The Serenity Murders

by Mehmet Murat Somer

  “I thought I’d go early and be back early, while no one was about.”

  That was enough chitchat. I moved toward the door.

  “Taking a trip?” he asked, motioning at the huge sports bag I was carrying.

  It would take too long to recount the details of Hüseyin was poisoned and hospitalized last night, and if I said I was going on a trip, well, that would only give rise to more questions requiring further explanation on my part.

  “I’m off to the gym,” I said, inspired by the shape of the bag I was holding.

  “I’ve noted down everyone going in and out,” he said, pulling out a folded piece of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket. “And the times…”

  I really didn’t want to listen to him reading all the way through his list right now.

  “Let me,” I said reaching out my hand. “I’ll take a look myself.”

  My eyes were burning from lack of sleep. I took a quick glance. It was two pages long. His handwriting was neat. Clearly he had military discipline, after all. I slipped the note into the side pocket of the sports bag.

  I jumped into the first taxi I could find and went straight back to the hospital.

  30.

  Hüseyin lay there with a drip in his wrist, a tube in his nose, and a tube in his mouth. His eyes were closed.

  In the armchair by his side, Hasan had his eyes closed. He opened them the minute I walked in.

  “They just came to check on him,” he said quietly. “He’s fine…”

  How could he be? The guy’s car had been burned, he’d been poisoned with pesticides, his stomach had been pumped, and now he was lying in the hospital with tubes sticking out all over his body.

  “I’ll wait,” I said. “You can go now.”

  He looked at my face.

  “I think you should go and rest a bit, seriously. You’re pale. I don’t want to get you down, but you look like a corpse. I’ll stay here. He’s not going to ask for anything anyway. Go and sleep for a couple of hours and then come back. You’ll feel much better. He’ll need you more when he wakes up anyway.”

  He was right.

  “I can give you my keys if you like. You can go to my place.”

  My room at the Blue Sky Hotel, which I’d be paying for anyway, awaited me. I thanked him nevertheless.

  “Call me if anything happens,” I said, giving him my new pay-as-you-go SIM number. I didn’t want to switch on the other one and hear the psycho’s latest psycho babble.

  “And whatever you do, don’t let anyone in! I mean, except for people we know…” I added.

  I thought for a minute; maybe someone we knew had poisoned him at the club yesterday.

  “No!” I said. “No one! Whether we know them or not. Only me…If you want, we can have a ‘No Visitors Allowed’ sign put on the door.”

  The receptionist at the hotel had changed, but I still felt that I had to offer an explanation. We had dashed out, leaving a messy room and filthy elevator behind us.

  “No pwoblem at all, sir,” replied the girl, who spoke with a lisp. “Tings like tat happen. How is his healt? Tat’s what matters most. Is he better?”

  I thanked her for her concern and kindly requested that no phone calls whatsoever be put through to my room.

  I had to make two phone calls before lying down on the bed: one to Ponpon, and one to Jihad2000. I would take care of Hüseyin’s family when I woke up, when I had a calm, fresh mind.

  If we didn’t have daily contact, the ever panicky Ponpon would raise hell, alarm friends, then acquaintances, and finally the police to find out what had happened to me. Even if Pamir had recounted her own version of events of the previous night, Jihad2000 still must have been waiting to hear from me. It wasn’t hard to guess that he was probably bursting with curiosity. I called him first. He listened to the latest updates without comment.

  “It’s unlikely he’d come after me,” he said.

  He was possibly right: if my psycho was tracking my Internet access from my computer, he would have located Jihad2000 ages ago.

  “I think you shouldn’t be so optimistic,” I said. It would be best if he remained a bit anxious, especially considering that he was one of those responsible for the events of the previous night. “Keep your security tight these days. There’s no guessing what he’ll do next. No one is innocent in his eyes. I mean, look at Hüseyin!”

  There was no sound for a while, which made me think the line had been cut.

  “Hello? You there?”

  “I’ll talk to Pamir. Perhaps we should escape to Cyprus for a week or so.”

