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Authors: Barbara Nadel
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Some of the brothels in İstanbul, in Süleyman’s experience, were rough but this filthy little house in Gaziantep was just pathetic. The madame, the Anastasia Akyuz of whom Taner had spoken the previous evening, had obviously once been attractive. Now in her late forties, she was overweight, unkempt and disappointed. Badly dressed in a thin, dirty-looking housecoat, she stood smoking beside the shattered front door of her premises as officers from the Gaziantep police constabulary made her various ‘girls’ and their clients step outside. Several ‘respectable’ people from nearby flats and houses hurled random insults at the women as, in dribs and drabs, they appeared.
‘I haven’t seen Yusuf for years,’ Anastasia said to a clearly sceptical Taner, when she and Süleyman emerged from the sad little house of ill repute.
‘Anastasia,’ Taner replied with a smile, ‘don’t protect him. He married a Muslim girl and gave her a lot of children. Money but no active support, you know how he is. He was convicted in İstanbul for, amongst other things, the murder of his mistress. Who knows how many more women he has, how many children? Yusuf Kaya is totally faithless and not worth a thought!’
Anastasia Akyuz put her hands on her ample hips and said, ‘Edibe, I don’t know where he is.’
‘He’s a shit!’ the officer from Mardin said.
Two women, neither of whom Süleyman felt could be under sixty years of age, came out of the brothel clutching ugly nylon nightdresses around their skinny varicose bodies. Someone in a house nearby shouted out, ‘Filthy whores!’ Inside the brothel the sound of crockery being smashed against floors and walls underlined the fact that the local police were being far from low-key about this raid.
One of the sixty-year-old hookers looked at Süleyman, cleared her throat and then said, ‘What are you looking at?’
He didn’t respond.
Inspector Taner, who didn’t turn a hair at all the violence and shouting emanating from the brothel, said, ‘Anastasia, where is Gülizar? Is she with her father?’
‘Gülizar is at college in Damascus. She’s a good girl,’ the woman said.
‘You brought her up in this brothel!’
‘Yes, and I protected her!’ Anastasia pointed to her own chest, a large mound of flesh surmounted by a thick, gold crucifix. ‘I sent her to university! I pay!’
‘Not Yusuf Kaya?’
‘No! I don’t see Yusuf, as I told you.’
‘Yusuf Kaya who, until he was arrested in İstanbul last year, was in charge of a drugs empire worth tens of thousands of dollars,’ Taner said. ‘Not a kuruş for his daughter, though, no?’
Süleyman remembered that squalid flat in Tarlabaşı where Yusuf Kaya had lived. Thousands and thousands of lire in sports bags in his filthy bedroom as well as in bank accounts all over the city.
‘Give him to me, Anastasia.’ Taner bore down relentlessly on her victim. ‘He’s been seen here in Gaziantep. Where would he stay if it wasn’t with you, eh?’
Before the woman could answer, one of the Gaziantep officers put his head out of an upstairs window and shouted, ‘Inspector Taner!’
She looked up at him, shielding her eyes from the early morning sun with one long, thin hand.
‘Something you might like to see, Inspector,’ the officer said.
‘I’ll come up,’ Taner said. She turned back to Anastasia and pointed rudely into her face. ‘If you have been concealing things from us, Anastasia . . .’
She walked back into the house and up the stairs. The raid itself had been a pretty standard hit on a brothel in that it had involved a degree of wanton destruction, women well past their prime crying and screaming and unattractive men attempting to escape across neighbouring rooftops. Neighbours and passers-by gawped, and some of the younger police constables looked decidedly sheepish. Süleyman had seen it all before and, if he were honest, he hadn’t had enormously high hopes of finding Yusuf Kaya in
Some of the brothels in İstanbul, in Süleyman’s experience, were rough but this filthy little house in Gaziantep was just pathetic. The madame, the Anastasia Akyuz of whom Taner had spoken the previous evening, had obviously once been attractive. Now in her late forties, she was overweight, unkempt and disappointed. Badly dressed in a thin, dirty-looking housecoat, she stood smoking beside the shattered front door of her premises as officers from the Gaziantep police constabulary made her various ‘girls’ and their clients step outside. Several ‘respectable’ people from nearby flats and houses hurled random insults at the women as, in dribs and drabs, they appeared.
‘I haven’t seen Yusuf for years,’ Anastasia said to a clearly sceptical Taner, when she and Süleyman emerged from the sad little house of ill repute.
‘Anastasia,’ Taner replied with a smile, ‘don’t protect him. He married a Muslim girl and gave her a lot of children. Money but no active support, you know how he is. He was convicted in İstanbul for, amongst other things, the murder of his mistress. Who knows how many more women he has, how many children? Yusuf Kaya is totally faithless and not worth a thought!’
Anastasia Akyuz put her hands on her ample hips and said, ‘Edibe, I don’t know where he is.’
‘He’s a shit!’ the officer from Mardin said.
Two women, neither of whom Süleyman felt could be under sixty years of age, came out of the brothel clutching ugly nylon nightdresses around their skinny varicose bodies. Someone in a house nearby shouted out, ‘Filthy whores!’ Inside the brothel the sound of crockery being smashed against floors and walls underlined the fact that the local police were being far from low-key about this raid.
One of the sixty-year-old hookers looked at Süleyman, cleared her throat and then said, ‘What are you looking at?’
He didn’t respond.
Inspector Taner, who didn’t turn a hair at all the violence and shouting emanating from the brothel, said, ‘Anastasia, where is Gülizar? Is she with her father?’
‘Gülizar is at college in Damascus. She’s a good girl,’ the woman said.
‘You brought her up in this brothel!’
‘Yes, and I protected her!’ Anastasia pointed to her own chest, a large mound of flesh surmounted by a thick, gold crucifix. ‘I sent her to university! I pay!’
‘Not Yusuf Kaya?’
‘No! I don’t see Yusuf, as I told you.’
‘Yusuf Kaya who, until he was arrested in İstanbul last year, was in charge of a drugs empire worth tens of thousands of dollars,’ Taner said. ‘Not a kuruş for his daughter, though, no?’
Süleyman remembered that squalid flat in Tarlabaşı where Yusuf Kaya had lived. Thousands and thousands of lire in sports bags in his filthy bedroom as well as in bank accounts all over the city.
‘Give him to me, Anastasia.’ Taner bore down relentlessly on her victim. ‘He’s been seen here in Gaziantep. Where would he stay if it wasn’t with you, eh?’
Before the woman could answer, one of the Gaziantep officers put his head out of an upstairs window and shouted, ‘Inspector Taner!’
She looked up at him, shielding her eyes from the early morning sun with one long, thin hand.
‘Something you might like to see, Inspector,’ the officer said.
‘I’ll come up,’ Taner said. She turned back to Anastasia and pointed rudely into her face. ‘If you have been concealing things from us, Anastasia . . .’
She walked back into the house and up the stairs. The raid itself had been a pretty standard hit on a brothel in that it had involved a degree of wanton destruction, women well past their prime crying and screaming and unattractive men attempting to escape across neighbouring rooftops. Neighbours and passers-by gawped, and some of the younger police constables looked decidedly sheepish. Süleyman had seen it all before and, if he were honest, he hadn’t had enormously high hopes of finding Yusuf Kaya in
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