The Prophet Murders

by Mehmet Murat Somer

  Even as Ponpon tended to the wounds he’d received from the lashings, Gürhan began dropping heavy hints about breast implants.

  I sent Gürhan off to stay with Ponpon. They were going to live together until we went to Genoa. Gürhan didn’t want to return to his family. “What difference will it make if I get a diploma,” he reflected. He planned to become a top model. I always find it a bit chilling when people so obviously fail to learn from their experiences.

  The club went on as before, thanks to Hasan. I had neither the desire nor the strength to face the girls’ pestering questions. Hasan would be sure to fill them in on every last detail. Things would calm down, and then something new would come along. Soon enough, the girls would forget what had happened to me. I might even be able to laugh about it one day.

  I sent a long e-mail to Jihad2000, briefly summarizing events. I thanked him for his help. After all, it was in his power to crash my entire computer system. It would be prudent to maintain warm relations. I explained how tense I had been due to the case, and asked him to keep that in mind in light of the way I had treated him. That is to say, I begged his forgiveness. In bold, capital letters I told him that his help had given me the courage to go forward with my plan.

  He replied with an extravagant e-mail informing me that he understood and, for the moment at least, expected nothing further. What he wrote was a cliché, but the message in which he’d packed every possible example of his computer prowess was truly deserving of appreciation. In a word, it was fantastic. I examined it with a combination of admiration and envy. I still had a few accounts to settle with him. But it could wait.

  One of the reasons I spend so little time at the club now is Cengiz. He moved in with me. Like so many people, he has to wake up early to go to work, meaning he also has to go to bed at a reasonable time. If I spend my nights at the club, we won’t have much time together. And there’s nothing better than nestling my head into Cengiz’s blond chest hairs as I fall asleep.

  He tells me that I sometimes cry out in the middle of the night. When I do, he holds me tight and pulls my head close. I calm down. We agree that I’ll require this kind of therapy into the indefinite future.

  We plan to go to the cinema over the weekend with his children. He’ll introduce us for the first time. I’m already panicking about what to wear.

  Glossary

  Acknowledgments

  I have always watched awards ceremonies – especially the Oscars – with a sense of amazement and good-natured envy. The award winners invariably present a long list of those believed to have contributed in some way to their general development. It is a fascinating life survey, embracing everyone from parents and teachers, to those well-known sources of inspiration, neighbours and pets.

  Presented with the opportunity to compile my own list, I have decided to milk it for all it’s worth. If I have overlooked anyone, I apologise for the oversight of my editor and consultant.

  First of all, I would naturally like to thank my family: my mother, dearest Melo; my late father, even if he is unable to read this; my brother, who I believe has always taken life much more seriously than I do; his spouse, the happy result of my skills as a matchmaker; my late grandmother from my mother’s side, who was always a source of joy and panic in the house where I grew up; that pillar of dignified calm, my late grand-grandmother from my father’s side; various other relatives, some living, others no longer with us, including my aunts, uncles, maternal uncles, first- and second-generation cousins (those passed over know who they are) and, finally, because anything but a specific mention would be a disgrace, my “special” cousin, Yeim Toduk; my aunt’s husband, and my sisters- and aunts-in-law.

  Next come the friends I would like to thank: Naim Faik Dilmener, who patiently read my manuscript, guiding and encouraging me, and who is himself a keen reader of detective stories and an authority on golden oldie ’45s, as well as his entire family: his son, but in particular his wife, “Belinda”; Berran Tözer, who set out with me when this project was a five-book mini series, but threw in the towel by the time we reached; my esteemed partners and fellow consultants with whom I make a respectable living, for it would be impossible for me to survive on my earnings from writing books; Iil Daylolu Aslan and A. Ates, Akansel; and their spouses Burçak and Suada, who is also my Reiki master; as well as Isil and Burçak’s daughter, Zeynep; and Ates, and Suada’s dogs.

  Despite their not really knowing what exactly was going on, I would like to thank, for their unfailing emotional support, Mehmet “Serdar” Omay; Murathan Mungan, even if we have not met for a long time, Füsun Akatli and her daughter, Zeynep; and Zeynep Zeytinolu; Yildirim Türker; Nejat Ulusay; Nilgün Abisel; Levent Suner; Nilüfer Kavalali; Mete Özgencil, whose painting, into which I lose myself from time to time, hangs on the wall of my study; and Barbaros Altu, who somehow managed to motivate me without making his intentions obvious, and who is now my agent and imagines that he will somehow emerge unblemished from all of this.

  Miraç Atuna, who constantly reinvents herself and, like me, wakes up before dawn, therefore making it possible for me to have a phone conversation with someone before 7am, and who is also a Feng Shui master and hypnotherapist.

  My business colleagues, Kezban Eren, Derya Babuç and – yes, her surname is real – Pelin Burmabiyikliolu; the ever-smiling Remzi Demircan and Meral Emeksiz, who are the most positive people I’ve ever met; everyone I’ve met and encountered at offices anywhere, especially the sometimes capricious secretaries for enduring all kinds of cruelty; all of my eccentric former managers and bosses – I have somehow never been able to locate the normal ones, with the exception of Ergin Bener, who, of that group, is the only one completely at peace with his inner child.

  And as far as those responsible for my technical development: naturally, all of “our” girls, if for no other reason than their courage and their very existence; my encounters with each and every one of them has enabled me, consciously or unconsciously, to make use of their many impersonations, gestures, styles and sometimes – the revealing detail of a single word.

