In other chat rooms, he’s the perfect gentleman. If you respond in kind, he answers immediately. Then he starts boasting, telling you what a whiz he is when it comes to computer systems. Actually, he’s not half bad. As long as he doesn’t ask anything personal, I usually respond. He comes up with various cyber solutions, explaining how different programs can be used. And he never seems to tire of informing you how brilliant he is.
Because we both stick to the same nicks whenever online, we’ve developed a sort of virtual acquaintance. I can’t say we’re friends, but then again, who needs friends in cyber space?
As far as I can tell, Jihad2000 is a young, completely inexperienced and totally repressed closet homosexual. The girls sometimes egg him on, and then things really get going. I worry that one of these slanging matches will end with the site getting permanently shut down.
The second I got online, Jihad2000 appeared. He was in fine form. He had prepared all his messages in advance, ready to be floated in. So there was no way to respond. We were all quiet, reading what he’d written.
I skimmed through the list of nicks while waiting for his diatribe to end. I recognised a few names. Most of those in the room try to pass themselves off as super macho types. They choose names they think are provocative, or at least obscene. As I read through them, I kept an eye on Jihad2000’s messages. He was banging on about a transvestite who burned to death, who suffered the tortures of hell while still on this earth.
All eyes, I began concentrating. This was the first time he’d gone into such detail. He must have read about it in the newspaper, and been inspired.
(written in red characters)
PERVERTS
YOU HAVE STRAYED FROM THE PATH OF RIGHTEOUSNESS.
HAVE CHOSEN THE WAY OF SHIT
HELLAWAITS YOU!
THE INFIDEL WHO DIED TODAYWAS NOT THE FIRST
AND WON’T BE THE LAST!
HERETICS, PREPARE YOURSELVES !
A HOLYWAR HAS BEEN LAUNCHED!
YOU’RE NEXT!>
As always, his connection was cut as soon as he’d floated his message. Either one of our operators had kicked him out, or he’d bolted. I had too much on my plate to know which.
Thanks to Jihad2000, all hell broke loose. The room buzzed with panic. Those who hadn’t yet witnessed his antics showered the others with questions. Who died? Where? When? How? Who did it? Were religious fanatics responsible? Were we all doomed? It took some time for chat to return to normal. Using my webmaster code, I took a look at what he’d written earlier. I’d only caught the end, and wondered what I’d missed.
YOU ALL BLASPHEME.
YOU SEEK TO ALTER THE ALMIGHTY’S CREATION
DO YOU REALLY KNOW BETTER THAN THE
GREAT CREATOR?
YOU’RE ALL PERVERTS!
YOU’RE ALL DAMNED!
YOU WILL BE PUNISHED FOR YOUR SINS HERE ON EARTH!
ONE OF YOU WENT UP IN FLAMES!
THE SINNER IBRAHIM HAS BURNED!
THE WORLD HAS ONE LESS SINNER!>
The words really threw me. He’d gone too far. Why this hatred? Why this venom? I sensed a headache coming on.
One of the girls I know from the site opened a private window and asked me what was going on. I quickly summed it up for her. She hadn’t read the papers, and became upset. Then vindictive.
I’d had enough, and it was clearer than ever that I faced a migraine. I switched off the computer and went to the living room. It was almost time for my game show.
I never get the slightest pleasure out of game shows. I’m just addicted. It’s upsetting to realize how much more I know than the average contestant. Their lack of knowledge makes me cross; I curse their ignorant certainty. But I don’t miss a programme. I suspect this is a form of masochism.
The first contestant was a young woman, an Istanbul University student. Her glasses, straight hair parted down the middle and drab clothes lent her an intellectual air.
As I munched on spinach börek, I let her have it with my best insults. I didn’t expect her to hear. And if she had, what would she have made of me? I was on a roll. She was disqualified on the fifth question.
