I don’t know why I felt the need to dredge up all these old memories. I felt broken and resentful. I looked back at my younger self with tenderness and great affection, but the memory of my earlier naïveté pained me now. Tears welled suddenly in my eyes. I’d been so full of admiration for Sofya. She still impressed me greatly, or should I say, dazzled and dazed me. But I no longer felt the need to emulate her. As the years passed, we’ve grown further apart. She’s refined her particular style; and I’d developed my own. And they are miles apart.
She had succeeded in frightening me tonight, though. From what she said, the business of the blackmail was proceeding in a highly organized manner. Whoever they were, their motives were less than pure. And Sofya was completely entangled. She had even admitted to being frightened herself, which would imply a lack of control over events. It meant she was only one of a number of players. She might even be just a pawn.
There was no way I could get anything else out of Sofya. As for the girls, they would reveal nothing about her. Especially not to me!
The vodka helped me doze off.
Chapter 13
I woke up at an unusually early hour. As I sipped my morning coffee, I ran through the alternative courses of action for the day: (A) Wait and see; (B) Find a way to search Sabiha Hanım’s house; (C) Meet with Sofya; failing that, track her down; (D) Do something completely unrelated, like tidy my messy house.
None of the options appealed. I glanced through the paper, hoping to create new ones as I read it. The Buse/Fevzi murder had received a single column of belated coverage. The accompanying photo was from her official ID card. “Fevzi” looked like a timid sort of person. I’d never seen her like that.
The murder in Kocamustafapaşa hadn’t made it to the papers yet. I looked through the obituaries in any case. There was nothing of interest.
None of the girls would be up this early. For ladies of the night, a new day dawns at noon at the earliest. There was no need to begin working on the Wish & Fire account, because the contract had not yet been signed. Bitter experience had taught me not to embark on a project until I had a signed contract. In fact, only a weighty advance payment enabled me to take such companies seriously.
Remote control in hand, I flicked through the morning TV programs. The housewives in the studio audiences reminded me of Mrs. Apple Cheeks. I decided it was time for a morning visit. Perhaps Sabiha Hanım, whose whereabouts had been a mystery the previous night, had returned.
I got a giant bar of chocolate for the chubby, demonstrative girl of the house. And one for myself, to eat on the way. For the mother, I picked up a freshly baked cake from the corner patisserie. After what had been said about Fevzi, I had no intention of going empty-handed.
Then it occurred to me that if Sabiha Hanım had returned safe and sound, it would be a nice gesture to bring her something as well. I discarded my first impulse, which was to buy flowers. No matter how fragrant, flowers could hardly be adequately appreciated by a blind person. I tried to remember if I’d ever bought a gift for a blind person before. No, I hadn’t. As I ran through the list of woes suffered by the elderly—diabetes, high blood pressure, cholesterol levels, hardening of the arteries, osteoporosis and the like—I eliminated as suitable gifts sweets, chocolate, and pastry. Cologne! That was it! In the old days, cologne had been the preferred gift. On holidays in particular, bottles of cologne would be exchanged.
I stopped into the first pharmacy I saw and bought a bottle of lavender cologne. Lemon cologne makes me queasy. Just in case I was unable to present the cologne to Sabiha Hanım—and that was highly likely—I would use it myself. I had it beautifully gift-wrapped. Then it occurred to me just how pointless the extra effort to make it look nice was.
I reached the taxi stand and jumped into the first available car, whose driver greeted me with a “Welcome, abi.” I gave directions to Teksoy Apartments. When we arrived, I noticed that Hüseyin had parked in front of a burned-out building the night before. So that was the source of the charred smell. And I’d blamed it on balcony barbecues.
An unpleasant-looking woman living in the street-level flat had placed a pillow on the windowsill, upon which she rested her enormous bosom. She was crocheting and chatting with a neighbor across the street, who was hanging out washing on the balcony on the second floor. The subject of conversation was the pattern embroidered onto a pillowcase that had just about dried. The unpleasant woman admired it, wanted to borrow it when it was dry, so she could copy the pattern onto her own linen. I couldn’t resist lifting my head to glance over at the en-vied piece of needlework. It was nauseating. There was no need to replicate it. In fact, it should be outlawed.
When they realized I was about to enter the apartment building, they looked me up and down, but they didn’t say anything. I wondered what they would say behind my back, but proceeded as quickly as possible up the stairs to the first floor. The door nearest the staircase belonged to the sturdy family. Sabiha Hanım would have to wait. I hadn’t bought the chocolate and cake for nothing. Although I knew the door would fly open instantly, I still rang the bell long and hard.
The door opened before I had lifted my finger from the bell. Below, a small head poked out from between a pair of thick legs; above, the mother’s head poked out into the hallway. Upon seeing me, her smile seemed to fade somewhat. She must have learned the news from the TV or papers.
“Merhaba . . . so it’s you.”
“There was such a commotion when we parted last night. And I’d been unable to see dear Sabiha Hanım . . . I brought some cake, hoping we could share it with a cup of tea. And this is for your little girl . . . Take it, sweetie.”