  It seemed they were becoming an item very fast; from hotel rendezvous and home visits, to holidaying together. It was a good thing that he had directed his interest away from me and toward Pamir, but not so good that he was now panicking and making escape plans.

  “Ayolcuğum, where have you been?” Ponpon answered the phone. “I called your home number, but there was no answer. I think your answering machine isn’t working either. I almost lost my mind.”

  I was in no mood for reproachful comments.

  “There’s nothing to lose your mind about. Here I am, on the other end of the line!” I said scoldingly. Hasan must have already told her about last night. He could easily go without food, drink, or sleep, but he’d break out in rashes if he didn’t rush gossip about last night’s events like this to interested parties as soon as possible.

  “Ayolcuğum, what’s wrong with you? Why this rage and fury? I was calling to thank you for the present you sent…But by the sound of your voice, you’re fuming.”

  “What present?” I said. “I didn’t send you any present.”

  “Oh, come on, ayol! It arrived early in the morning, before I even got out of bed. A young boy brought it. There’s a card attached. The message is quite sweet.”

  I hadn’t sent her a present or written her a card.

  And since I hadn’t, it had to be my psycho’s latest deadly plan. He might have sent her a bomb. The Internet was full of descriptions of how to prepare homemade bombs.

  “Ponpon, I didn’t send it!” I said. “Don’t open it!”

  “But I already have…” she said, and by the sound of her voice I was certain she had puckered up her lips while doing so. “I was so happy to receive a present from you that I actually liked—it’s the first time in years! You always buy me such weird stuff…”

  She didn’t refrain, even now, from needling me. It was her nature…

  “I’m telling you again, I did not send you a present,” I said loud and clear. “Still, will you tell me what I sent?”

  “Well, if it wasn’t you, then it’s none of your business, ayol!”

  I wasn’t in the mood to deal with her coyness.

  “Look, dear,” I said, “it must be the doing of the psycho I told you about. It could be something dangerous. He poisoned Hüseyin last night. The boy is in the hospital. He almost died. We had his stomach pumped. Do you understand?”

  That she would understand.

  “You could have explained it to me without shouting,” she responded resentfully. “What good will it do to frighten me? Do you want me to lock the doors and sit at home crying after I put down the phone? Then my eyes will get puffy, and I’ll be a disgrace onstage tonight. Is that what you want? Please, I don’t want to have anything to do with your psycho!”

  “What has he sent?” I asked once again.

  “A huge box of mixed chocolates from the Gezi patisserie!”

  This couldn’t possibly be the gift she had been expecting from me all her life. After all the things I had bought her, a box of chocolates had won out over all of them!

  “They could be poisonous. He might be doing the same thing to you as he did to Hüseyin last night…Don’t eat them, throw them away, all of them,” I said.

  “No way, ayol!” she said. “What a dreadful waste…”

  I told her in repulsively vivid detail what would happen to her if she were poisoned. Finally, s
he understood, but she still couldn’t bring herself to throw them out.

  “I’ll offer them to guests,” she said, as if that were a solution.

  “Don’t be crazy, ayol. Are you going to poison your guests?”

  “Why not?” she said, giggling. “Sometimes they get on my nerves. I’ll offer them one at a time. Not enough to kill them…Just enough to give them a stomachache.”

  “Don’t you dare!” I said. “Okay, don’t throw it away. But don’t eat it either.”

  We’d have it tested in a lab and find out what it was later, when we had time. If it was clean, which I didn’t think it would be, she could sit down and gobble up the whole box.

  Before hanging up, I had to ask one more question—or else I wouldn’t be able to sleep, no matter how tired I was.

  “Do you really think a box of chocolates is the best gift possible?”

  “Of course, ayolcuğum. I already have everything I need, thank God. I can buy whatever I fancy anyway. I can’t fit anything else into my wardrobes, they’re already packed full. And I have no room at all for any more furniture…Besides, everyone likes chocolate…”

  31.

