The Gigolo Murder

by Mehmet Murat Somer

  We’d quickly glanced over everything that came out of Volkan Sarıdoğan’s box, taking it all with us for later inspection.

  We were being driven in Nimet’s car. Not wishing to take any chances, I’d suggested we go directly to my place. In any case, the Hanoğlu household was still in mourning. There would be a lot of visitors. I was also anxious to rid myself of Sarp and the mute, and to relieve İpekten of her duties. It would also be a good idea to look over the files Cihad2000 had sent me.

  “All right, we’ll stop by your home, and I’ll have a word with Sarp. But I’ve already caused you so much trouble. Let’s look over the documents at my house. I’ll arrange tea and coffee, and something to eat.”

  When I pondered the state of my refrigerator, no doubt completely cleaned out by now by İpekten, I saw her point. She had a houseful of servants. And I’d love to see that amazing view in the daytime.

  “But what about your visitors?” I asked.

  “Everyone who matters has already expressed their condolences. The rest can stay away. At times like this, you learn who your true friends are. Some avoid you, some suddenly fall ill, others find they have urgent business overseas . . . Scandals are contagious, you see!”

  She laughed bitterly, turning her face toward the window for a moment.

  “I’m sorry. I’m not feeling well,” she said, in a voice treading that thin line between hysterical laughter and tears.

  I gave her a moment to collect herself.

  “Have you got a computer?” I asked.

  “Certainly,” she said. “The house is full of them . . .”

  “I’ve got some computer files I’ll need to take with us.”

  I didn’t tell her that the files concerned her husband’s business dealings, but I did suggest that they might be of use.

  “Of course, of course . . . Certainly.”

  The word “certainly” was her trademark response, uttered on every possible occasion.

  When we stepped into my flat, everyone was in for a shock.

  İpekten was still in front of the TV, but Queer as Folk had been replaced by porn. Two hairy musclemen were going for the “money shot.”

  Sitting on the floor in the lotus position—naked!—she was flanked by her captives, whose underwear had been pulled down to their knees. Her hands were full, and busily at work.

  Things went from bad to ludicrous. When the two men saw Nimet and me walk in, they hastily assumed prone positions to hide their privates, their white bottoms bobbing in the air. İpekten launched into a stammering explanation.

  “I just . . . for fun . . . The film did it.”

  Nimet stood stock still and silent, surveying the scene before her. Trying to conceal her groin with one hand, her breasts with the other, İpekten managed a “merhaba” and a weak grin that only made her look more ridiculous.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said, leaping in front of Nimet.

  “Think nothing of it.”

  “Let me introduce you. This is my friend, İpekten. She’s been guarding your boys. And this is Nimet Hanım. Nimet Hanoğlu.”

  Without rising, İpekten extended her right arm, the one that had been covering her breasts.

  “Pleased to meet you.”

  That was a lie. Even İpekten would have been embarrassed by the antics we’d seen. There was nothing to be pleased about. If nothing else, she’d failed to discharge her duties as a guard.

  They shook hands.

  “Could you give me that robe, hubby?”

  The robe was Ponpon’s kimono; hubby was, of course, me. I handed it over.

  “Come with me,” I said, taking Nimet by the arm and leading her to the office. I have no idea if she turned around for another look. I was in front. I turned on the computer.

  “It’ll take about five minutes,” I said.

  “Fine, no problem.”

  “Can I get you anything?”

  “No, thank you.”

  Excusing myself for a moment, I raced back to the living room. İpekten had put on the kimono and was busily pulling up the prisoners’ underwear, no easy task, as they were bound and gagged grown men.

  I helped, heaving Sarp up to his feet while she tugged at his briefs.

  “I’m sorry, hubby . . . When you took so long I thought I’d watch a new film . . . And then I got into the mood . . . all those men . . . And these two were here, right at hand . . . I thought it’d be fun . . .”

  “I see,” I said. “Never mind. Forget about it.”

  “I just hope you don’t get the wrong idea. That’s why . . .”

