I called the stand for a taxi, requesting that Hüseyin not be sent. The last thing I needed was his flirting. In any case, they said he wasn’t there.
As I went out the door the phone rang. I have an answering machine, so under normal circumstances I would have continued, knowing the caller could leave a message. But these were not normal times. I unlocked the front door and raced to the phone, just as my voice was promising to “. . . call back as soon as possible, merci.”
I couldn’t decide whether to lift the receiver or wait to hear who it was first. A male voice cleared its throat. And hung up without leaving a message.
Chapter 11
Cüneyt greeted me with a wolf whistle at the entrance to the club.
“Boss, you’re a real knockout, like always. What a great blouse, and it matches your stockings.”
Did the boy have certain tendencies, or what? Real men don’t admire a lady’s outfit. It’s what’s inside the clothes that interests them.
Despite the early hour, the club was nearly full. Advancing toward the bar, I blew kisses to the girls and our regulars. Hasan was behind the bar, next to Şükrü. When he saw me he began waving frantically. I leaned over the bar toward him.
Like a U.S. Secret Service agent revealing classified information, he hissed, “Sofya’s here!”
That was strange. Here I’d been looking everywhere for her, and she’d decided, if a bit late, to come and see me. It had been years since Sofya had retired from the scene, or at least stopped frequenting clubs like ours. While no one was certain exactly what she was up to, the general consensus was that “a rich thug keeps her at home.” News of her annual pilgrimage to Ibiza, Mykonos, or Mardi Gras regularly amazed our little circle. Girls she found sufficiently distinguished would be invited to her home. They’d go skipping off to the appointment, returning with wondrous tales of the elegance with which they were lavishly wined and dined. They eagerly awaited the day, month, year in which a second invitation would be granted. In short, with her money, airs, and fabulous lifestyle, Spectac-u-lar Sofya had attained the unattainable. She was the living embodiment of what each and every girl aspired to.
It had been some time since she’d deigned to visit the club. Furthermore, we had both allowed a tiny misunderstanding to grow into cause for major offense. Over time, our friendship had withered on the vine, like any relationship that isn’t maintained and nurtured. The gossip and tales of devious self-appointed minions and intermediaries had caused further injury. We were both right on some points, wrong on others.
Considering the circumstances, it was strange indeed that Sofya had just up and come to my club.
Another strange detail was the absence of my Virgin Mary. And the fact that there was no sign of its being prepared anytime soon.
I began drumming on the bar with the two-and-a-half-inch gold fingernails I’d bought in America, as a way of making my displeasure clear. Şükrü looked at me as though to ask what was wrong.
“My drink . . . where is it?”
He apologized and hastily began mixing it. “Send it to me!” I ordered, as I made my way back through the crowd.
The girls weren’t completely ignorant of what had happened. As their sources of information, they had television, Hasan, and gossip. But they had nothing new to add. When discussing Buse, they’d lower their voices, but any sad expressions disappeared in seconds. Buse was not much loved. She had no close friends. She wouldn’t work in pairs, indulge in group activities, or entertain men she didn’t fancy. As I said earlier, she had a set of principles and a certain classiness.
I realized too late that the man waving to me from the far end of the bar was Ferruh, Belkıs’s husband. I have trouble recognizing him when he’s not with his wife.
He seemed a bit drunk. He began weaving his way toward me. I was in no shape to put up with him. With a femme fatale pivot, I headed in the opposite direction.
A crowd had gathered around Sofya’s table. I joined them. The moment I appeared, the crowd parted—fell silent, even. I came eye to eye with Sofya. The tension was palpable, like a scene in a film. First, we exchanged glances. Motionless. The crowd watched, breathless. As we sized each other up, we luxuriated in the process. My God, she was stunning. A real head-turner. She wore a dark green silk spaghetti-strap blouse that brought out her eyes. The silicone could not have been displayed to better effect. As was the fashion, she had spent hours at the coiffeur to have her hair artfully mussed. Again, as was the fashion, her skin was an unearthly white, like porcelain. In short, she had stepped out of the pages of Vogue. As the hostess, it would be my duty to initiate conversation.
“Merhaba, Sofya . . . How lovely to see you here among us.” I couldn’t have sounded less sincere. The dryness of my voice was astonishing even to me.
“Sweetie . . .” she hissed. Her lips slightly distended, fashioned into a kiss, her teeth gleaming, she extended both arms in my direction.
Our seating units are incredibly comfortable, but rather low. After sinking into the cushions, it is no easy task to rise with one graceful movement. Sofya was a clever girl. She didn’t even attempt it. Arms outstretched, she awaited me. I slowly moved toward her, bending my knees as I fell into her waiting embrace. We preserved our makeup by blowing air kisses over each other’s shoulders. The encirclement ceremony was over. The tension evaporated; the crowd released its collective breath. And applause broke out! We indulged our reverent congregation, flashing little smiles of appreciation all around.
“Condolences to us all,” she said.
