The Serenity Murders

by Mehmet Murat Somer

  “Open a game for him in a window. He’s going to wait for me all day,” I told her. God only knows what, as an experienced employee, she’d tell Hüseyin behind my back.

  And with that, I barged into Alı’s office.

  He was playing games on his computer too.

  He began showering me with compliments immediately. This meant there was something important, something I’d be expected to do as a favor that would remain unreturned. Alı would never think of complimenting someone without an ulterior motive.

  “Come out with it, ayol,” I said. “Seriously, I’m not in the mood.”

  “Okay, you go first, then,” he said.

  Offering to listen to me first was a sign that the request in question was going to be a difficult task.

  In the hopes that he might change his mind about asking me for a favor if he knew the current situation I was in—so that I wouldn’t have to have that on my hands too—I told him all about the threats, about Master Sermet’s death, and finally, about Hüseyin.

  “He’s outside, playing games on the computer next to Figen,” I said, giving him the latest update.

  He shook his head thoughtfully.

  He was musing on whether, given the circumstances, he still had the nerve to ask of me whatever it was he wanted.

  “Come on, now it’s your turn,” I said. “What is it you want?”

  “Well, it’s really not that urgent, but it is important…”

  The company Mare T. Docile, which we’d done work for recently, wanted their Web site updated. Free of charge.

  It really wasn’t such a big deal. If they were to send me all the documents, I could get it done in half a day.

  “And to increase their Web site security.”

  Now, expecting that for free too was a big no-no. That was how we were planning to make the real money.

  “But just think about it, these guys have sent a lot of work our way. We were able to get into the maritime transport sector thanks to their references.”

  He was right.

  “Look, I’ll do the job, but I need to postpone it for now. Let me go on their Web site and hack it a little first, so they realize why they need security, then they’ll have to pay for it.”

  “No, man. Let’s not do it that way this time. Let’s do something clean for once.”

  Something was up with Alı. This dialogue would normally be reversed. He was the one obsessed with money. The yuppie lifestyle he led demanded it. He had to earn good money. “So what are you going to do for me in return?”

  He looked into my eyes to gauge how serious I was. I was serious. He let out a forced laugh.

  “Whatever you want,” he said. “You name it and I promise to give it to you.”

  He thought that if he laughed it off, the promise he had just given would be invalidated.

  “A week in Rio!” I said, without hesitation. That was the first thing I could think of. Being among cheerful, easygoing people; the sun, the ocean, the beaches filled with men with bodies that looked just like Greek and Roman statues…That would be enough to help me forget pretty much everything.

  “That would cost a fortune!” he said immediately, switching on the calculator in his head.

  “Not really,” I said. “Plus, you just promised…”

  As I went into my own office I asked Figen to make me a cup of Turkish coffee, without sugar. We had bought a new coffee machine that made superb Turkish coffee without fuss in less than two minutes.

  “And you, you can get up and help yourself to whatever you want,” I told Hüseyin. “There’s fruit juice, Coke, and other stuff inside, in the kitchen.”

  “I’d like a cup of coffee too. With sugar, if that’s okay,” he told Figen, not missing a beat.

  Figen turned to me, trying to understand if she should or shouldn’t be serving him. Who was higher in rank? A driver or a secretary? But Hüseyin was a guest. I nodded my head yes. I was sure Figen felt humiliated. I’d call her to my office and explain the situation when I had the time.

  My desk was buried under a mountain of mail. Magazines I was subscribed to, bills, advertisements…a gigantic mountain. I quickly separated out what could be thrown away. I put the magazines to one side. There was a card from my darling Nimet Hanoğlu. Her husband had first been accused of killing a gigolo and then was murdered himself. Nimet and I had met while trying to track down his murderer and had become fast friends. I had let her down, using work as an excuse, so that she ended up having to go by herself on the trip to Croatia that we had originally planned to take together. The postcard was a fairy-tale scene of a place called Primosten. It was a tear-shaped island in the Adriatic, with a narrow little road connecting it to the mainland. “Wish you were here,” it said. “A pearl beach, marvelous seafood, juvenile lads, all of whom resemble the young Franco Nero, graceful girls the likes of Milla Jovovich. And at sunset, I play ‘Stabat Mater’ on a CD. It’s a dream come true!” She knew I adored Franco Nero’s youth; and our taste for Pergolesi’s “Stabat Mater” was something we had in common.

