The Kiss Murder (15 page)
When one of the girls from the club got stoned she would engage in a late-night cleaning frenzy, washing her windows well after midnight. In fact, she once fell three stories while doing it.
These thoughts ran through my mind all the way home, a stupid smile plastered on my face.
It was nearly dark by the time I got there. The summer days were getting shorter. The corridor light of the apartment building wasn’t working. I cursed—the electricity was cut. I cursed again a split second later when it occurred to me that I wouldn’t be able to listen to the cassette. My stereo wouldn’t play the tiny tape, but I’d hoped to use my answering machine. And now there was no electricity. I entered my flat damning the municipality to hell, along with the utility company, the Ministry of Energy and Resources, not forgetting the minister himself and his entire staff, as well as the government, Parliament, and every other organization and individual who shared the blame for the darkness. Fumbling my way up the stairs in the blackness, I had plenty of time to condemn them all.
Although it wasn’t yet completely dark outside, it was pitch-black in the hallway. I even had trouble finding the keyhole.
Unsurprisingly, the electricity was cut in my flat as well. I took the tape out of my pocket and put it on the table, then removed my sweat-soaked clothes. I hung them on the balcony to dry. Stepping out onto the back balcony totally nude didn’t seem a problem to me, a little exhibitionism is healthy. I splashed water onto my face and hair. The effect was refreshing.
Of course, now the TV wouldn’t work, right when I needed a game show fix. I prepared a large glass of iced tea and stretched out naked on the sofa. Staring at me from the table was the tape, its outline growing clearer as my eyes got used to the darkness. My heart beat faster at the thought of what it might contain. If Buse really had gotten stoned and went on to reveal the identities of everyone she had slept with, I would have any number of important new clues.
My body was tense. I knew exactly what I needed, but I tried not to think about it. The windows were open. A cool breeze lapped at my naked skin.
I waited for the sound of the fridge, the first sign that electricity had been restored. There was a knock on the door. The bell wasn’t working, of course, but I was certain I had heard a tap. Who could it be at this hour? Hüseyin was the first person to come to mind. I decided to have a peek through the keyhole and tiptoed silently to the door. There’s nothing like gracefully swaying one’s way to one’s front door. I am not without my talents. I didn’t bend my knees, like those who cannot manage the art of walking in high heels, but stalked my way
en pointe,
as it were.
en pointe,
as it were.
The corridor was too dark for me to see much. I did however detect a shadow, the outline of what was most definitely a man. My curiosity was whetted. The sudden appearance of a man at my door was not a common occurrence. Particularly when I was so desperately in need of one. It was a simple case of kismet. Normally, whenever I’m so completely in the mood, something goes wrong. The man I’ve set my sights on makes his excuses and the whole thing is called off. Who could it be? I’m ashamed to say that I gave in to my physical desires and curiosity.
I couldn’t exactly open the door stark naked.
“Who is it?” I asked.
“It’s me, Kenan, the policeman.”
He lowered his voice when he said “policeman.” Good for him, there was no sense in letting the entire building know.
“Just a second!” I cried out.
I was excited. I tingled. It was definitely my lucky day. I looked for something to cover myself with. The pashmina from the previous night was the first thing I found, and I arranged it as invitingly as possible.
I opened the door a crack. My head and naked shoulder were the only things visible to my visitor.
“How can I help you?”
“Uh, you said I could stop by when I finished my shift.”
He was dressed in civilian clothing. He smelled of shampoo and deodorant. As he stared at what was visible of my body there was no mistaking the hopeful look in his eyes. I was as ready as I could ever be, but a bit of coquetry was required first. I opened the door a bit more, exposing my entire body. Like a vamp from a golden age, one hand clutched the door handle, the other clasped the pashmina. It could only cover so much. Much more than was entirely appropriate was spread before his eyes.
