Hüseyin stroked the head of the girl, who still retained her father’s hand and was saucily casting flirtatious looks in Hüseyin’s direction.
“Maşallah, aren’t you a little sweetheart? What’s your name?”
Suddenly shy, she retreated behind Daddy’s legs.
“Go on, Sevgi, tell him your name.”
I was overwhelmed with the desire to forget all I’d seen and get as far away as possible. I detest middle-class families. I’d striven all my life to put as much distance as possible between myself and them. They’re suffocating. And here I was, on the verge of getting hopelessly entangled with one of them.
“I think it’s best we leave now,” was all I said.
Gönül had already turned, prepared to make an escape down the stairs. I extended a hand to the man in the tie. At that moment, a cheery voice rang out from the smiley, red-cheeked woman.
“Vallahi, you can’t leave! I won’t hear of it. I’ve got the teapot all ready.”
“We really can’t. Another time, perhaps.”
The tie leaped backward into his slippers, and began tugging at my arm.
“Come in, come in . . . We’ll have a cup of tea. Then you can go. And you never know, Sabiha Hanım may arrive while you’re here.”
There was a certain logic in what he’d just said. That is, if Sabiha wasn’t dead, or being held hostage somewhere.
“The car’s in a no-parking zone. They’ll tow it away. We really can’t stay any longer.”
It was Hüseyin’s best effort. “They won’t tow it . . . they can’t. It’s never happened on our street,” he was assured. Gönül’s face fell further. We added our shoes to the collection in front of the door. Gönül leaned forward to whisper, “They’ll understand about me, won’t they?”
There was no way they wouldn’t know. Even he-men camping it up in drag comedies were more convincing as women than Gönül.
“I would think so. They’ll at least suspect something,” I told her.
“Then I’m not coming in.”
That was enough whispering in front of the door. I grabbed her arm and shoved her inside. “Don’t talk, and maybe they won’t get it.”
Chapter 9
Even if I had instructed Gönül to talk nonstop, she couldn’t have been more of a chatterbox. From the moment we settled onto the tacky fabrics shrouding the sofa and armchairs, Gönül appointed herself group spokeswoman. The increasingly warmer weather; the likelihood of another earthquake in Istanbul, and the probable epicenter and magnitude of the natural disaster, were it to occur; how to select the juiciest watermelons; which soccer team should recruit which players for the upcoming season; how a pinch of cinnamon and a dash of cloves transforms freshly ground coffee beans into a gourmet experience: she jumped from one unrelated subject to another.
I listened, but I was unable to forget the body upstairs. Our carelessness had resulted in our becoming stuck with this family, like we were at a theater intermission, drinking tea.
Seizing on the first silence created by our simultaneous swallowing of tea, with an Istanbul accent modeled on old Turkish films, Mrs. Full Red Cheeks inquired:
“You’ve turned yourself into a woman just like Fevzi, haven’t you?”
At first I wasn’t sure whether or not the question was addressed to me, as well as to poor Gönül, who looked terribly upset. But, I ask you, what self-respecting Turkish woman would have speculated on next year’s soccer player trades?
“My name is Gönül,” she declared, as though somehow answering the question.
“So, you’ve had the operation, then?”
Gönül looked over at me, helpless and dumbfounded. Hüseyin was doing his best to hide behind a crystal tea glass, the kind trotted out only for company. The slim, tulip-shaped glass was nearly lost in his hand. I noted the cleanliness of his hands, his well-trimmed fingernails.
The husband detected our discomfort and graciously intervened. “Really, now, Aynur. And in front of the child . . .”
That was right! The little girl was there. Ever since we’d arrived, she’d been squatting across from Hüseyin, pining away at him with cow eyes.
“What’s the big deal? These are the facts of life. Better she learn about them here at home than out in the street.”
It seemed that the structure of the middle-class family, the sort I knew and despised, had undergone some serious changes in the time I’d managed to avoid it.
“But the gentlemen came here to see Sabiha Hanım.”
Yes, the “gentlemen.” That is, me, Hüseyin, and Gönül.
“Well . . . I suppose so . . . So how is Fevzi girl? What an in-grate she turned out to be. She never visits us when she comes to see her mother. You’d think she’d stop by for a cup of coffee, maybe bring our daughter a chocolate bar. Don’t you think so? Like I told you, we practically grew up together. I knew even back then that she’d be different. Even as a little boy, she’d wear her mother’s shoes, paint her fingernails. Her mother told everyone that it was so she wouldn’t bite them. At primary school . . .”
Mrs. Fat Cheeks was lost in a reverie. Were she aware of the body just above our heads, I imagine she wouldn’t have chattered on in quite the same way. Of course, she had no idea that each passing hour made a similar fate more likely for the blind lady across the hall.
