For The Last Time

By C. Buğra ESER

A woman comes to the cafe where Naz works. The woman orders a coffee and sees Naz. She wants to chat with him for a while. After the two talk for a short time, the woman's phone rings and she mysteriously leaves the cafe.
Naz, who leaves the cafe late at night, goes home alone and finds the woman who talked to him in the cafe in a pool of blood in front of a bench. The woman is dead.
Homicide police officers Caner and Merve arrive at the scene and learn that the woman died after being stabbed twice in the heart.

Among the fears, regrets and endless mistakes, perhaps only one thing emerges that can be good. A love story whose boundaries have not yet been drawn, passing through the hearts of Caner and Naz.

Who is this foreign woman and how does she know Naz? Why did he want to talk to her and why was she killed?

 

The price of regrets will be paid FOR THE LAST TIME...

• Language: English
• Publisher: C. Buğra ESER
• Release date: Mar 26, 2024
• ISBN: 9798224865123

C. Buğra ESER

C. Buğra Eser wurde 1998 im Bezirk Sarıkaya von Yozgat geboren. Nach seinem Schulabschluss in Sarıkaya ging er nach Yozgat, um dort zu studieren. C. Buğra, der sein Studium für das Lehramt der türkischen Sprache abgeschlossen hat, widmet sich nun den Genres Krimi, Mystery, emotionale Fiktion und Intrige; er schreibt weiterhin Bücher voller dramatischer Lebensgeschichten, die sich mit den grausamen Seiten des Lebens und der tiefen Psychologie der Menschen befassen. Die Autorin beschränkt sich nicht auf ein einziges Genre und bietet ihren Lesern die Möglichkeit, eine neue Generation von Romanen zu lesen. Im Krimi-Genre befasst er sich mit dem schmerzhaften Privatleben gewöhnlicher Menschen.

Book preview

CHAPTER 1

WE WERE HAVING ONE of our usual busy days. All the tables in the café were full, the place was crammed. Everyone was talking as if there was no tomorrow. As if they were passing tea through their veins. Instead of oxygen, they were filling their lungs with cigarette smoke, as if they were breathing for the last time. The whole cafe was engulfed in fog, and heavy metal music was playing in the background, not deafening but chest-thumping and unbecoming of a cafe environment... If I screamed, no one would hear me.

People were so focused on their own lives that they missed the details around them. Maybe if they had listened to the music a little more, they would have noticed the incompatibility of heavy metal with the ambience. Maybe they would have been able to guess the shade of red color in the cup of tea they were drinking. Or the shape of the mark left by the cigarette butt in the ashtray, the symmetry of the napkin holder with the table, how the candies were arranged, the stains on the glass, the stickiness of the tea coaster...

Everyone was so focused on their own lives that details were often overlooked. It was as if their small and insignificant lives were the center of the universe. This was one of the details I noticed since I first started doing this work. Most people cared a lot about their own lives, but in a very unnecessary way. If you listen a little bit to what they talk about, you can hear the following: The last lipstick they bought, its compatibility with their skin color and lips, all the good or bad thoughts people around them had about them, what they did during the day as if they had conquered the world, the filtering of the windows of the second-hand car they had just bought, the random goal they scored on the astroturf field, as if they were a famous football player... Maybe most people would call this wrong and say, they are just having a conversation. For me, this was not a conversation. Because why should we spend our short seventy-five years of life talking about such things?

I crossed my arms and examined myself in the full-length mirror on the column that ran through the middle of the café. My hair was short, down to my neck, parted in the middle, slightly wavy at the ends; I was wearing a white T-shirt and black skinny jeans. I wasn't very tall, only 1.63. My weight was around 56. Lines and purple marks had started to appear under my eyes from fatigue. No matter how much I tried to cover these marks, it was useless. I also wore light make-up, which I repeated every day. A little mascara on my eyelashes and foundation on my cheeks until I was satisfied. And rose red nail polish on my nails... Now you will get angry with me and make comparisons. I am not that obsessed with makeup in my daily life. The only difference is that this activity, which became a matter of life and death for them, was for me to wear makeup because of my job.

My mom and I run this café together. I do almost all the work here, I'm like the cafe manager or something. Because of my job, I spend all day observing people. I listen to their useless and useless conversations. As I listen to them, I realize my own helplessness. Don't misunderstand, I'm not trying to bury anyone, to elevate myself or to satisfy my ego and put people down.

