The Prophet Murders

by Mehmet Murat Somer

  “Just one more thing,” I said. I mentioned the address in Ataköy. “Could we find out who owns the flat and who’s using it?”

  “It’s as good as done.”

  I thanked him again.

  Would it make any sense for me to travel to Van, in the east, Antalya, down south, and Rize, all the way up on the Black Sea? Even if I went to them all, would it make a bit of difference?

  Despite the early hour, I called Hasan. The phone rang repeatedly before he finally picked up, cursing under his breath.

  “I know it’s a bit early, but I haven’t been able to sleep. I was wondering about something. Who went off with Adem Yildiz when he came to the club the other night?”

  Hasan was still sleepy, and it took him some time to understand what I was getting at. I repeated my question.

  “I don’t know,” he said. “I can’t remember. There were a lot of them at the table. Ahmet Kuyu and the others. Girls were coming and going all night. A bunch went off together. They left a big tip, but I can’t remember who went with them.”

  “You’ve got to find out,” I said. “I need to know which of the girls left with them.’

  “I’ll find out. But I’m afraid there was more than one girl. There was a whole group of them together.”

  “All right,” I said. “Find out as quick as you can who they were.”

  “Good morning,” Ponpon sang out from her room.

  “Ayol, what’s going on in there? Even the earliest bird hasn’t found the worm yet. What’s the commotion?”

  She came in wearing a kimono; pinkies cocked, she modestly held the front closed. It was black, and every inch was covered with embroidery. She raised her eyebrows as she spoke. On her feet were Japanese slippers. The nails of her enormous feet were painted a pale pink.

  Taking tiny steps, she came over and kissed me. Then she sat down opposite. She carefully draped the kimono around her legs. Slowly, ever so slowly, she crossed them. Then she fussed once more with her kimono.

  “What about my coffee?”

  My unwanted guest wanted service as well.

  I went to the kitchen to top up my coffee and prepare hers. I’d already had far too much of the stuff. I’d begun drinking before sunrise. In a single morning, I’d drunk more than I usually consume in a week.

  “So what have you found out?” her voice floated out.

  “I’m coming,” I said.

  “You left me all alone last night.”

  “You were asleep.”

  “So what,” she protested. “Why do you think I came here in the first place? Because I was afraid of being alone. And what did you do? You went off and left me.”

  “Would you like milk in your coffee?”

  “Please . . . But not too much. Two drops or so. And two sugars!”

  She’d added the last bit because she knows I don’t take sugar. I always forget to add sugar for my guests.

  I started talking about this and that, not going into detail because I know how panicky Ponpon can be. She’d get scared while I was out.

  “You’re really exaggerating,” she said. “Sweetie, we’re all named after holy men. I mean, all right, there are some with new, modern, made-up names. But for God’s sake, how many? enerally only the young ones. Which doesn’t apply to us. And there are some with Central Asian Turkic names. That’s it.”

  There was no trace of the Ponpon who only the previous night had been fearing for her life.

  “So?” I said.

  “What I mean to say, sweetie, is if you dig deep enough we’ve all got suspect names.”

  I was thrilled to see her so nonplussed, and hoped it would last.

  We’d sipped about half our coffee when the doorbell rang. A well-built policeman stood in the doorway, his motorcycle helmet under his arm and a large yellow envelope in his hand.

  “Commissioner Selcuk Taylanc sent this,” he informed me.

  As I took the envelope I examined him from head to toe.

  I ignored Ponpon’s cry of “Who is it?”

  I have a weakness for these black leather motorcycle outfits. And it’s a fact that the best-looking policemen are selected for special services. They are in a completely different league from the ones responsible for traffic infractions and passport checks.

  It seemed pointless to get horny at this time of day, with so much to do and Ponpon sitting inside. In any case, the boy didn’t seem interested. I thanked him and closed the door.