  There was one personal envelope. And inside, a single-line note. It was from my psycho!

  In the middle of a huge blank page it said, “I know this place.”

  He had typed it up on a computer.

  I quickly looked at the envelope. It had been posted from the post office in Taksim two days ago. I never knew the Turkish post could be so prompt.

  I rushed outside, the envelope in my hand. I almost bumped straight into Figen, who was carrying my coffee.

  “When did this arrive?” I asked.

  My voice came out a bit too loud and tense.

  Puzzled, Figen looked first at me, and then at the envelope. She placed the tray she was holding on my desk and said, “If you’ll excuse me,” as she pulled the envelope out of my hand; she then studied it, turning it over and over again.

  “I don’t know,” she said. “The postman probably brought it.”

  I was expecting a much more helpful reply after all of that scrutinizing.

  Having heard me, Alı had come out of his room and was trying to make sense of what was going on.

  I took the letter to him.

  “There you go!” I said. “He knows this place too.”

  Hüseyin and Alı buried their heads in the letter.

  The only person who didn’t understand what was going on, who had no clue about who it was that knew this place, and why their knowing caused such a fuss, was Figen.

  “Who does?” she asked hesitantly.

  The game Hüseyin had left unattended started beeping. He was dead.

  “Someone tell Figen. I’m fed up with telling the same story over and over again,” I said.

  I was sure they were both eager to tell her.

  I spent the whole day dealing with trivial matters. Not only was I incapable of getting anything done, but my thoughts were entirely preoccupied with the psycho. I wondered what he was like. Was he young or old? Was he an ignorant conservative, or a bully who had developed these skills later on in life? Or a commando who had become addicted to murder while he served in the military in southeastern Turkey? An ex–political militant? Or someone who simply suffered from dementia? No doubt he would turn out to be someone completely ordinary, someone I wouldn’t stop to look at twice if I were to see him on the street.

  Alı took us out for dinner, to an Italian restaurant that had just recently opened. He had tried the place before and had left satisfied. He chose our food for us. I didn’t join in the wine, but he and Hüseyin had a bottle of red Antik Special Kav. Hüseyin’s appetite was huge. I made do with nibbling at what was placed in front of me.

  The club was quiet that evening. I think there was a national soccer match. We had very few customers on such nights, when everyone turned into pro soccer fanatics. Even among the girls there are plenty who are keen on soccer and who follow the league closely. They never miss a match—and, incredibly, the only moment they’re interested in isn’t th
e end of the game when soccer players take their tops off to display their muscular naked bodies all sweaty and shining.

  Hüseyin, who by now felt quite at home, was even more relaxed thanks to the wine he had drunk. He drank less at the club. I’d seen him helping Şükrü behind the bar at one point. He was learning how to mix cocktails. Judging by their laughter and giggles, they seemed to be getting along just fine.

  I sulked all night. I didn’t even dance. I was bloated from the Virgin Marys I had gulped down one after the other.

  I had hoped Officer Türkanş would show up at the club, but he didn’t. And thus, neither did the CD he said I had burned. I’d have to call Selçuk the next day.

  12.

  Hüseyin, who had gotten plenty of sleep the night before, woke up at the crack of dawn. I hated getting out of bed without having gotten enough sleep, walking around like a zombie all day with bags under my eyes. I shouted from where I lay.

  “Either sit quietly until noon or go back to sleep! No television, no music!”

  He responded with a noisy flush of the toilet. There you have it, we were already getting a little too close for comfort!

