Belshazzar's Daughter (37 page)

Suleyman rested his head against the band of his seat-belt.

What with the heat, plus the endless questions that were beginning to hurt both their minds, he felt tired and lethargic. ‘Like the meaning of the swastika?’

‘Oh, yes,’ ikmen replied, ‘like the meaning of the swastika.’

They

spent the rest of the journey back to the station in silence, both of them knowing that, the way things stood at the present time, there was nothing to be achieved by talking.

Night had finally come and with it total exhaustion. Cetin threw himself down on the sofa and pulled his thin sheet up to his neck. Best make certain he was covered in case any of the children wandered through to the bathroom.

It was far too hot for pyjamas. He propped his head up on one arm and reached for his latest bottle of brandy.

A new one, excellent! Full, pristine, laced with potential oblivion …

‘Cetin?’

He put the bottle down again and looked up. She stood in the doorway; her nightie buttoned up to the neck, sweating heavily, her pregnant belly making her legs buckle. He was surprised to see her again. She’d gone to bed several hours before. ‘Fatma?’

She staggered across the room like an agonised elephant and flopped down on the arm of the sofa nearest his feet.

He pulled them up towards his chest very quickly. ‘What is it?’ He looked up into her flushed face and felt his heart instantly leap into his mouth. Oh, no! Not now! Not with all the Meyer business going on. ‘Fatma, it’s not …

She smiled. ‘Oh no.’ She leant back and patted her belly gently. ‘He’s not coming out for a little while yet. You’ll have to wait another three or four weeks …’

‘Well, thanks be …’

‘Oh Cetin, you are looking forward to it, aren’t you?’

His relief had been too quick and too obvious and now she was hurt.

He sat up and let the sheet drop down to his waist. He took one of her dry, puffy hands in his. ‘Of course I am!

I didn’t mean …’ He made a pointless gesture with his other hand. ‘It’s just this case! You know how it is! And this one’s driving me mad!’ He tapped his forehead with his fingers. ‘I know it’s all in here! I …’

‘Come to bed, Cetin?’

He let go of her hand and leant forward, frowning.

‘What?’

She looked down at the floor as if embarrassed by her own words. ‘Come to bed? With me?’

‘You mean …’

‘Yes.’

Still hiding his nakedness under the sheet, Cetin swung his legs on to the floor and sat up. He looked at her lovely, rosy face. ‘But, Fatma darling, you always say I take up too much space and make you hot when you’re pregnant.’

‘Don’t you want to then?’ She looked so sad.

‘Well, yes, but …’ Cetin shuffled over to make some more room for her and patted the seat beside him. ‘Come and sit down.’

Like a dutiful wife she shuffled down on to the seat, her eyes modestly downcast. Cetin was worried. This wasn’t his usual blood and thunder Fatma at all! He slipped one arm around her plump shoulders and put his other hand on her knee. ‘What’s the matter, darling?’ Now she was close he could clearly see that she had been crying. ‘What’s happened?’

Her bottom lip trembled as she turned to face him and she blurted rather than spoke her words. ‘Oh, Cetin, you do love me, don’t you?’

‘What!’ He couldn’t believe it! Fatma? Unsure of him?

He kissed her trembling lips and smoothed her damp hair with his fingers. ‘Sweetheart, you know I do! I’ve loved you since the first time I saw you!’

But her face was still agonised. ‘You don’t sometimes feel a younger and more attractive—’

‘Fatma!’ He still hugged her, but his back stiffened with shock. ‘Younger women? Are you serious?’ He slapped one of his knees loudly and shook his head. ‘Women, younger, older or whatever, don’t interest me. I’ve got you. You’re my wife and my lover, you’re the mother of my children and’ - he pulled her chin around so that she had to look him right in the eyes - ‘I think you’re the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen!’

‘Do you … ?’

‘Well of course I do, you silly girl! I wouldn’t say it otherwise, would I?’ He didn’t want to shout but he really was angry. How could she doubt him? ‘What the hell is this about anyway, Fatma? This isn’t like you!’

She cast her eyes downwards again. ‘Oh …’

But then he knew. Attention - that was what this was all about. Sometimes when he was working on something particularly complicated he only turned up at home in order to sleep. That was happening now, but in her present condition that usually normal state of affairs had made Fatma nervous. ‘Look, I’m really sorry I haven’t been around much lately, but you know how it is. I love you all. I even love the bloody job on occasion …’

‘Ah, but Cetin, don’t you feel old sometimes?’

