The Kiss Murder

by Mehmet Murat Somer

  I’d started to get sleepy. With a feeling of peace from a job well done, I switched off the computer and stretched out on the bed. The pillow still smelled faintly of the policeman, Kenan. Or at least that’s what I imagined. He was so good-looking, a real male beauty, and it had been such a disappointment for it to end so quickly. Maybe he was overexcited by being with me for the first time. I’d been too compliant, allowing him to have his way. Which he’d done, in record time. If he visited me again I’d take control, do it my way.

  I’d read somewhere that having erotic thoughts just before falling asleep boosts sexual potency and libido. I was applying the technique.

  Chapter 25

  Whenever I fall asleep at dawn, I sleep until noon. Or I try to, at least. In order to ensure that my rest isn’t interrupted, I unplug the phone in my bedroom and let the answering machine handle any callers. I also close my thick curtains all the way.

  I couldn’t have been asleep for long. In fact, I may not have even fallen fully asleep. Or I’d just nodded off, relaxed completely. No, I hadn’t fallen asleep. The doorbell was ringing.

  I wasn’t expecting anyone. Whoever it is, they’ll give up and go, I thought. But they didn’t. Whoever was pressing the button clearly intended to remain doing so until the door was opened.

  I was groggy with sleep. I ran through the possibilities of who the visitor could be: a. John Pruitt—my first choice—was not a possibility. There was no point in even fantasizing about it.

  b. A fan—Kenan, for example. I would hold him in my arms and fall back to sleep. If it was Hüseyin, and he was drunk, he would be roundly beaten. Chase after me, flirt with me, pull out all the stops, try to seduce me . . . then run off with the first girl you meet at the club! I wasn’t having it! My pride, and the fatness of the transvestite in question, left me no choice but to pound Hüseyin.

  c. Mafia man. As I remembered this possibility, my eyes popped open. After Süleyman was sent after me the previous night, there could now be a gang of thugs at my door. Even if I didn’t open the door they’d force their way in.

  d. Süreyya Eronat’s henchmen. It would be easy enough to learn my address. They’d be no better than the Mafia men. That is, only divine intervention would save me.

  I shuddered at the thought of alternatives C and D. A and B were quickly eliminated. I threw on a robe and raced to the door.

  I seemed to have lost my wits. I mean, was this really the time to imagine myself on a game show, to run through the list of possible alternatives facing me? The bell was ringing nonstop. By now my neighbors had probably been roused and would be waiting with ears pricked to see who had come.

  “Coming!” I cried out. I tried to keep the volume down. Apartment buildings are a form of communal living, after all. Early morning screams are frowned upon.

  When I reached the door, I said, “All right, I’m here!” I peered through the peephole. Confronting me was a highly disarranged Sofya. She hadn’t even featured on my list of possibilities. I hesitated, wondering whether or not to open the door. If I didn’t, she’d continue ringing the bell until she’d woken up all my neighbors. I’d called out; she knew I was at home and awake. I also feared her wrath. It was unclear what Sofya would do if she imagined herself provoked.

  Without undoing the safety latch, I opened the door a crack. I blinked furiously, raising my eyebrows as high as possible in my best imitation of a person barely awake.

  “Efendim—”

  “Open that door. Now!” she barked.

  I wilted before the authority in her voice.

  I opened the door. She shoved me aside as she came in. It was her first visit to my apartment, and a rather rude entry under those circumstances. Her makeup was smeared, her carefully arranged coiffeur plastered to her head. While not a compete mess, she was close. Sofya is never totally wrecked. She maintains a regal air whatever the outfit. That didn’t seem to be the case at the moment. She wore a pair of trousers fit only for scrubbing floors and a T-shirt that pinched her gel-filled breasts. I would have been shocked to see such garments in her wardrobe, let alone on her person.

  “What do you want? What is it at this time of the morning?” I began.

  She glanced around the room mockingly, like an unimpressed buyer. She obviously didn’t think much of my appearance, either.

  “Go wash your face.”

  Confronting Sofya would be a waste of time. If she set her heart on something, she’d keep at it, like a wave crashing into a breaker, until she got her way. There’d be no silencing her, no sign of tiring. We all boast various skills, and that was one of hers. I obediently trotted off to the bathroom. It would also give me time to collect my thoughts and form a strategy. Behind me I heard:

  “And put something on!”

  I did as I was told. I had hit upon my best tactic: to remain unmoved. I wouldn’t give Sofya the satisfaction of unsettling me. No matter how confused I became, no matter what role she adopted, I would grin and bear it. And I was sleepy. Failing all else, I’d nod off.

  In contrast to her dishevelment, I put on a tight, sleeveless striped white T-shirt that highlighted my slim elegance to best effect. I also selected a pair of fire-red hot pants I’d picked up at a lingerie shop in Amsterdam. Not only do they lift and shape the buttocks, they barely cover them. I proceeded to the living room. Sofya hadn’t been impressed by the armchairs. She was perched on a dining room chair.