  “Like I said, forget it. What happened, happened.”

  “Tell me you forgive me. I couldn’t bear it if you didn’t. I’d lose sleep for at least three nights.”

  “Alright, ayol,” I nearly shouted. “There’s nothing to forgive. It’s just that it was a bit embarrassing.”

  She threw her arms around me and gave me a big kiss.

  “I was embarrassed, too,” she said. “Let’s make this our little secret. Don’t tell anyone!”

  “It’s a deal,” I agreed. Then I put an end to the subject by adding, “And even if I did, who’d believe it?”

  She paused, then smiled when the truth of what I’d said sank in.

  “Come on,” I said, pointing to the mute, “let’s get him dressed, too.”

  “Right away, hubby!” she said, getting to it.

  Sarp was staring daggers at me.

  I went over to him and whispered in his ear.

  “As you saw, Nimet Hanım is here. Your work’s done. Finished! If you breathe a word of this, I’ll tell everyone how I beat you up, and that’ll be the end of your career. And if I have to, I’ll tear your impressive tackle right off and stuff it down your throat.”

  To illustrate my threat, I reached down and grabbed him.

  “So wipe that scowl off your face and give me a sweet smile.”

  His forehead seemed to twitch. He was probably trying to smile. I ripped off the bandage covering his mouth, removing any hairs that had grown out during the day.

  “Bitch!” he exploded.

  His hands and feet were still bound. I grabbed him again, squeezing harder this time.

  “I don’t think you get it . . .”

  He was in pain. And he did get it now, or he wouldn’t have gritted his teeth without a word.

  “Good,” I said. “That’s a good boy.”

  Before returning to Nimet, I instructed İpekten to free his legs, but to leave him handcuffed.

  “I’m so sorry,” I said to Nimet, as I entered the office. “We caught them unawares.”

  “No matter,” she said, polite to the end. I wasn’t sure what she meant, but it was clear that she was anxious to close the subject.

  Sitting in front of my computer, I began copying Cihad2000’s files onto a disc. A huge bouquet of virtual flowers appeared with each file. Red carnations, yellow and white gladioli, a huge basket filled with purple, pink, and crimson anemones. With the last file appeared a bunch of red roses, upon which were written the words: “Thank you, Kemal.” I was touched.

  “All done,” I said, trying to smile as though that scene in the bedroom had never taken place. “We can leave whenever you like.”

  While Nimet had a word with Sarp and his accomplice, I wiped any fingerprints off the guns. I wouldn’t have put it past Sarp to shoot someone with that gun and then try to pin it on me. One can never be too careful.

  The boys were dismissed. İpekten came in to say good-bye, a fashion plate once more. Clasping Nimet’s hand between her own, she apologized again.

  “Sarp and I go way back, you see . . .” was her unnecessary explanation. I suspected Sarp would no longer be on Nimet’s payroll, whatever İpekten’s explanations.

  “Not a problem. Really. Forget it.” She blushed.

  Her chauffeured car was waiting in front of the building, the passenger doors flung open as we approached. After winding through the steep narrow streets of
Cihangir to drop off İpekten, we headed for the coast road to Yeniköy.

  On the way we studied the contents of the box. Volkan seemed to have obsessively squirreled away everything he got his hands on.

  There were also separate envelopes for each of his clients, containing telephone numbers, parking stubs, hotel invoices, an outline of sexual preferences and kinks, and even a few photographs. For some reason, Nimet quickly passed over the photos, focusing mainly on various documents. Some of the envelopes contained nothing but a business card, others were stuffed with bank draft vouchers. I had no idea what we were looking for, so I busied myself with the photos, especially those of the rich and famous in compromising poses. Nimet seemed to know what she was after. Passing over some envelopes, she reviewed every line of every document found in others. It was only natural that some names would mean more to her than they did to me.

  I observed that Nimet’s eyes had narrowed, as with pursed lips she sorted through the documents more and more quickly. Whatever she was looking for, she obviously hadn’t found it.