The trick of never fully closing her lips was one she had developed since our last meeting. No matter what she said, or where she looked, Sofya appeared to be bestowing a small kiss.
I whispered into her ear, “I would like to speak to you, when you’re available . . .”
“Now!” she said, leaning her full weight into me as she rose to her feet. I was nearly knocked off balance. Sofya is an eyeful, and far from petite. She seized my hand. Like two haughty queens who have annihilated their subjects in a futile, bitter war, then decided to make peace with each other, we sauntered hand in hand to the stairs leading to my office.
“We have to speak outside. We can’t talk here,” she said. She had a way of giving each and every syllable its due, like an actress with the state theater.
“Why?” I asked. My voice was still dry.
“You have no idea of the danger. There is so much you don’t know.” During her many years in France, she’d cultivated the habit of lightly rolling her r’s. No doubt she thought it was sexy.
The expression on my face must have been one of stupid admiration.
“Hasan told me everything. You came to my home. I was out. Then I found out. I was wretched. Of course. For Buse. Then, I thought, this is critical. But there is no need for panic. Or perhaps there is. It depends on your point of view. So I left my home to come here, to see you.”
While incomprehensible, it was beautifully put. And she had told me nothing. As she spoke, her eyes widened and narrowed. Each word rang with significance and hidden meaning. Even the spaces she left between the fragmented sentences were electrifying.
“What did Buse tell you?” I asked.
“It’s what she told you that’s important.”
Just as I’d expected. We were at it again.
Reaching into a tiny handbag, a performance of the utmost sensitivity that apparently required her undivided attention, Sofya extracted a long, slender More cigarette. She lit it with an exquisite jeweled lighter, then fixed her eyes on me.
“I’m waiting. Begin.”
There is nothing that infuriates me more than being subjected to the airs of the English royal family. Sofya had me right where she wanted me.
“She came to see me that morning, not you,” I began.
“Exactly. Which is why you know more. Now tell me everything.”
I decided against dragging things out. The surest way to get quick results was to pool what li
ttle we knew. I began to relate all that had happened. I neglected to mention the corpse of Sabiha’s upstairs neighbor. She listened intently, not moving a muscle. Ash collected on the tip of her cigarette. When it had reached halfway, I stopped.
“It’s even worse than I thought,” she said.
She thought for a moment. Or at least pretended to. Eyes frozen to slits, she began:
“Look, the situation is more sensitive and complex than you’re able to comprehend. There’s so much you don’t know. From what you’ve told me, it’s begun to get dangerous. The murder makes it even more so. It means I’m at risk as well. In fact, so are you. Perhaps not yet . . . but soon.”
She struck a dramatic pose, shifting slightly in her seat. Chin raised high, she blew a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. It seemed like she was trying to tell me something. But what, I couldn’t make out. I suddenly felt a bit pathetic.
“I still don’t understand a thing.”
“I don’t expect you to.” In an even more dramatic gesture, her hands fluttered gently in the air, as though to say, None of this means anything to you; leave me alone with my troubles. “If you’ll try to be a bit patient, to understand what we’re up against . . .”
How was it that she seemed to reveal so much while saying so little—and managed to humiliate me as she did it? I ran through all the times I’d felt the way I did now. Every time, Sofya was there.
“So who is the man in the photographs? What’s written in the letters? Do you know that much, at least?”
Her eyes changed expression, as though to retort, How could you possibly ask me such ridiculous questions?
“I mean, you may have seen the photos. Or perhaps Buse told you about them.”
Silence. Tension. Anticipation. Everything! She’d managed them all.
“Look,” she said, once again narrowing her eyes slightly, “I know who he is. It would be a mistake for me to tell you. He’s not just anyone.”
“Who is it, ayol? The president? The prime minister? The American president?”
A plastic chortle silenced me. Like the sound a doll would make. Without so much as a facial twitch, Sofya was able to produce a wide range of sounds.
“You’re so naïve.”
I knew it. I was fully aware that all her efforts were aimed at confusing me. And she was succeeding.
She finished her cigarette. When she was unable to spot an ashtray upon a cursory glance to the left and right, the stub was flung to the floor and elegantly extinguished with a twist of the right ankle. She rose, gathered her long skirts, and began the descent to the club. After a few steps she turned, widened her eyes, and offered this naughty child a bit of advice:
“Blackmail. Big time. It’s dangerous. Extremely dangerous. Caution is advised. Teamwork will be needed.”
The eyes narrowed once again as she scrutinized me. A finger landed on the tip of my nose.
“I like you,” she purred. “Despite everything,” she added, after waiting a full beat. “Listen to me. Stay out of this.”
She turned, and was gone.
Chapter 12
It wasn’t until later, after I’d had a few drinks, that I was able to begin processing what Sofya had said. It is impossible, the first time around, to get beyond her body language and narrative style. Sofya has mastered the art of playing the inscrutable woman.
I couldn’t decide whether or not to envy her this skill. But it was food for thought.