  “Sit down!” she said. “Are you awake yet?”

  “Yes,” I replied. I sat down in an armchair near her.

  “Come here,” she commanded.

  She pointed to the table. The way to remain unfazed by Sofya was to follow her orders unthinkingly. When I did try to make sense of them, my head hurt. In line with my strategy, I rose and walked to the table.

  She watched as I sat down in the chair next to hers. Roughly seizing my chin, she stared straight into my eyes. Through slits, she examined me. I treated her to my most innocent, sweetest smile.

  “You’re still asleep . . . Go get a strong cup of coffee!” she said. It was really a bit much.

  “But I’ve just had one. Too much coffee causes cellulite,” I lied. I’d barely finished my sentence when I received a stinging slap across the face. She’s got a heavy hand, but it took a moment to sink in. I immediately assumed a defensive position.

  She sniggered.

  “That’s better. Your eyes are sparkling now,” she said.

  She had mistaken a flash of lightning for a sparkle. Neither a borrower nor a lender be. I let her have one.

  “Ayyy!” She clutched the cheek I’d struck. “You vicious little whore. See, you’re wide awake.”

  Then she emitted a fake laugh.

  I was surprised. The Sofya I knew wouldn’t laugh off being hit. It must have been the early hour, the murder cases we’d become caught up in, or the heat that had worn her out. But I didn’t give it any more thought. It wasn’t worth it.

  “What do you want?” I asked.

  “Whatever it is you’ve found and taken, that’s what.”

  “I told you, I haven’t found anything—”

  She grabbed my chin and looked into my eyes, this time even closer and more penetratingly. I wasn’t happy about her face being so close to mine. I unclasped her hand. I could have grabbed her wrist and twisted her arm behind her back. If she’d resisted, it would have hurt. I had the impulse to do it. It seemed a good idea. But then again, it would be an unsatisfying gesture unless done in front of an audience.

  “You’re as stubborn as ever, as determined to do things your way. Most people mature as they get older—they get a bit blunter around the edges, they lose their childish whims. But I see you haven’t changed a bit.”

  Sofya had begun speaking like a normal person. They say costumes have a powerful effect on people. That was definitely true. Dressed like a normal person—or even worse—she spoke just like everyone else.

  “Maybe that’s because I’m still young.” I sai
d.

  The realization I’d hit a nerve pleased me.

  “You’re a fool,” she said. “You’re still playing childish games. You’ve got no idea who you’re up against. The darkest of the dark. No one can beat them. There’s nothing they won’t do to get what they want. I’m just a go-between, an ambassador. I’ve only gotten involved to protect you, for your own sake. Otherwise, you’d be up against them, not me. You’d have met the same fate as Buse. She was a stubborn fool. She’d smoke a joint, tell everyone who she’d been with, and then deny it all when she was sober. Then she mentioned the photographs. Naturally, they went after her.”

  “And when she stood up to you, you killed her without mercy.”

  “Don’t include me. I’m not like them. I’m just a pawn. An employee they get to do their dirty work, but I am rewarded handsomely. Just like you, I took it upon myself to recover the photos. I said I’d get them.”

  As she said this, she held my hand between her own. I don’t think much of girl-chat, nor do I appreciate fatherly advice. I withdrew my hand.

  “What are you going to get, what am I supposed to give you? I have nothing! I don’t understand what you want from me. I know about the letters and photos, but I’ve never even seen them. That’s all I know.”

  She looked at me suspiciously, and took a deep breath. She closed her eyes and waited. Then she emptied her lungs in my face. She was no longer perching on the chair, but had turned into a sack of potatoes. Sofya had lost her cool and her poise. I had never seen her looking so ordinary—there wasn’t a trace of the diva I’d so admired. Who was this pathetic middle-aged man in women’s clothing, who had apparently come to scrub the floor? Her voice softened.

  “Let me start at the beginning,” she said.

  “All right, go ahead.”

  “We’re not talking about four or five people. We’re talking about an entire organization. They’ve got their feelers and their spies everywhere. They collect blackmail material on anyone who might be useful one day, then use them as puppets.”

  “Sounds profitable,” I commented. What else could I say? And it was true. These people, whoever they were, had hit upon a great racket, and it had been whirring along nicely so far.

  Sofya seemed to be telling a fairy tale, and I sat as though listening to one. I could have stopped paying attention, but I was fascinated and wanted to hear the ending. Not to mention the fact that my face still stung.

  “We all have something to hide, a weak spot. Is there anyone who doesn’t?”

  “I suppose so. What do I know?” I said. “Still, there are plenty of people with nothing to be ashamed of. At least I think there are.”

