“You could say that, but I wouldn’t want to make his name public.”
“Oh, look, we have an incoming call,” he said, wearing a naughty smirk. “Hello?”
The caller was my childhood friend, my man, my police connection: Selçuk Tayanç, who never denied me his help, and who always showed great concern for my silly caprices. In complete disregard for his position as a member of the force, he proudly announced on national television that, yes, he was my friend. Although, in order to keep his name clean, a couple of times he highlighted our relationship as that of “childhood friends.” I felt my eyes well up. I was already grateful for all he had done, for all I had made him do, and now this. Selçuk’s courage, the way he proudly stood by me, warmed the cockles of my heart.
As soon as we cut to a commercial break, I quickly pulled a mirror out of my bag and checked whether my mascara had smudged. No, it hadn’t. And the fake eyelash was still in place too.
Then we spoke of metrosexuals, of David Beckham, who paints his finger-and toenails, the new feminine trend in men’s fashion clothing, flower prints, transparent tops, and facial skin-care products, which Süheyl announced that he used too. We talked about how transvestites aren’t necessarily homosexual, explaining that sometimes transvestitism might simply be due to a particular fondness for women’s clothing.
There was an incoming call from a lady, a psychologist who offered up scientific explanations. Everything she said confirmed all that I had already said.
We talked about the Ottoman tradition of male belly dancers and boy dancers, about the fact that men had worn dresses in the past, about how the jewelry we saw in sultans’ portraits from centuries ago wasn’t worn by even the most over-the-top homosexuals of today. A painting of Yavuz Sultan Selim wearing a pearl earring popped up on the monitor. This was followed by a discussion of famous transvestites, and then images from the RuPaul and Elton John video clip “Don’t Go Breaking My Heart.” A couple of Boy George photos, famous Turks, movie scenes in which men were disguised as women…the stunning Jack Lemmon and Tony Curtis in Some Like It Hot, Kemal Sunal in Şabaniye, Ali Poyrazoğ˘lu in the Turkish theater production of La Cage aux Folles, and the final scene in the Hollywood version of the latter, The Birdcage, when Gene Hackman moans, “No one will dance with me. It’s this dress. I told them white would make me look fat.” We smiled as we watched. Clearly they had conducted extensive archival research to come up with a short, fast, effective series of clips. I was truly impressed. Jihad2000 and Ponpon were both recording the program, so it was nice to know that I would possess a copy of such a fine documentary. Süheyl Arkın punctuated the conversation with pleasant yet prudent comments.
Now it was time for viewer phone calls. I had finally gotten used to the atmosphere and loosened up a bit. There was a call from the father of a young transvestite. He told us the heart-wrenching story of how difficult it had been for the family to accept their son as a transvestite, given the humiliating gaze of the neighbors. He said that he knew his son wasn’t doing anything wrong; he wasn’t selling drugs, he wasn’t stealing from the state, he wasn’t a murderer, he just had different preferences when it came to clothing. Once again, my eyes grew damp.
“I can’t wear what I want here,” said a lass calling from the countryside. “Do you think I should come to Istanbul? Could I wear whatever I wanted there? If I came, could you help me out?” Her frantic questions set my teeth on edge.
A woman caller, her voice vibrating with tension, remarked, “You could actually be quite an attractive man. Women would be interested in you”; and finally posed the question, “Are you afraid of women?”
Another caller asked, “Do you see yourself as superior to women?”
Censoring my true feelings about those who ask such questions, I responded with polite, noncontroversial answers.
The next viewer’s question was for both me and the author. “You snobs, you look down on everyone. Who the hell do you think you are?” he said, in a perfectly calm voice. “You don’t have an ounce of respect for society, or for the values of the Turkish people. Living in a society that you’re not even really a part of, whose values you hold in complete disdain, that’s how you find inner peace? It’s time somebody put you in your place. You’re a total disgrace, the both of you, nothing but threats to society.”
We were stunned into silence. The director had cut to the ads as soon as the first sentence was out of the caller’s mouth, but the phone connection inside the studio hadn’t been cut, so we were still listening.