  It was afternoon by the time I woke up. I’d had no dreams, but then, I hadn’t really slept either; I’d literally passed out. I opened the curtains. I lay in bed for a bit, stretching and yawning, then I called room service and ordered a cup of black coffee and headed for the shower. I’d be out by the time the coffee arrived.

  Hasan was in the corridor when I arrived at the hospital. He was leaning against the wall near the room door, cleaning underneath his nails.

  “They’re giving him an enema,” he said. “He didn’t want me to stay. I came out so he wouldn’t feel embarrassed. I’ve been waiting here.”

  Best that I wait outside too until the nurse came out.

  “So, how is he?” I asked, not really expecting anything new.

  “Same. He’s getting better. Otherwise, pretty much the same. They’ve given him his medicine, a new drip, and stopped the oxygen…He just woke up.”

  “Has anyone called?”

  “Nope,” he said. “No one…I’ve been chatting with the nurse out of boredom. Found out who’s staying in each room and what’s wrong with them. Wanna know?”

  No, I didn’t.

  I thanked Hasan and sent him home. There was no need for both of us to be there. I told him I didn’t know whether I’d show up at the club that night, but I’d call to let him know.

  When the nurse had left, I went into the room.

  Hüseyin lay there with an angelic expression on his face. He looked horribly thin. They had taken his catheter out. His face lit up when he saw me.

  “Hello,” he said, smiling. “Just look at what’s happened to me…”

  “Don’t you worry,” I said. “You’re getting better already. Would you like anything to eat?” I asked. “I could order—”

  “Not allowed,” he said, twitching his nose.

  It must have been doctor’s orders to not let him eat in the state he was in. The truth was, I was hungry myself.

  “I thought about it while you were gone,” he began. “Perhaps this happened for a reason, to help us bond with each other. A twist of fate. I mean, look at us…”

  It really wasn’t the right time for lovers’ talk. At least, for me it wasn’t. Of course I had feelings for Hüseyin, but I didn’t know how much of it was compassion, how much of it sympathy, and how much sexual attraction. The only thing I knew for sure was that I wasn’t in love and I had no intention of analyzing it, or sitting and talking about it right then and there.

  “Let’s discuss that later,” I said.

  “Why? It’s not like we have anything better to do. It’s just the two of us…”

  His mom and dad entered the room, interrupting a conversation that I had had no intention of pursuing.

  Hüseyin’s father, İsmail Kozalak, was perfectly logical and reasonable, just as he had been on the phone with me. He approached the matter with a resolute trust in God. As a result of his wife’s feeding regimen, he was fat. He was the ideal family guy. His eyebrows, which hung low, lent a confused and sorrowful look to his face. The expression in his eyes was soft, gentle. He had a mustache, the middle of which was stained yellow from nicotine.

  Mrs. Kozalak, on the other hand, was doing her best to stand strong; she sighed, biting her bottom lip every now and then, and wiping the tears from her eyes with the back of her hand. As soon as she walked into the room, she rushed over and sat down at her son’s side. She could hardly bear not touching and embracing him, but she couldn’t, for fear of hurting him. She kept wiping Hüseyin’s forehead with wet wipes that she pulled out of her bag, and massaging his feet.

  I felt like a stranger among them. My presence in the room was unnecessary, but I couldn’t leave. I was so paranoid that someone might come in while I was away and attack Hüseyin again that I couldn’t bring myself to move.

  “Dad, you go,” said Hüseyin. “You should be at the store.”

  “No, no, son. I won’t hear none of that.”

  İsmail Kozalak seated himself in the other armchair and crossed his arms to show that he had no intention of leaving. He carried traces of all the affectionate father characters engraved in my memory from Turkish cinema. He had the sense of humor of Gazanfer Özcan, the strict but sweet disposition of Hulusi Kentmen, and the sensitivity of Münir Özkul.

  “What’s a dad for, if not to help his son through the rough patches? You know we’re here for you, through thick and thin.”

  He turned to me for backup.

  He looked funny, settled there in the armchair with his folded arms, chubby body, and drooping eyebrows.

  “He’s my son! Where am I supposed to be if not here, isn’t that right?”