  The publishing house that will print this book, my editor or editors, copy editor, proofreader, binder, cover designer and all those involved in promoting, distributing and selling the book.

  The many who through their works have inspired me over the years, including Honore de Balzac, Patricia Highsmith, Saki, Truman Capote, Christopher Isherwood, Resat Ekrem Koçu, Andre Gide, Marquis de Sade, Chauderlos de Laclos, Yusuf Atilgan, Hüseyin Rahmi Gürpinar, Gore Vidal, Serdar Turgut and many others.

  Those whose music has enabled me to find inner peace: G. F. Handel, Gustave Mahler, Schubert, V. Bellini’s “Norma” in particular, Tchaikovsky, Eric Satie, Philip Glass, Cole Porter, Eleni Karaindrou, Michel Berger and all composers, in fact, everywhere.

  And all the artists who give voice to these works, but especially the opera singers I treasure: Maria Callas, Lucia Popp, Leyla Gencer, Anna Moffo, Teresa Berganza, Montserrat Caballe, Inessa Galante, Gülgez Altinda, Yildiz Tumbul, Aylin Ates,, Franco Corelli, for both his voice and looks; Thomas Hampson, whose portrait hangs in my bedroom, next to Maria Callas, for his Mahler lieder; Jose Cura, Tito Schipa, Fritz Wunderlich, Suat Ankan, for making me feel to the marrow, each time I watch or listen to him, the joy of performance; and for the same reason, composer Leonard Bernstein; Yekta Kara, whose wonderful productions restored the visual pleasures of opera; and finally, on another level, the worst soprano of all time, Florence Foster Jenkins.

  For similar reasons, Mina, whose albums I would rush to buy if they recorded no more than a belch; Barbra Streisand, back before she transformed every three-minute song into a five-curtain opera, that is to say, pre-1980s; Yorgo Dallaras, Hildegard Knef, Sylvie Vartan, Veronique Sanson, Jane Birkin, Patty Pravo, Michael Franks, Lee Oscar, Manhattan Transfer, Supertramp, Juliette Greco and, again pre-1988 – for better or worse – Ajda Pekkan; Hümeyra, for all she is; Nükhet Duru, who manages to inject meaning into all of her songs
, even when they are rubbish; Gonül Turgut, whose decision to leave music I have never understood and whose absence I continue to lament; Ayla Dikmen, for her costumes alone; and Madonna, whose songs I’m not wild about, but whose existence seems to me to be a good thing.

  Those geniuses of cinema, whose number seem endless, but whom I’ll try to reel off: Visconti, John Waters, Joseph Losey; Almadovar, for his “marginal” films, in particular La ley del deseo; Bertrand Blier, before he went too far; Fassbinder, for Querelle alone; John Huston, Truffaut, Salvatore Samperi for Scandalo alone, Mauro Bolognini, Ernest Lubitsch, George Cukor, Billy Wilder, Alain Tanner for Dans la Ville Blanche, the film I have watched most frequently; Audrey Hepburn, of course; Jeanne Moreau; Elizabeth Taylor, mainly for her voice; Lilian Gish and Bette Davis for The Whales of August; Catherine Denevue, who, even if she does age, ages beautifully; Faye Dunaway, before she became a caricature of herself; Giulietta Masina, Cate Blanchett, Tilda Swinton, Emma Thompson; Divine, the ultimate simulation; Bruno Ganz, Rupert Everett; Alain Delon, when he was fresh; Patrick Dewaere, whom I’m actually cross with for his early departure; Dirk Bogarde, despite his having denied everything in his autobiographies; Montgomery Clift; Gary Cooper at all times; Terence Stamp, during his The Collector, Teorema and Priscilla periods; Franco Nero, for whose sake I sat through dozens of rotten movies; Steve Martin, Dennis Hopper, John Cleese and all of Monty Python and Fawlty Towers; Hülya Koçyiit, Müjde Ar, Serra Yilmaz – and, why not – Banu Alkan, Güngör Bayrak for her legs and determination; Kadir nanir, before he gained weight and became thick; Metin Erksan, Atif Yilmaz, Bari Pirhasan for the screenplays he has written, and Sevin Okyay for her translations, critiques and articles.

  Just for being men, John Pruitt, Tony Ganz, Jason Branch, Mike Timber, Taylor Burbank, Aidan Shaw and the late – I was so sorry when I heard – Al Parker, as well as dozens of others whose names I don’t even know.

  Pierre and Gilles, for scaling the peaks of kitsch, Tom of Finland, Jerome Bosch, the Bruegels father and son, Edward Hopper, Tamara Lempicka, Botero, El Greco, Modigliani, Andrea Vizzini, Pablo Picasso, before his cubist phase; Leonardo and Michelangelo, for being both masters and members of “the family”, as well as Caravaggio; Latif Demirci, who was the reason for my eagerly awaiting Sundays; the Zümrüt photograph studio, whose front window overwhelms me every time I pass it on Siraselviler.

  For reminding me, with their sparkling intelligence and wit of the pleasures to be had from life, Mae West, Tallulah Bankhead and Bedia Muvahhit; Gencay Gürün for, in a word, embodying nobility and graciousness; and Truman Capote, again.

  Finally, and most importantly, Derya Tolga Uysal, for his unstinting support in all things, for sharing with me for seven years the good and the bad, and for his unbelievably affectionate response to my flare ups, outbursts, depressions, fatigue, mood swings and malice.

  Thank you very much.

  I salute you all.