Baksheesh by Esmahan Aykol

would soften her up.
    â€œThat’s an interesting comment for a woman to make.”
    â€œActually, it’s important for women to make comments like that.” When I get going, I can be very good at bullshit. My problem is that I soon get bored and can’t keep it up. However, it clearly had some effect because Habibe Hanım slammed her glass down, spilling cold tea that gradually spread over the table and would leave a sticky mark.
    â€œWhy on earth do we drink this stuff? It’s nothing but sugared water, for God’s sake,” she exclaimed, as she went to open a cupboard underneath the television. “What would you like instead?”
    I leant sideways to see the bottles inside the cupboard. I chose a whisky, with ice and soda of course.
    We’d covered a lot of ground by the time we got back to talking about Yücel Bey. My dinner with Lale had gone completely by the board. What could I do? It was a matter of life and death for me.
    Â 
    Lale was still up when I returned to Kuzguncuk in the middle of the night. Ever since she’d been unemployed, she’d given up going to bed early. I found her sitting in the garden, smoking a cigarette.
    â€œWhat was she like?” she asked.
    â€œVery unappealing to begin with. I almost turned round and came straight back. Then—”

    â€œThen you set fire to your chair with a cigarette and somehow struck up a friendship.”
    I don’t like people knowing me and my little quirks so well. I don’t like it at all.
    â€œThe glass slipped out of my hand onto the floor.”
    â€œHey, well at least it was something different,” said Lale, and she stormed off to bed with an accusing expression on her face as if I’d stood her up.
    Â 
    I hadn’t learnt much from Habibe. However, the evening hadn’t been completely wasted because she’d had the grace to share with me the name and telephone number of Osman’s current girlfriend. Habibe knew her. When speaking of her, she’d turned bright red and started fanning herself with an old newspaper.
    I phoned the new girlfriend the next day around noon.
    â€œMay I speak to Ä°nci Hanım, please?”
    â€œI’m her assistant. Ä°nci Hanım is sleeping. You can leave your name with me.”
    â€œShe won’t know me. My name is Kati. I’ll call again later. What time will she wake up?”
    â€œIn three or four hours,” said the assistant, and put the phone down.
    I called back after three hours. I had nothing better to do, so I wasn’t going to forget. The assistant’s response had obviously been designed for people with full diaries and agendas. But there are still a few people like me who rely on their memory.
    This time, a different woman answered. I thought it must be Ä°nci Hanım herself.
    â€œÄ°nci Hanım?” I asked.
    â€œYes, that’s me.”
    â€œMy name is Kati Hirschel. This morning—”
    â€œOh yes, you called while I was asleep. Hafize told me. If you’re trying to sell me something, I can tell you straight away that I’m
not interested. And I don’t want to take part in any telephone survey.”
    â€œNo, no. I’m not selling anything,” I said, thinking it was the first time I’d heard of surveys being conducted over the phone. “I just want to talk to you about a matter concerning Osman Bey.”
    â€œOsman? Did he owe you money? Look, I’ve never got involved in Osman’s business. Go and ask his brothers. If you don’t know where they are, I’ll give you a phone number.”
    At least she hadn’t started to sob on hearing Osman’s name.
    â€œIt’s not to do with a loan. It’s quite… How can I put it? It’s complicated. Shortly before Osman was killed, I had a quarrel with him. I have a shop in Kuledibi.” Was I making any sense to someone who didn’t know what had been going