  Chapter 36

  The upstairs room of the Hanoğlu yalı I was led to was even more spectacular than the one in which Faruk Bey had received me. The view and the antiques were equally magnificent. I felt like I was in a château in the Loire Valley. But then again, nothing in the Loire Valley looks out on the Bosphorus, today a deep blue and at arm’s length. A white vapur glided past. I fought the urge to wave to the passengers in childlike delight.

  “Here’s your computer!”

  Nimet had placed a laptop on the tiny writing desk in front of the window. The legs of the desk appeared too delicate to support the weight of the laptop.

  “Now,” she said briskly, “while you do whatever it is you need to do, I’ll continue examining the things from the safe-deposit box. Faruk’s account books are here as well. If necessary, we’ll look them over, too.”

  “Nimet, I’d love you to address me as sen,” I said. I’d deliberately used only her first name, along with the more formal siz. She didn’t need to know that it was a privilege enjoyed by few.

  The smile she bestowed on me was warm and somehow heart-breaking, perfectly encapsulating the current state of her heart, mind, and soul.

  “Naturally,” she said. “But use sen with me as well, would you . . .”

  The cupboard she opened was filled with notebooks, labeled and leather-bound.

  “As you can imagine, these are strictly confidential. But I no longer have the luxury of privacy. We’ll look through them together and destroy what we must.”

  I turned on the computer, hesitantly flipping through one of the notebooks while I waited. It comprised a meticulously penned list of names, sums, and dates. There were also explanatory notes next to some of the names: identities, references, questions.

  Nimet had settled onto a “Josephine” sofa at the other end of the room. I’d always wanted one, upholstered in Bordeaux velvet, like hers. Behind her, a mille fleurs tapisserie, fine as a Botticelli, hung from the high ceiling. Standing among thousands of wildflowers in the clearing of a dark forest was a maiden, in a pale blue gown and conical hat, and three hunters, the faces of whom were obscured. Cinnamon-colored game birds with huge wings drooped gracefully from the mouths of long-eared hunting dogs. In the background, a fairy-tale hilltop castle and nearly transparent white unicorn, its head peeping out from behind a tree, its eyes on the maiden.

  The computer was ready to go, and so was I. Sitting on the spindly Gobelin tapestry chair, I uploaded my CDs. The chair was more comfortable than it looked. I was soon absorbed in my work.

  “Would you like something to eat?”

  I often forget to eat when I’m concentrating. Many hours had passed since breakfast, and I didn’t feel hungry. But I liked the idea.

  “Please,” I said.

  “I’ll see what we have,” she said as she left the room.

  We were soon being served by Esra Hanım, a rotund woman in her fifties with ample breasts. On one side of the enormous platter she carried were rows of cold cuts; on the other side, my favorite delicacy of all time, Circassian shredded and dressed chicken. The middle of the platter was heaped with stuffed cabbage and vine leaves drizzled with olive oil, and a generous helping of kuru mantı.

  The question came as we were enjoying our late lunch. In fact, I was, at that moment, once again totally absorbed by the Bosphorus; I was skimming the waters as I flew all the way to the Asian shore.

  “Why do you dress like that?”

  I paused for a long moment, eyes fixed on the view. Then I turned to look at her. I deliberately chewed a piece of chicken, and swallowed hard.

  “You’re obviously a man; why do you wear women’s clothing?”

  I chewed it over some more. Then I reached for my glass of water, taking care to smile.

  Something was missing. Yes, we would need some music. Light strings would do, or a chamber orchestra. Or even some soft crooning. Dean Martin, perhaps.

  “I like it,” I said.

  She wasn’t satisfied. She continued looking at me with questioning eyes.

  “Do you feel like a woman?”

  Alright, we had a couple of murders to solve and needed to work together, but I wondered if that gave her the right to delve quite so deeply and abruptly into my private life.

  “Sometimes . . .” I said.

  “How long have you been like this?”

  “A transvestite, you mean?”

  “Yes . . .”

