face, and water began to slosh in my shoes. Everything looked gray. Only a few neon signs interrupted the dreariness of the concrete wasteland. Empty cans, milk cartons, cigarette butts, garbage floated down the gutters and got stuck in the drains. There were streaks of dog shit on the sidewalk. People with umbrellas charged past me. Women stood chatting in the doorways, waiting for the rain to let up. I could feel my coat getting drenched. A taxicab splashed puddles onto my pants. I kept going, slipping on cartons and vegetable refuse, until I reached the courthouse steps. The door fell shut behind me. Like a leaking bucket, I left a wet track on the stone floor.
“Halt!”
Two cops barred my way. I pulled out my private investigator’s license.
“I have an appointment with Dr. Anastas.”
“We don’t know him.”
“He’s the defendants’ attorney.”
“Unh-hunh.”
A squad was pacing up and down the hall, submachine guns at the ready. The cop looked up from my license.
“Your I.D.”
I showed it to him. His companion scratched his chin, raised his walkie-talkie, and recited my I.D. number into it. After he received the all clear, I had to spread my legs. They didn’t find anything. “Upstairs, second door on the left,” they told me. A bunch of journalists were lounging in the waiting room, which smelled of cold tobacco smoke and wet clothes. They were all chattering away with supreme self-importance. A pretty thing with long dark hair sat down next to me.
“Cold, isn’t it?”
She sniffled.
“Sure is.”
She snuggled down into her fur coat.
“What paper you with?”
“My Wife and Your Car.”
“I see.” Pause. “Don’t know that one.”
I lit a cigarette.
“May I have one?”
I lit it for her. We smoked for a while. What did that attorney want from me? Why had he asked me to be here so early? She was studying my profile. I leaned back and closed my eyes.
“You’re not a journalist.”
“Right you are.”
“I can tell.”
“I see. How?”
“Well, you have no camera, you don’t talk, you don’t know anybody, and now you’re taking a nap.”
She smelled nice. Something heavy, from France.
“Nonsense. I’m a Turk. That’s how you can tell.”
She ground out the cigarette under her heel.
“Maybe.” Pause. “So-why are you here?”
“I’m a private investigator. Don’t ask me why, I just am. And I’m waiting for someone.”
Now there was a commotion by the door. Cameras were focused, note pads raised.
“A private investigator-and a Turk? I’m supposed to believe that?”
“Take it or leave it.”
The noise level rose. The pack was straining at the leash. My avenging angel moved closer.
“Have you been living in Germany for a long time?”
“My father was one of the first Turkish garbage collectors of this republic. He brought me here when I was a year old. Soon after that, he was run over by a car. I was adopted by a German family.”
“And your mother?”
“She died when I was born.”
She mimed compassion.
“Oh, how terrible.”
I pointed at the door.
At that moment, the double doors to the courtroom swung open and the reporters charged. She took her leave and dived into the melee. There was a lot of noise in the hallway. I stayed put and contemplated my soaked shoes. Then I too entered the courtroom. The attorney was answering questions from a group of newspaper people. Cameras flashed incessantly, camcorders jockeyed for position. Off in a corner, a guy was broadcasting live, manically yelling into his mike. Policemen were posted by doors and windows. I sat down on a bench. My clothes were wet and stuck to my skin. The place was drafty, and I was cold. I lit a cigarette and watched the court clerk, who was waving his arms at me from a distance, presumably to indicate that smoking was prohibited. Ten o’clock. Five minutes later, the attorney walked over and sat down next to me.
“Please forgive me, Mr. Kayankaya. You know, in a trial of this importance … One has to humor the press. I’m sure you understand.”
Dr. Anastas was small and sturdy. Everything about him was brown: the curls around his balding pate, the frame of the eyeglasses resting on the bridge of his snub nose, his suit, his fingernails. His tie drooped like a wet towel.
“Why did you ask me to come here at nine o’clock?” He frowned.
“I did? I thought we agreed on ten. I’m sorry.”
He stared pensively into the courtroom, which was emptying out. Even the cops were picking up their things and leaving.
“You wanted to see me.” He gave a start.
“Forgive me, I have to keep track of so many things. Maybe …”
“Why don’t we go and have a cup of coffee?”
He deliberated, then raised a hand to his forehead.
“Excellent idea. Let’s. I agreed to meet someone in a restaurant just around the comer. What’s it called? Something with an O in it. I’m sure we can find it. After all, you’re a detective.”
He laughed and patted my shoulder, bounded to his feet, and trotted off. I pulled my damp coat around my shoulders and followed.
2
“That’s it, over there! Chez Jules. No O in that. Doesn’t matter. We found it.”
He parked, and we went inside. It was one of those nouveau joints where you’re afraid the table might collapse if you set down a decent glass of beer on it. You sit on tiny chairs, munch on tidbits, drink out of little glasses. Everything has dainty legs-the furniture, the ladies, the candlesticks. You say “pardon” when you sit down at a table and “ciao” when you get up again. The habitues call out things like, “Jules, are the crabs fresh today?”
The place was packed with a lunchtime crowd. Anastas hurried through it, his neck stretched like a chicken’s, looking for his date. Sipping white wine and nibbling on slices of roasted garlic, the stylish ladies and gentlemen cast pitying glances at the little lawyer. I could hear them whispering to each other. Anastas waved to me and shouted, “Over here, Mr. Kayankaya!” It wouldn’t have surprised me to see the patrons fall off their chairs. As I joined Anastas, I recognized my pretty inquisitor from the courthouse. She looked at me and laughed.
“Oh, it’s the private eye. Now I understand.”
“You do?”
Anastas looked astounded.
“You’ve met before?”
“Just briefly. Not long enough to exchange names.”