  Ponpon was even more curious than me. She grabbed one of the dossiers. We sat across from each other, reading. Apart from her asking me the meaning of every medical term she encountered, and her tiny shrieks of horror when I answered, we read the reports right through to the end.

  Both of the corpses exhibited evidence of sodomy. There were no more details about Ceren, whose body had been badly burned. But her internal organs were apparently undamaged. Traces of blood and sperm, damaged by heat, were found in her anus. What a surprise! The report was unable to determine exactly how long Gül had remained in the water. Despite the extensive swelling, the police had identified signs of trauma to her body. Her anus exhibited signs of forced entry. No traces of drugs or medication were found in her blood.

  The contents of their stomachs had been analysed and the report contained details of what they had eaten, and when. There were detailed descriptions of their skin, eyes, hair and other physical characteristics. Excessive doses of oestrogen were found in Ceren’s body. Despite its charred state, “deformations” had been detected in her chest and buttocks.

  I read the reports stony-faced, but I was badly shaken. So was Ponpon. We avoided eye contact.

  “But this is just too nauseating,” she cried. “I woke up hungry for breakfast. Now I’ve lost my appetite.”

  “You said it.” I agreed. “Me too.”

  I left Ponpon in front of the television and got on the internet. It was time to look up Jihad2000.

  It didn’t take long to find him. I summarised everything. I explained about Musa, Muhammet and Yunus-Funda. He was sorry he didn’t know anything about them. He said he’d found out what he could.

  I also asked him to investigate “adam-star”, “starman” and “*adam”. I just had too much to do, and he was in front of the computer all day anyway. Not only would it be a lot easier for him, it would save me a lot of time.

  He asked when I would visit again. I told him I was busy these days, and that I wouldn’t be able to commit myself until I’d settled everything.

  I hesitated to provide him with the name Adem Yildiz. Then I decided to. After all, there was no point in my getting mixed up with that filth unless I really had to.

  Fifteen

  From what Hasan was able to piece together, Adem Yildiz and Ahmet Kuyu had left the club accompanied by Aylin, Vuslat and Demet.

  I wanted to arrange an interview with all three girls. I could have handled things on the phone, but thought it best to meet face-to-face. It would also give me a chance to escape Ponpon’s morning rituals. While I appreciate the importance of a thorough skin maintenance regime, Ponpon had embraced a daily ceremony the likes of which I’d never once encountered, whether in real life, books or film. It involved the application of every kind of cosmetic and natural preparation imaginable, in ways that aren’t so easy to imagine.

  I left as she began pulverizing parsley in the blender for her morning mask.

  As I made my way to Aylin’s house in the Ciraan district of Beikta, something occurred to me. Would it be possible to analyse the sperm found on the bodies, even though they had been damaged in the fire and water? If there really were traces of sperm in the anuses of Gül and Ceren, an obvious indication that they had had sexual intercourse just prior to their deaths, would an analysis be able to indicate who their partners were?

  The answers to such questions were not in my realm of expertise. I would have to ask someone with a background in forensics. I did know, though, that such tests became more inconclusive the l
ater they were conducted. That hag of a lady doctor could be of use to me. But at what price!

  I love this neighbourhood. Despite its location in the very heart of Istanbul, it seems to me to capture everything that makes the city special: To one side is the Bosphorus; on the other, it is bordered by an enormous park, a virtual forest; charming buildings line steep cobbled streets. Most importantly, people still greet each other with günaydin every morning, the corner shop owner and butcher are locals, and the overall atmosphere is one of neighbourliness.

  Aylin’s tiny garden apartment boasts slices of Bosphorus view from between the buildings in front of hers. She had just awoken, and hadn’t yet shaken off her morning grogginess. Opening the door a crack, she poked out her nose. She was astonished to see me.

  “Merhaba hubby,” she greeted me. “Welcome . . . ”

  The girls just love referring to their clients as “hubby”. Some of them find it strange that I sometimes opt for men’s clothing. That’s what was probably behind the matrimonial reference.