  “If they couldn’t find anything, they’d arrange material for blackmail. That’s how I got involved. I was summoned to a luxurious house, one of our old customers. I didn’t expect any trouble. They filmed everything that happened that night. Then they drugged me and took photographs in which I seemed to be shooting up heroin. Just think about it, me and drugs. If the police got hold of the pictures I’d spend the rest of my life in prison. That’s how they reeled me in.”

  Sofya is terrified of the police. Her recurring nightmare involves being arrested and “rotting in jail.” Like any middle-class child, she’d been raised to fear imprisonment. Once, a long time ago, she’d been arrested on the job and kept in police custody for two nights. She talked about it for years. While her experience was nothing like Midnight Express, she emerged totally petrified. From the way she talked about it, you’d have thought she’d suffered even more than the character in that film.

  “So then what happened?”

  “Whenever I was needed they’d call me to appear in photos and films. Politicians, businessmen, celebrities, civil servants, and bureaucrats. The old, the young, the ugly . . . All sorts. They’d start by researching the sexual tastes of the victim: age preference, woman-girl-transvestite-homosexual-man. That pretty much covers everyone. A rendezvous would be arranged and I’d arrive. I’d make sure that the men were captured in the most compromising positions imaginable. There was always a hidden camera, of course. Rooms were kept reserved at even the biggest hotels. All varieties of film were produced, from underage gay sex to heroin parties and orgies. The blackmail victims were then recruited to help entrap others.”

  “They certainly knew what they were doing.”

  “Yes, they did.”

  “But didn’t anyone try to resist them? You mean, there wasn’t a single person prepared to stand up and fight them, and damn the consequences?”

  “Sweetie, we’ve all got our fears, something we’d hate to lose. The most basic example is the fear of being exposed to family, friends, spouses, and colleagues. Yes, of course there were those who refused to cooperate at first. At first they’d be all bluster and protests, but when the materials reached their family, they’d suddenly sing a different tune. No photos were ever leaked to the press. Well, maybe one or two. Their careers were over just like that, and they were replaced by newer, more pliable talent.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “Good. Now bring me everything you have on Süreyya Eronat.”

  I burst out laughing. It was the first time either of us had pronounced his name. He’d always been a mysterious presence, to which we alluded in the vaguest terms. Now, just like that, out popped his name from Sofya’s lips.

  “I swear I haven’t got a thing,” I said. “Someone broke into that flat before I got there. They must have taken whatever was there.”

  Her voice grew harsher and she sat up straight. “Let’s not start playing games again. Don’t you understand? I’m trying to save you.”

  “Why?”

  “I still love you, even if you don’t realize it. You’re like my own child. I get cross, I tell you off, but I still have motherly feelings for you.”

  “Don’t be ridiculous, Sofya! I’ve never known you to love anyone. Your whole life is a series of cold-blooded calculations.”

  “It’s hard for you to understand, but that’s the way I feel. I have no intention of trying to convince you. Believe what you will.”

  It was true that at one time she had acted like a rather oppressive mother. She had transformed me from an intellectual and naïve fag into a ravishing transvestite. Still, unless all the ingredients had been in place to begin with she’d never have managed it. She’d acted as my protectress and mentor for a while, advising me on everything from what to wear to which creams and lotions to apply. She’d even decide who I should sleep with.

  Next came our adventures in Paris. It’s true, there had been something maternal about her. But I ask you, which mother, no matter what the relationship with her child, would pimp her daughter to a string of men just to fatten her wallet? That’s exactly what Sofya had done.

  She’d have me believe that her maternal instincts had led her to handpick my gentleman callers. Accepting that she had acted out of love was as attractive an option as lapping up a puddle of vomit.

  We stared at each other. She had aged. She looked terrible without makeup. Without false lashes, there was nothing striking about her bleary green eyes; she had bags under them and a wattle developing under her chin.

  “So, you’re saying that unless I hand over the photos and letters they’ll kill me, too?” I asked.

  “It’s possible . . . anything is possible. They think you have them.”

  “Is that why you sent Süleyman after me? He tried to kidnap me. He was taking me to talk to someone. Of course, I got out of it, he was such a blockhead. Tell your friends that they should consider hiring more professional help.”

  Now she looked stunned.

  “I don’t know a thing about that,” she said. “They’d never tolerate amateurs.”

  With her index finger, she traced a line across her throat.

  “Do let them know. I kind of feel sorry for the poor guy.”

  “I didn’t know anything about it. Mind you, there’s a lot going on I know nothing about. B
ut they’d given me full responsibility for the photos. This is a surprise. I should have been informed. They must be running out of patience. They’ve been pushing me up against the wall . . . They’ve tortured me.”

  Suddenly, she was wracked with sobs. It wasn’t an act. Blubbering and snot mixed with her tears. After each word she’d bawl, or at least whimper messily.

  “If I don’t get you to hand it all over they’ll blame me. They expected me to get it from Buse, but I failed. I’m in a tight spot. First they accused me of holding on to it, of keeping something that lucrative for myself. They came after me . . . came down on me hard . . . tortured me . . .”