“Who are you?” Süheyl said, the tone of his voice reminding us just who was in charge around here.
“And you, watch your step! You’re promoting these assholes!”
“Find out where he is and cut that line!”
Süheyl’s command wasn’t carried out immediately. The abusive caller made his final threat just before the line was cut.
“I dare you to find me! And until you do, each week I’m going to kill someone near and dear to you, until I’ve put an end to your precious ‘inner peace’ once and for all!”
We froze, staring at each other with wide eyes.
“Who was that?” asked Süheyl. There was some commotion in the glass soundproof management room opposite us.
“Who was it?”
A worried look on his face, Süheyl listened to the voice transmitted through his earphones. Unable to hear what was being said, naturally, both my author and I watched him with keen curiosity. We waited for an explanation.
“We have to go back on air,” he said finally, as if nothing had happened. “Just some sick psycho.”
“I’ve been threatened before,” said Mehmet. “At first I panicked a bit, but they turned out to be empty threats. Anyone able to dig up my phone number or e-mail address thinks they can say or write whatever they want. It really isn’t worth worrying about.”
I’m not the type to be outdone.
“I’ve been threatened before too,” I said. It was true. And in every way you could possibly imagine.
At last we finished the program. I was almost glued to my seat, so profusely had I sweat. Süheyl thanked me by kissing my hand. The looks, the moves…there was something about this guy…One had to hand it to him, he certainly hid it well. Either that or he hadn’t yet gotten the memo himself.
I have years of experience and observation. Rarely am I wrong.
2.
When the program was over I went home and relieved my feet of my Swinging Bombays, which had the appearance of miniature Eiffel Towers covered in Christmas decorations. I’d listen to the congratulatory messages on the answering machine later. I took a quick shower and put on a white knee-length dress with a petticoat skirt and strapless ornate top adorned with thin ribbons of the same color. It was one of my fabulous, flamboyant, elegant 1950s costumes, identical to that worn by Audrey Hepburn in Roman Holiday. I headed off to the club, where I would accept congratulations in the flesh. I looked like a true princess.
My always reliable, ever ready taxi driver Hüseyin had already arrived and was waiting at the door. And my nosy neighbor, Wimpy Ferdı, was peering out his window. I was beginning to feel annoyed at how he appeared at the window and watched me every time I entered and exited the apartment.
When he saw me step out of the apartment, Hüseyin got out of his car and opened the door for me. I was shocked. I wasn’t used to such behavior coming from him. He had never displayed such habits, such courtesy before.
“I saw you on TV, ma’am. You’re pretty much famous now.”
I thanked him.
“Your breasts looked fuller, ma’am,” he said.
Yes, my La Perla bra had needed a little support to fill it out, but I needn’t explain that to him. Once upon a time, we’d accidentally slept together. He had told me then that he disliked big breasts, and that he loved my masculine contours.
Gathering my layered skirt, I got in the car without responding.
“You haven’t had sil
icone implants or anything, have you?”
There you go, he had dropped the ma’am, and he was asking the most private of questions. A big no-no in my book!
I didn’t want us to get stuck on how he addressed me, or the size of my tits. Once Hüseyin got stuck on something, he refused to drop it, and even if he was made to drop it, he’d grow sour, and when he grew sour, he caused trouble, and so on and so forth. Plus God only knows what stories Ferdı was inventing as he watched us. I was in the car, and nosy Ferdı couldn’t see me, even through his Coke-bottle glasses. I grabbed my elastic strapless top and pulled it down to reveal my breasts. There they were: flat, muscular even.
I could see him staring, aroused. I pulled my top back up.
“Nice,” he said, with a twitch of the lip he must have mistaken for sexy.
The club wasn’t packed but there was a crowd. The congratulations started pouring in as soon as I arrived. Our security guard, bodybuilder Cüneyt, bowed down before me, almost kissing the floor.
“You were magnificent, boss! Can we have a picture taken together? I’ll show it to the guys at the gym.”
