“I don’t understand.”
Most of the girls have no contact with their families. They’re mostly outcasts.
“At my mother’s. In my old bedroom. I sometimes stay there.”
“I see.”
“I’m afraid they’ll find her house, too. She’s old, never goes out.”
The words rushed out of her. Our conversation had picked up speed.
“If she never leaves her house, there shouldn’t be a problem.”
“Unfortunately, there is. My mother’s blind.”
Now I got the picture. My eyes widened.
“So she doesn’t know about you.”
“Of course, she knows all about me,” Buse said. “The blind see with their hands. She didn’t get it for quite a while, but the breasts, and then later the hair. She may be blind, but she’s not stupid.”
The door opened and Hasan poked his head inside. In the nick of time. The last thing I needed tonight was more of Buse and her paranoia.
“So you’re here,” he noted.
It was easy to see that Buse couldn’t stand Hasan. Because of that, Hasan also seemed uneasy. Buse was not a favorite of his, either.
“Sorry to disturb you. I just wanted to let you know that a group claiming to be friends of yours has arrived,” he announced. “Group” meant that it was a mixed party of men and women.
“They’re asking for you. Are you going to come down?”
My employees address me with the formal “siz.” I enjoy it. I turned to look at Buse, who had already risen to her feet.
“I don’t want to give you any headaches. Forget it,” she murmured. “Whatever happens, happens.”
I followed Hasan down the staircase, reluctantly adding,“We’ll chat later. If you want to, stop by my place when you leave the club. It’s up to you.”
“Maybe,” she said. She sounded drained. I let her pass me on the stairs.
We went down one by one, Hasan leading the way, followed by Buse and myself. Hasan’s jeans had slipped below his hips, exposing a bit of cleavage. I suspect he’s a bit light on his feet, he just isn’t aware of it yet. He’s been working at the club for nearly a full year and he’s on good terms with all the girls, but hasn’t slept with any of them—or a real girl for that matter. Not that we’ve heard of, anyway. Isn’t that a bit odd?
Then I inspected Buse’s bottom. She was unbelievably elegant as she descended the stairs. As the narrow male bottom shifted inside her tight leather miniskirt, the lights played incredible tricks. I realized I’d never really given her buns a second look. They stuck out like the two halves of an apple, eminently pinchable.
She hadn’t explained who it was she feared so much, or why. But just talking about it seemed to have soothed her. Then she was lost in the crowd.
Chapter 2
Hasan’s “group” consisted of Belkıs, the proprietor of a boutique in Nişantaşı, her husband Ferruh, the lyricist Suat, a man in advertising, and a lady journalist whose name I promptly forgot. It was the first I’d seen of the latter two. The advertising man was Ahmet, and he seemed to be a bit of a pansy. But all would be clear soon enough. I sat at their table. Assuming his most professional air, Hasan awaited our orders.
Despite his familiarity with Belkıs, Ferruh, and Suat, Hasan kept his distance, in deference to the strangers. Otherwise, he would have been arm in arm with Suat, excitedly exchanging the latest gossip.
A real macho man, Suat crossed her legs, lit her cigarette, and ordered a rakı. She was a lesbian of the extremist school. Many men appear positively feminine in comparison. Ferruh ordered a whiskey with lots of ice. The rest wanted white wine. Based on his choice of white wine, Ahmet revealed himself as almost certainly gay. Real men with money order hard liquor, the others settle for beer. What is the allure of wimpy white wine?
The club grew more crowded. It seemed the admission charge only incited more people to come out.
While enjoying myself with Belkıs and the others, I completely forgot about Buse. Belkıs’s shop is a bit démodé, but the occasional garment is just right for me, and at a good price. That is to say, we enjoy a special friendship. I sometimes find it hard to believe that her husband, Ferruh, is a financial advisor. He always strikes me as being a bit constipated. The jewelry he affects plays a large part in my disbelief: on his right wrist, a thick bracelet on which his name is written in diamanté; on his left wrist, a watch with a gold strap. Unfortunately, not a Rolex. Even less pleasant to the eye, three bejeweled golden rings on his hairy fingers. Isn’t that reason enough to explain my repulsion?
Suat’s real name is Ayşen; Suat is actually her surname. Having become famous under the name Suat, and with a decidedly more masculine appearance than you’d expect from an Ayşen, she now uses only that name. Suat ridicules men at all opportunities, and the fact that not a single male hand has touched her is a source of great pride. According to her categorization, the highest ranks of people consist exclusively of lesbians, followed by nonlesbian women, girls like us, gays, bisexuals and, finally, at the very bottom of the heap, straight men. She has not yet managed to write decent lyrics for a male singer. For them, she writes only the silliest tripe, depicting the most foolish of emotional states. All of her hits—and their number is considerable—are written for female singers unable or unwilling to return her passionate feelings. For a time, Suat was tailed like a shadow by a freckled, red-haired singer who helped Suat quite a bit in making a name for herself in the market. But the day the singer addressed Suat in a loud voice, in front of everyone, as “Ayşen,” it was over. The event was splashed across the front pages of the entertainment press.
