The Serenity Murders

by Mehmet Murat Somer

  She gave Hüseyin a loving cuddle. Her son had been absent from his bed for two nights, yet she caressed him with such longing, it was as if he’d just gotten back from a trip to Timbuktu.

  She forced me to kiss her hand and place it on my forehead as tradition dictated. Since I was visiting her sweet nest, with flowerpots outside every window, I had to abide by its rules.

  Her damp hands, which she dried on her skirt as she opened the door, had a culinary smell to them; so did the whole apartment—a smell of aromatic vegetables, herbs, all sorts of spices, onions, and garlic, which had seeped into the walls over the years. In homes like this, there was always sure to be a pot boiling on the stove. Either jam was being prepared for the coming season, or chickpeas or beans were being boiled, or bone marrow broth was brewing…

  Following Hüseyin’s example, I took off my shoes. If I had known, I would have worn loafers, which are easier to take off and put back on, instead of laced trainers.

  His mother was one of those people who loved treating her guests, who couldn’t sleep at night if she hadn’t filled up their tummies until they burst.

  We’d barely made it through the door before she started with the offerings: “Let me make you some mantı dumplings. They’ll be ready in a jiffy…”

  That’s why she was so skinny. She never stopped, not for a second. She jumped about like a flea.

  Once we had successfully managed to bypass the mantı, having joined forces to do so, she promptly moved on to the next item on offer: gözlemes. She’d roll them out in seconds. She had a gas-fired saj; it would be ready in less than five minutes. In other words, Mrs. Kozalak had no intention of leaving the kitchen.

  “And I’ll froth up some ayran to go with it. Ice-cold!”

  I’d only had coffee before leaving home. The woman wouldn’t stop talking about food, and I was beginning to feel hungry.

  “No, thank you,” I said. “I’m really full already.”

  After all, we were there for a totally different reason.

  But then Hüseyin tempted both his mother and my stomach: “My mom’s gözlemes are really something…”

  “Whenever the neighbor ladies and I have our get-togethers, they always specially request my gözlemes,” she chimed in. “Before they come over, they tell me, ‘Mrs. Kozalak, just make gözlemes for us, nothing else.’ That’s how famous and delicious my gözlemes are.”

  Mrs. Kozalak wasn’t the type of woman to send the neighbor ladies and their shrieking children off after having offered them merely one single dish. She’d be racked with guilt if she hadn’t spent two days in the kitchen prior to their visit, making cakes, biscuits, poğaças, and böreks.

  “I have both potato filling and lor cheese filling ready…Which would you prefer? Hüseyin likes his with potatoes. Shall I make you one of each, son?”

  Hüseyin was miming behind his mother, trying to tell me something I couldn’t understand.

  “Okay,” I said, without knowing what I had agreed to.

  “While I roll out the dough, Hüseyin can run to the corner shop and buy some fresh yogurt. Right, son?”

  Hüseyin was petrified by the idea of having to go outside, to the shop and back, on his own. He turned pale.

  “We don’t want ayran, Mom. We’ll have tea instead,” he said.

  “No, no, no, son. I just promised our guest I’d froth some up…”

  And I was the guest who had been promised ayran. I felt the need to intervene to keep the matter from getting out of hand.

  “I don’t want ayran either!”

  Mrs. Kozalak stood motionless, as if betrayed, and then turned to look first at her son, and then at me. We had ruined the menu she had concocted in her head. She narrowed her eyes.

  “But that’s how it’s served…” she said, in a final effort. “I’ll have some, even if you don’t.”

  I looked at Hüseyin. He was looking at me helplessly.

  “Look, Mrs. Kozalak,” I said. “We’re actually here because of a very important matter. It’s a long, quite complicated story, but suffice it to say that there has been a misunderstanding, and things might get unpleasant if we don’t resolve it. Do you remember the person who delivered the envelope for you to give to Hüseyin the other day? We need to find that person.”

  I had managed to explain everything in one breath, without flashing any life-threatening signals or giving anything away. I was proud of myself.

