Pictures of children were fastened with magnets to the fridge. Two boys, both with his thick head of hair. They were fairer than their father. Or it could be that age has darkened his hair, and tennis and the solarium his skin. It was difficult to guess the ages of the boys, but it would be at least another ten years, maybe even a dozen, before they would be of any use. What’s more, I prefer mature sorts, like their father.
I rummaged through the fridge while waiting for the kettle to boil. Like most bachelors, his was empty except for a couple of bottles of white wine, milk, eggs, types of cheese and a variety of exotic sausages. Also, bottles of health tonics and energy drinks. I examined the label of one of them. If the bottle really contained what it claimed to, I would become still hornier after drinking its contents. I put it back. The water was now boiling in any case.
I put a lemon teabag into a cobalt blue mug with gilded edges. I didn’t fill it to the brim with hot water, removing the tea bag and adding room temperature water so I could drink it right away.
The newspapers had arrived. I took my tea and the papers into the living room. It had an amazing view of the Bosphorus. Lit up from behind, the Asian shore seemed almost ghostly. It was a crisp, bright day. The sun streams in. Putting aside the paper, I decided to enjoy the scenery, the beauty of which I had failed to appreciate fully the previous night.
Before me lay a bird’s eye view of the Bosphorus from the hills of Ulus. Ships were gliding through the dark blue sea. A grove of pines stood between the house and the water. A brilliant emerald. I recalled how much of Istanbul’s greenery has disappeared, and sighed. My grandmother’s claim that “Istanbul didn’t use to be half this green; the hilltops along the Bosphorus were totally bare,” didn’t stop me from indulging in a false nostalgia for “green Istanbul”.
Captivated by the view, I sipped my tea. It was still far too early for me to hit the street. And he didn’t seem to have any intention of waking up just yet. My stomach grumbled, but I was certainly going nowhere near that oatmeal. A fruit bowl contained two peaches. I ate them both.
Then I made another tea. I settled into the same deep leather chair. As the morning light changes, watching the Bosphorus is like viewing a film. The opposite shore was now illuminated in a completely differently way. Each and every moment had a visual drama all its own.
From somewhere inside I could hear the sound of a toilet flushing, followed by gargling. So Cengiz had got out of bed. I shifted into a more alluring pose. He was soon at my side. Also naked. As always with those proud of their bodies.
He was smiling.
“You’re up early,” he remarked.
He leaned down to kiss me, his breath smelling of mint mouthwash.
Sitting down in the armchair opposite, he began scrutinising me. His eyes were still bleary with sleep; I couldn’t tell what he was looking at, or how it affected him.
“You’re quite something like this too.”
I knew it. I know men like Cengiz. He was intending to go at it again. I simply smiled.
He rose, came to my side and kissed me again. He was full of desire. But I was not. I stood up and slipped free.
“The kettle’s boiled. I’ll go make you a cup of tea.”
Cengiz moved into my chair as I headed for the kitchen.
When I brought in his tea he thanked me. He was looking at the newspaper. His morning passion had subsided.
“Another transvestite’s dead. Have you seen this?” he asked.
“It was in the paper yesterday. A fire,” I answered.
“No, not that,” he said. “Another one. Drowned in a cistern. Have you seen it?”
I hadn’t. The paper had been there all morning, but I hadn’t even scanned the headlines. So much for relegating transvestite deaths to the third page.
A dead transvestite a day. It was truly upsetting. Yesterday Ceren, and then today. . . Gül! Even in the regulation snapshot she was breathtakingly beautiful. And, according to the paper, all of seventeen.
Gül was found dead in a well in Kücükyali. It is no longer used because of the new coastal road. The cause of death was drowning. The coroner’s office is investigating.
I must have looked as distraught as I felt. Cengiz perched on the arm of my chair. He stroked my shoulder without a word.
At first, I was annoyed; then I felt comforted.
Six
Could it all be a coincidence? First Ceren, and then young Gül, her hooking partner, were found dead. It didn’t seem at all normal to me.
One died in Tarlabasi, far from her home, in a fire in an abandoned building. The other drowned in a well belonging to an unused house, on the Asian shore of Istanbul, in Kücükyali, a neighbourhood not particularly fruitful for transvestites. The two girls were friends. While it’s true that genuine friendships are the exception among us, they did at least have an intimate working relationship. Perhaps Gül, so new to the scene, hoped to build herself a new life by working with the more experienced Ceren.
When I get home I begin surfing newspapers on the internet for more information. Nothing I found seemed significant.
Gül’s real name was Yusuf Seçkin. She was from the Black Sea. So Sükrü to must have been referring to her general complexion when he described her as “pink and white”.
It was particularly noteworthy that she became a transvestite while still a mere child. Morals and national values are apparently in jeopardy. I decided, as soon as possible, to crash the website claiming this. This sort of thing doesn’t happen through mere imitation, or because of a so-called role model.
There was no news of the child-transvestite’s family.