I didn’t ask him whom he’d want to show a picture of the two of us to at his local gym, or why. If he were to show them and boast, This is my girl, lads, he knew I’d tear him to pieces if ever I caught wind of it. He’d probably tell them that he worked with me, or that he was my bodyguard. Cüneyt, who never feels in the least embarrassed to be working in a transvestite club, and who, unable to resist the girls’ pleas, every now and then ends up going to the cinema or shopping with them during the day, is one of the purest souls I know. He lives in that delicate balance between naïveté and imbecility. And it is to his naïveté that he owes his sincere and cheerful nature.
DJ Osman had the trumpet-led opening music ready for my grand entrance. At first I paused, and, smiling, gave my community the once-over. And they did the same to me. There they were, all standing before me: Hasan, who had made a habit of exaggerating the whole concept of low-rise jeans to the point that he barely concealed his crotch anymore, stood there clapping. The bartender Şükrü, who had climbed up on something behind the bar so that he could see me over the crowd, gazed upon me as if seeing me for the first time in his life. Chubby Müjde, Elvan the queen of ignorance, Hairy Demet, Dump Truck Beyza, Mehtap with her tomato-red wig, flashy Pamir, Çise displaying her newly installed porcelain teeth, which were two sizes too big for her mouth, numb Lulu with the bushy black eyebrows, Sırma, who never missed an opportunity to show off the gold hoop piercing on her right nipple…There they were, my girls, standing before me.
“Oh, you were so striking…”; “You were wonderful, abla…”; “I loved it, dear, I hope I get to go on TV someday too…”; “Your shoes were fabulous, I couldn’t take my eyes off of them. In fact, I couldn’t really concentrate on you, I was so busy staring at them.” That last sentence could have come from none other than bushy-brows Lulu. It suited her perfectly: a woman of spite and envy, yet smart enough to cover her insults with pleasant ingratiation.
The few early bird customers applauded, even though they had no idea what was going on. They probably thought it was my birthday or something. Yavuz, who loved taking his shirt off and showing off his ripped muscles once he was up on the floor dancing, but who was so broke the girls only slept with him for fun, came over and gave me a big hug. He was sweaty. I politely distanced him from me. He must have thought sweat was something pleasant, arousing even. I, however, am not of that opinion. He’d had a tattoo done on his right shoulder since I’d last seen him. It appeared to consist of Japanese letters.
As Şükrü slipped me a Virgin Mary, DJ Osman started playing “It’s Raining Men” by The Weather Girls. He knows it’s my favorite dance song. So I cut the greetings and good wishes short and quickly got on the floor and danced a little, displaying polite moves that befit my costume.
It was almost time for customers to start invading the club.
The first to arrive: a mixed group, among them my Reiki master Gül Tamay; Cavit Ateş from the same Reiki group; Cavit’s relaxed lover, a yoga and meditation expert named şirin Güney; Haydar Hocaev, a new arrival from Azerbaijan whom they introduced as a bioenergy expert; and a young man called Bahadır, who dazzled me with his good looks, and whose area of expertise I couldn’t have cared about in the least. He had a bony face, strong fingers that grasped tightly as we shook hands, and shiny, pitch-dark eyes. His plump lips were enticing.
“How do you like my new boyfriend?” Gül whispered into my ear as we touched cheeks. It was pretty obvious monobrow Haydar wasn’t the new boyfriend. I felt like a child whose toy has been taken away.
“Careful, I might steal him from you,” I told her, laughing it off.
Even though she has a grown son from her first marriage, Gül has maintained a slim figure; with her sleek blond hair and her finger always on the pulse of the latest fashion, she is one elegant, attractive woman. Besides that, she’s funny. She laughed, quite sincerely, at the idea of me stealing her lover.
Our regulars, those with a perpetual sweet tooth for our girls, were slowly filling up the club. There, cozily perched between two girls he had invited to his table, was the literary critic with the bushy mustache. Initially he only came to the club with the poet Refik Altın, but later he became a frequent visitor on his own, after Refik stopped coming following some minor disagreements between us. Once, out of curiosity, I had tried reading his poems, but they were so insufferably boring that I gave up. When such a mass of cultural knowledge remains undigested, it leads not to refinement but to tedious constipation. From what the girls told me, he wasn’t bad in bed, but he did have fantasies that even they qualified as weird, such as having cigar smoke blown up his ass.