“Yes, of course you’re welcome. Come in.” The door opened wide. “I’ve lost my wits. I don’t seem to know what I’m doing. I’m sure you know what’s happened. About Fevzi. I couldn’t believe it. Two deaths in one day. That’s never happened before. I swear it just wrecked me. I wouldn’t have thought it’d upset me so much, but it sent me reeling.”
She had managed to relate all this in the time it took me to put on the gold lamé slippers she’d gestured to. The choice of footwear would indicate she had certain ideas about me. I love chatty sorts, and they’re especially useful if you’re trying to get information about something.
We went inside and sat down. The cake remained in its wrapping on the coffee table.
“You must have known all about it last night, but you didn’t tell us. I mean, about Fevzi. I wish you had—I’d have been better prepared for the news later. You must have come here to pay your condolences to Sabiha Hanım. How thoughtful of you. May Allah grant all his people a friend like you. You know what they say about friends and rainy days.”
She had strong lungs. Everything was gushed out in a single breath. I listened sympathetically—there would be plenty more to come.
I locked my eyes onto hers, then slowly shifted them, landing on the package of cake. She leaped from her seat.
“Ay, pardon. I forgot the cake, didn’t I? I’ll put on the kettle. We can talk while the tea steeps. I’ve got some questions for you.”
And I’ve got some questions for you.
The corner end table was loaded with picture frames. The most magnificent of them all framed a studio shot of a bride and groom. The photographer had enhanced the photo by superimposing pink roses. The bride wore the standard “nightingale nest” headdress, her face nestled in thousands of ruffles. That familiar beaming face also expressed a hint of pride. As she looked into the camera, she seemed to be saying, See, I’ve landed a husband. Even back then, she had filet mignon cheeks.
Right next to the wedding picture was one of a wrinkled infant, the sour-faced daughter. That same child, who followed my every move and glance, immediately remarked, “That’s me,” as she smiled mischievously.
Above the sideboard hung a picture in a gilt frame. Nearly everyone in the photo wore a dark suit. The man of the house was captured shaking hands with a politician. His interest in
politics may well have been career-related. Civil servants who fail to join a party can find themselves exiled to a position in the countryside.
The frame was slightly off-kilter. I can’t bear such things. I hesitated for only a second before rising to my feet to adjust it. Under the watchful gaze of the girl, I straightened it with my fingertips, then sat down.
There was one thing about the living room that differentiated it from most of its kind: the absence of embroidered coverings and needlework. I jotted down a point in my mental ledger. The sound of running water in the kitchen stopped and Apple Cheeks reappeared, settled down across from me, and smoothed her skirt.
“Actually, there was something I wanted to share with you. As I was preparing the tea I asked myself whether it was really necessary, but I think I’d better tell you. You know, there’s been no sign of Sabiha.”
Bug-eyed and staring, she awaited my reaction.
“That’s strange,” I mused, encouraging her to continue.
“It is, isn’t it? If anything had happened I’d know. But there’s not been a peep out of her. She wouldn’t go anywhere without telling me. God forbid anything bad has happened to her . . . Where could she be? What do you think?”
I didn’t answer. I contented myself with a meaningful shake of my head.
“I’ve got an inquiring mind. I mean, I wonder about everything. I’ve got to know where, and why. I’m a little like those lady detectives on TV. I always put myself in their place, try to figure out what I’d do in their shoes if there was a murder. And what do you know, here I am, faced with not one, but two murders. The case of Hamiyet Hanım upstairs is worth looking into. She’s got a hopeless son. He drinks, takes drugs. He kept hitting her up for money. I suspect he did it. That’s what I told the police. Who else would do it? Don’t you agree?”
This was a rhetorical question. A way of transforming a monologue into a dialogue.
She was incredibly unflustered by the two murders, and sat there calmly relating her detective fantasies. She had no doubt been a big Charlie’s Angels fan as a girl. Although Jaclyn Smith was probably her favorite, she had enough modesty to model herself on Sabrina/Kate Jackson, consoling herself by saying, Well, she was the clever one of the three. A more attractive woman would have set her sights on no less than Farrah Fawcett. I know I did.
“Anyway, don’t let me pester you with all this nonsense. It isn’t as though you even knew Hamiyet Hanım. If I didn’t control myself I’d keep chatting until you shut me up. Talking about anything under the sun. You could say I’m a bit talkative. Enough about Hamiyet Hanım, we’ll come back to her if necessary. Let’s talk about Fevzi. Did you call her Fevzi or Buse? I couldn’t break the habit of calling her Fevzi. Sometimes Fevziye, just to get a rise. I mean, when she was alive. It doesn’t matter what I call her now, does it? After she became a woman she’d scold me. ‘There is no Fevzi. I’ve buried him. I’m Buse.’ It makes no difference to me, Fevzi or Buse. Whichever you prefer.”
“I knew her as Buse.”