‘Fatma, I’ve been old all my life! My brother and I had to run our house after Mother died! I was ten! I only know about responsibility! If I took off with some teenager and left all of you to fend for yourselves the worry would kill me!’

Fatma put her hand on his shoulder. ‘So you still love me then?’

‘Oh!’ He threw his cigarette violently into an ashtray and kissed her full on the lips. Even though his breath was stale and his moustache tasted of tea, she opened her mouth to him. She wanted him to feel her passion. Even pregnant she desired her tired, smoke-dried little husband. He moved closer to her and she felt his kind hands massage the side of her neck.

After a few seconds he pulled away and smiled at her.

‘Does that answer your question?’

For a moment she suppressed her rising smile, but then she gave in and laughed. ‘I suppose so.’

He pursed his lips and tapped her lightly on the nose.

‘Good!’ He winked wickedly. ‘Sexy girl!’

‘Oh, Cetin!’

He leant against her and rested his head lightly against her belly. ‘Well, you are! Red-hot lover you …’

‘Cetin ikmen!’ She was laughing but she was shocked.

His head rolled about wildly on her quaking stomach and he had to sit up.

‘Trying to deafen me, Fatma!’ But he was laughing too and she put out her hand to touch his face. Then her laughter died and she suddenly became serious.

‘I love you so much, Cetin!’

‘Well, somebody has to!’ He could be so glib, but Fatma was used to it. That was Cetin, her man. It had been his humour, plus that wild wicked smile of his that had first attracted her to him. There had been plenty more attractive boys in Uskiidar at the time; boys with more money and decent prospects. But none of them were even half as intelligent and fun to be with as Cetin. Cetin knew things, he lived in a house full of books, he could speak foreign languages. He took her on the most daring and dangerous rides at the fair. Cetin understood a girl who liked to be thrilled. And when he kissed her … Fatma’s mother had known ikmen before she died and like most of the

women in the quarter she had believed that the statuesque Albanian had been, well, a bit of a sorceress. The first time Cetin kissed her, Fatma thought that she knew why. He had excited her so much! And yet what had he been, the young Cetin? Thin, swarthy, no beauty even then!

‘Is that all that was troubling you, Fatma?’ His voice cut into her sweet memories and the old and treasured scenes dissolved.

‘Er …’

He laughed. ‘Where were you? The planet Jupiter?’

She smiled. ‘No. Just back a few years. When things were a little simpler.’

He nuzzled his long nose affectionately against her cheek.

‘Remember you, me, that old deserted house up by the Selimiye barracks?’

‘When you seduced me, you mean!’

‘Only a little bit.’ He laughed. ‘Only at the beginning.’

Fatma knew that what he was saying was true, but she pouted in mock disapproval anyway. She remembered the day he was talking about well. Although she would rather have died than admit it, she’d wanted him desperately. They had gone to that old house specifically to make love. Because it had been her first time, it had hurt a bit, but Cetin had been as gentle as he could. And after the pain had come a lot of pleasure. She’d conceived Sinan on that day, her very first time. She and Cetin had been just one month away from their wedding day. She pursed her lips and tried to look hard. ‘Witch’s child! You put a spell on me!’

He looked into her eyes and his hands came up to massage her breasts. ‘Yes, nice, wasn’t it?’

‘Cetin!’

He put his mouth over hers and licked her closed lips with his tongue. A familiar excited fluttering tickled the inside of her chest and she felt her skin flush and sensitise.

Fatma knew that were she not pregnant she would now be entirely at his mercy. He took his mouth away from hers and nibbled her hot, throbbing neck. Fatma closed her eyes and breathed his name.

Unfortunately neither of them heard the door creak open.

The darkness curfew didn’t apply to old men and Timtir could not sleep. He saw what his son and daughter-in-law were up to straight away and simply couldn’t suppress his laughter. Loud and dry, it hit Cetin’s ears like a thunderbolt. He leapt backwards away from Fatma like a scalded cat.

‘Timur! You disgusting old—’

‘Sorry, son, I came back for my cigarettes.’

‘There is no privacy in this place, is there!’ He gathered his sheet tightly around his crotch and looked at Fatma.

