea from room service, knowing very well
that from now on the film company would not be footing the bill.
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    By the time the telephone rang, I was thinking I’d have to leave if I was to make my four-o’clock appointment.
    The person who called was the Turkish producer. Given that the man had abandoned his holiday to make telephone calls, Petra’s call to Germany had clearly been productive.
    Petra said, “One moment,” in English, and passed the receiver to me.
    â€œWe can’t understand each other. He doesn’t know German. He speaks English but, as you know, I… You talk to him and tell me what he says.”
    I introduced myself to him. Right from the start, he talked to me in the familiar style of a Berlin waiter.
    â€œAre you going to translate?” he asked.
    â€œYes, I am. Petra wants to know whether or not you know anything about the news that came out in the papers today.”
    â€œI’ve just explained to our German partner. Ayla is just trying to get herself talked about and… I mean, artists do that sort of thing to create a sensation. Miss Vogel should know all about that. Ayla took the opportunity to do it because we weren’t in Istanbul. In fact there’s no substance