We all leaped out of our seats at the sound of a bloodcurdling scream. Sevgi ran to the door; her father raced to the window. Apple Cheeks smiled apologetically, as if to say, Is this really the time for screams, as I sit here all cozy with my eccentric guests?
There was a banging at the door. The family led the way as we all rushed to it.
A largish female, still young enough to be plagued by pimples, stood there. Either her face had been blotched by futile skin-care remedies or . . .
“Aynur, abla! Aunt Hamiyet is dead! Shot! And right in the middle of the forehead!”
Ah, so the red face was the result of having seen a corpse.
“My uncle’s family sent us some dried mulberries. My mother sent me along to give some to Aunt Hamiyet. But they shot her! Right in the forehead!”
There was no way of avoiding the police now. It was too late to beg leave and go. But that’s exactly what we did, shameless as it was.
The man of the house was apparently a legal clerk, and suggested we not get mixed up in the affair. It was the best proposition I’d heard all day. They were pure-hearted enough not to suspect us in any way. I wanted to throw my arms around him, but his wife might have misunderstood.
As the police sirens approached the apartment building, we got into the taxi Hüseyin had parked in front of a dark, abandoned building. As we drove off, we sifted through our options.
Even if we were unable to find Sabiha Hanım, we had to get into Fevzi/Buse’s old bedroom. Attempting this while the police were in control of the building would be pushing our luck. So, we eliminated that possibility.
Two elderly women murdered a floor apart in the same building could not be put down to coincidence. It was just not possible. If the killer mistook the lady upstairs for Sabiha Hanım, it would give us more time to find the letters and photographs. If Sabiha Hanım had fallen into their hands, that would change everything. Perhaps she had been abducted as she went upstairs to visit her neighbor. The neighbor had been killed and she had been kidnapped. If that was the case, there was nothing much we could do.
“Where are we going?” asked Hüseyin.
“Don’t forget about the Etap. You promised me dinner.”
It was unbelievable that Gönül was able at a time like this to think of her stomach. When I get cross, I often address the girls by their official, male names.
“Metin, it’s really no time—”
“There’s no way you’re wriggling out of this. You promised. You high-society types always go back on your word. You’ve all got scorpions in your pockets.”
As if things weren’t tense enough, I had to deal with this.
“Fine,” I said. “My treat. The two of you go and eat. I’ve got work to do, but I’ll pay.”
Hüseyin slammed on the brakes and turned around. “No way! It’s too close to our neighborhood.”
“What do you mean? Are you trying to say you’re ashamed of Gönül?” I asked innocently. Hüseyin had no compunctions about hitting on me in public. There was no reason he couldn’t be seen out with Gönül. It just required a bit of courage.
“I’m sick and tired of all of this,” he said. “Go anywhere you want. Eat whatever you want. I don’t care. Just leave me out of it. Got it?”
“So . . . what’s got into you?” Gönül exclaimed, “What’s wrong with me then? No manners, ayol!”
“All right . . . calm down,” I said. “Gönül, sweetie, we’ve got a critical situation on our hands, and not much time to sort things out. You do understand, don’t you?”
“I’m not stupid. What’s to not understand?”
“Well then, let me treat you to a meal, but don’t expect me to go with you. You can go on your own or join me another time.”
The peeved expression on Gönül’s face was accompanied by a pouting lower lip. “They won’t let me in if I go alone.”
On the one hand, I felt a pang of pity and swelling of gay pride; on the other, I was still extremely cross with the girl.
“Well then, we’ll go another day. My word is good.”
“Aman, I know what you’re doing. You’re backtracking. What else do you expect from a faggot?”
Because she considered herself a full-fledged woman, the word “faggot” was, in her mind, a stinging insult.
Hüseyin lunged toward the back seat, grabbing her collar. “You better watch your mouth, mister!”
“Let her go,” I said. “I can defend myself.”
Collar duly released, Gönül recovered instantly. “All right, then, not tonight. But you did promise. I won’t forget. Let’s decide right now on the day.”
I wanted to tear her to pieces, but fought back the urge. “I’ll give you my number. Call me during the week, or come by the club. We’ll meet there.”
“But I don’t go to places like Taksim and Etiler. I’m usually in Aksaray, Bağcılar . . . sometimes over in Topkapı. You know that.”
“Fine. Here, take my number.”
“Put down your actual number. Don’t do what those men do and give me a fake one.”
I laughed silently. But I jotted down the number of the club.
As she took the piece of paper, she asked, “Abla, what’s your name anyway?”
I simply shook my head.
Gönül got out in the middle of Aksaray.
As the car proceeded toward Unkapanı, I was subjected to Hüseyin’s reproachful glances in the rearview mirror. He was looking at me as though demanding an explanation for why I’d involved Gönül. I suddenly remembered to check the taxi meter. It must be costing me a fortune. The meter wasn’t on.
“The meter’s been turned off.”
“I never switched it on.”
