Divorce Turkish Style (3 page)

I nodded in agreement.

“I'm going to be open with you,” he said.

I'd been about to ask for his name, because I was warming to the way he spoke, as I had to his eyes. However, not wanting to interrupt, I remained silent.

“It's thanks to Lale Hanım that I got into this business,” said the journalist. “It's impossible to get into media without a
torpil
to put in a word for you. It's the same at every level. Even a tea boy is related to someone's uncle. This business of
torpil
s is the shittiest part of the media world – excuse my language. Everyone, right down to the lowliest reporter, is someone's man, brother, daughter or son. But Lale Hanım never bothers with
torpil
s. She just demands that people do their jobs properly. She's a law unto herself, and as straight as a die.”

As you might imagine, I was delighted to hear these words spoken about my closest friend. I liked this man more by the minute. My first impressions had turned out to be wrong again.

“Yes, you're absolutely right,” I said.

There was silence for a moment. When I say silence, I mean the silence of daytime Beyoğlu, where the constant drilling was mixed with the cries of people fearing for their lives as they tried to make their way on foot down İstiklal Street.

“When I started working for
Günebakan
newspaper, I'd just graduated from university in Anatolia. I was no more than a kid, and knew no English. You're no one in the media business without English, so my chances of finding work that involved using the phone were zero. As my dad would say, who wants a one-armed mechanic? Anyway, to cut it short, it was all thanks to Lale Hanım that I got a job, and I'll never forget what she did for me. So, since you're a friend of Lale Hanım, ask whatever you want. I'll tell you what I know, and what I don't know I'll find out.”

He spoke like a grateful and excited student addressing an elder.

“So did you learn English later?” asked Fofo, making it sound like a silly interview question.

“What?” I said, giving Fofo a withering look. “What's that got to do with anything?”

“Nothing. I was curious,” said Fofo. “It's just that I've read his interviews with foreign models on Skyrat, that's all.”

“Of course I learned English. I also spent time in the UK to improve it, so I can speak enough to get by. But then the work dried up, because when Lale Hanım was fired they got rid of me too. As I said, no one survives without a
torpil
. Anyway, my best friend was also out of work, so we went off to the UK together and set up Skyrat on our return. Internet businesses were still relatively new then, and we decided to go for special-interest items and stories that no one else covered. For two years, it was just the two of us running the website, then
my older brother joined us. We've started employing other people now because we can't keep up with the work. So that's it, Kati Hanım.”

Since he'd just told us everything about himself that we needed to know, I launched straight into asking questions about what was of real interest to us.

“It said on the website today that Sani went out to dinner with someone. Who was it?”

“Demir Soylu. He was Cem Bey's lawyer, as well as a childhood friend. We learned that from another source, not Demir Bey. However, he didn't deny that they had dinner together.”

“Did you wait for Demir Soylu to corroborate that before putting it on the website?”

“No. We called him the moment we got the story, and had it confirmed straight away. Our policy is to release a headline and follow with information a bit at a time. That way we keep people logging into our website throughout the day. It's common practice in Internet journalism.”

“Do you know what they discussed over dinner?”

“Demir Bey didn't give us any details, but he said that the couple had signed a prenuptial agreement and that he and Sani had been discussing the implications of this agreement in the light of her application for a divorce.”

“Was it a financial agreement?”

“Of course. It concerned alimony, lump sum settlements and so on. Inheritance too, probably. Though Cem Bey would be Sani Hanım's legal beneficiary, anyway.”

“Who leaked that information to you?”

“Someone dining at the Shining Sun at the same time. But I'm sure you're not expecting me to reveal my sources.”

“Is that how you get all your information? Or was this an exception?”

“No, ma'am, it was no exception. It's called gossip journalism. You obviously don't follow our website or media journal. Most of our news items are based on information received from people who've spotted a couple dining out together, or maybe a married man dancing with another woman at a nightclub.”

“Hmm, from now on, I'm going to be more careful about where I go, who with, and what I do,” said Fofo. “Or, if you like, I could be a volunteer reporter for you.”

The journalist looked distinctly unexcited by Fofo's offer.

“We could go to my office, if you like,” he said, glancing at his watch. “It's not far from here, in Süslü Saksı Street. We can talk more comfortably there. Also, there's no one in it at the moment, and I don't really like leaving it empty.”

I suddenly thought of my abandoned shop. Hopefully Pelin would have kept her promise to be there.

“Won't you have anything to drink?” I asked, seeing the waiter coming towards our table.

“Okay, I'll have a lemonade,” he said, without any hesitation.

The office was light and spacious. As soon as we entered, the journalist, whose name I finally learned was Murat, disappeared to make coffee. Fofo and I settled into armchairs and started looking through some gossip magazines lying on the table.

I picked up a particularly dog-eared magazine in which, among some pictures taken at a fairy-tale wedding at Esma Sultan Palace, I noticed a photo of Tamaşa and Bahri Ankaralıgil. The caption beneath the photo read “Tamaşa Hanım, one of society's best-dressed women, dazzled us in a purple evening gown by Valentino”.

I showed the picture to Fofo, who studied it carefully.

“Definitely not my type,” he said eventually. “Too much Botox.
I can't stand it when Botox is used to raise the eyebrows, especially if they have lines between them.”

“How do you know about Botox treatments?” I asked in amazement.

“Through Mustafa, my doctor friend.”

I nodded. I'd met Mustafa once when I went to his house to collect Fofo.

“He does Botox. All the skin specialists do nowadays. He explained it all to me.”

“Does it work?” I asked, thinking I might pay him a visit one day.