It was a busy Saturday. It was late afternoon, the sun was bathing the whole café in red from an almost perpendicular angle. People's faces facing the sun were painted red, the color of their eyes even lighter. The view of the street was right in front of us, also painted red. The contrasting harmony of the shadows and the red. It was as if the sun was a painter, coloring our little world from the angle he had set.

The café my mother owned was on Lise Street. It had a rectangular shape and was on the second floor of a building. There was an entrance in the center and tables and chairs on both sides. There was a cash register just in front of the entrance and a large kitchen behind it. Because my mother was a standard obsessive, everything had to be tidy; symmetrical and spotlessly clean. The tables were dark brown wood and the chairs were black oak with soft ocher cushions. He was also obsessed with color. The walls were painted light yellow. Everywhere there were landscape paintings that my mother had bought with such love that her fingertips bled from the excitement of hanging them. Most of them were pencil drawings, but there were also wet paintings. They were all arranged in certain sizes. On some walls, there were also pithy sayings. Of course, who cared if I looked at those pictures, thought about them and became emotionally flooded. It was obviously a rule that only applied to my mother.

Someone called out to me from behind and all my thoughts scattered.

Naz?

Instinctively, I immediately turned my head and body in the direction of the voice. My mother was calling me.

Yes?

Did you get the orders, are there any tables missing?

I got it all, Mom.

He squinted behind his glasses and nodded, taking quick steps towards the kitchen.

It was just my mom and I running the café, no siblings or older siblings. My father had separated from my mother when I was young due to a violent divorce. I don't remember his occupation, his face, his facial expressions or perhaps the love he gave. I was just a baby when it happened. Obviously, because I grew up without the love of a father, I am very tough on certain issues and my survival instinct is very dominant.

As I glanced at the tables, I saw my mother out of the corner of my eye. I quickly looked in that direction again. Next to my mother was a well-dressed, elegant woman. I quickly glanced at her clothes: a light brown blouse, a long skirt of the same color with a dark net, a black vest and a matching black leather bag.

Naz, my mom called out. Is there an empty table over there?

Yes, mom, I said, raising my voice, pointing to the empty table with my index finger. There's one here.

He nodded and guided the woman next to him to the table. He was very, visibly polite to her. She must have been rich. I had only to look at her clothes to make such a judgment. I made my way over to them.

Welcome, he said politely. What can I get you?

The woman was looking at me strangely from time to time. It wasn't a normal look, I realized.

His eyes met my mother's. I could use a cup of coffee, he said in a thin voice. Then he looked at me again.

My mom started to list, Milk, plain...

Keep it simple.

Okay, I'll get it right away, he said and my mother hurried off to the kitchen, normally I would have gone too, but I think he wanted to give her special treatment, so he winked at me as he passed by without her noticing.

I nodded respectfully to her and was about to turn around and leave when she said, Excuse me. Your name is Naz, right?

I turned towards the woman. Yes, ma'am, I said.

I have Zahra.

Nice to meet you.

The woman shook her head.

When I didn't say anything, he spoke. How old are you?

twenty-seven, but I'll be twenty-eight in a few months.

The woman shook her head again.

It was strange, why did he ask my name and age? I wasn't too surprised, maybe she thought I looked like someone. The woman didn't speak for a while, she was busy studying me. Her gaze was starting to bother me. Had it been a man and not her, I would have already made trouble and kicked her out of the café.

I heard the click of my mother's high heels, she had brought the coffee faster than it had come.

There was a cookie with the coffee. He gently placed the cup in front of her. This is my daughter Naz, he said with a smile. We run the café together.

The woman nodded towards me and I did the same. It was like a tense atmosphere, I was looking at my mother and looking at the woman.

Seconds of silence were broken. Mehmet Abi called out to my mother from the cash register. Ms. Suzan, there's a call for you! We barely heard him in the noisy environment of the cafe.

Mehmet Abi had just arrived at our café, about four or five months ago. He is the chef of the café. There is no talking about his food, he prepares it so well. He studied in the best schools and worked in the humblest institutions. I considered him like a big brother, he was always there for us.

My mother turned in the direction of the voice and said, Okay! Then she turned to the woman and said, Sorry, I'll be right back.

She blinked both eyes in my mother's direction. My mother left us, clicking her heels. The strange woman turned toward me again.

Do you mind if I chat with you for a few minutes?

Of course not, ma'am, I said, squinting my eyes.

