Read The Kiss Murder Online

Authors: Mehmet Murat Somer

Tags: #mystery, #gay, #Istanbul

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BOOK: The Kiss Murder
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Sofya was the real diva. She did a perfect impression of Dalida and Sylvie Vartan, two gay icons. There was a table reserved for guests who came only for her. What’s more, while the rest of us had to mingle with customers when we weren’t performing, encouraging them to buy us drinks, Sofya was free to hold court at her own table.

 

Sofya had recruited me. We met while she was holidaying in Bodrum. I was young, slender, and bold, up for anything, and eager to get as much sex as possible. Impressed by my enthusiasm, Sofya arranged a cabaret stint for me when she returned to Paris. My stage career lasted all of five nights—after my final performance, the club owner threw me out with a good dressing-down. I was staying with Sofya, and the following morning it was her turn to rebuke me.
“You’ve disgraced me,” she began. “You’ve discredited Turks everywhere. We’re like ambassadors here. Just take a look at the girls from Tunisia and Algeria. They stick together. The Portuguese . . . As for you, not only are you unfit to represent your country and Turkish womanhood, you don’t even deserve to be here. When I think of how I praised you. The high hopes I had. I’d dared to imagine you would rise one day to second billing, just below me. It didn’t happen . . . it was not to be. What a debacle.”
That’s right, I could still remember each and every word of this epic and unexpectedly nationalistic rant—
ayol,
what part of Sofya represented Turkey? The representation of Turkish women, and me. What could be funnier? The phrase “Turkish women” brought to mind such leading lights as Atatürk’s mother, novelist Halide Edip, and Miss Europe 1952, Günseli Başar. I tried to imagine myself in their league, and I failed. And it wasn’t as though they had “stuck together” in some patriotic show of unity.
I was told to pack my bags immediately and return to Turkey as soon as possible. I followed those instructions to the letter.

 

The following night, I watched for the last time as Sofya performed onstage. She was lip-synching to Sylvia Vartan’s impersonation of a young man in “Comme un Garçon.” In other words, a man was impersonating Sylvie Vartan impersonating a man. It was a negative of a positive of a negative . . . or something like that. Or, a right-to-left mirror image reflected in a second mirror, and so corrected. And it was hilarious. The audience was in stitches. Each line was greeted with thunderous applause. And when, at the end, Sofya’s suspenders “accidentally” gave way, revealing a glimpse of lace panty, the hall erupted. The curtain closed. She appeared for a curtain call, holding up her sagging trousers. She was called back again and again, and back and forth she minced with steps made tiny by fallen trousers, her panties now in plain view. She saluted the crowd, raising both arms high, then, feigning embarrassment, would clasp her crotch. Applause. Applause. Encore after encore. As a finale, she turned around and uncovered her derriere. On her left buttock gleamed the scarlet imprint of a pair of lips.
Sofya was a shadowy figure even back then. During the two weeks I spent with her, she often met with strange-looking men, explaining them away by claiming it was “too early” for me to “understand.” She didn’t hesitate to pair me off with some of these men, earning herself a pretty penny in the process, but she refused to tell me anything about them.

 

I don’t know why I felt the need to dredge up all these old memories. I felt broken and resentful. I looked back at my younger self with tenderness and great affection, but the memory of my earlier naïveté pained me now. Tears welled suddenly in my eyes. I’d been so full of admiration for Sofya. She still impressed me greatly, or should I say, dazzled and dazed me. But I no longer felt the need to emulate her. As the years passed, we’ve grown further apart. She’s refined her particular style; and I’d developed my own. And they are miles apart.
She had succeeded in frightening me tonight, though. From what she said, the business of the blackmail was proceeding in a highly organized manner. Whoever they were, their motives were less than pure. And Sofya was completely entangled. She had even admitted to being frightened herself, which would imply a lack of control over events. It meant she was only one of a number of players. She might even be just a pawn.