  “I need to have a talk,” I told her.

  “Come right in, ayol,” she said.

  We sat down.

  The grace and beauty of her body was truly enchanting. She rivalled anything you’d see in a Playboy centrefold spread. Her newly acquired breasts were rather small and pert, in contrast to the Dolly Parton model that are all the rage. Like the proud owner of any new toy or bauble, she was determined to show them off. She was topless. Below, she wore only a pair of shorts.

  After a brief discussion of the weather, she sipping a can of cola, me drinking a glass of water, we finally came to the point.

  “The night before last,” I said, “You went off with Ahmet Kuyu and company.”

  “Don’t even remind me,” she said. “You know what he’s like.”

  “What happened; what did the two of you get up to?” I asked.

  “You know what I’m like,” she said. “Once the money’s been handed over I’m on for anything. There’s no whining about what I will or won’t do. So long as he doesn’t mess up my face, he’s welcome to beat me once he’s paid up.”

  As I listened to her, I felt a knot in my stomach.

  “Ahmet Kuyu is one of those. You know. . . ”

  “What do you mean?”

  “Aman! Whenever he’s got a bit of cash in his pocket there’s nothing he likes more than roughing up one of the girls. The more you scream and throw yourself about the more turned on he gets. I’ve got the guy sussed . . . ”

  As she spoke, she toyed with her breasts. She cupped them, pushed them up from below to make them stick out further, circled her nipple with an index finger and all the while gazed down at them, entranced. Needless to say, she contorted her lips into a series of expressions designed to complement the gymnastics of her breasts.

  “Actually, what they really expect is for you to play along with them,” she said. “I’m good. I scream to high heaven, throw myself at their feet, beg and plead . . . He was really taken with me. But it was the other idiot who paid the bill.”

  “Which one?”

  “Not Adem Yildiz, the other one. You know, the one dressed like some kind of accountant.”

  So she knew full well who Adem Yildiz was. He hadn’t even bothered to keep his identity secret.

  “So what did Adem Yildiz do?” I asked.

  “What do I know, abla? He wasn’t what you’d call chatty. He just sat there, asking everyone what their name was.”

  So it’s true he had a thing for names.

  “What’s your real name?” I asked.

  “Seçkin,” she said. “My name is proof I’m queer. My brothers were named Mustafa and Reat, after our grandfathers, but by the time they got to me there weren’t any grandfathers left, so I was called Seçkin. It was a fashionable name at the time. When my dad found out I was queer he said, ‘Just look what that name did to him!’”

  Now she ran the cola can down between her breasts, trying to hold up the empty can with them. It slipped down to her lap.

  “Were you with Adem Yildiz?’’

  “No way, ayol,” she said. “He’s a chicken hawk. I guess I was a bit too mature for him. But I still think he’s the one who paid me. Where would Ahmet Kuyu get his hands on so many dollars?”

  She cursed the can as it slipped off her lap and dropped to the floor.

  “Did they pay in dollars?”

  “Naturally. . . They’re special customers with special tastes. The payment’s got to be special too, don’t you think?”

  “You have a point,” I agreed.

  “So abla, what’s come out of all of this? Now that I’ve answered your questions what have you solved?”

  I laughed.

  “Actually, not a thing.”

  “Oh . . . Youmean to tell me I’ve told you all this for nothing?” she asked.

  “No, not at all. It’ll come in handy one day.”

  “Good,” she said, and resumed playing with the cola can.

  “What did the other girls do that night?” I asked.

  “I’ve got no idea.”

  She was concentrating on her breasts again, playing with her nipples.

  “They’re real beauties, aren’t they?”

  “They’re incredible,” I complimented her.

  “I’m just crazy about them. I could spend the whole day admiring them and still not get my fill.”

  “You’ll get used to them,” I said.

  “Of course,” she said, suddenly contrary. “Of course I will. It’s not as though I could spend the rest of my life worshipping my tits, is it? I’m playing with them a lot now so the novelty will wear off quicker.”

