Buse was right when she told me that “the blind see with their hands.” The elderly lady also had a keen sense of smell. She’d immediately understood that I was wearing lady’s perfume.
“You’re Buse’s friend, aren’t you, my child? You don’t have to call her Fevzi. Even I started calling her Buse toward the end.”
I wanted to ask her what she was doing in Süreyya Eronat’s car, where she’d been hiding all this time, how she managed to disappear without a trace. But she placed her hand on my mouth so she’d be able to hear the imam. Closing her eyes, she began muttering a prayer, her lips twitching. When she closed her eyes I realized how full of pain her face was. The unseeing eyes masked a great deal when open. At the moment, though, the muscles around her eyes twitched, the corners of her mouth tightened, and her brow was furrowed. Each muscle told a separate tale of suffering.
I must have looked quite a sight with my upper body in the car, my bottom stuck outside. I accepted Süleyman’s invitation for the moment and got in. Although the doors were open, the air conditioner was on. It didn’t do much good, but the interior of the car was slightly cooler.
Sabiha Hanım ended her prayer with a nearly inaudible “Amen,” and I remembered to pray. I pronounced the Fatiha I had practiced with Satı Hanım before leaving the house. I suspect I missed a few verses, but I believe the intention is more important than the words themselves. I mean, if prayer really does any good at all, my version would do just as well.
From the stirring of the crowd I realized that the funeral namaz had ended. Wondering if Süreyya Eronat would act as one of the pallbearers, I quickly got out of the car for a better view. Süleyman suddenly turned around as I got out. I silently gestured to him that it was all right, that there was no reason for alarm. He returned to his original position.
Yes, indeed, right there in front of everyone, a corner of Fevzi/Buse’s coffin rested on the shoulder of Süreyya Eronat. What was most strange was the complete absence of the media, who usually followed his every move. Not a single photographer or TV camera. So the choice of a mosque in a secluded neighborhood of narrow streets hadn’t been entirely coincidental. The media hadn’t caught wind of it. Or they hadn’t been permitted to approach. Perhaps the entire neighborhood had been sealed off.
Süreyya Eronat spent no more than a few seconds carrying the coffin. He turned his spot over to another mourner. After shaking hands with a few people, he then returned to the car, surrounded as before by bodyguards.
The bodyguards formed a protective shield around him, but even so, the wall of flesh wasn’t enough to prevent a few people from shaking his hand, with one or two even managing to embrace and kiss him. I wasn’t surprised to see that one of those kissing his hand was none other than the law clerk husband of Aynur, the chubby-cheeked neighbor. That act of deference was to be expected from someone who hung a photograph of Süreyya Eronat in pride of place in the living room. Who knows what else the husband had done for him? It seemed that everyone I met was involved with either gangsters or the Hedef Party.
In order to allow Süreyya Eronat to slide into the car, the people were kept back. I, too, was pushed back into the watching crowd.
Once he was in the car, he looked out the window. When he saw me, his eyes remained fixed.
“If you please, we’ll drop you off. And we’ll have a talk on the way,” he said.
Instructed by a motion of his hand, the bodyguards tugged me toward the car. He was sitting in the back seat with Sabiha Hanım, and my enormous hat alone was reason for him not to invite me to sit beside them.
“In the front, if you please,” he said.
I did please. Now the bodyguards hustled me around to the other side of the car. The door opened. Removing my hat, I got in. A mini-convoy of three vehicles, off we drove.
I was holding the hat in my hand, unable to find anywhere to put it. I tried to place it on my lap, but it didn’t fit. Nor was there room between Süleyman and me or under my legs on the floor.
“If you’ll allow me, I’ll put it in the back window,” Süreyya Eronat offered. He was far more courteous and well spoken than I’d expected. I handed him my hat. Removing my dark glasses, I held them in one hand. Then I attempted to turn halfway around, so I could face him.
“Please fasten your seatbelt,” said Süleyman.
I did as I was told. With the doors closed, the air conditioner made itself felt. Cool air spread through the car.
“I’m listening,” I announced. Silence makes me edgy.
“First of all, I’d like to say that I appreciate all you’ve done,” he began. “I had you tracked, and know everything. I know that you tried to help us, to protect Fevzi, may Allah rest her soul in peace, and to reach Sabiha Teyze.”
So there had been hordes of spies following my every move for the past few days: Sofya’s gangsters on the one hand, Hedef’s henchmen on the other. And I hadn’t noticed a thing. I put it down to the fine line separating an amateur from a professional.
“Be at ease. We have everything you were looking for. We had it all from the beginning. There was no danger. I destroyed it all. With my own two hands.”
I wanted a more detailed explanation. Noting my look of surprise, he continued:
“The attachment I shared with Fevzi ended many years ago.”
I was made uneasy by the apparent ease with which he talked of this queer incident from his past—and right in front of the mother of the boy in question. Again, he sensed my feelings.