It concerned music terminology. She was asked to identify the odd one out from: symphony, sonata, opus and oratorio. Naturally, she wasn’t aware that opus refers to the numerical chronology of a composition. She chose oratorio, and was neatly eliminated. My headache had worsened to the point where I require medication. I turned off the TV.
I took a painkiller, and then started concentrating on redirecting energy flows. Exercise is best for this. I’m practised in Aikido and Thai-boxing. As long as I’m not faced with an armed opponent, there’s no one I can’t handle. For this reason alone, the neighbourhood shows me a certain respect. No matter how frivolous or flamboyant my outfits, I’m considered an abi, a big brother.
After tackling one of a growing number of purse snatchers, my standing in the neighbourhood increased still further, and not just in the eyes of the rescued victim, Hümeyra Hanim, a woman banker.
I generally exercise in my guest room, which is usually empty. I prefer working out to music, but my throbbing head demanded otherwise. Physical activity and a rush of adrenalin would ease the pain.
I finished my standard warm-up routine. Then I moved on to mid-air kicks, first single, then double. With a good leap, I can manage three short jabs with the same foot. In rapid succession, it’s enough to stupefy any adversary. With an even higher leap, my blows connect quite nicely with my adversary’s head.
Next, I moved on to forward and reverse hits. It’s easier when faced with an opponent. But you can’t always get what you want. I made do, working at switching legs in mid-air, which I’m not so good at. Sometimes I lose my balance. I need more practice.
I worked out until I was gasping for breath and soaked in sweat. But no trace remained of that headache. I sprinted to the shower.
Having decided to go to the club early, I began to get ready. When I’m feeling low, I dress simply. That is, no make-up and absolutely no glitz of any kind. I was ready in no time.
I wriggled into a white jersey halter-neck I found among my mother’s old clothes from the ’70s. Teamed with a red patent leather mini-skirt, it made me look like the Turkish flag. Then I slipped into a pair of ankle-laced, low-heeled sandals.
I considered replacing my clear nail varnish with red. But the thought of having to apply nail varnish remover to each toe put me off the idea If I fussed around any more, I’d be late for my rendezvous with Afet. I had to leave immediately. I called the taxi stand. I was certain Hüseyin, who’s practically my private chauffeur, would be the one to pick me up. And he was.
“Merhaba,” he greets me.
He paused, arm draped over the seat, turning back to give me a long look. Everyone at the stand knows this is around the time I go to the club. So had Hüseyin.
“What are you waiting for,” I asked. “Let’s get going.”
“You don’t give me so much as the time of day anymore.”
I’m not sure how I look at him. But he instantly turned round.
“I’m not in a very good mood tonight,” I apologised.
“Forgive me.”
He continued talking, as though to himself.
“Some people can make others feel better. But they’re never given a chance.”
He was flirting with me again. Persistent as ever. What’s more, he knows I resent being addressed by the familiar “sen”, rather than the formal “siz”. He was deliberately switching from one to the other.
Hüseyin never misses an opportunity to proclaim his passion for me. No matter how strongly I object, he persists, never losing hope. He follows me whenever possible, a bit like an unwanted shadow. When he isn’t giving me reproachful glances, though, he does manage to keep the car on the road.
I have told him dozens of times that he just isn’t my type
. But one day, in a moment of weakness, at a time when I needed love and affection, he had enjoyed my favours. That was it. He’s been after me ever since. I don’t like, nor am I capable of liking, men who beg. I prefer men with a sense of pride. Not clingers. If he really wants me, he’ll grab me by the arm, drag me off and take me. Of course, cultivating this air of helplessness is part of the act. And part of the fun. No one who really knows me would dare. Everyone in the neighbourhood is aware of my skills in Aikido and Thai boxing. As is Hüseyin. Perhaps he’s just biding his time.
Three
Cüneyt, the club bouncer, greeted me at the door. It was still early. He had nothing better to do than hold the door open for those arriving and leaving. But I’m special. After all, I am the boss, even if my stake in the club is a small one. And I am totally in charge.
As I got out of the taxi, Hüseyin, true to form, proposed returning to pick me up. Not straying from our well-established routine, I refused him.