“Why not? You’ve got to make a living.”
“After the way you’ve treated me I’m sorry I didn’t turn it on. But it’s too late now. Pay me what you think is fair. It’s not like you want my help. We’re not partners or anything. Detectives in films are real partners; they work together. We’re not like that.”
The suggestion I pay whatever seemed “fair” meant one of two things: pay nothing—which would involve some other form of compensation—or estimate the actual amount and pay a bit more.
“I was just getting into it, stupid enough to think we’d be like those movie detectives. You know, like that TV series with Bruce Willis and that woman who looks a bit like you. You’d do all the fancy talking, and I . . . well, whatever . . . but you’re too cold-hearted for that.”
The reference to Cybill Shepherd was totally inappropriate. But I decided to win him over nonetheless.
“Forgive me . . . I’m a little confused. I didn’t mean to insult you. I’m sorry if you’ve been offended in any way.”
“You think a quick apology will settle everything. Break my heart, insult me, then offer a halfhearted apology and everything will be fine again. Nice work.”
“So what do you expect me to do?”
The dog-leer was back. “Let me warm up that heart of yours.”
I groaned.“You’ll never learn, will you?”
We didn’t talk for the rest of the way home. As I got out of the taxi, I realized I didn’t have much cash on me.
“Would it be all right if I paid you tomorrow?”
“How can you even ask that? You don’t have to pay me at all. But if you offer me something cool to drink I won’t say no. It’d be nice of you.”
I slammed the door in his face.
If he’d been anyone else I’d have let him have it by now. But there was something touching about the boy. As angry as I got, he appealed to me in some way.
Whatever the appeal was, though, it wasn’t enough to overcome my reservations. I didn’t give it a second thought.
Chapter 10
I was right back to where I’d started. We’d wasted a great deal of time going to Suadiye to try to find Sofya, and had been too late to intervene at Sabiha Hanım’s. Either Hasan had been unable to find Sofya’s house, or she really hadn’t been at home. Whichever it was, we were now dealing with a new corpse. I’d learned the location of Buse’s mother’s house, but it was now the floor below a cordoned-off crime scene, one no doubt crawling with police. Our acquaintance with the sturdy neighbors would make it that much more difficult to enter the building unnoticed.
It would be hard for the police to make a connection between the two murders. That is to say, if there was a link. Perhaps it really was a case of two unrelated homicides. But my instincts—and I do not always listen to them—told me it was no coincidence.
I pondered how events would play out in a novel or movie. The person in danger would most certainly hide the object the killers were after in the safest place possible. Suddenly bells, buzzers, even a five-engine alarm went off in my head: Buse may have hidden the letters and photographs in my house! She had arrived in the morning with Hüseyin, and may have stashed them away while I was sleeping.
I began searching the guest bedroom. I wasn’t certain what exactly it was that I was looking for. I suspected it was an envelope. I had no idea of the size. It could be a range of sizes. Thickness? That wasn’t clear, either. Whatever it was that I was looking for could be under the bed, behind a picture or—a favorite in films—taped to the bottom of a drawer.
The search took quite some time. I turned everything upside down. Satı Hanım would not be happy when she came to clean. As I looked for the lost documents I discovered numerous items I had thought were lost. Some were nostalgic, like my first pair of ladies’ underwear; others were ridiculous, like once-treasured letters, cards, and photos.
I got tired and gave up. I’d found nothing. Apparently Buse and I did not read the same books or watch the same films. She hadn’t hidden the letters and photos at my house. I gathered up all the personal items I’d found, and figured I’d sort them out later.
I pushed all thoughts of Buse out of my head as I decided to get dressed for the night. The club would be full. There was a possibility that some of the girls there would have useful information. If I was lucky, someone might even know who would be interested in the documents.
I performed the usual shower-shave-makeup ritual. There was just one difference: Try as I might to forget all about Buse, she was all I could think of. The man who had sent the letters, had the photos taken, was most definitely someone of great influence. He had taken on mythic proportions. I imagined a series of celebrities, power brokers, and politicians in romantic dalliance with Buse. First I saw them posing in romantic snapshots, then the pictures became pure porn. Buse had the most amazing missile-shaped, silicone-enhanced breasts and—or so she said—quite a large penis. Joyous a
nd hilarious images of famous faces, heaving breasts, and enormous dicks flashing through my brain, I was ready in no time. Whenever I’m preoccupied with other thoughts, especially complicated subjects like this one, I forgo my diva costumes, settling for something simple. It’s probably an instinctive reaction to danger, a way of not drawing too much attention to myself.
I squeezed into a skintight, long-sleeved, flesh-colored bodysuit. Over it, I wore a long skirt, slit to the waist, and flesh-colored stockings. Flinging a honey-colored raw silk shawl around my shoulders, I was ready.
The Kiss Murder Page 6
