Baksheesh by Esmahan Aykol Page B

avid reader of crime fiction and kept a good collection. She was bound to have some Minette Walters in her shop. Sure enough, I found them as easily as if I had put them on the shelves myself.
    I set off for my rendezvous a little early and drove fast to allow time for tea and a cigarette before Ä°nci Hanım came. It’s quite reasonable for people to have cigarette intolerance. For someone whose mother has died of lung cancer, even smoking at the next table can be intolerable. I’ve certainly come across people like that.
    By the time she arrived, I’d smoked not one but two cigarettes in succession. That wasn’t because she was late, but because I was an expert at getting through cigarettes. However, I suspect that isn’t something I should boast about, either to my friends or my readers. Oh, what the hell!
    I’d described myself to Ä°nci Hanım, but she hadn’t said a word about her own appearance. If she had, “I’m pregnant” would
have been enough. Obviously that was the reason for her cigarette avoidance, rather than a mother who died of lung cancer. Despite her condition, or perhaps because of it, she was very beautiful. She resembled the woman in The Big Sleep – Lauren Bacall, if I’m not mistaken.
    She looked at the cigarette packet on the table.
    â€œI used to smoke a lot. It was difficult to give up and I’m amazed I haven’t started again with all that’s happened,” she said, toying with the collar of her shirt. She was wearing a frilly shirt, covered in large red flowers with green stems, and black trousers. In my book, it was a perfect maternity outfit.
    â€œWhen I was thinking about having a child, the hardest part was the thought of giving up cigarettes,” I mused. “Not to mention finding a man who would make a good father, of course.”
    â€œYou’re right there,” she said, with a smile that revealed all her teeth. “I was just making the best of what I had.” She shrugged her shoulders and added, “Now he’s gone, there’s nobody left.”
    She didn’t really look sad at all, but was merely stating a fact objectively.
    â€œIs it Osman Bey’s?” I asked, indicating her belly with my chin.
    She nodded.
    â€œI had an appointment with my solicitor today. That’s where I was before I came here. See what I’ve been doing, with Osman’s body barely even cold?” she said. Raising her eyebrows, she added, “Don’t think it’s easy. But I have to protect my child’s rights. I’m not giving up on the inheritance.”
    â€œWere you married to Osman Bey?”
    â€œIt’s because we weren’t married that I went rushing off to the solicitor. I’m trying to make sure my child gets his share of the inheritance.”
    â€œBut he had a wife, didn’t he?”
    She opened her palms upwards.

    â€œGod knows. He married a relative, of course, but he told me it was never made official. He married very young and said they never got around to having it officially registered. I don’t know, maybe he just said that to lead me on.”
    â€œYou mean they were married by an imam?”
    She shrugged.
    â€œLots of people do it. Istanbul’s migrant districts are full of couples married by imams.” She looked me up and down and added, “But how would you know what goes on out there?”
    Actually, every district in Istanbul, including Cihangir, was brimming with couples married by imams.
    â€œDoes a religious wedding mean the wife and children by that marriage can’t inherit?”
    â€œWell, that’s the crux of the matter. According to the solicitor, any children considered to be Osman’s, that is if he is registered as their father on the birth records, can be beneficiaries of the will. But the wife can’t inherit unless she has an official marriage certificate. And that’s the position I’m