Abandoned wells are a grave public threat. What is the municipality doing? Measures must be taken. The reporter and editor responsible for drawing such lessons from the death deserved a good thrashing.
Next, I of course rang Hasan.
“Sükrü fell apart when he heard the news. I’ve been trying to comfort him,” he said. “You know he was such a fan.”
“What do you know?” I demanded.
“Nothing at the moment. If I find out anything I’ll let you know,” he assured me.
I showered at Cengiz’s, but he’d been unable to keep his hands off me, and I felt sticky. I took a quick shower and got ready to go out. It’s best to go to the morgue looking like a real gentleman. They would have the most detailed account of the deaths.
A small bribe and a smile should get me the information I needed. I managed to reach the doctor on duty after getting past her insubordinates. She was a particularly ugly woman, and I hesitated on whether or not to pay her a compliment on her appearance.
I decided to be merely gracious. I explained my problem in moving tones. I appealed to her conscience. While I doubted that such a thin, dried-up vessel could possibly harbour anything resembling a conscience, I suppressed that thought.
She watched me intently, without speaking.
“And are you one of them?” she asked.
I despise such questions, which I find them overly aggressive. I don’t claim to “pass”. But, given my general condition, outfit and two-day stubble, I was a bit shaken by being asked so directly.
Madame doctor smiled at me knowingly.
“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “Some of my best friends are gay. I have no problem with it.”
If she expected her indulgence to be rewarded with gratitude, she was sadly mistaken. I detected a hint of malice in her words. My reserves of tolerance are limited. I felt myself getting annoyed.
“Are you going to help me?” I asked.
“We’ll see.”
She did not say what we would see or even what she expected from me. The words “hideous bitch” passed through my mind.
She was still giving me the once over. I responded by doing the same. Actually, the general contours of her face were not entirely objectionable, and each of her appendages, when viewed independently, was more or less normal. But the sum of her parts was a repul
sive sight indeed. Her badly dyed hair had become the colour of flesh, and over-enthusiastic applications of hairspray had produced an impenetrable helmet. Apart from being merely puffy, it had no style what so ever. She looked like a schoolmistress who stands ready, ruler in hand, to pounce on the first schoolboy to giggle.
There was no wedding ring, which was unsurprising. Her eyebrows had been plucked nearly to extinction, and were thin, arched and shaped like parentheses. They contributed to the general tension of her face. Her makeup was virtually nonexistent, but managed to be disastrous none the less.
She pursed her lips as she stared.
“I’m doing some research,” she revealed.
I knew full well and immediately that any such research would result in no good. But I kept my mouth shut.
“On homosexuals,” she elaborated.
“So?” I prompted her.
“I would like you to participate.”
I was unable to resist asking the nature of her research. I had every right to learn what I faced and whether or not it was worth the information I sought.
She aggressively twirled her pen. Obviously she was weighing her words, wondering how to get an affirmative response out of me.
“Our research focuses primarily on vice cases and homosexuals who have applied for treatment to the venereal clinic.”
I was astonished. Apparently, some of the girls check into the clinic of their own accord. I’d been under the impression that they were ushered to the hospital after being rounded up during police raids. The girls choose only the best doctors and private hospitals. Being sent to the venereal clinic is more of a punitive measure, like going to jail.
“The research is of a practical nature and concerns changes and deformation exhibited by the sphincter.”
I wondered if I’d heard her right.
“Meaning?”
I didn’t care if she found me ignorant. I needed to know her exact intentions concerning my bottom.
“Basic measurements,” she explained. “We measure alterations in the constriction of the sphincter. As well as deformation exhibited by the rectum and surrounding areas.”
“I think I understand,” I gently murmured.
“Oh. And there’s also a brief survey,” she added. “Questions concerning your past sexual history, experiences, frequency of intercourse and so forth. Naturally, you are not required to use your real name.”
“I’m happy to fill out a survey, but I have no intention of revealing my rectal details.”
She was astonished by my reluctance.
“We won’t hurt you. It may smart just a bit.”
“That’s not the problem. It’s just the idea of a metal instrument entering my bum.”
What was the name of that instrument? Something like a gyroscope or a periscope. I got annoyed at not being able to remember.
“Rectoscopy,” she informed me.
“No thank you.”
“You know best,” she said, leaning towards the papers in front of her.
When she saw I remained in the chair, she fixed her eyes on me, without raising her head.
“And now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.”
Yuck! She’d obviously grown up with Turkish films of the ’60s. What kind of line was that?
She had no intention of helping me. Until she had measured my sphincter, conducted a rectoscopy, handled and investigated my arse, she would reveal nothing concerning Ceren and Gül. That much was clear.
Actually, there was no need for her to tell me anything. Letting me glance through the files would be enough. She looked at me like a teacher’s pet about to tattle.
I got up.
Seven
Iran into Gönül at the door of the forensic department. This, the most ignorant and impudent member of our little circle, tends to make an appearance either at the forensic department or at funerals.