  “Yes, yes, it is,” I said, smiling.

  Mrs. Kozalak finally stopped fighting back the tears. She didn’t speak or move but just sat there crying as she held Hüseyin’s hand, the one without the drip attached. Because I didn’t cry, I searched my pockets for a tissue.

  “Here, Auntie…” I said, moving closer to her.

  I didn’t know what to say next.

  “Let her cry, son,” said İsmail Kozalak from where he sat, in an authoritarian tone. “She’ll feel better if she does…”

  There was quite a bit of mischief hiding beneath İsmail Kozalak’s paternal compassion. It may not have seemed that way from the way he was seated, but one could tell it from the sound of his voice and the look in his eyes.

  “Let her cry; it’ll do her good…It’s better she cry than go eating herself and me up about it. Let her pour out the pain in her heart. She’ll feel better…much better.”

  She was his wife. Who was I to intervene? I stepped back, the tissue still in my hand.

  Mrs. Kozalak threw a glance at her husband, then reached out and snatched the tissue from my hand.

  “What harm have I done to you, husband?” she said to him reproachfully. “Leave me be. So I’m crying, so what? Mine is a mother’s heart. You wouldn’t understand.”

  If I were to hear these sentences any other time, especially accompanied by the expression on Kevser Kozalak’s face, I would have laughed my head off. A marriage that had turned into a habit over the years now clearly sustained itself on sweet little squabbles and tiffs. One picked on the other, and the other shot right back, with no intention of being outdone.

  Perhaps there was something wrong with me: maybe there was nothing to laugh about. Or maybe what the writer Michael Cunningham had said about those who watched a lot of movies being better able to see the humor in everyday life applied to me too.

  Mrs. Kozalak, who really was a very ladylike woman, had her final word. Slamming her hand against the bed, “I’ll cry if I want to, what’s it to you!” she wailed. She was like an obstinate child having a fit, and then she began sighing deeply. As far as performances go, it was really very good.

  We then moved on to a pha
se of silence that only served to exacerbate my anxiety. Well, it wasn’t complete silence: Mrs. Kozalak continued to sob and blow her nose at regular intervals.

  “I’ll be leaving, then,” I said in a low voice. “There are a couple of things I need to sort out…”

  In other words, I needed an excuse in order to leave; otherwise, I would be expected to stay.

  “When will you be back?” asked Hüseyin.

  I was going to have to ignore the love and hope in his eyes.

  “Your mom and dad are here,” I said as I left.

  I know: it wasn’t exactly an answer to his question.

  32.

  My apartment was under my psycho’s control. My home, the place where I would normally seek refuge, was no longer my private space. I didn’t want to go home. If I went to one of the girls’ places, I’d be expected to explain for an hour all that had happened. What I needed was to gather my thoughts and think things through clearly.

  I was hungry. Since I wasn’t going to give birth to a robust, clever plan on an empty stomach, it seemed a good idea for me to get some food in there first.

  It wasn’t yet lunchtime and the Marmara Hotel café was close. Would dining at the same place two days in a row turn me into one of those obsessive-compulsive people who never break a habit and always live by the exact same routine? I had been very pleased with the salad I’d eaten the previous day, but today, though, I had no intention of settling for just a salad: I was starving.

  Because it was in between mealtimes, there were seats free on the terrace. I sat watching passersby while eating a huge hamburger. I drank grapefruit juice, hoping it would burn the fat intake from the burger. To finish, I enjoyed a tasty vanilla-flavored filtered coffee.

  Just as I was finishing my coffee, I saw our bartender Şükrü among the crowd of people waiting to cross at the traffic lights in the near distance. If he saw me, he’d rush over, take a seat, and go on and on for hours about how perfect his new boyfriend was. Wasn’t every new lover like that? When they’re new, we see their good qualities; once they’re old, we see their defects. And then, as if having to listen to all that weren’t enough, I knew I’d have to foot the bill because I was the boss. I leaned back so he wouldn’t notice me. I wished I’d had a newspaper to hide behind.