“Boss,” observed Cüneyt, as he held open the door for me, “you sure treat that guy bad.”
I flashed upon him the look of contempt he so richly deserved.
“But then again,” he corrected himself, “who am I to . . . ”
“Exactly,” I snapped. Short and sweet.
Particularly when it comes to my employees, I have rather limited tolerance for presumptuous behaviour. That is, none. No one could expect anything different. That said, I do have a certain amount of sympathy for Cüneyt. If nothing else, the boy is just so comical. He makes me laugh. Then there is his showy body, a critical attribute for a club doorman and the result of nearly daily sessions at the gym. He is also so refreshingly simple. By that, I do not refer to his intelligence, but to his purity. His naivety, if you will. Cüneyt just has a different way of looking at things, a degree of empathy that even I find excessive. Most importantly, he approaches his job with the utmost seriousness.
The club was empty. DJ Osman, barman Sükrü and our waiter, Hasan, were huddled together talking. When they saw me, they sprang to attention.
“Is everything all right, boss?” asked Sükrü. “You’re early tonight.”
“I have an appointment. With Afet,” I answered.
“I’ll get your Virgin Mary immediately,” said Sükrü. It is my habit to have my drink ready and handed to me the moment I enter the club. Then again, there was no way he could have known that I would arrive early.
Taking advantage of the absence of customers – or rather, my absence – Osman was playing his favourite ear-splitting heavy metal. With the club empty, and the lack of a general din to absorb the thudding, the music was even more violently audible than usual.
Taking his cue from my severe expression, Osman rushed to the DJ booth to change the music.
I wa left alone with Hasan.
“Merhaba,” he greeted me. “Did you find out anything?”
“Not really,” I admitted. “It’s clear she didn’t die in that house. I smell a rat. I’m afraid the girl suffered.”
“I got to thinking after I talked to you . . . You’re right. There’s definitely something funny going on here.”
“The police won’t bother to look into it. They’ve already closed her file.”
“You’re right,” he agreed. “But there are still municipality and fire department investigations.”
It was now my turn to agree.
We looked at each other for a moment in silence. Osman had changed the music to some kind of elevator muzak. He returned, fighting off a smirk. In the middle of the table, a glass of mandarin soda, over half full, awaited him. No one else in the club drinks mandarin soda. None of the customers have ever ordered one. But it is the only thing he touches. Two cases a month are brought in for his personal use.
“What’s this music you’re playing?” I demanded.
“Adiemus. New Age. It’s a new group. Great isn’t it?” To add insult to injury, he was poking fun at me. New Age is one of the forms of music I simply don’t comprehend. Paul Mauriat, Franck Pourcel, Francis Lai and even Fausto Papetti have been playing this kind of music for years. The only difference is that they perform with an orchestra, not synthesisers and the piping of a flute. Nowadays, intellectuals have elevated this sort of music into an art form. Why the double standard? What have the others been doing wrong all these years? A succession of critics has slammed them. All right, I don’t think much of their work either, but I don’t see the difference. Do you?
“Look here!” I snapped. “Don’t push me. Go put on something decent!”
“Right, boss,” he said, straight back to the DJ booth.
Once again, Hasan and I were tête-à-tête.
“I tried to reach Gül. But I failed.”
Hasan spoke of failure, but he is in fact extremely gifted. What’s more, he’s sharp as a pin. He also loves gossip; he makes a point of inspiring and encouraging it. And he’s shameless about spreading stories. If there’s nothing to repeat, he just makes something up. There’s something crafty about everything he does. He thirsts for treachery and duplicity. He’s also the number one accomplice of Sofya, the patron saint of such matters.
Halfway to the booth, Osman turned to shout: “Turkish or foreign?”
“Turkish! But no wailing. And nothing too fast.”
I wouldn’t put it past him to go and play Mahsun Kirmizigül, a Kurdish arabesque singer who wails along to a disco beat and goes by the stage name “Sad Red Rose”. Then I’d have an excuse to give him a good thrashing. In any case, I have been looking for a way to let off some steam.