“Mustafa goes for a very natural look. He doesn't create masks like that.”

“Tell me, why do people have their eyebrows raised?”

“Because if you raise the eyebrows, it tightens the area around the eye,” replied Fofo, using one hand to demonstrate. “That's why you see so many people going around with such arched eyebrows.”

When Murat returned, we were both engrossed in magazines.

“Please, ask whatever it is you want to know,” he said, pulling up a wheeled office chair.

This time, I didn't even allow Fofo time to open his mouth.

“Actually, we don't know much about what happened. We only know what we read in the press.”

“Is that so?” said Murat.

I began biting my nails.

Fofo glared a silent order at me to remove my hand from my mouth. Bless him – he's like a mother to me. However, I paid no attention and continued gnawing at my nails. Why should I pay attention to that halfwit Fofo?

“You said Sani Ankaralıgil's family hired you as detectives,” said Murat.

“Well, that's not entirely correct. Nobody hired us. But we knew Sani Ankaralıgil. Or rather we used to see her almost every day.”

“I don't understand what you're saying.”

“There's a small restaurant at Tünel, where we have lunch. Everything there is home-cooked. The food's simple and there's little choice, but it's tasty,” I said, simultaneously realizing that I was famished. “Our lunch break often coincided with Sani Hanım's, though she only ever ate salad. We often ran into each other, but we had no idea who she was. It was only when we saw her picture in the paper that we realized—”

“Is that all?” said Murat, shuffling in his chair.

“That's it,” I said.

“Excuse my curiosity, but why are you interested in this? I mean, if the family didn't contact you—”

Fofo frowned and moved his lips as if silently saying, “Well done!”

“For the same reason as you,” I said. “Out of curiosity.”

Murat laughed gleefully.

“Curiosity killed the cat!” muttered Fofo, taking courage from Murat's laughter.

“In that case, let's see what I can do for you,” said Murat. “But first we'll have coffee.”

Murat went out and soon returned with a tray of coffee. It was terrible. It tasted like tar, and I abandoned it after a couple of sips. Fofo and I watched as Murat took his coffee over to his desk, where he pulled up a chair and sat down.

“I'm looking up some files on people we consider newsworthy,” said Murat. “We search magazines that aren't online, and anything that might be useful goes into this archive. Like Sani Hanım's marriage to Cem Ankaralıgil, for instance. Ah yes, I see she had an office on the fourth floor at the Tünel Business
Centre, so it's not surprising that you saw her around there. I'll give you the short biography used for news items about her. She was born in 1974 in a village called Kayacık, outside Lüleburgaz. Her maiden name was Kaya, and she was born into a farming family. She went to the village primary school, where she was a brilliant student, and was sent to middle school in Istanbul, where she stayed with an uncle. After attending a high school that specialized in science, she went on to graduate in industrial engineering from Istanbul Technical University and was awarded a scholarship to the USA, where she did a PhD in economics. Apparently, she met Cem Ankaralıgil while over there, and they returned to Turkey together in 2003. Cem took over his father's business, and a few months later, despite family opposition, he married Sani. His mother Tamaşa was particularly opposed to the marriage, and even issued a statement, which caught our eye because this family rarely speaks to the press.”

Murat took his eyes off the screen to look at us.

“There are two types in society life,” he continued. “One type talks incessantly, while the other never gives interviews, rarely accepts invitations and wants no one to know what they're doing. Tamaşa belongs to the second type. She normally hides from the media, yet on that occasion she was actually prepared to make a statement concerning her son's marriage.”

“What did she say?” asked Fofo.

“What did she say?” repeated Murat. “It was one sentence: ‘Saniye Hanım is undoubtedly an admirable person, but I do not consider her right for our family.' That was it.”

“Saniye Hanım?”

“Yes, Saniye Hanım. Sani is an abbreviation.”

“Like Kati,” grinned Fofo.

“Katharina is a long name, and difficult to pronounce,” I said. “But Saniye isn't.”

“Saniye wasn't considered appropriate for society. It sounds too rural. Sani is more modern,” said Murat.

“Hardly modern, but it sounds more trendy,” said Fofo. “But never mind the name, what did Tamaşa Hanım mean when she said that Saniye wasn't right for their family? Who do these wealthy people think they are?”

“Well, of course, it wasn't just a question of wealth. Tamaşa Hanım is a sixth-generation descendant of the exiled Vezir-i Azam Abdullah Pasha. The family has a long pedigree. Her father's the great scientist Professor Lütfullah Mısırlı, who established the first gynaecology faculty in Turkey and later became Health Minister. When her parents divorced, Tamaşa Hanım was sent to a Roman Catholic boarding school in Switzerland. She knows French, English, German and Italian. She's also a collector of antiques. Definitely not a member of the nouveaux riches, if that's what you were thinking.”

“I think you have a degree of sympathy for this Tamaşa Hanım,” I commented.

“Sympathy? No, but I think she's unusual. She's not the sort to be seen out with her arms full of designer shopping bags or being pursued by the paparazzi. The world is full of Paris Hiltons, but Tamaşa Hanım strikes me as different.”

“So what happened? Did Tamaşa Hanım sever relations with her son because of his marriage?” I asked.

“No, I don't think so. But she didn't talk to the press again. Perhaps the prenuptial agreement put her mind at ease. Or maybe she realized that the couple were truly in love and that she would never make Cem change his mind. Anyway, for whatever reason, she made that one statement and then said nothing more. If you ask me, given that they were about to divorce, I think she'd probably been manipulating her son. As you know, mothers and sons—”