“Süleyman knows everything about me. He’s been at my side since he was a child, like an adopted son. I have nothing to hide from him.”
So were these secret and forbidden sexual needs now met by Süleyman? Had a transvestite with breasts been replaced by a strapping bodyguard? I turned and looked at Süleyman again. Without taking his eyes from the road, my Gary Cooper was listening. He spoke.
“Estağfurallah, sir. You’ve always treated me like a son.”
I wasn’t sure whether or not I detected passion in his voice, but, even if it was only the result of profound respect, his voice quavered. And here I was thinking that beautiful friendships, the kind that one spoke of in trembling tones, belonged only to a bygone era.
“Thank you, Süleyman,” he said. “If necessary, he’d lay his life on the line. Fortunately, that has not yet been Allah’s will.”
Sabiha appeared to have added deafness to her blindness, sitting without saying a word or reacting in any way. She fiddled with the wedding band on her left hand, turning it around and around on her finger. Süreyya placed a hand on hers.
“As for my dear teyze, she’s known everything for years. Allah alone knows more than she does.”
Sabiha shook her head and tears began streaming down her cheeks. Süreyya’s well-manicured, gentlemanly hand took both of her hands in his. And squeezed. Harder than would seem necessary as an act of condolence. I’m not sure how much it hurt, but the tears started coming faster.
“It’s no comfort to be told not to be upset. You’re grieving. It’s the will of God. There’s no avoiding it,” he said, his voice as icy as before.
Sabiha turned her face toward his voice. Süreyya pulled her onto his shoulder. They were like a mother and son, locked in an embrace. No, actually, they weren’t. Their ages were too close for that. Sabiha withdrew a handkerchief secreted in her sleeve, wiping her eyes and nose. Then she bit the corner of the handkerchief as she wept silently.
“My relationship with Fevzi ended, but not with my Sabiha Teyze. I would call by to kiss her hand when possible, and would definitely phone on holidays and kandil days. She’s like a mother to me. She has embraced me as a son, ever since the day we met. She also listened patiently to my troubles. I confided in her about everything. You know how Christians confess, rather like that. Whenever I was burdened with a problem, uncertain about how to proceed or weighed down by a guilty conscience, I would go to Sabiha. Tell her everything.”
What he said was moving, b
ut one thing was missing: emotion. He seemed totally devoid of feeling. His face remained impassive, and his dry voice was chilling. If I had read the words he was saying, I may have believed them; coming out of his mouth, they just weren’t credible.
“From now on, she is to live with me, as a member of my family. That much I owe her. Being of assistance, even in this small way, is my duty.”
I was being treated to a display of respect-affection-fear. It didn’t last long. Süreyya Eronat was as annoyed by Sabiha’s constant weeping as I was.
“That’s enough!”
He pushed Sabiha off of his shoulder, suddenly hard and authoritative. The theater was over. Scolded and slightly roughed up, Sabiha was quiet. I wondered why she was willing to sit like this at his side, then my thoughts moved on to her living in his house, forever under his control and in his grip.
“Long before I rose to my present position I was well aware that the photographs taken so long ago could one day emerge, to damage me. However, Fevzi was fiercely devoted to her memories. She did not want them destroyed. They were her memories, as well as mine. I respected her wishes for a time.”
We were now driving along the motorway. Through the tinted windows, it looked dark. It would be impossible to see us from outside. It was just what I’d expect of Süreyya Eronat. The windows were probably bulletproof as well.
“Later, Fevzi claimed to have destroyed the letters and photographs, but I didn’t believe her. I had her flat searched. There was no trace of them.”
Sabiha’s fear registered clearly on her chalky white face.
“At first I accepted as truth what she had told me. But then I began hearing rumors. I had to do something. I had no idea where she was hiding them. When I asked her, she denied it, repeating that she’d destroyed them.”
I congratulated her silently. Clearly, Buse—that is to say, Fevzi—had managed to string him along beautifully.
“I had been aware for some time that Fevzi was being harassed. But I didn’t interfere. Then Fevzi informed you where he had hidden the photographs.”
That’s right, she’d told me at the club. In my little office on the top floor. But how did Süreyya Eronat know about that?
“Naturally, this comes as a surprise to you,” he said. “Don’t trouble yourself trying to understand. Hasan was listening.”
So that was it. It was somewhat shocking: Hasan, my own Hasan! That’s right. Hasan had come into the room while I was talking to Buse. So that’s why Buse had seemed on edge.
“So is Hasan with you?” I asked, rather nervously.
It was hard to believe. What kind of relationship could Hasan have with the Hedef Party? He spent all his time sashaying around transvestites showing off his butt crack. And if he was involved with Hedef, what was he doing with Sofya?
I was answered with a courteous smile. That simple smile was expressive enough to earn an Oscar. The ability to convey so much with such a minimal amount of facial expression would have been the envy of any actor. The smile told me that Hasan was their informer, and a plant in Sofya’s gang. As well as at my club. That butt-baring pansy would get his comeuppance, that much I vowed to myself.