“As you know, Ceren’s been hanging out with Gül lately,” Hasan continued.
“I learned that from you.”
My Virgin Mary arrived. There were still no customers, so Sükrü joined us at the table.
“No one knows where Gül is,” observed Hasan, adding, “Sükrü sweetie, could you get me a soda with ice?”
“Why didn’t you ask when I was at the bar? I just got here.”
“Sorry about that. I forgot.”
You’d have to be a fool not to realise that Hasan was doing this on purpose. The kids at the club tell me any number of stories about how he promotes himself to manager in my absence and give them all a hard time. But then again, he can be so appealing. It’s difficult to get cross with Hasan. He has a lovable quality, “a hair of the devil” as the saying goes, and is on intimate terms instantly with everyone. That is, he is nothing like me. Although he hasn’t allowed Sükrü to sit for even a moment, there will be no grudges. It is still to Hasan that Sükrü will first reveal his secrets. Naturally, Hasan will then come and repeat them to me.
“Who is this Gül?” I asked.
“She’s new,” Hasan answered. “Very young. A pink and white thing.”
Sükrü returned with an iced lemon soda, and jumped into the conversation.
“I saw her once. She was a real piece of Turkish delight.
Something to nibble on. You get the picture.” Even Sükrü has shining eyes as he describes her. “But I kept my distance. She was jail bait.”
“What do you mean?” I quizzed him.
“She was sixteen at most,” explained Hasan. “She came here twice, but we didn’t let her in.”
“She didn’t even have a beard yet,” Sükrü pointed out.
They know my unbending rule. No customers under eighteen years of age. I loathe complications. I don’t want the police on our backs for something as silly as that. There are clubs that let them in, that serve them drinks. But my club is not, and will never be, one of those establishments.
The door opens, and Cüneyt showed in Afet. Her hair was gathered into a tight bun. As a result, the angular lines of her face were even more strained than usual. Clearly, she had spent at least an hour applying eye makeup. Less than half a metre of cloth had been used to clothe her in a creation that passed for a dress, and sequins were liberally applied all across her throat and breasts. Afet totters precariously on that thin li
ne dividing the ridiculously strange from the strangely beautiful. Her feet are large, even for a transvestite. Even so, she had chosen to emphasise them, spilling out of tiny high-heels. As usual, knees slightly bent, she appeared poised to leap forward.
While it was quite a show, it is far from my idea of true elegance.
As the proprietor, I rose to greet her. We exchanged air kisses.
“Don’t ask! I found out after you phoned. Ceren is dead, abla,” she began. “I’m simply shattered.”
We settled at a table away from the boys. Hasan immediately came up to ask what we’d like to drink.
“Whisky,” she said. “No ice. You have got Johnny Walker?”
“Of course,” said Hasan, indignant.
“One of those, then.” She turned to me and continued. “They said a fire broke out at her flat. I was terrified. We live in the same building, you know. Then I realised I was being ridiculous.
I mean, I’d surely notice a fire in my own apartment. Wouldn’t I, abla?”
I do not enjoy being referred to as “abla”. Not one bit. But now was not the time for a warning. First, I’d learn all I could, then I’d put her in her place. For now, I settled for a smile.
The whisky arrived. She beamed her thanks. Screwing up her face, she took her first sip.
“Ohhh . . . That does the trick,”
I didn’t ask her the reason for the facial contortions.
“So you found out about it,” I said. “She died in an abandoned building in Tarlabai.”
Afet leapt on the information. “What on earth was she doing there? Of course, it’s true she had a total disregard for danger. And all she cared about was putting aside some money. She was determined to have the operation, as you know. Then she said she would get a house, a car and a handsome, young husband. But sweetie, there is just no way anyone would go off with a bunch of strange men to some forsaken spot on Tarlabai! Well tell me. Is there?”
The Prophet Murders Page 2