  He was holding me responsible for the voluntary imprisonment he himself had chosen, and kept calculating the loss he would incur by serving only me until the psycho killer got caught. Because he was afraid to go out on his own, our security guard Cüneyt had had to accompany him home the previous night to pick up his toothbrush, shaving kit, and some clean clothes.

  Okay, he hadn’t turned the television or radio on, but the racket he was making in the kitchen pretty much made up for it. Whatever it was he was looking for, he kept opening and closing each and every kitchen cupboard door. He shook the utensils drawer at least twice. Finally there was silence, followed by the creaking of my bedroom door. My thick curtains were drawn, my room was dark. He whispered, as if speaking in a low tone would be less likely to disturb my sleep.

  “Where’s the sugar?”

  “There is none!” I said. “Whatever you’re having, have it without sugar! And don’t wake me…”

  He murmured to himself as he shut the door. I pretended not to notice.

  I wanted a stylish dream to carry me away, freeing me, even if only briefly, from this game of stress and suspense that I had been placed smack-bang in the middle of, from the nightmare of people being hunted down. I would like both my porn idol, Colt Studios superstar John Pruitt, and Audrey Hepburn to play the leading roles together. Well, all right, should Audrey not be available, I could take over her role. In one of her costumes from My Fair Lady, say the one she was wearing in the ballroom scene or at the Ascot Racecourse. There was no need for Rex Harrison. We could do without him. John Pruitt and I would be enough to make this a masterpiece. We could meet in the lush green countryside, on a bright sunny day. Or on a looong beach where tiny gentle waves licked the shore, swoosh, swoosh…

  I was just getting into the groove, ready to doze off into this romantic and pornographic dream I had commissioned, when there was a second knock on the door. I was about to lose my temper now.

  He was holding a piece of paper in his hand. And his face looked shattered.

  “My mother gave me this when I was packing my stuff the other day. I just remembered and took a look. The bastard has been to my house. He gave this to her…”

  So long, John Pruitt! The searing pain that surged through my head at that moment had nothing to do with the way I suddenly sprang up in bed.

  “Give it here.”

  It was a single-page note, typed up on a computer and printed on legal-size paper.

  I read it four times while Hüseyin pulled open the curtains.

  It was short enough, anyway.

  Hello Hüseyin Talip Kozalak,

  It was pretty easy finding your home.

  Where are you going to run to?

  There’s nowhere to hide.

  Wait for me.

  I’m watching you.

  It was short, simple, and effective. It made one’s blood run cold. There was no name, signature, or pseudonym. Nor a date or time. And on the envelope was only Hüseyin’s name, and two red stamps, one that read “Confidential” and the other “Urgent.” It had been delivered by hand. Hüseyin looked even more terrified in the light.

  “If he’s found my apartment, he wouldn’t go do anything to my parents, would he?”

  “I’m the one he wants,” I said, hoping to console him.

  I admitted to myself that we were up against a real psycho who was temperamental and unpredictable and that, should he feel like it, might well target Hüseyin’s mom, dad, his whole extended family. In fact, he could even blow up the whole neighborhood if he felt like it.

  “What do we do now?”

  I didn’t know. My head felt like a balloon. And it hurt.

  “I’ve barely woken up. I’ll think of something in a minute,” I said, as I walked to the shower.

  “Shall I tell them?”

  “No!” I shouted as I turned on the water. “Not yet.”

  There was no point in making people who had no knowledge of what was going on panic. Here, solely as a result of panic, was Hüseyin, living in my home with refugee status. I had neither room nor patience for more refugees.

  And I couldn’t even open my eyes properly.

  With this little sleep, I was certain to spend the rest of the day feeling an utter mess.

  I wanted a spark of inspiration, or a comprehensive revelation to come to me in the shower.

  Neither did.

  When I came out of the shower, Hüseyin was kneeling down in the corridor, weeping and wailing over the threatening message he held in his hand.

  “Don’t panic! Don’t panic!” I said, kneeling down next to him and trying to shake him out of his state.

