face.
'Look, Cengiz,' Çöktin put in, 'if you didn't hurt Mrs Ruya or if what happened was an accident then you don't have to be frightened, do you?'
'When people die people get hung.'
'Not now. People do go to prison but . . . Look, Cengiz, if you didn't kill Mrs Ruya then just tell us when you touched her and—'
'She was cold after .. .'
'She was cold after what, Cengiz?' Suleyman asked, feeling his heart racing with the anticipation of one who knows he might be on the verge of a breakthrough. 'After. . .'
'Must go to the toilet now.'
'Yes, all right, but first—'
'Now.'
Çöktin, who was much less excited about what Cengiz might be about to say than Suleyman, said, ‘I think you ought to let him go now, sir.'
'Yes, in a—'
'Now!' Cengiz's face was really quite contorted. As he grimaced and gummed his way through a succession of expressions, Suleyman, who had not noticed this need in his prisoner before, lost valuable seconds in argument.
'This urgency is really very sudden, Cengiz,' he said, 'in view of what we have been talking about.'
'I think it's all part of his condition, whatever it is,' Çöktin whispered into Suleyman's ear. 'I think you'd better let him go.'
'Yes, but—'
It was then that the sound of running water accompanied by deep, humiliated sobs were heard coming from Cengiz's large sad frame. Although unable to understand the more subtle aspects of life's diversity, he did know that in this horrible, dirty little room with policemen firing questions at him he was once again in trouble that would cause him pain. And this time, he knew, they would not just send him home when they had finished their questions. This time they were going to keep him.
Tansu stood on the very edge of the cliff, her eyes streaming with tears. Then with a flick of her proud head she turned to the man wearing some sort of foreign uniform who stood beside her and spat, 'I would rather die than be your woman!'
And with that she, or rather a stuntwoman, launched herself into the deep blue abyss below.
'Singers should never act,' Çetin Ìkmen said as he lit a new cigarette from the butt of his last smoke. 'Elvis Presley stands as a warning to us all.'
'Oh, I enjoyed his films,' Fatma said as she passed briefly in front of the screen herding a reluctant child towards the bathroom.
'None of us is perfect,' her husband muttered as he watched a picture of a group of young army conscripts flash up on the screen. Erol Urfa performing his duty for the Republic.
'You know, Fatma,' he called out over both the sound of the television and the running water from the bathroom, 'if I wanted to know when Tansu Hanim was born or where Erol Urfa comes from I wouldn't have the faintest idea from this programme.'
'She's a little shy about her age,' Fatma yelled back. 'It's why she chooses to change what Allah has given her.'
'The plastic surgery?'
'Yes.' With dripping hands she re-entered the living room and stood for a moment, her hands on her hips. 'Have you seen Bulent yet?'
Ìkmen's face darkened. 'Only from the balcony.'
Fatma raised her eyes towards heaven. Then changing the subject once again she said, 'Did I hear you say that Kleopatra Polycarpou is finally dying?'
'You shouldn't listen when I'm on the telephone,' Ìkmen said with an expression of what could have been mock sternness on his face.
Fatma, who was accustomed to such looks, simply carried on, 'But is she or—'
'Yes, it would seem so,' Ìkmen said with a sigh as he watched a piece of film showing Tansu and Erol on the beach at Bodrum. 'Cohen went to say goodbye.'
'And phoned you up to tell you?'
'Yes.'
'Why?'
'Because there is a problem with . . .' Suddenly realising what he was being drawn into, he stopped, looked at Fatma and said, 'And you know Kleopatra Polycarpou how, Fatma?'
'Oh, I've never known her myself, Cretin; ' she said with a smile. ‘I know of her because I've heard you speak of her and because Mrs Onat kept house for her for a
'Look, Cengiz,' Çöktin put in, 'if you didn't hurt Mrs Ruya or if what happened was an accident then you don't have to be frightened, do you?'
'When people die people get hung.'
'Not now. People do go to prison but . . . Look, Cengiz, if you didn't kill Mrs Ruya then just tell us when you touched her and—'
'She was cold after .. .'
'She was cold after what, Cengiz?' Suleyman asked, feeling his heart racing with the anticipation of one who knows he might be on the verge of a breakthrough. 'After. . .'
'Must go to the toilet now.'
'Yes, all right, but first—'
'Now.'
Çöktin, who was much less excited about what Cengiz might be about to say than Suleyman, said, ‘I think you ought to let him go now, sir.'
'Yes, in a—'
'Now!' Cengiz's face was really quite contorted. As he grimaced and gummed his way through a succession of expressions, Suleyman, who had not noticed this need in his prisoner before, lost valuable seconds in argument.
'This urgency is really very sudden, Cengiz,' he said, 'in view of what we have been talking about.'
'I think it's all part of his condition, whatever it is,' Çöktin whispered into Suleyman's ear. 'I think you'd better let him go.'
'Yes, but—'
It was then that the sound of running water accompanied by deep, humiliated sobs were heard coming from Cengiz's large sad frame. Although unable to understand the more subtle aspects of life's diversity, he did know that in this horrible, dirty little room with policemen firing questions at him he was once again in trouble that would cause him pain. And this time, he knew, they would not just send him home when they had finished their questions. This time they were going to keep him.
Tansu stood on the very edge of the cliff, her eyes streaming with tears. Then with a flick of her proud head she turned to the man wearing some sort of foreign uniform who stood beside her and spat, 'I would rather die than be your woman!'
And with that she, or rather a stuntwoman, launched herself into the deep blue abyss below.
'Singers should never act,' Çetin Ìkmen said as he lit a new cigarette from the butt of his last smoke. 'Elvis Presley stands as a warning to us all.'
'Oh, I enjoyed his films,' Fatma said as she passed briefly in front of the screen herding a reluctant child towards the bathroom.
'None of us is perfect,' her husband muttered as he watched a picture of a group of young army conscripts flash up on the screen. Erol Urfa performing his duty for the Republic.
'You know, Fatma,' he called out over both the sound of the television and the running water from the bathroom, 'if I wanted to know when Tansu Hanim was born or where Erol Urfa comes from I wouldn't have the faintest idea from this programme.'
'She's a little shy about her age,' Fatma yelled back. 'It's why she chooses to change what Allah has given her.'
'The plastic surgery?'
'Yes.' With dripping hands she re-entered the living room and stood for a moment, her hands on her hips. 'Have you seen Bulent yet?'
Ìkmen's face darkened. 'Only from the balcony.'
Fatma raised her eyes towards heaven. Then changing the subject once again she said, 'Did I hear you say that Kleopatra Polycarpou is finally dying?'
'You shouldn't listen when I'm on the telephone,' Ìkmen said with an expression of what could have been mock sternness on his face.
Fatma, who was accustomed to such looks, simply carried on, 'But is she or—'
'Yes, it would seem so,' Ìkmen said with a sigh as he watched a piece of film showing Tansu and Erol on the beach at Bodrum. 'Cohen went to say goodbye.'
'And phoned you up to tell you?'
'Yes.'
'Why?'
'Because there is a problem with . . .' Suddenly realising what he was being drawn into, he stopped, looked at Fatma and said, 'And you know Kleopatra Polycarpou how, Fatma?'
'Oh, I've never known her myself, Cretin; ' she said with a smile. ‘I know of her because I've heard you speak of her and because Mrs Onat kept house for her for a
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