Divorce Turkish Style (11 page)

“The army and government apparatus was in the hands of the Serbs,” I said, “and the Albanians were an oppressed minority, so it was only natural for people to feel sympathetic towards the KLA.”

“Very true,” nodded Naz. “They aroused a lot of sympathy.”

“So?”

“As I said yesterday, my family is Albanian.”

“Yes, you did,” I said, realizing that all this was linked to the comments about ethnicity she'd made the previous day, when I hadn't understood the connection.

“A lot of people from Albania live in Turkey. Not only Albanians, of course. There are Bosnians and Pomaks too. You find them living near the northern Aegean in places like Izmir, Manisa and Istanbul, but mainly in Thrace. It's impossible to say how many. They've mostly been assimilated and forgotten their mother tongue, since they're second-, third- or even fourth-generation immigrants. The wave of migrants that arrived to escape death during the Balkan Wars came at a time when the Balkans were much more developed than Anatolia and, more importantly, their people were better educated. Consequently, many of them were appointed to good positions in the newly formed Turkish Republic, which is why, in my view, there have been few ethnic or cultural issues until now.”

Naz's last sentence startled me. What did she mean by “until now”? And what issues was she referring to? The jigsaw pieces seemed to be gradually falling into place.

“Are you saying that an organization like the KLA has been formed in Thrace?”

“It's called the TLF,” said Naz, taking a sip of coffee.

“TLF?”

“Yes, it stands for Thrace Liberation Force.”

Feeling unsure how to respond, I turned and rearranged the cushions behind me.

“What does the KLA have to do with this?” I asked.

“It's seen as a model. I don't think there's any other connection. I'm told the TLF is 100 per cent local.”

“But why have we heard nothing about this organization?” I asked.

“Because they're not active yet, that's why. That is, unless it was one of them who killed my sister.”

“Hang on,” I said. “Do you really think the TLF could be behind Sani's death?”

“It was rumoured that the KLA killed any Albanians who didn't support them. Since the TLF is an offshoot of the KLA, this might have been their first initiative.”

“Did Sani oppose the TLF?”

“I don't know if she opposed them exactly, but I can say that she wasn't prepared to adopt their methods. The TLF is an armed organization – in short, they're prepared to use violence, something which Sani and I always opposed. We share the TLF's aim of having industries that don't damage the environment or human health, and we believe in controlled migration. We want all that, but if violence was involved, who knows what the outcome would be? There's no guarantee that the organization wouldn't turn into a bunch of separatists. When actions become radicalized, thoughts become radicalized too. We'd never had anything like that in mind.”

“But how would the TLF know that you didn't support them?” I asked.

“Are you asking if the TLF contacted us?” asked Naz, showing that she hadn't understood what I was getting at.

“Yes.”

“They contacted me six months ago, and my sister later on. As far as I know, the organization was formed about a year ago, and they've been all over Thrace finding out who's prepared to support them and who might be persuaded. They speak to anyone known to be concerned about the environment or unhappy with the current state of affairs, so we weren't targeted especially. They might have put more pressure on us than others, but a number of people—”

“They used pressure? What kind of pressure?”

“Oh, they've been making phone calls and leaving propaganda for me at the hospital.”

“I'm going to get some water. Do you want some?” I said suddenly, rising from my chair.

I needed a few moments on my own to digest what I'd heard. When I returned to the sitting room, I was convinced that I'd been listening to the ramblings of someone on the edge of sanity.

“Propaganda, telephone calls, pressure…” I muttered.

“Are you wondering what the propaganda was about? What is it you want to know?” said Naz.

My mind was so befuddled that I'd lost the ability to construct a proper question. In fact, I didn't really know what I wanted to ask, anyway.

“Just a minute. Let me summarize what I've understood so far,” I said. “An armed organization called the TLF has been formed in Thrace, and its members want to establish an independent state. Is that right?”

“No,” said Naz emphatically. “They're not seeking independence, at least not at the moment. They want to put an end to illegal industrialization, move some of the factories out of Thrace, impose restrictions on migrant workers and strengthen the local administration. Of course, the last point could develop into a demand for federalization.”

“And then independence?”

“They don't use the word ‘independence'. At least, they've said nothing to me about it. They're demanding cultural rights for people whose mother tongue isn't Turkish, but that's secondary, I think. Their list of demands is long, and I don't remember them all. They refer to themselves as a ‘regional body'.”

“And do they have a support base for this?”

“Well, they're trying to build one. There's been a lot of dissatisfaction about developments in Thrace over the last twenty years, and it's created a serious security issue for the major political parties. Many people take the view that Thrace is being plundered and, having lost their land once during the Balkan
Wars, when they were lucky to escape with their lives, they now feel under threat again from migrants.”

“Do you think they're likely to support such an organization?”

“They might. Yet everyone's so afraid that I'm not sure if they'd go through with it.”

“It's natural for people to get scared when they're about to lose something,” I said, concentrating on biting my nails.

“The thing is that governments come and go without resolving our problems, and the situation gets worse by the day. Thracians are very aware of what's happening, unlike people in the rest of Turkey. Their level of education is higher, the region is more developed, the villages have roads and schools—”

“But could an armed organization win over these people?”