Süreyya Eronat once again read my mind.
“Don’t get the wrong idea, he has no direct links to us. Let’s just refer to him as a friend,” he suggested. “I’d like him to continue working for you. I think it would be more secure both for you and your club.”
There you go! I was being openly threatened.
“Now let’s move on to that fateful night. We also were informed only through the television news. Without hesitation, I went to visit my Sabiha Teyze. I knew she would need me.”
I wasn’t that gullible. He was after the photos and letters, of course. But I said nothing.
“In order to avoid any potential unpleasantness, I’ve kept her at my side from that point onwards.”
“You also stripped the flat of any written or printed materials,” I observed, unable to help myself.
“Exactly. We weren’t prepared to leave anything to chance.”
“How did you manage to keep things so quiet? That neighbor would notice a mosquito in the hallway, but she heard nothing.”
“You’re absolutely right,” he said, ending with a difficult-to-decipher smile. I was certain it was another Oscar-winning performance. But this time I couldn’t interpret it.
“The neighbors,” I mused out loud. “Now, what was his name, the court clerk . . .”
“That’s right,” he said. “You see, you’re very well informed. Brother Gökberk was most helpful. He took all necessary precautions in the apartment building.”
“But how?” I asked. “Everyone there is so nosy . . .”
“How true. He arranged a minor distraction. While everyone was occupied, our plans were quietly executed.”
I suddenly remembered the burned-out building on the same street as the Teksoy Apartment Building. I even recalled the acrid tang of smoke.
“A fire?” I asked.
Süreyya Eronat didn’t answer, contenting himself with a small smile. The meaning was clear. The man wasn’t required to give a stellar performance every other second.
For a short time we proceeded in silence. I hate sitting backward in moving vehicles. I get carsick. I was beginning to feel nauseated now. It wasn’t just my position in the car that did it, though. The things I’d learned, the twisted relationships, the self-serving calculations, the stab in the back from Hasan, the surprisingly militant partisanship of Chubby Cheeks’s husband, Gökberk . . . everything. I grimaced.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Yes, thank you,” I said. “I’m just a little carsick from sitting backwards.”
“Please make yourself comfortable. If you’d like, we’ll stop for a moment. Get a breath of fresh air. Süleyman?”
Süleyman instantly slowed down and began swerving toward the far-right lane.
“There’s really no need. I’m fine,” I said.
“As you wish.”
“I’d like to ask you something,” I said.
“Please do. I’d be happy to assist your understanding on any subject . . .”
“Why did you have Süleyman try to seduce me?”
He smiled. This time it was completely sincere.
“He was merely under instructions to escort you to me. But he may well have appreciated your charms. He was not acting on orders on that account.”
Süleyman blushed all the way up to his ears, but said nothing.
“There’s no reason to be embarrassed, Süleyman,” said Süreyya. “The charms and beauty of this young lady are obvious. If you like her, feel free to say so. We could arrange another invitation for her.”
I felt even more nauseated.
“D-don’t trouble yourself, sir . . .” stuttered Süleyman.
How blunt and discourteous! Did he mean to say that he had never been attracted to me? How right I was to have beaten him. Süreyya looked on, smiling.
“You gave him quite a pummeling, and injured his pride a bit. We weren’t expecting that.”
“I’m sorry if I hurt him,” I lied. I knew I had. “But I wish he’d told me what it was all about.”
“It wasn’t my place to tell you anything,” said Süleyman. He sounded like a wounded child. Because of the glare, when I looked over at his profile all I could see was his bobbing Adam’s apple. His eyes remained on the road, as usual. He didn’t so much as glance at me.
“I wish you’d have at least warned me with a note or a phone call. I got caught up with the blackmailers for no reason,” I said.
“You’re right, but your flat might have been under surveillance. I don’t take risks.”
Fair enough. It’s true, my house was being watched. And I still didn’t know whether or not I was being bugged.
Sabiha had stopped crying, but she’d turned her face toward the window to show she wasn’t listening. She gazed out at the passing scenery with unseei
ng eyes.
“But the media is bound to find out about this. You participated in a public funeral. You’ve taken a transvestite into your car. You’ve also taken under your protection—forgive me, Sabiha—the mother of another one. I mean, you’ve suddenly displayed for all to see exactly what it is you’ve been concealing all these years.”
“Efendim, an overly protected eye is inevitably pricked. We took all the necessary precautions. You’re right, it all may still come out. But then again, the fact that I’ve taken under my wing the elderly, blind mother of a man I’ll call my distant relative, will only reinforce my image. It only emphasizes that my party is prepared to embrace all sorts of people, the flexibility of our views. There’s nothing to worry about, in fact. Everything is proceeding under our control.”
The Kiss Murder Page 22