As always, she was in tears. She was wearing a loose print skirt covered with a busy pattern and held up, I suspected, by an elastic waist band. Hanging down to the ground, it was teamed with a white T-shirt emblazoned with a peacock design in sequins. Spotting me, she paused and fixed me with a long, hard look.
“You owe me a meal.”
It was not quite what one would expect as an opening line, particularly from somebody so histrionically weeping.
“A promise is a promise,” I assured her.
“But I’ve lost your phone number. How do I find you?”
I gave her my number again. The one at the office, where it’s most difficult to reach me. I go there once a week at most, but the secretary takes messages.
Her grief implied that she was bosom buddies with Ceren and Gül. I asked for confirmation.
“What have I to do with Ceren? She was real scum. Yusuf is another story. I’m crying for him.”
She resumed sobbing.
“I brought him here from Rize. He was a blonde Laz boy, all pink and white, with hair like corn silk. He was just like a girl. And wanted so badly to be one. I took him along with me for company. But then that whore Ceren separated us.”
I was on the scent. Gönül bursts into tears again. It was going to be impossible to get any more information out of her here. If I got her on her own, though, who knows what she would tell me.
“What do you say to a bite to eat now?” I suggested.
A smile slowly crept across her face, a face now nearly devoid of makeup. She was determined to get that promised meal. Gönül pointed to the forensic building.
“Let me just find out what’s going on,” she said.
“I’ll wait,” I told her.
“Promise?”
I promised. And confirmed it with a wink. She responded with a flirtatious kiss, then disappeared into the dreary forensic building.
I waited for nearly half an hour. She finally appeared, muttering to herself.
“I told them I was her guardian. What nasty people! No help at all. Anyway, there was this lady doctor. A pitiful, pig-headed thing. She’s doing some kind of study; she told me to come tomorrow morning on an empty stomach.”
Gönül told me all this in a single breath. Then inhaled deeply. I was certain she had no idea what awaited her the next day. There was no need to sabotage myself by telling her about the rectoscopy. I held my tongue.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“Wherever you like.”
“Would you go to Beyolu?”
“Of course.”
“So you won’t be embarrassed to be seen with me?”
“Of course not. Don’t be stupid,” I reassured her.
“If you’d rather not, just tell me. I don’t mind. Some people would rather not be seen with me.”
She had a strange habit of swallowing her ‘r’s. I hadn’t noticed it before. Perhaps she believed it gave her an air of refinement.
“What do you mean,” I protested. I took her arm and steered her towards the taxi rank.
The moment we sat down, I gave in to my curiosity.
“Tell me everything,” I demanded.
“Not in the taxi,” she refused. “I’ll tell you at the restaurant.”
Something had happened to the nightingale of a few moments earlier. She’d got it into her head to be bashful in front of the taxi driver.
“Why don’t we get out in Tünel or Galatasaray? Then we can walk to Taksim,” she suggested.
“Where would you like to eat?” I asked.
“You decide. I chose the area; you choose the restaurant. You’re paying; it’s up to you.”
I racked my brain, trying to think of an out-of-the-way place where we could speak openly and not be harassed by anyone. I came up empty.
True to form, Gonül began flirting with the driver. We all have our peculiarities. From what I’ve heard, the mere sight of a hand gripping a steering wheel is enough to seduce Gönül. Type and age are minor details to be dealt with later.
“Brother, where are you from?” she began.
Our driver was from Idir.
When Gönül heard the word “Idir” she inhaled so deeply you’d think she was sniffing at the elixir of eternal youth. The driver turned around with an alarmed expression.
“You really know how to handle a car,” she continued.
I felt a slow flush creeping up to my forehead. The driver began watching us in his rear-view mirror. There was no mistaking who and what we were, but he seemed uncertain how to respond.
We crossed Unkapani Bridge and were approaching the crossroads in Kasimpaa. The driver asked the standard question.
“Galatasaray or Tünel? Which’ll it be?
Gönül seized the chance to get him involved.
“Which do you think would be better?” she fluted.
I was sure Gönül was kicking herself for not sitting in front.
“I mean, we’re grabbing a bite to eat. Is there a place you’d recommend? Maybe you know somewhere nice?”
I looked out of the window to conceal my embarrassment. The dark driver was staring at me in the mirror. I flushed even deeper.
“You’re welcome to come with us.” Gönül suddenly turned to me. “That’d be all right, huh? For my sake, abla?”
On top of everything else, referring to me, while dressed as a man, as “big sister”! I didn’t know what to do. Why on earth would the taxi driver come to eat with us? He hadn’t said a word, just looked at us in the mirror. Because we didn’t give him directions, he opted to turn into Tünel, and was now heading for Galatasaray.
“I’m just wild about Eastern men.”
Everything Gönül says, no matter what it is, verges on the obscene. And her facial expressions are fit only for porn.
“In fact, I’m from the East myself. From Van.” She was clearly flirting, while licking her lips non-stop like some actress in a German sex flick.
“There’s nothing like the men out East.”
The driver turned out to be a real gentleman. He turned into Tepebas,i, and then stopped at Odakule.
The Prophet Murders Page 4