 

There was no way I could get anything else out of Sofya. As for the girls, they would reveal nothing about her. Especially not to me!
The vodka helped me doze off.
Chapter 13
I
woke up at an unusually early hour. As I sipped my morning coffee, I ran through the alternative courses of action for the day: (A) Wait and see; (B) Find a way to search Sabiha Hanım’s house; (C) Meet with Sofya; failing that, track her down; (D) Do something completely unrelated, like tidy my messy house.
None of the options appealed. I glanced through the paper, hoping to create new ones as I read it. The Buse/Fevzi murder had received a single column of belated coverage. The accompanying photo was from her official ID card. “Fevzi” looked like a timid sort of person. I’d never seen her like that.

 

The murder in Kocamustafapaşa hadn’t made it to the papers yet. I looked through the obituaries in any case. There was nothing of interest.
None of the girls would be up this early. For ladies of the night, a new day dawns at noon at the earliest. There was no need to begin working on the Wish & Fire account, because the contract had not yet been signed. Bitter experience had taught me not to embark on a project until I had a signed contract. In fact, only a weighty advance payment enabled me to take such companies seriously.

 

Remote control in hand, I flicked through the morning TV programs. The housewives in the studio audiences reminded me of Mrs. Apple Cheeks. I decided it was time for a morning visit. Perhaps Sabiha Hanım, whose whereabouts had been a mystery the previous night, had returned.
I got a giant bar of chocolate for the chubby, demonstrative girl of the house. And one for myself, to eat on the way. For the mother, I picked up a freshly baked cake from the corner patisserie. After what had been said about Fevzi, I had no intention of going empty-handed.

 

Then it occurred to me that if Sabiha Hanım had returned safe and sound, it would be a nice gesture to bring her something as well. I discarded my first impulse, which was to buy flowers. No matter how fragrant, flowers could hardly be adequately appreciated by a blind person. I tried to remember if I’d ever bought a gift for a blind person before. No, I hadn’t. As I ran through the list of woes suffered by the elderly—diabetes, high blood pressure, cholesterol levels, hardening of the arteries, osteoporosis and the like—I eliminated as suitable gifts sweets, chocolate, and pastry. Cologne! That was it! In the old days, cologne had been the preferred gift. On holidays in particular, bottles of cologne would be exchanged.
I stopped into the first pharmacy I saw and bought a bottle of lavender cologne. Lemon cologne makes me queasy. Just in case I was unable to present the cologne to Sabiha Hanım—and that was highly likely—I would use it myself. I had it beautifully gift-wrapped. Then it occurred to me just how pointless the extra effort to make it look nice was.

 

I reached the taxi stand and jumped into the first available car, whose driver greeted me with a “Welcome,
abi
.” I gave directions to Teksoy Apartments. When we arrived, I noticed that Hüseyin had parked in front of a burned-out building the night before. So that was the source of the charred smell. And I’d blamed it on balcony barbecues.
An unpleasant-looking woman living in the street-level flat had placed a pillow on the windowsill, upon which she rested her enormous bosom. She was crocheting and chatting with a neighbor across the street, who was hanging out washing on the balcony on the second floor. The subject of conversation was the pattern embroidered onto a pillowcase that had just about dried. The unpleasant woman admired it, wanted to borrow it when it was dry, so she could copy the pattern onto her own linen. I couldn’t resist lifting my head to glance over at the en-vied piece of needlework. It was nauseating. There was no need to replicate it. In fact, it should be outlawed.

 