  “For quite some time, I suppose. I also dress as a man at times.”

  What was I saying? That last part sounded almost defensive.

  “If you’d rather not talk about it, let’s not. I just wondered . . .”

  She’d returned to her plate and was avoiding my eyes. She toyed with a piece of warm kuru mantı.

  “I haven’t met many people like you, that’s all . . .” she said.

  I could have gone into the philosophy and history of cross-dressing, expounding my own views and feelings on the subject, bringing up the fact that not a few straight men get a kick out of wearing silky panties, heels, and nail polish, not to mention that some women, too, choose to dress in masculine clothing on occasion, among them Marlene Dietrich and George Sand . . . But I couldn’t be bothered.

  The fiery reflection of the setting sun was captured in the tens of thousands of windows on the Asian shore, the deepening shadows bringing into stunning relief each detail of the view I watched in silence.

  Cihad2000 had worked hard. When combined with Volkan’s papers and Faruk’s notebooks, we would get a clearer picture. Nimet was one of those compulsive note takers. Color-coded pens were used to mark dossiers laid on the floor.

  “Mind mapping,” she said. “I was taught in Switzerland. It’s a highly effective aid in study, organization, and problem solving.”

  She was right. We’d made significant progress in sorting through a complex web of relationships. But we hadn’t yet found the killer or the motive.

  The servants were told to turn away visitors and not to put through phone calls.

  During a break, I called Ponpon, to tell her where I was and not to worry, as well as Kemal Barutçu and Hasan. I kept it short. I’d have plenty of time to share details later.

  “I’d like some cognac,” Nimet announced as she stretched out on the Josephine. “It’s getting chilly. A spot of cognac would warm us up. Would you like one?”

  “Certainly,” I told her.

  “You know,” she said, “this reminds me of my school days. Boarding school . . . just us girls and a bottle of cognac . . .”

  I wanted to hug her. I’d decided to love her, and it didn’t matter what she said or did.

  Crystal balloons of cognac cupped in our hands, we sat on the floor, looking over the mapped-out and labeled files and papers. We switched a few of them over. New links were established. It was getting dark outside. Lights twinkled, one by one, on the opposite shore; ships began to glow.


  I was pacing around the room. We’d taken nearly all of the notebooks out of Faruk’s rosewood cupboard. The palatial carpet was obscured by papers and notes.

  “Why don’t we play some music?” I suggested. “It always does the trick with me. It’s inspiring.”

  I suddenly remembered that the house was still in mourning. “Would music be disrespectful?”

  “Of course it won’t.” She smiled. “What shall we listen to?”

  There was no point in asking what she had. It’d take too long to run through a whole list of selections.

  “Something soft,” I said.

  “I’ve got just the thing. Wait a moment. I’ll go and fetch it from my bedroom. This is—was—Faruk’s sitting room. He listened mostly to Turkish music, along with the occasional French chanteuse.”

  She raced out of the room. I returned to the rows of papers, each of them numbered and affixed with notes in the precise handwriting that is a hallmark of Central European culture.

  Nimet was back in a flash.

  “What do you think?” she asked, eagerly handing me Pergolesi’s Stabat Mater. It was my favorite version, featuring Teresa Berganza and Mirella Freni.

  “It seemed appropriate,” she said. “ ‘ The mourning mother was standing . . .’ Neither of us is a mother, but I am in mourning, like the Virgin Mary as she stood beside the cross . . .”

  “Certainly,” I said. “You know, it’s one of my favorite pieces. Especially this particular recording.”

  “Really?” She beamed. She looked ten years younger at that moment. “I first heard it in Switzerland. I played the record so often I wore it out. Then I looked everywhere for a CD. The other versions just aren’t the same. Anyway, I only recently found this. I was so thrilled.”

  I silently sang along: “Stabat mater dolorosa juxta crucem lacrimosa dum pendebat filius . . .”

  Cognac, Pergolesi, the ever-deepening dusk . . . And after switching around a couple of pieces of paper I cried out, “Look! Here it is!”