His expression changed. If anyone had entered the building or opened their front door at that point, I would have been disgraced. Kenan stared at me as he adjusted the lump in his trousers. There was no need for words. His intentions were clear. Nearly naked, I could resist him no more. I welcomed him in and we headed straight for the bedroom.
Frankly, it was just what I needed. Yes, it would have been better had it lasted for more than ten minutes. It is true that no more than fifteen minutes passed between his setting foot inside and his getting dressed and leaving. But as the saying goes, a priest doesn’t eat pilaf every day, nor could I expect haute cuisine every day. Kismet only goes so far. There was no need for ingratitude, it was better than nothing. Compared to the lady journalist whose clutches I’d barely escaped it was a veritable feast. It was over in the shortest time possible, and though he was neither skilled nor playful in bed, there was no denying that he had what it takes where it counts. And the electricity was still cut. What could be better at a time like this?
I’d have preferred a bit more lovemaking, being kissed with full, rather than pursed lips. Who wouldn’t have? But no matter.
He still made it into my top twenty, if not my top ten. His physique alone earned him that much. In terms of performance, though, he’d be somewhere near the bottom.
Kenan had helped my tensions to evaporate, if only superficially. Before he’d made it down the stairs, I was already in the shower. That’s when the lights came on.
Chapter 20T
aking the taped interview with Buse, I went to the answering machine. The machine informed me I had five messages, but I decided to listen to them later. For now, all my curiosity was focused on the tape. To avoid any interruptions, I unplugged the phone. If there was a persistent caller, I could always answer using the cordless one. I began listening intently. The interview started with an exchange of pleasantries. Buse referred to the nymphomaniac lady journalist as
efendim
.
aking the taped interview with Buse, I went to the answering machine. The machine informed me I had five messages, but I decided to listen to them later. For now, all my curiosity was focused on the tape. To avoid any interruptions, I unplugged the phone. If there was a persistent caller, I could always answer using the cordless one. I began listening intently. The interview started with an exchange of pleasantries. Buse referred to the nymphomaniac lady journalist as
efendim
.
She summarized the changes she’d gone through, how she’d developed over the years. In excruciating detail. The pain of getting one’s face depilated, not to mention the expense. The swelling and the resulting inability to work with a disfigured face. How much it stung when her cheek was so much as touched, et cetera.
She began talking about her family. She’d lost her father when still a child. He was much older than her mother: It was only natural that he had made an earlier departure. The way she had acted as her mother’s “eyes” from a young age. She believed in any case that male children raised solely by their mothers were likely to turn out homosexual. Her own story seemed to corroborate that theory.
Her mother’s blindness allowed her more freedom for sexual experimentation than was available to most of her peers. The first trysts were innocent, the sort everyone has: peeking at other boys in the toilet, playing doctor, falling in love with her chemistry teacher. As she passed through adolescence, however, they took a more serious turn. At age sixteen, she lost her virginity.
And the first name was uttered. Yusuf, one of the older boys in her class, was screwing her on a regular basis. Our girl immediately fell in love and began dreaming of marriage. The boy, however, entertained no such thoughts. In fact, because Fevzi regularly showed up at his house to harass him, he would beat her.
So was this “Yusuf” the person I was looking for? Had that skinny, penniless schoolboy developed into a paunchy, middle-aged power broker with a determination to cleanse his past of any unsavory elements? It was entirely possible. There’s no shortage of respectable businessmen with humble backgrounds. He may have rashly jotted down his feelings for Fevzi in a diary of the sort kept in those days primarily by girls and queers. At that age, no distinction is made between carnal attraction and romantic passion. The two are often confused. Many unhappy marriages can trace their downfall to the point at which passion ends without being replaced by true affection and friendship. Those who can’t bear to terminate these “sociological marriages” end up terminating their own prospects for personal happiness.
The journalist jumped in here, emotionally declaring how well she knew that to be true. The slight slurring of her words revealed how far through the bottle she had got. In the background, Buse could be heard drawing deeply on her marijuana cigarette.