  Mrs. Kozalak paused. Of course, it took her some time to stop thinking about the topic of food and focus on the question I had asked.

  “It was Melek,” she said.

  “Who’s Melek?” I said.

  I looked at Hüseyin out of the corner of my eye, wondering if he knew Melek.

  “The little girl who lives downstairs. She’s a good girl, God bless her. And her mother is such a lovely lady. She dresses her as clean as a penny every day; irons her uniform, plaits her hair tightly, with a starched white ribbon this big in her hair…But she’s terribly ugly, that girl! If she doesn’t change by the time she grows up, she’ll never find herself a husband,” Mrs. Kozalak continued.

  The hilarity! I could have collapsed right then and there with laughter.

  I would have to memorize the whole thing, verbatim, and repeat it to Ponpon. She’d laugh for days, and do imitations for everyone.

  Instead of coming to the door himself, our psycho had had the little girl make his delivery for him. It was a clever trick, but kids have sharp memories. And ugly girls have especially sharp memories when it comes to men. If he had squeezed in a smile with his request, Melek would already be fantasizing about finding him when she grew up and making him her catch.

  “Where does she live?” I asked. “We might as well go and speak to her while you’re making the gözlemes…”

  The fact that she would be reunited with her kitchen, the idea of feeding her son and his slovenly looking friend, made Kevser Kozalak’s eyes light up.

  “Number seventeen,” she said. “Fifth floor. But she’s probably at school now…”

  Right, little girls did go to school.

  “She’ll be back in the afternoon,” she added. “Her granny would probably be at home. She smokes by the window all day. Her mom and dad both work…”

  “What school does she go to?” I asked.

  “Well, now, that I wouldn’t know,” she answered. “It’s a primary school, that’s all I know…”

  I quickly abandoned the bright idea of going to Melek’s school and interrogating her during playtime. If someone were to see or hear, they’d think we were pedophiles and probably try to stone us to death.

  “Go on, you boys watch some TV. There are some good shows on this time of the day. I’ll whip up the gözlemes.”

  At that time of day, the only things on TV are cooking programs. That’s what she must have meant by “good shows.”

  Hüseyin and I sat opposite each other, tense and nervous. Television was a good idea; it broke the silence. Cooking program or not.

  We were going to have to wait for the gözlemes anyway.

  Mrs. Kozalak stuck her head out of her kitchen, her sacred sanctuary, and asked, “Would you like chili in your potato mix, son?”

  “I’d love it,” I answered.

  Appetizing smells were already coming from the kitchen.

  My mobile rang.

  That marvelous and mysterious specimen of womanhood Sofya was telling me to turn on the news. “I’ll call you back later.”

  And she hung up.

  I grabbed the remote out of Hüseyin’s hand and switched to a news channel. The news Sofya was talking about was written at the bottom of the screen: “Hit man who shot Süheyl Arkın has been arrested.” The stock exchange news was on the main screen, so this bit of news was just a strip of words at the bottom, without any images. I quickly tried the other channels. They didn’t mention it on Süheyl’s channel, not even in the updates running at the bottom of the screen.

  Both Hüseyin
and I felt an overwhelming sense of relief. So our psycho had been caught!

  The gözlemes really were delicious. With their crispy outsides and the spicy potato mix inside, they simply melted in your mouth. Like all good housewives, Kevser Kozalak had used plenty of butter, in complete disregard of such inconveniences as cholesterol, lipid levels, and atherosclerosis.

  Thanking her just once hadn’t sufficed. At every bite again and again she asked, “How’d you find it, son? You like it? Shall I make you another one? Is it cooked enough? Well, I had to rush it…” all the while expecting further compliments.

  Sofya called again before I had started eating my second gözleme. “Hello,” I said with some difficulty as I chewed a huge bite.

  “Bon appétit,” she said, as if I were up to no good just then. “You’re to be at Aziz Bey Restaurant at three p.m. today.”

  I swallowed what was in my mouth even though I hadn’t yet finished chewing it, and said, “But they’ve got him.”

