Yasemın Aydinoğlu - Istanbul Noir

Fatih

Privileged, that’s what I am. I pray in the Conqueror’s Mosque, the most honored one in the whole of Istanbul. Look at its simple, vast courtyard. There’s nothing to distract a man from his mission, just the sober beauty that reminds one of the Greatness of God. Of why I have to perform my difficult duty.

At the fountain I have just completed my ablutions, a ritual that soothes me. A little cat came up and licked the water drops off my bare foot. I thought it to be a good omen even if I had to wash again. I love cats. I thanked God when I was praying inside, surrounded by the thick walls laced with five rows of arched windows that support a dome so high, it must have been a miracle half a millennium ago. Fatih Mehmet, the Conqueror, built this tribute to Allah after the greatest city of the infidels surrendered to the relentless blows of his army. Our army! We, the Muslims, arrived, and Constantinople became Istanbul. Some claim the architect failed to make the first mosque of Istanbul higher than the infidel’s biggest church, the Hagia Sophia. They say the Sultan ordered his hands to be cut off, but I think that’s just malicious slander invented by the infidels.

I must go now. No time to linger. I’m quiet inside, focused. I have the address written on a piece of paper, but I don’t need it. I know where to go. I leave the outer courtyard of the mosque through the gate at the right, which brings me into Darüşşafaka Avenue. Isn’t that a beautiful name, Abode of Dawn? I walk past Wednesday Market with its small shops. Dried fruits and nuts, frilly dresses for little girls, a toy shop — didn’t have those when I was small — the tulumba shop. Maybe I could stop for some of those sweet syrupy balls. I’m sure my assistant would like to. But no, I mustn’t indulge.

Evil tongues say I know little mercy. That’s not true. My assistant will testify that I find my task hard. He’s a reliable young man. But it must be done. God’s soldiers must be tough. We cross the Yavuz Selim Avenue straight into the Manasyazade Avenue past the İsmail Ağa Mosque. I know that at the back of its courtyard, the old medrese is still being used for teaching. One of our finest Quran courses is given there. Perhaps on my way back I could pay a visit. The teacher is a friend of mine.

Look at the pretty ladies in the sun, their faces framed by headscarves and reddened by the icy wind that’s blowing. I disapprove of those young, slender girls who wear their long coats so tight that a man needs no imagination to know what’s inside. They send my blood racing. Very bad. They’re asking for something to happen to them. We’re nearly there, I think. Left off Fethiye Avenue, at the end of this street we go right, and then left again.

Here’s the place. First on the left after the big grocery. Its stands of vegetables nearly blocking the pavement. As I expected, a decent, modest street. Is it surprising? If you remember, back in the Conqueror’s time this was the first neighborhood of the city that was populated by Muslims. No fancy houses, no showcases for wealth, just as God commands. Behind these metal-framed windows live good folk. My assistant knows the address too; he’s spotted the door already. I let him press the bell. He likes that.

“Who’s there?” I recognize Zekeriya’s drawling voice.

My assistant announces our arrival. It takes awhile before the buzzer sounds. I’m not worried. I know our friend will let us in. He has erred, but he’s not lost. I’m here to bring him back to the flock. Third floor. My assistant presses the button. He likes that.

I suspect Zekeriya hesitated before opening the door because he thinks little of me and my assistant. There are some who think the boy is retarded, but I can tell you he’s not. And of course Zekeriya’s wife hates me. I guess she’s at home. She once criticized me for my black beard that makes me look much older than her husband, even though I’m ten years younger. She said I was faking, despite my skull cap, my pious robe. She said I’m not a real Muslim. The nerve.

I showed her what a woman’s place is. She’s never said a word to me again, but her eyes tell me enough. Ha. I laugh at her.

I bet it’s she who has persuaded Zekeriya to leave the brotherhood. She would, with her poisonous tongue. She can expect something from me too. But my priority is Zekeriya. He is, after all, a good Muslim. I know he prays at the little mosque we passed on our way here, an old Byzantine church with its typical flat dome. No better place to be reminded of our superiority. Yes, he’s a good Muslim all right.

There he is. Look at him, wringing his hands by the door. He clearly doesn’t want to let us in, but of course he will. What’s he saying? Oh, his oldest daughter came home today. She’s in her first year at university. Just finished her first term. They were about to sit down for a special meal.

No, don’t worry, we won’t join. In fact, we won’t be long. Tell your womenfolk to eat. I’ll have a little word with them later, but you don’t need to know that.

On our way to the living room, past the kitchen, I catch a glance of his wife. Her frown makes me smile.

Yes, Zekeriya, shut the door behind us.

Bang!

Ha. He didn’t expect that. I must say, my assistant does a great chop. It always takes them by surprise. Poor Zekeriya. On his knees. I bet it’s all black before his eyes. He’s not moving while my assistant ties his hands behind his back, but I can see he’s coming to. Time for me to examine the bookcase. What have we got here... wise sayings of the Prophet, may God’s blessing be upon Him. Wise sayings of the Prophet Jesus. More wise sayings. Ah, and now he’s about to say something himself. Time for me to leave.

Through the door I hear his surprised yelp.

“Hey, what is this... all... about?” The last words he whispers, because the kid has put a knife on his midriff. I know. We’ve been through this routine before. The sun must be reflecting on the blade as he presses its sharp tip through Zekeriya’s clothes. Very gently at first. Then he’ll twist it slowly. A hole in Zekeriya’s sweater. It looked new. Perhaps he’s wearing it for his daughter.

I’ll check out the ladies in the kitchen.

Hmmm. No daughter in sight. Where is she? Gone to visit a friend, says the bitch. Too bad. But I must concentrate on what I’m here for. I pick up an ashtray and some matches. That’s all right, isn’t it? Of course it is. I knew it. No. No tea yet. See you later.

Poor Zekeriya. He looks at me with such hope when I enter the room again. He’s trying to move away from my assistant’s hand, but it follows him, keeping the knife firmly in place. I wonder if he has already pierced his skin. I see no blood yet.

“If I push up...” he hisses, and pushes, “I could pierce your heart. Open your mouth.”

“Please,” Zekeriya says, looking at me. I smile back, while my assistant stuffs a rag into his mouth. He always carries a piece of towel in his bag. You never know what you might need it for.

Ah, that assistant of mine is so fast! I hadn’t even seen Zekeriya move — perhaps his shoulder is in pain — but there it is. His hand shot at the knife and with lightning speed stuck its tip in Zekeriya’s nostril. Muffled sounds. Fast breathing. His tongue must be bone dry. He’s getting scared. Good.

“Get up.”

My assistant doesn’t help him. He pulls up his legs and rolls over onto his face. Now he can smell whether his wife cleans the carpet properly or not. I feel like kicking that chubby ass up in the air there. Instead I tell him to sit down on the chair my assistant has placed in the middle of the room. Meekly he does so, and then he gives me that begging look again. I smile. He makes a sound and widens his eyes.