As usual the fruit and vegetable dealer Gazanfer was trying to pass off his quietness as politeness, occasionally lifting his rakı glass to greet the girls. He’s a good customer, generous with his tips, reserved in his demands. He tries each girl one by one. The girls like him. His record is spotless.
At one point, şirin Güney, the yoga expert, walked up to me in a panic and asked, “Where’s the ladies’ room?” The truth is, we have no ladies’ room; we have only one single restroom. In protest against sexual discrimination, we had not separated the toilets. Besides, it saves us space.
She giggled upon hearing my reply, as if I had said something funny. “Well, let’s give it a go, then,” she said. I’ve always found her to be a bit shallow, and although I’ve known her for years, I’ve preferred to keep my distance.
She caught up with me again on her way back from the toilet. She was still giggling. It seemed she’d had a generous helping of alcohol.
“What a fabulous idea to have mirrors fitted behind the urinals! And no screens either…”
What she thought was a mirror was actually stainless steel, but it served the same purpose. After all, ours was a venue that, striving to be cool, bore the marks of a designer’s touch. We deserved that extra bit of quality. She had clearly found it difficult to take her eyes off of what she had seen, and had immediately begun comparing it to her boyfriend, Cavit Ateş. Cavit was a man who not only had a big build, but was overweight with a fat belly to boot. No matter what size it was, it was going to look small in proportion to his body. For God’s sake, didn’t these women ever watch porn, look at pictures, buy a Playgirl magazine? Even when you’re buying tomatoes from the market you look, touch, compare, and then choose.
As I walked about conducting my managerial duties, my gaze frequently landed upon Bahadır, and each time it did, our eyes met. Sure, he was holding Gül’s hand, stroking her long blond hair, but he emitted a covert signal that did not escape my attention. Best not to give it a name. I had utmost love and respect for Gül. But I just could not keep my eyes off the lad.
Later that night Belinda D. and her husband Naim arrived. Belinda D. was an indisputable authority on Turkish pop music, and her most recent book, her most comprehensive to date,
was titled Superstar. It was she who decreed which songs sank and which songs swam. Some called her the Herodotus of Turkish pop, others a reaper, due to her fine, highly selective taste. My personal favorite nickname for her was Hammurabi, which she was awarded owing to her declaration of the standards and rules of Turkish pop. The singers, composers, and production companies that feared Belinda D.’s malice had their books kept by her invisible husband, and rumor had it that he earned his keep solely from those who’d been touched by the magic wand of his wife.
I rushed over to greet them.
Belinda D., always high in spirits, was nervous. She gasped for breath as she spoke.
“Darling, I just found out, I don’t know what to say. Someone shot Süheyl.”
Yes, Süheyl, the very same Süheyl Arkın whose program I had been on that night.
3.
It was quite natural for Süheyl, who made a habit of probing controversial topics, to have lots of enemies. But it certainly wasn’t natural for him to have been shot. He wasn’t dead, but he was seriously wounded. He had been taken to the hospital, and the shooter had of course fled without leaving a trace.
I would go visit him with a huge bunch of flowers first thing in the morning. In my mind, I quickly struck a bargain and decided to buy carnations if they were cheap, and if not, anemones.
I was alone when I woke up. Bahadır had accompanied me in all my dreams. We ran together hand in hand in the countryside, squabbled over games of Scrabble, lit fires on the beach and watched the sunset in each other’s arms, animated Kama Sutra positions, sloppily ate spaghetti bolognese out of the same bowl; in brief, we did everything that lovers do together. The strange thing was, I couldn’t recall his face or other important attributes.
I sat at the computer, coffee in hand. I hadn’t yet pulled myself together, even though it was already past midday. I’d received a slew of messages, as per usual. The group of hackers called the Web-Guerrillas, of which I was an active member, had wasted no time posting messages, half of which were filled with useless clues; the other half, however, were promising.
The Serenity Murders Page 2