Sofya had me absolutely stupefied. I was drained, and would be unable to carry on until closing time. To make matters worse, Belkıs’s husband, Ferruh, was still at the club, eyes rolling in their sockets, too drunk to speak, but wanting to do just that. He’d taken full advantage of the discount we offer to friends.
“But it’s important,” he insisted. “I need to talk to you alone. You’re the only one who can handle this.”
He was having trouble focusing his eyes on me as he spoke. Sweaty hands pawed at my arm. Everyone knew he had a thing for our girls. Knowing how jealous Belkıs would get if he chased after them when she wasn’t around, I surrendered him to Cüneyt and he was bundled into a taxi and sent home.
I needed more alcohol. I don’t usually drink at the club on principle, so I went home. I’m not really a drinker, but a bottle of Absolut and a good selection of wine are kept in stock for those times when I do need a drink. Wine wouldn’t do the trick. I opened the vodka.
I spread out before me the findings of my earlier search of the house. I sorted through the heap, losing myself in memories, while simultaneously losing myself in the cool lap of Absolut.
After the fifth shot, my already shattered mind was completely muddied. That was a good sign. I held a notebook I’d painstakingly prepared in middle school. I’d glued photos of beautiful women and gorgeous men on every page. They were censored versions of photos I’d cut out of a Playgirl I’d secretly bought. By the seventh shot, my mind was clear as crystal. The sight of the notebook conjured up the literature teacher who had given me a stinging slap across the face. I remembered her name and face, and even the khaki skirt, shiny from repeated ironing, that she always wore. I remembered the first man I slept with . . . but my first evening gown: no.
I flipped through an old passport, every page of which bore a CANCELED stamp. I remembered in vivid detail every moment of my stage experience at a Parisian cabaret. I wore a wig much like Sofya’s current hairstyle. My makeup was perfect; my show was a disaster. At that time, it was all the rage to lip-synch to well-known pop songs, mimicking every move of the women who made them famous. All the audience wanted was a good guffaw. But there I was in my best outfit, pursuing a career as a singer. Unsurprisingly, it didn’t work out.
Sofya was the real diva. She did a perfect impression of Dalida and Sylvie Vartan, two gay icons. There was a table reserved for guests who came only for her. What’s more, while the rest of us had to mingle with customers when we weren’t performing, encouraging them to buy us drinks, Sofya was free to hold court at her own table.
Sofya had recruited me. We met while she was holidaying in Bodrum. I was young, slender, and bold, up for anything, and eager to get as much sex as possible. Impressed by my enthusiasm, Sofya arranged a cabaret stint for me when she returned to Paris. My stage career lasted all of five nights—after my final performance, the club owner threw me out with a good dressing-down. I was staying with Sofya, and the following morning it was her turn to rebuke me.
“You’ve disgraced me,” she began. “You’ve discredited Turks everywhere. We’re like ambassadors here. Just take a look at the girls from Tunisia and Algeria. They stick together. The Portuguese . . . As for you, not only are you unfit to represent your country and Turkish womanhood, you don’t even deserve to be here. When I think of how I praised you. The high hopes I had. I’d dared to imagine you would rise one day to second billing, just below me. It didn’t happen . . . it was not to be. What a debacle.”
That’s right, I could still remember each and every word of this epic and unexpectedly nationalistic rant—ayol, what part of Sofya represented Turkey? The representation of Turkish women, and me. What could be funnier? The phrase “Turkish women” brought to mind such leading lights as Atatürk’s mother, novelist Halide Edip, and Miss Europe 1952, Günseli Başar. I tried to imagine myself in their league, and I failed. And it wasn’t as though they had “stuck together” in some patriotic show of unity.
I was told to pack my bags immediately and return to Turkey as soon as possible. I followed those instructions to the letter.
The following night, I watched for the last time as Sofya performed onstage. She was lip-synching to Sylvia Vartan’s impersonation of a young man in “Comme un Garçon.” In other words, a man was impersonating Sylvie Vartan impersonating a man. It was a negative of a positive of a negative . . . or something like that. Or, a right-to-left mirror image reflected in a second mirror, and so corrected. And it was hilarious. The audience was in stitches. Each line was greeted with t
hunderous applause. And when, at the end, Sofya’s suspenders “accidentally” gave way, revealing a glimpse of lace panty, the hall erupted. The curtain closed. She appeared for a curtain call, holding up her sagging trousers. She was called back again and again, and back and forth she minced with steps made tiny by fallen trousers, her panties now in plain view. She saluted the crowd, raising both arms high, then, feigning embarrassment, would clasp her crotch. Applause. Applause. Encore after encore. As a finale, she turned around and uncovered her derriere. On her left buttock gleamed the scarlet imprint of a pair of lips.
Sofya was a shadowy figure even back then. During the two weeks I spent with her, she often met with strange-looking men, explaining them away by claiming it was “too early” for me to “understand.” She didn’t hesitate to pair me off with some of these men, earning herself a pretty penny in the process, but she refused to tell me anything about them.
The Kiss Murder Page 7