“In this country, businessmen – the very men who cause the most environmental pollution – get awards for their contribution to the economy. Just imagine if one of those men were killed on his way home with the trophy in his arms. Do you think anyone whose father had died of cancer caused by pollution from his factory would mourn him? Would anyone regard it as tragic if a factory that had been pumping poisonous water underground went up in smoke? The people have had enough. Of course such actions would have an impact.”

“Yes, of course,” I said, pressing my fingers to my temples in an attempt to avert a crushing migraine.

“Thrace could be economically self-sufficient without all these industries. It has the Maritsa, Tunca and Ergene rivers, floodplains and basins. A new natural gas field is discovered almost every day. The university's good. Everything would be rosy without the environmental problem and ever-increasing migration. Standards in Thrace are much like those in central Europe. It's the only region in Turkey to have developed sufficiently for EU membership, a fact that's much exploited.”

“Are you trying to persuade me to accept the idea of a Thrace Republic?”

“No, I'm not. I'm pointing out the arguments being used to win over people living in Thrace.”

“Back at the shop, you said that the life of someone you care about is in danger.”

“I suspect that a former boyfriend of mine is mixed up in all this.”

“And you still think the TLF might have killed Sani?”

“I don't know how they make their decisions, and I don't know what role my ex has in the organization. He may know nothing about this.”

“I expect you realize,” I said, “that there are weaknesses in both my theory about the industrialists and your TLF theory.”

“Why's that?”

“Why would Sani have let them into her home? The police said the door wasn't forced. So if Sani was murdered, she must have opened the door to the murderer. In other words, she knew the person well enough to let him or her in.” I paused for a moment before adding, “Living in Istanbul makes you lose your trust in people, doesn't it? You never open the door to anyone.”

“Let's say you become more cautious. It's a big city, and you have to be on guard all the time,” said Naz, turning to gaze out of the window.

In the autumn sunshine, I noticed lines around her eyes and on her forehead that I hadn't seen before. Her face suddenly looked full of sorrow, etched with life's struggles, gains, losses, missed opportunities and dreams.

“I'm losing my faith,” she said, closing her eyes for a moment. “Each day since my sister's death, I find I've lost it a bit more. I don't believe in myself, my ability to cure patients, to save Ergene, to be happy… I no longer believe in anything. For the first time in my life, I feel completely spent.”

“Why now? Yesterday you were fine and seemed to be coping with your grief.”

“Really? I don't think so,” said Naz. “I suppose everyone mourns differently. It's as if I've been drained of all emotion and I'm left completely empty. And it's worse when I see the state my parents are in. What's going to happen now? What on earth can happen after this?”

“We'll make a plan,” I said, knowing that this was probably not what she meant, but I'd learned from Fofo that scenes of high emotion were best kept short. “You're going to go to the forensic pathologist, and I'll talk to the police officer in charge of the investigation this evening and fınd out what they know. How about that?”

“Good,” said Naz.

“Would you like some green tea? Or something else?”

“It's still early, isn't it?” replied Naz, looking at her watch.

“Yes it is, so let's go and eat. It'd do you good to get out for a bit.”

“Can we go a bit later?”

“Of course. We'll go whenever you like,” I said, opening the window to fill the room with fresh air and sunshine.

Everything will sort itself out, I thought. My left eye was aching as if it had been punched. A migraine.

5

“Where's Fofo disappeared to this time?” I asked Pelin as I entered the shop.

It was almost five o'clock. After Naz had left to go to the forensic pathologist, I'd watched a bit of daytime television until I could bear it no longer and then sought refuge in a novel I'd left half-read for days.

“He was meeting a friend and going out for dinner. He said he'd see you at home tonight,” said Pelin.

“But we were going to a gig this evening,” I said.

“Who's playing?”

“A group called Sniff. Have you heard of them?”

“Yes, they're good. Where's the gig?”

“At Kara Bar.”

“That's an awful place. If Sniff are playing there, it'll be horribly crowded. Unbearable, in fact.”

Unbearable or not, I was going. I called Fofo and arranged to meet him later.

“I'm exhausted. While you're running around all over the place, I get landed with all the work,” complained Pelin.

“In that case, why don't you go home now?”

“The thing is, it's Friday and I'm meeting friends in Beyoğlu this evening, so what would I do if I left now? It takes two hours to go home and get back,” said Pelin, obviously hoping I'd suggest she went to my apartment.

“Why don't you go to my place? You can relax there for a bit before going out this evening,” I said.

“You're a star!” said Pelin, springing to her feet, snatching up my keys and disappearing.

I began going over the weekly accounts, but couldn't concentrate at all. I kept glancing at the door and at people in the street. Waiting around for Batuhan wasn't easy. Deciding to leave the accounts for another day, I started looking at the online press, but it was the same old boring news about who'd said what to whom. Then, unexpectedly, I had three customers and, without any effort on my part, sold five books within thirty seconds.

I went back to my desk and started drawing spirals, obsessively making sure they were all exactly the same size. When I ran out of space, I took another piece of paper and started drawing daisies with Pelin's pink mother-of-pearl biro, but that wasn't as much fun as spirals. An elderly shoeshine man who occupies the doorway of a derelict apartment building overlooking the square knocked on the window to say goodnight as he passed the shop at the end of his shift. I found myself looking at the clock every seven minutes or so. The new tea boy, Muslum, looked in, obviously having had a scolding from his father, and asked, “Miss Kati, do you want anything before I close up?”