Hotel Bosphorus by Esmahan Aykol Read Free Book Online Page A

ever since I was little, that I shouldn’t make friends with the police, and I’ve never forgotten that. Actually, I should point out that our views on the police are the only ones we have in common. As far as my mother and I are concerned, policemen are creatures who transcend nationality. For us there’s no difference between British, Turkish, Mexican and German; as policemen, they’re all as bad as each other.
    However, the god in the police uniform who had stepped through the shop door thirty seconds ago was a potential threat to this one view I shared with my mother, that ultimate tie that bound us together. I tried to hide the fact that I was completely bowled over by him and, pretending not to see the police car in front of the shop and Recai standing outside the shop window, I said, “Yes, constable. Is there a problem?” I addressed him in that way just to upset his ego, because I could tell he was at least an inspector.
    â€œI’m from homicide, ma’am. Inspector Batuhan Önal. I’d like to ask you a few questions if you have time,” he said.
    Now, any readers who know anything about Turkey and Turks will realize that was a strange statement for an inspector to make. For the others, I think a short explanation is required. For instance, the name “Batuhan” is not the sort of name for an inspector to have. Usually, inspectors have ordinary Turkish names such as Ahmet, Ali, Mehmet or even Orhan. Batuhan is the sort of name given to pop singers. Any family that names its son Batuhan has definitely not brought him into the world to be an inspector.

    It’s quite possible that Inspector Batuhan Önal’s mother took up gambling and his father became a heroin addict, after that dreadful day when their son stepped into the Police Academy. He had undoubtedly been the cause of a family tragedy, yet this brute of a man was standing opposite me smiling, as polite as you please, as if he’d had nothing to do with what befell his family.
    In my view, it was not only strange but unnecessary for an inspector to be as polite as that. That morning at Ortaköy Police Station, when I had spoken to a policeman, whose name I’d forgotten but was undoubtedly ordinary, he had addressed me as “madam”, from which I inferred the following: the European Union should stand firm because Turkey has set its sights on becoming a member and is taking decisive steps in that direction. That was why the Turkish police were showing respect for human rights.
    â€œDid you mean me?” I said. I jerked my head towards Petra and added, “You’re probably looking for my friend Petra.”
    Petra was still sitting in my rocking chair, rocking away as if she hadn’t a care in the world.
    The mixture of surprise and delight on Inspector Önal’s face suggested that he hadn’t noticed Petra until I mentioned her. However, he tried not to show it.
    He glanced at the notebook that he took from his pocket, “Your friend Petra… Yes, I’m looking for Petra Vogel,” he said. This time, I pointed towards Petra. Recai was still standing outside the shop window following what was going on. To make him go away, I ordered three teas.
    Inspector Önal knew English, of course. I would have eaten my hat if I’d heard any other policeman utter a single word in any foreign language, but I was not at
all surprised that he knew English. Who would have expected anything less from him?
    Petra’s English always used to be bad, and it still was. In fact, Petra had no talent for languages. Even her German was bad. Because Petra and Inspector Önal had no common language, I was going to have to do more than merely listen to their conversation.
    Petra repeated almost word for word what she had told me ten minutes before, no more and no less. Inspector Önal didn’t say a word until she finished speaking; he just made a few notes.
    â€œWould you