Free Divorce Turkish Style by Esmahan Aykol Page A

in this if there’s nothing in it for you?”
    â€œDoes anyone pay you to fight against the industrialists and environmental pollution?” I asked.
    Rıfat said nothing, but looked directly at me. I saw a gleam in his eyes, and felt that he recognized a kindred spirit in me. Neither of us were the sort to give up. We shared a steely determination that enabled us to fight against anything that offended our sense of justice or values, whether it was a suspicious death or an illegal factory polluting the environment.
    â€œMy youngest daughter Naz is a doctor at Lüleburgaz State Hospital. Talk to her before you go back to Istanbul,” said Rıfat. “She was interested in the environment before the rest of us. Itwas Naz who got Sani involved. She’ll tell you what you need to know.”
    With his head bowed, he walked back towards the village with a stooping gait.

4
    â€œThis stink makes me feel ill,” moaned Fofo, closing the window that Rıfat had opened when he was smoking.
    â€œIt’s just the smell of ‘an acceptable level of pollution’,” I said.
    â€œI can’t imagine how anyone finds it acceptable. I certainly don’t. Poison seems to be oozing out everywhere. And we drank that tea!”
    â€œI don’t think we’ll die from drinking one glass of tea,” I said, ignoring the fact that I’d glared at my tea glass as if it were full of cyanide. After all, I had to set an example to Fofo.
    â€œNothing will happen to you, because you’re like a real Turk, but I’m still very Spanish,” said Fofo, holding his nose.
    He was right, of course. But should Turkish robustness be expected to withstand physical assaults comparable with the Chernobyl disaster, radioactive farm produce, bird flu, or even AIDS?
    Needing to digest what we’d learned, we didn’t speak again until we reached Lüleburgaz.
    I approached a nurse sitting behind a glass partition marked “Patient Reception”, and asked to speak to Naz Kaya.
    â€œDoctor Kaya is on leave until the end of next week. The doctor covering her is—”
    â€œI need to speak to Naz Hanım in person,” I said. “Her father, Rıfat Bey, sent us.”
    â€œYou might find her at home.”
    I’d made the mistake of not getting Naz’s number from Rıfat, but going all the way back to the village would have made it impossible to get back to Istanbul before the evening rush hour.
    â€œCould you please phone her at home?” I pleaded.
    â€œI’ll try,” said the receptionist. “Who shall I say you are?”
    â€œSay that we spoke to her father. My name’s Kati.”
    I arranged to meet Naz an hour later in Nehir Café, opposite the Kubbealtı Mosque.
    Naz Kaya resembled the press photos of her older sister in her heyday, and she was just as beautiful.
    â€œPeople have said we look very similar,” she said with a trace of irony, the significance of which I didn’t fully understand, but I let it pass.
    â€œYour father obviously told you we were coming. He should have given us your phone number,” said Fofo.
    â€œHe rang me after you left him. He was worried you wouldn’t find me as I’m on leave. Lüleburgaz is such a small city you can always find people, but try telling that to someone who’s spent his whole life in a village.”
    â€œI suppose your father told you that we’re investigating your sister’s death.”
    â€œI gather that you believe the factory owners had my sister killed. Is that right?” said Naz, lowering her voice even though all the nearby tables were empty.
    â€œWe’re actually considering a number of possibilities. But what do you think of that theory?” I asked.
    â€œMy father says you’re from Istanbul,” said Naz, ignoring my question. “Are you Spanish, too?”
    â€œYour father looked at both our IDs,” I