  “Don’t be such a child!” she said. This was her favorite expression of belittlement. “He’s just a hit man…Don’t forget, Aziz Bey Restaurant at three p.m. They’ll explain it to you.”

  That was it.

  At Aziz Bey Restaurant, some shady people were probably going to deliver some surprising explanations. And then I would have to be filled with gratitude toward Sofya. If I had been in a more appropriate setting, I would have called her back, but I couldn’t just then, not with the queen of the kitchen circling about.

  What was I going to say to Hüseyin? The dimwit was over the moon thinking he was safe now. Once his tummy got full, he’d get horny and even try to feel me up on the way back. Well, would I prefer telling him the truth and being stuck with him again? But what if the guy who’d been caught really was just a hit man, and the psycho loitering the streets did away with Hüseyin in the meantime? How would I cope with my guilty conscience if that happened? I’d have to go on the Hajj, make vows, and, if worse came to the worst, go bathe in the filthy waters of the River Ganges for months to cleanse myself.

  When Mrs. Kozalak went into the kitchen to refill our tea glasses, I took the opportunity to get Hüseyin up to speed.

  He spat out the bite in his mouth without chewing it. And then he pushed away the gözleme plate, with half the gözleme still on it.

  14.

  Aziz Bey Restaurant, one of Istanbul’s oldest, ranks right up there with such long-standing establishments as Pandeli in the Egyptian Bazaar, Borsa in Sirkeci, and Hacı Salih and Rejans in Beyoğlu. It hasn’t been long since they closed down their century-old venue in Karaköy and moved to the business district of Fourth Levent. I was rather fond of their old place. It was dignified, with high, awe-inspiring ceilings. As soon as you set foot through the door, staring at you from the opposite wall, its frame revamped again and again over the years to keep up with the fashion trends of each passing era, had been a gigantic, hand-colored portrait of the founder, the apparently cross-eyed Aziz Bey, replete with Charlie Chaplin mustache.

  The place was famous for its Ottoman cuisine. Their olive-oil dishes were especially spectacular. All the waiters were as old as fossils and worldly wise. They’d speak in low tones, suggesting dishes to those they knew, while regulars went so far as to leave their selection entirely to them.

  In their new location, it was out with the old and in with the new. And I’m not only talking about the décor, but also the entire waitstaff, whose retirement ages had long since come and gone. Furnishings consisted primarily of light cherrywood and unpolished steel, which lent the place a cold atmosphere. The jars of food that used to be lined up around the walls of the restaurant, and which helped to whet clients’ appetites, had been removed, and now only samples were displayed next to the cash register for those who might wish to purchase them. Jam had been added to the repertoire, with colorful ribbons tied around the lids to make them look extra adorable. So, if you ask me, the magic was gone.

  Normally three o’clock would be a dead hour for a restaurant. Even those who were late for lunch would be gone by then, and even the earliest of early birds would not have arrived for dinner yet. And so, naturally, the steel-studded door was closed.

  We knocked.

  It opened right away.

  Just as the busboy was getting ready to say, We’re closed, two men in navy suits suddenly appeared at his side. Typical mafioso bodyguard apparel. But it was obvious that neither of them was the person we were expecting. Their arms stood slightly elevated, distanced from their bodies, as if their armpits were inflicted with heat rash.

  “Burçak Veral?” said the one who appeared to be the smarter of the two.

  “That’s me.”

  “Please come in.”

  I was expected. I must truly be getting famous, I thought. Hüseyin didn’t even warrant a glance.

  They stepped aside, letting us through.

  It was as cold as I remembered it to be. Opal glass screens, unpolished steel, and pale cherrywood; completely wrong according to feng shui. The color red, the symbol of abundance in restaurants, was nowhere to be seen.

  “Excuse me,” said one of the bodyguards, making it evident he was more senior. He motioned with his hands that he’d have to search us.

  He searched our bodies, touching us from tip to toe, to make sure we weren’t carrying guns or anything.