“Fine, then. I’ll say Buse.” She turned to the little girl. “Stop sucking your thumb. Get it out of your mouth. Your big brother thinks it’s such a shame, he doesn’t think much of you when you do that. Go on, go back to your seat. That’s a good girl. Make your mother proud. She’s a good girl, isn’t she, abi?”
The “big brother” was none other than me.
“Good girl,” I said. I couldn’t help thinking what a problem child she would turn out to be.
“You know the police came last night. May Hamiyet Hanım rest in peace.”
As she said this, she pointed, eyes crossed, to a spot in the middle of her forehead.
“She was a bit stubborn. In fact, she was a difficult woman. I put it down to her old age. I was still upset, though. How many neighbors do I have here, after all? She was well educated. That explains her sharp tongue. She thought she knew everything, would correct everyone. Anyway . . . everyone in the building was up in arms, as you might expect. We were interrogated until dawn. My husband works at the court, so they kept it short. But they still asked even little Sevgi whether or not she’d heard the gunshot.
“I mean, really. When you think about what’s on TV these days. Everyone watching a different channel, programs full of gunshots and exploding bombs. How are we supposed to know what’s real and what’s on TV? Anyway, my husband said they probably used a silencer.”
“You’ve got a point.”
“Not me, my husband. I didn’t even take a look at the body. I just wasn’t up to it. I didn’t go upstairs. Was I curious? You bet. But I didn’t dare. I saw my late grandmother’s body, and that was enough for me. Never again, I said to myself.”
“What about Sabiha Hanım?”
“Let me just get the tea.”
“Can I help you?”
“No, of course not. Perhaps we should have had coffee. We could have read each other’s coffee grounds. But tea goes best with cake.” She grabbed the cake and headed for the kitchen. She saw right through my men’s clothes. She’d had enough experience to figure me out at a glance. After all, she’d grown up with Fevzi, seen her develop over the years. Otherwise, what normal, self-respecting housewife would invite a strange man into her house the morning after they’d met, then suggest they tell each other’s fortunes?
“I like you,” she declared.
There was no way for her to know what was running through my mind. It must be a coincidence.
“I appreciate your having become friends with Fevzi. She tormented me no end when we were growing up. But I always liked her. In my own way.”
“But where do you think Sabiha Hanım could be?”
She glanced over at the suddenly well-behaved daughter, who sat there quietly, all ears.
“Off we go to the bedroom. You can play with your toys.”
“Yahhh . . .” The little ugly face became absolutely unbearable when whining.
“Do you want the slipper?” It was instantly whisked off the mother’s right foot and brandished in the air.
Eyes on the threatening slipper, the pouting face slid off the armchair accompanied by a chorus of gradually fading “Yahhhh’s” of protest, and was conveyed as slowly as possible out of the room. I know the type. Instead of going to their bedroom, they invariably crouch in the hallway just outside the door, eavesdropping.
Once we were alone, Apple Cheeks adopted a secretive and all-knowing tone.
“I’ve got a theory: Sabiha Hanım heard the news on the TV. She then had a stroke or a heart attack. She’s laid out in her flat. Where else could she be? The whole building was in an uproar last night, but not a peep from her flat. The police asked after her, but we said we didn’t know a thing. They dropped it. She’s inside. Dead or paralyzed. As you know, she was blind in any case. Her heart just couldn’t take it.”
I failed to make the connection between blindness and a heart condition, but nevertheless. The expression on her face was one of triumphant discovery. Her eyes were shining, excitedly awaiting my approbation.
“God forbid,” I said.
“Who’s to say what God forbids? Just look at the state of our country.”
I nodded my head in agreement, but I wasn’t biting. The last thing I needed was her opinion on the general decline of our country, Istanbul’s overrapid development, the general direction of our benighted land, the sad state of today’s youth, politics, culture, our prospects for accession to the EU, and the troubles in the southeast. I wasn’t going there.
“So, what should we do? Buse’s funeral will be held today or tomorrow. Whenever the morgue turns over her body. The fact that it’s a murder case means it will take a bit longer. My friends are I are handling all the arrangements. Sabiha Hanım is Buse’s mother! I’m sure she would want to attend. Or she would at least want to know where Buse will be buried.”
“I’d forgotten all about the funeral. I’d like to go. There must be others from the neighborhood who’d want to attend too.
But I don’t know that I dare to. What would I do if the media got hold of the story, showed me with a bunch of transvestites? The people here are conservative types. Forgive me for not coming.”
These narrow little minds, I sighed to myself.
“Of course, you know best.”
“We’ll arrange a mevlit. You’ll want to come; I’ll let you know when it’s held.”
“Thank you.” I had no intention of attending. Mevlits bore me. When I sit with the women, I have to wear a head scarf. When I sit with the men, they stare, then squeeze me into a corner and try to give me advice. And somehow I strongly doubted the mevlit would ever be held at all.
We exchanged smiles. She had something else to say, that much was clear. She just didn’t know how to begin.
“Then I suppose there’s nothing to do but sit around and wait. We can’t really put off the funeral for more than an extra day.”
The Kiss Murder Page 8