  He was acting like a stupid kid. Fear wouldn’t get us anywhere. The best thing we could do was to stay calm.

  He wiped his eyes with the back of his fists. His eyes were red.

  “I’m just upset…That’s why…” he said, pushing my arm away.

  His manhood had been severely wounded in the last twenty-four hours. There was no need to be strong for me right now. He was right to be afraid, frustrated, and to cry. God knows what I would have done if I were him.

  “My mom’s alone at home, my dad’s alone at the shop…If something were to happen to them…My mom opens the door to everyone without even asking who it is. Anyone can go in the shop…He’s just an ironmonger. If the bastard were to pick up an adze and hit him over the head…that would be it!”

  He cried as if these scenarios that had come to his mind had already come to pass. Tears were streaming down his cheeks.

  “Calm down!” I said, raising my voice.

  He opened his eyes wide and looked at me, as if he were seeing me for the first time in his life.

  “Let’s first get a grip on what’s going on,” I said, trying to be as calm as I possibly could. “Maybe this letter is a clue. Your mom might remember who brought it…If she could describe him, we’d know who we’re looking for.”

  He kept on staring at me, sniffling. His eyes were blank. They looked lighter in color from all his crying. They shone.

  “But first I need a cup of coffee!”

  “But—”

  I placed my hand over his mouth without waiting for him to finish. My hand was smeared in saliva and tears.

  “We’ve waited long enough already, another hour won’t matter,” I said. “Plus, he’s after me. He has nothing against you, or your parents. Capiche?”

  I wiped my hand on my bathrobe. I would have to remind Satı to wash it.

  As a matter of fact, it really wasn’t clear who or what the psycho was after. He did whatever he felt like doing.

  13.

  Hüseyin lived in the back part of Çağlayan. With a view of the Golden Horn. It looked onto what was left of the legendary Sadabad District, that fairy-tale citadel of history books. The apartment was in a multistory bu
ilding, and even though it was fairly new, it already looked worn down because of the low-quality construction materials used to build it. Two rows consisting of six nine-story blocks, identical except for their different colors.

  There were plenty of parking spaces, since there weren’t very many cars around. Kids were playing soccer in the parking lot. As part of so-called environmental planning, four young pine trees half my height had been jammed into the tiny space between the blocks.

  The Kozalaks’ apartment was on the seventh floor of Block C. There were four apartments on every floor.

  Before we left my place, Hüseyin had strictly cautioned me to behave properly and take great care not to reveal the “situation” to his mother. The “situation,” it seemed, was me!

  “Careful with your arms and hands. And don’t say ayol.”

  He had decided on what I should wear, choosing jeans, a tattered cotton tracksuit top I only wore to bed when alone on cold nights, and trainers. I wasn’t even allowed to put on lip balm.

  “The more ragged you look, the better. Men in our neighborhood shave once every three days.”

  He always had a nice smooth, close shave, reeked of deodorant, and splattered himself with aftershave lotion.

  “They wouldn’t suspect me. I don’t bounce and wriggle when I walk.”

  I could be a wild stallion when need be. Once, when he had gotten a little too feisty while hitting on me, I pulled an aikido number and knocked some sense into him, right in the middle of the street. He was so embarrassed he couldn’t bring himself to come to the taxi stand for days. So this was what he thought of me. Once everything was sorted out, and Hüseyin had calmed down and become his usual self again, I’d make him pay for this.

  Mrs. Kozalak was a little shorter and slimmer than her son Hüseyin. Otherwise, she was the spitting image of her son. The same facial features, the same eyes…She was a cheerful, radiant woman. One of those people who are perfectly content to settle for the simple pleasures in life. So long as her son and husband enjoyed their supper, there was no fighting at home and no hard feelings with the neighbors, they had enough money to get them through the week, and she didn’t have to dig into her wedding chest and sacrifice a gold bracelet because business was bad, and if, to top it all off, her favorite program was on that night, she’d be as happy as a cricket in midsummer.