‘I’m so sorry, darling.’

‘It’s all right, Cetin.’ She was smiling. It was all right really. They’d both got a bit carried away, but Fatma had known all along that sex probably wasn’t a good idea in view of her advanced condition. She just felt sorry for Cetin. She knew how frustrated he could become during her pregnancies. She put her head against his shoulder and kissed his neck. ‘I’d better get back to bed now or I’ll be good for nothing in the morning.’

Cetin breathed deeply for a few seconds in an attempt to calm himself down. He took her chin between his fingers and kissed her lightly on the mouth. ‘All right. I suppose it’s for the best.’

The old man coughed. ‘Oh, it is. When your mother was eight and a half months pregnant with Halil—’

‘Shut up, Timiir!’

Fatma eased herself slowly up from the sofa and rubbed the now permanently sore small of her back. If he hadn’t been naked Cetin would have helped her, but the thought of revealing his body to his father was too much for him.

Instead he scowled at the old man and hoped that he felt just a little ashamed of himself.

Fatma padded wearily towards the door. During her

clinch with her husband, her nightie had got hitched up at the back and as she left the room, Cetin could see the small bunches of varicose veins that marred the otherwise smooth skin on her calves. He didn’t understand why, but he knew that he even loved those ugly

things. There was nothing he didn’t love about Fatma.

To him she would always be the pretty, plump little girl from whom he had stolen forbidden love in that old

ramshackle house back in Uskiidar. The girl who hadn’t been able to wait for their wedding night. The girl he’d had to cut his hand for, to smear his blood on to their marriage sheet. She closed the door behind her and he heard her footsteps disappear down the hall towards their bedroom.

As soon as she was out of earshot Cetin retaliated. ‘Well done, Timtir! Thanks!’

The old man coughed richly and lit a cigarette. ‘No problem, son. Any time you want your sex life ruined …’

‘Oh shut up, Timiir!’ Cetin rolled on to his back and looked up at the ceiling. The old man rarely angered him to distraction, but this time was an exception. He was nearly forty-six years old and still he had no privacy! Would he and his beautiful Fatma ever have a life together? Would the children ever grow up, the old man ever die? It was a nasty thought and Cetin felt very guilty about entertaining it, but it wouldn’t go away. Perhaps he needed a holiday or a wild night out with the ‘boys’? He thought it unlikely but he continued to stare at the ugly nicotine pools on the ceiling, divining for inspiration. But none came and he just remained angry. Timiir was comfortable, the children were, with great difficulty, provided for. When was it going to be his turn?

Nur Suleyman licked a corner of her handkerchief and then scrubbed vigorously at the side of her son’s face. There was an almost invisible patch of dirt marring his fine features and Nur was having none of it. Unfortunately her and her handkerchief came at the young man suddenly, with the result that he swerved violently and very nearly ran his new Renault off the road.

‘Mother!’ It was not his favourite word and he flung it at her through tightly gritted teeth. The car directly behind sounded its horn loudly and disapprovingly.

‘Well if you washed your face properly I wouldn’t have to!’ she whined in reply. It was a sound that he hated and he scowled accordingly.

But then Mehmet Suleyman was not a happy man

anyway. The previous night had brought him little in the way of sleep, due to a combination of the thick and sickening summer heat and a growing fear that he and ikmen might never get to solve the Meyer case. For days they had been wandering down strange avenues;

pursuing old people; talking to all manner of oddities; trying to make sense of the old man’s past. But still they had nothing really! Just a bag of confusing, contradictory facts - although sorting out which facts were untrue was about as easy and reliable as placing a bet at the Casino.

In the small hours of the morning, all had seemed utterly hopeless.

But then daylight had not proved to be a friend either.

A furious altercation with a faulty electric razor had given way only to the greater horror of being bullied into taking Nur to the Eminonii Docks. It would have been nice just to go straight to work, but his mother wanted to catch the ferry to go and visit her sister and Mehmet had learnt many years before that resistance to her wishes was useless. He might have known that the queue of traffic waiting to cross the Golden Horn would be horrendous. Lane discipline was non-existent and he simply barged the car forward whenever the risk of an accident seemed minimal. Mehmet frequently wished that he lived somewhere ‘civilised’ like Holland where people learnt to drive properly before being let loose on the open road. Holland also had the added advantage of not being famous for arranged marriages.