Baksheesh Read Online Free PDF Page A

replied with a serious expression on his face.
    â€œYou’re joking,” I said.
    â€œWhy should I joke about it, madam? It was for sale and a buyer turned up with thirty-two thousand dollars. The new owners have given us three months to get out. I don’t know what they intend to do with it. Live in it, I think. This area has become much sought after recently. But you know that, of course, because you want to buy something here too.”
    â€œOK,” I said, “but could I have a quick look inside? Just to get an idea of prices.”
    The man opened the door wide, but before I was even inside he remarked that he thought he knew me from somewhere.
    â€œYes, we’re more or less neighbours. I have the bookstore on Lokum Street,” I said.

    â€œWhich is Lokum Street?” asked the man. Turks are like that – they don’t even know the name of a street two feet away. That’s why streets get defined by some building on the corner – say a mosque, pharmacy, supermarket, school or hospital.
    â€œIt’s the street that goes down to the Austrian High School,” I said.
    â€œOh,” he said. “Is there a bookstore there? I’ve never noticed. That’s strange because I like reading. But I don’t really have the time, what with work and so on. You know how it is.”
    The building spread along the street like a top-quality limousine gliding round a sharp corner. All the windows at the back looked out over the Bosphorus, which, you will appreciate, was a very rare feature. The views from the first floor were magnificent. The Bosphorus was even visible from the toilet window. On the hill behind, you could see Topkapı Palace on Sarayburnu. If you leant your head to the right, you could see the golden building of Sirkeci station where the Orient Express once terminated, the minarets that had turned the Byzantine Hagia Sophia into a mosque, a car ferry waiting by the shore, a passenger ferry trying to get alongside the jetty at Karaköy, a sombre-looking tanker, and tiny fishing boats that looked like mere specks on the water. In the distance to the left was the Bosphorus Bridge with its constant stream of cars. Oh, the wonders of Istanbul!
    The views from the apartment still to be sold would be even more magnificent. After all, it was higher up, on the second floor. The apartments were 220 square metres. I hadn’t written that down incorrectly. Exactly 220 square metres, with six rooms plus a living room. No bathroom of course. The building was at least 150 years old. With high ceilings! Yes, it was in a state of decay, but that was the least of my worries just then.

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    I called Kasım Bey the moment I got back to the shop. He said he’d heard nothing about the apartment being sold, but he’d go and see the charity’s lawyer to find out more and would call me back as soon as possible.
    â€œI couldn’t get anyone to open the door, so I didn’t see inside the apartment you meant. Can you do something about that?” I asked.
    â€œBe patient, miss. Don’t be in such a rush. All things come to those who wait,” he said.
    But I am not the waiting type. Never have been. I wanted to see my new home that day, or the next day at the very latest. I just couldn’t wait to see inside the apartment and plan how I would arrange my furniture, what colour I’d paint the walls, which room I’d convert into a bathroom…
    Over the previous two years, I’d had plenty of time to realize that it wasn’t much good just sitting around, praying for Turks to dig into their pockets and invest their last cents in a book.
    I rushed out of the shop.
    Â 
    If only I hadn’t. If only I hadn’t had that horrible row with Selim and become so embroiled in house-buying as a means of getting over it. If only I’d been calm and patient and waited for Kasım Bey to call.
    But that wasn’t what happened.

    Not at