When they realized I was about to enter the apartment building, they looked me up and down, but they didn’t say anything. I wondered what they would say behind my back, but proceeded as quickly as possible up the stairs to the first floor. The door nearest the staircase belonged to the sturdy family. Sabiha Hanım would have to wait. I hadn’t bought the chocolate and cake for nothing. Although I knew the door would fly open instantly, I still rang the bell long and hard.
The door opened before I had lifted my finger from the bell. Below, a small head poked out from between a pair of thick legs; above, the mother’s head poked out into the hallway. Upon seeing me, her smile seemed to fade somewhat. She must have learned the news from the TV or papers.
“
Merhaba
. . . so it’s you.”
“There was such a commotion when we parted last night. And I’d been unable to see dear Sabiha Hanım . . . I brought some cake, hoping we could share it with a cup of tea. And this is for your little girl . . . Take it, sweetie.”
“Yes, of course you’re welcome. Come in.” The door opened wide. “I’ve lost my wits. I don’t seem to know what I’m doing. I’m sure you know what’s happened. About Fevzi. I couldn’t believe it. Two deaths in one day. That’s never happened before. I swear it just wrecked me. I wouldn’t have thought it’d upset me so much, but it sent me reeling.”
She had managed to relate all this in the time it took me to put on the gold lamé slippers she’d gestured to. The choice of footwear would indicate she had certain ideas about me. I love chatty sorts, and they’re especially useful if you’re trying to get information about something.

 

We went inside and sat down. The cake remained in its wrapping on the coffee table.
“You must have known all about it last night, but you didn’t tell us. I mean, about Fevzi. I wish you had—I’d have been better prepared for the news later. You must have come here to pay your condolences to Sabiha Hanım. How thoughtful of you. May Allah grant all his people a friend like you. You know what they say about friends and rainy days.”
She had strong lungs. Everything was gushed out in a single breath. I listened sympathetically—there would be plenty more to come.
I locked my eyes onto hers, then slowly shifted them, landing on the package of cake. She leaped from her seat.
“Ay, pardon. I forgot the cake, didn’t I? I’ll put on the kettle. We can talk while the tea steeps. I’ve got some questions for you.”
And I’ve got some questions for you.

 

The corner end table was loaded with picture frames. The most magnificent of them all framed a studio shot of a bride and groom. The photographer had enhanced the photo by superimposing pink roses. The bride wore the standard “nightingale nest” headdress, her face nestled in thousands of ruffles. That familiar beaming face also expressed a hint of pride. As she looked into the camera, she seemed to be saying,
See, I’ve landed a husband.
Even back then, she had filet mignon cheeks.
Right next to the wedding picture was one of a wrinkled infant, the sour-faced daughter. That same child, who followed my every move and glance, immediately remarked, “That’s me,” as she smiled mischievously.

 

Above the sideboard hung a picture in a gilt frame. Nearly everyone in the photo wore a dark suit. The man of the house was captured shaking hands with a politician. His interest in politics may well have been career-related. Civil servants who fail to join a party can find themselves exiled to a position in the countryside.
The frame was slightly off-kilter. I can’t bear such things. I hesitated for only a second before rising to my feet to adjust it. Under the watchful gaze of the girl, I straightened it with my fingertips, then sat down.

 

There was one thing about the living room that differentiated it from most of its kind: the absence of embroidered coverings and needlework. I jotted down a point in my mental ledger. The sound of running water in the kitchen stopped and Apple Cheeks reappeared, settled down across from me, and smoothed her skirt.
“Actually, there was something I wanted to share with you. As I was preparing the tea I asked myself whether it was really necessary, but I think I’d better tell you. You know, there’s been no sign of Sabiha.”
Bug-eyed and staring, she awaited my reaction.
“That’s strange,” I mused, encouraging her to continue.
“It is, isn’t it? If anything had happened I’d know. But there’s not been a peep out of her. She wouldn’t go anywhere without telling me. God forbid anything bad has happened to her . . . Where could she be? What do you think?”
I didn’t answer. I contented myself with a meaningful shake of my head.
“I’ve got an inquiring mind. I mean, I wonder about everything. I’ve got to know where, and why. I’m a little like those lady detectives on TV. I always put myself in their place, try to figure out what I’d do in their shoes if there was a murder. And what do you know, here I am, faced with not one, but two murders. The case of Hamiyet Hanım upstairs is worth looking into. She’s got a hopeless son. He drinks, takes drugs. He kept hitting her up for money. I suspect he did it. That’s what I told the police. Who else would do it? Don’t you agree?”
BOOK: The Kiss Murder
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