This was her first appearance at the club in quite a while. She didn’t clasp me in a bear hug and pat my bottom, as was her habit, and I took this as a positive sign. But there was no saying what she would do after her fifth glass of rakı.
Latent Ahmet, the gentleman in advertising, was the picture of refinement as he took tiny sips of his white wine. His unease manifested itself in chain-smoking. Being in a place like this, with people he knew, was more than he could handle. He looked around enviously, inwardly sighing at the sight of the boys dancing with our girls. It was a foregone conclusion that I’d see him arrive at the club on his own one day, prepared to let his hair down when there were no acquaintances around.
The lady journalist, whose name I had missed, looked around curiously. It may have been her first exposure to our culture. She threw stealthy glances my way from time to time, but permitted herself no eye contact. I used my bass range, out of spite. When she looked my way, I smiled sweetly. After answering their questions, I took my leave. I’d finished half my drink, in any case. As I said, there’s a lot to do on a busy night.
When I rose from the table, Buse took a seat next to Belkıs and her husband, both of whom she knew. From what I remembered, the three had engaged in some sort of ménage à trois once upon a time. Buse had described the encounter as less than successful, with all three unable to overcome a fit of giggles. When Ferruh and Belkıs began quarreling, Buse took off.
I began focusing on other things. There were any number of men of different ages and types, and the girls, my girls, so attractive and so very grateful for my attentiveness. And then there are those who occasionally cause trouble. I will not have in my club girls who become drunkenly abrasive. Such girls, and the men who get out of hand jockeying for a favorite, are not permitted to pass through these doors a second time. Even Alain Delon would be barred under such circumstances. It’s terribly old-fashioned, I know, but the word “man” instantly conjures up images of Alain Delon. And his youth! I inherited at least some of this admiration for Alain from my mother, who was a big fan. When she was pregnant with me she would constantly look at his photographs, hoping I’d grow up to look like him. After I was born, she continued looking at his photos. As my interest in men developed, we looked at them together. She took me to all his films. We’d sigh in unison as we watched.
&nb
sp; Time flies when there is such a heavy flow of customers. Greet so-and-so, chat with him or her, etc. Next thing you know, it’s morning. We’re open until dawn’s early light. On weekends, few girls are left unclaimed as the last of the customers straggle out. In fact, some of them even manage several engagements throughout the course of the night, returning to the club after each one. This was one of those nights. I glanced over the bills—great turnover, yet again—and left. I could feel my beard growing out beneath my foundation. I got into a taxi Cüneyt had arranged, and immediately removed my high heels, massaging my feet all the way home. It’s not easy, moving with deerlike grace from table to table for eight hours while weighed down with four-pound shoes. The taxi driver was a familiar face. An elderly, gentlemanly man. He knows where I live; we seldom chat. And he never has change. Naturally, that was the case this morning, too. I wasn’t about to pay twice the normal amount, so I told him he could pick up the money at the club in the evening.
I entered my home barefoot. I would be taking a shower before bed in any case. I might even decide to drink something warm—my new favorite was fennel tea. It soothes and cleanses. I know, because I’m constantly reading up on what is good for what.
Chapter 3
A shower was just what the doctor ordered—standing under the steady flow for a long period of time has a hypnotic effect. It relaxes completely. The amount of makeup flowing off my face in the shower has always startled me. It seems like next to nothing as it’s being applied.
I examined my body in the mirror—a favorite pastime. I’m one of those slender, lightly muscled types said to have a swimmer’s build. My body has not been altered in the slightest by plastic surgery or silicone injections. Breastless women are not uncommon. The size and firmness of my nipples is more than enough for most. What’s the need for silicone? My legs are waxed, my arms in their natural state, my bosom the site of a bouquet of chest hair. That hair remains untouched unless I am required to wear a provocative outfit. Fortunately, my mat of hair is lightly colored. And there are times when a glimpse of chest hair in a plunging neckline has a special allure all its own. I applied lotion to my entire body. The result was a pleasant sensation of coolness, slipperiness, and hair standing sweetly on end.
There’s nothing I enjoy more in the morning than wandering aimlessly from room to room, before the papers are delivered. A large mug in hand—acquired for a small fortune from Casa Club—I drifted with my fennel tea. The morning light in my home is stunning—a pale gold. Long horizontal beams line the narrow corridor. Strange shadows. It gives me peace.
The shop boy was late, as usual. It was nearly seven a.m. That’s another of my obsessions. I cannot sleep without having read the daily papers.