She gestured to the chair. My heart began to pound, this was the first time a woman had asked me to do this. I took the chair opposite her and put my hands on my legs to hide my excitement a little. I straightened my posture and looked straight at her. I wondered what she was going to say to me. I'm sorry, what was a rich woman going to say to me?

So you and your mother run this place together, he said, examining the café.

Yes.

He took his light brown eyes off the walls of the café and fixed them on me. Did you go to university?

No, I haven't.

He tilted his head to the side. Why?

I don't know, after I finished high school, there were subjects I just wanted to improve myself, I wanted to focus on them. Also, my mom is alone here, she might have problems without me around.

I had a feeling he wouldn't ask about my father.

The woman nodded, pulled her leather bag in front of her and was searching through it as if she was looking for gold. After a few seconds she took out a pack of cigarettes and put the bag back in its original place. She opened it upwards, it was half smoked and a small lighter was stuck in the middle. He took a cigarette out of it and put it between his lips, gently lighting the tip with the light orange lighter he had taken out of the pack. He took a deep drag, let it out over his head and took a sip of his coffee.

His cigarette was between the fingers of his right hand. How's life going, he said with a smile. Are you happy here?

I mean, I'm satisfied, I'm fine, we're doing fine, I replied monotonously.

He nodded again. For a few minutes we were both silent, only our eyes spoke. For a moment I felt very close to this woman, as if there was an attraction between us, but the impulse left as quickly as it had come. I studied her eyes more carefully, she had a very strange look. I had never seen someone look like that before. I couldn't make any sense of it; anger, irritation, love, confusion... A quick wave of excitement passed through my stomach.

The woman was not really beautiful, but she was attractive. I thought she must be in her early fifties. Her straight nose was in harmony with her full lips. Her thin eyebrows complemented her light brown eyes, her face was like poetry. Her hair was dark black, some of it graying. Surprisingly, even the graying looked good on her.

This may be a very personal question, she said. Do you love your mother? he asked.

Why did he feel the need to ask me such a question? A flash of anger passed through me. I just felt the need to restrain myself and give a short answer.

Yes, I love my mom.

He took two long drags from his cigarette. And how would you feel if you lost him one day?

There was like a cloud of fog in her eyes, I couldn't clear it. Because I couldn't find any logic in her questions, I couldn't give her a proper answer, because it wasn't something I thought about every day, or something I had experienced even once.

I just said, I don't know, I never thought about it before.

The woman smiled sincerely. Just some life advice, young lady, she said and put out her cigarette. She seemed to focus on me. Be prepared for life, one day what you have lost will cost you dearly, she finished. Enjoy the moment while your loved ones are with you, because when death knocks on your door, you will never get another chance. You will fall into that desolate void.

It was very nice and meaningful for me to get such life advice from a woman I had just gotten to know a few minutes ago. She was speaking from experience, but at the same time making me feel like a child. At that moment I started to reason things out.

My thoughts were interrupted by my mother calling me from behind. Ms. Zehra, I'm sorry, I had to run a little errand. She quickly examined both of us, checking if there was a problem. It seemed to bother him that I was sitting across from her. She rubbed her palms from time to time. There were beads of sweat on her forehead that looked like they had just been wiped off.

How is the coffee, do you like it? I prepared it myself.

Thank you, Ms. Suzan, it's beautiful.

Bon appetit.

Their intimate conversation ended with a phone ringing. It was coming from her purse. She immediately started looking for her phone in her bag. She found the phone and took it out. She put the phone to her ear, tilted her head and brushed a few strands of hair that had fallen in front of her back of her head with her hand.

Okay... uh-huh... okay, he said in a hushed tone.

After talking like this for a few minutes, he fixed his light brown eyes on my mother. I'm so sorry Ms. Suzan, I have to leave immediately, something very important came up.

No problem, ma'am, my mother said.

The woman quickly packed up and headed for the exit. My mother was right behind her. She stopped for a moment and called out to me over her shoulder, It was very nice to meet you Naz, I hope to see you again someday and we can chat again.

Another wave of excitement passed through my stomach. It was like that for me too, Ms. Zehra, I said, averting my eyes. I hope I can wait again.

He nodded and went out the door, and my mother followed him. I thought to myself that he would give her the money for the coffee downstairs.

Another strange customer was gone. I still had questions in my mind. Why would anyone want to talk to an ordinary girl like me, get to know me? Weren't their own lives more important; money, possessions, property? Weren't these their details, who would want to know a leftover