  “Please leave your mobile phones with us.”

  They were taking all conceivable precautions to make sure we weren’t wired or recording anything. But if I had had any such intention, I would have brought the tiny gadgets I had bought from the Queensway Spy Shop in London. And no one would have been the wiser. I even had eyeglass frames with a built-in camera.

  The person of importance was sitting at a table by himself, at the opposite end of the restaurant. Once we got close, he motioned with his hand for us to take a seat. I was sure I didn’t know him. But unlike the Mafia fathers in my mind’s eye, he resembled an old male model. He was smartly dressed. He wore a gray suit, obviously Italian and expensive from the cut and just screaming name brand, a high-collar blue shirt with white stripes, and a sky-blue tie. And a handkerchief in his jacket pocket. He was slim enough to qualify as skinny. People who are skinny always give me the impression that they must be short-tempered. Nowhere to be found was the jewelry associated with “godfathers.” He wasn’t even wearing a Rolex, but rather an elegant lizard-strap Cartier.

  He didn’t stand up.

  I reached out to shake his hand.

  “I’m Burçak Veral,” I said. “And this is Hüseyin Kozalak.”

  “Good,” was his only response.

  I would have expected him to introduce himself.

  I found his lack of modesty appropriate, given his “godfather” status.

  “Let’s talk in private,” he said, signaling to Hüseyin, who was getting ready to sit down, that he should leave.

  “He can sit and wait with my men.”

  His men were sitting at a table close to the entrance, a glass of Coke in front of each, watching their surroundings with blank eyes.

  “Okay, Hüseyin,” I said. “You wait with them.”

  I could sense he felt bitter, but there was nothing I could do.

  “He can eat his fill if he’s hungry.”

  The skinny godfather was making it clear that he was boss. But it was strange the way he was telling me what he was supposed to be telling Hüseyin, as if Hüseyin weren’t even there, as if he were invisible.

  We were now left alone.

  “I’ve already ordered food,” he said. “Would you like anything?”

  I was stuffed to the gills with gözlemes. Even the thought of food was too much.

  “One Turkish coffee, no sugar,” I told the chief waiter who had approached the table. “And a mineral water.”

  I couldn’t wait to get down to business. The godfather didn’t appear to be in any rush whatsoever.

  He took a sip from his water and then licked his thin lip
s.

  He took a business card out of his pocket. Holding it between his index and middle fingers, he gave it an artistic twirl before extending it to me.

  “Cemil Kazancı, Textile Manufacturer.” And there was a phone number. That was it. It was one of the plainest business cards I had ever seen.

  Men like this always did import-export, or were in the textile business. None of these cards would read doctor, architect, or engineer.

  “Pleased to meet you,” I said.

  The man had a solemn air about him, the kind that comes with arrogance.

  A bowl of mixed-season salad was delivered to the table. The salad looked delicious even though I was full. Arugula leaves, mint, and lamb’s ears topped with pickled beets, cherry tomatoes, thick slices of green and yellow bell peppers, and finally pieces of walnut sprinkled on top.

  “Now…” he said, ruining the marvelous appearance of the salad with his fork. He was pushing the walnuts to one side. “It’s actually rather complicated…”

  Instead of finishing his sentence, he put a piece of beet pickle and pepper in his mouth. He started chewing with his mouth open. I hate this. In fact, I despise it. Each time he opened and closed his mouth I could see his food getting crushed. I tried to look the other way.

  “This mister from the television show…”

  He made noises as he chewed. No wonder he dined alone.

  “Süheyl Arkın,” I said, as if I’d score a point for answering question number one.

  “Please, no names.”

  He must have thought he belonged to the Russian Mafia, so paranoid was he. “Well, in a couple of the programs he hosted, he showed things he shouldn’t have shown.”

  That was Süheyl’s job. To go digging wherever there was dirt.

  Now he was chewing a mouthful of arugula and parsley. A piece of parsley got stuck on his front tooth.

  “It was a detail only eyes that knew would catch.”