The bell rang repeatedly. It couldn’t be the shop boy intruding on my little paradise. He never rings the bell, merely slips the papers under the door and leaves. I raced toward the door, ready to confront the intruder. Naturally, I glanced through the peephole first: In front was Hüseyin, the taxi driver; behind him stood Buse, looking thoroughly haunted. I flung the door open.
“What on earth has happened?”
Hüseyin jumped in before Buse had a chance to answer.
“Your friend went to the club. I saw her walk in. She was looking for you, so I brought her right over.”
He spoke in one breath. I resented the use of the familiar sen, in place of siz. Besides, what business did he have trolling through the narrow street in front of our club?
Speaking in a voice not her own, Buse asked, “May I come in?”
Of course she could. I stepped aside to let her. Hüseyin made to go in after her, but I barred his way.
“And where do you think you’re going, ayol?”
“I just thought something terrible might have happened. Maybe you’d need help . . . So you wouldn’t want to be on your own . . .” He hemmed and hawed. On his face, I noticed the familiar hungry look. Once rejected, he should know better than to insist.
“We will be fine!” I said. “There’s no need. We’ll handle it.”
The bold expression remained on his face. He clearly imagined himself to be the Istanbul version of Brad Pitt. I prepared to shut the door in his face, but he grabbed it.
“If you need anything, I’ll be at the taxi rank. Don’t hesitate to call if you need help.” And that grin again. He gestured toward the room. “I don’t understand what happened. But it’s nothing good.”
“All right, it’s a deal. I’ll call if necessary. Now go. Thanks for bringing her over.”
I tried once again to close the door. He held it open.
“Don’t be tiresome,” I warned.
“Uh,” he began, “who’s going to pay the fare?”
It was natural for Buse to have forgotten, in her state. I must have looked blank for a moment.
“I can pick it up from the club,” he offered. “That is, if you haven’t got it on you . . .”
“How much?” I asked.
“I didn’t check the meter. You know, whatever you pay every night.”
I paid him slightly more than the appropriate amount.
“All right, then?” I asked. The hopeful gleam in his eye faded, then was fully extinguished. He turned around aimlessly. I shut the door and went to Buse’s side.
She had sunk into an armchair and was staring into space, eyes open wide.
“Would you like something to drink?”
“Please.” I waited for her to name something. Tea, coffee, cola, water, alcohol . . . Nothing.
“Fine . . . what can I get you?”
She looked at me with the expression of a quiz show contestant attempting to answer a difficult question. I tried again.
“What would you like to drink?”
She paused. The question was a difficult one, and she was determined to drag it out. She resumed staring blankly. She seemed drugged. Some of the girls indulge, most only occasionally. As for me, never.
I am extremely patient, but it is a virtue best not strained. Especially early in the morning.
“I’m drinking fennel tea. I’ll make you some.”
“Fine.”
As I prepared the tea, I reviewed what she had told me the previous night. Maybe there was something to her story. I added a bit of cold water to the mug so she’d be able to drink it immediately without burning her mouth. Then I returned to her side.
We sat in silence for a while. I noted her strange appearance, her makeup mussed, her stubble catching the morning light. She was a true hybrid of Fevzi and Buse. She lifted her head and looked at me intently. I returned the look with my most sympathetic smile. I’m an accomplished listener, and have learned quite a bit as a result. Unfortunately, I’m not at my best in the morning just as I am preparing for bed.
Eventually—yes, finally—she began.
“I’m terrified,” she began again, just like in the club. “I didn’t know where to go, who to turn to. So I came here. I’m sorry. Believe me, I’m at the end of my rope.”
“You were right to come to me.”
What else could I say? I was tired. I looked at her inquiringly, waiting for her to explain, so we could go to bed.
“They came to the house,” she said. “When I got home I almost bumped into them. There were three people. They’d gone inside. They were waiting for me.”
I could ask how later. First I’d need a general sense of what had happened.
“When I realized they were in there, I shut the door right away. Then locked it and ran. Thank God the key was still in the hole.”
“Good . . . you did well,” I congratulated her. “So who were they?”
“I don’t know,” she said. “I didn’t see them, just heard them.”
“How do you know what they were after?”
“Two nights in a row!” she exclaimed. “The night before, they’d searched the house. They couldn’t find anything, so they came back to catch me.”
“And what if they’ve followed you?”
“The front door is pretty solid,” she said. “They were locked in. It would take them at least an hour to open a steel door like that. I took three separate taxis, and I’m sure no one was following me.”
She continued staring. Considering what she’d been through, she was incredibly calm. She spoke in robotic tones. Calmly and slowly.
“I didn’t really have a chance to think . . .” she said. “My nerves were wrecked. I took something to calm down, then I decided to come to you. My head was swimming.”
It’d be impossible to get more out of her if she’d taken something.
“If you like, let’s go to bed,” I suggested. “Get some sleep. Calm down a bit. We’ll talk again when we get up.”
“Fine,” she said.
The Kiss Murder Page 2