Following this “catastrophe,” Fevzi started sleeping with anyone who crossed her path. Having accepted that life was shit, she was determined to revel in all its filth, wilfully soiling and debasing herself in the process.
The dramatic tremor in her voice gave Buse away. Those last few lines had been rehearsed and painstakingly polished in order to produce the desired effect on the listener. We all produce pretty-sounding accounts to explain our past behavior, particularly the more sordid bits.
From that point onward, Buse’s speech became so slurred as to be almost unintelligible. The joint she had been smoking had woven its spell, and she was high as a kite. Like I said earlier, I’m completely inflexible on the subject of drugs. I don’t like them one bit. Not only do I not use them, I keep my distance from those who do.
By the time she graduated from high school Buse considered herself adequately experienced and practiced. In fact, the actor Semih had even taken her to a film set.
Semih was a second-rate thespian with a well-known soft spot for young boys. Buse couldn’t possibly add much to his already shady past. There would be no reason for him to resort to blackmail.
The young Fevzi had a walk-on role in that film. Later, Semih handed her along to the hardened, alcoholic leading man, Atilla Erkan. While that particular side of him was a well-kept secret, he, too, was fond of hairless youths. He took Fevzi to a back room during filming and, without undressing, just unzipping his fly, took her. Then he slapped an autographed photograph into her hand. She claimed to still have it as a memory of that day, that particular screwing. In his time, after all, Erkan had been a minor celebrity.
That’s right, I dimly remembered an actor by that name. He was as untalented as he was handsome. There’d been no sign of him for years. He had married and divorced a series of beauty queens. He beat one of them so badly he finally appeared again on the tabloid front pages he had missed so much. The abuse of his wife was probably an expression of his suppressed homosexuality. Women very often catch their husbands in compromising situations. Often they don’t fully understand, or they refuse to understand, the implications. They make a scene without taking into consideration the ramifications. That may have been what triggered the savage beating. Thanks to Fevzi, yet another tabloid riddle had been solved.
Whatever happened to Atilla Erkan? If he had been reduced to playing in third-rate television series I wouldn’t have known. Considering my general lack of curiosity about him, it was unlikely anyone else cared. Were someone to attempt to blackmail him, he’d have nothing to lose. I struck him off the list of suspects. There’d be no point in kicking someone who had already sunk so low.
Semih and Atilla were followed by a succession of middle-aged men. In fact, one of Semih’s cronies, a film extra, had begun peddling Buse. When the customer was finished, he’d pronounce her “nice and slippery,” have a go, and then pay her.
One night, she was taken to a party at the mansion of journalist Korhan Türker, where she was one of a bevy of young men in ladies’ underwear circulating among the guests. Korhan Türker and his cronies were playing poker. Fevzi had been instructed to wear a flesh-colored pair of lace panties. Another boy wore only a garter belt, his bits flapping as he sashayed about. The boys were occasionally pulled onto laps, pinched, fondled, and screwed. Then the card game would resume. The stakes were suitably high for such an illustrious group of men. Fevzi was pulled under the table. She gave them all blow jobs, for which she received generous tips. As she returned home early that morning her bottom was purple from all the pinching.
At this point in the tape, the lady journalist was boiling over with rage toward her editor. I was impressed by her range of colorful curses. She said she would do all she could to expose Korhan Türker, one of her paper’s most illustrious contributors. She had him by the balls now. In any case, he was a total turn-coat. She hadn’t known anything about his interest in boys. He had a wealthy wife many years older than himself, and would stage stag parties when he sent her away on holiday. If confronted with his past parties, he would absolutely dismiss it all as fantasy. He was that shameless. It wasn’t as though there were any credible witnesses to the debauchery. The contents of the tape wouldn’t stand up in a court of law. The other men at the party would naturally not come forward. In any case, well-known journalists had achieved a certain degree of immunity and protection in the form of mutual censorship.
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