  “Who slept with whom that night?” I asked.

  “I think Adem Yildiz was with Dolly Vuslat. I told you he was a chicken hawk.”

  “Do you know what they did?”

  “Ay, of course not,” she said. “How am I supposed to know? I left as soon as I was done. I’m not one for spending the night and all that. The girls were still there . . . I didn’t actually see them. But I’m pretty sure they were there.”

  “Didn’t you talk to them later?”

  “What about? What have I got in common with them?”

  Rising to her feet, she squeezed her breasts together, then suddenly released them. They shook violently. And she was approaching me.

  “Demet doesn’t even bother to wax. And Vuslat’s nothing but a hairy little monkey. But as for me, well, I’ve got breasts!”

  A new caste system was emerging in the world of transvestites. Those with breasts considered themselves superior to those without. In other words, the girls with tits had decided to look down on the likes of me.

  “But I haven’t got any. . . ” I began.

  She interrupted. “Yes, but hubby, you’re practically the boss.”

  The “hubby” she referred to was of course yours truly. I had no intention, and indeed would never have the intention, of playing husband to anyone, let alone one of the girls. Years earlier, out of curiosity, I had taken on the role a few times. To tell the truth, though, I don’t get much pleasure out of playing husband to either men or women. At a pinch, I can do my bit, provided it is reciprocal. But there are times when, in the line of duty, as a nod to my sense of professionalism, I do what is asked of me.

  Clearly, our conversation had run its course. From here on in, I could expect only that peculiar brand of silliness that I put down to excessive injections of female hormones.

  When I stepped outside I noticed the air had cooled. The east wind helped clear my head. A breeze blowing in from the shores of Uskudar contained all the scents and odours of the Bosporus. The occasional whiff of exhaust fumes and petrol is Istanbul’s way of flirting.

  Dolly Vuslat and Demet were next in line. As I walked down the cobbled hill I realised I was hungry. It would be good to get something to eat before visiting Vuslat in Gayrettepe. What’s more, dropping in on her a bit later would mean not waking her up. />
  I decided to go to a restaurant located on the top floor of La Maison. It has an incredible view. As I remembered their soufflés my mouth watered and my stomach growled.

  It was still a bit early for lunch, so the restaurant was empty. I was the only customer. Although late in the season, the terrace was open. Not fully trusting the changeable Bosphorus breezes, I headed for a sunny table inside. The view was every bit as spectacular as I’d remembered! I’d taken to really looking at the Bosphorus the last few days. There’s nothing like it during these crisp autumn days, when you feel as though you can see forever. I looked at the Maiden’s Tower, Topkapi Palace, the Sublime Porte of Sarayburnu and the Sepetçiler Kasri, letting my eyes wander up to the silhouetted minarets jutting into the sky from Haghia Sophia and the Blue Mosque. Istanbul was living up to its reputation as “the city of 1001 nights”. I realised I was smiling to myself.

  There were three waiters. And I was there on my own! Naturally, all eyes were on me. That is, when they weren’t busy serving me they looked me over. They watched my every move.

  At the slightest gesture, one of them would appear at my table. I, of course, exchanged my smile for a more serious expression. It wouldn’t do to be misunderstood.

  The young one was just too young for me. He was a mere child. His face still bore marks of adolescence. His hands were enormous, and all out of proportion to his body. He simply would not do. From the opposite side of the terrace he raked me over with his eyes. His expression revealed nothing about his reaction to what he saw. If anything, he seemed merely curious. As though he had stumbled across a rare animal at the zoo.

  The second waiter was definitely approaching his thirties and tall, but terribly ugly. In the name of professionalism, he kept his distance, but he was definitely observing me carefully.

  The head waiter was middle-aged. And squat. His attentiveness bordered on harassment. It was unthinkable for me to feel any interest in him as a man. He would be well-advised to wipe completely from his mind any hopes he was entertaining.