The Kiss Murder (9 page)
Did the boy have certain tendencies, or what? Real men don’t admire a lady’s outfit. It’s what’s inside the clothes that interests them.
Despite the early hour, the club was nearly full. Advancing toward the bar, I blew kisses to the girls and our regulars. Hasan was behind the bar, next to Şükrü. When he saw me he began waving frantically. I leaned over the bar toward him.
Like a U.S. Secret Service agent revealing classified information, he hissed, “Sofya’s here!”
That was strange. Here I’d been looking everywhere for her, and she’d decided, if a bit late, to come and see me. It had been years since Sofya had retired from the scene, or at least stopped frequenting clubs like ours. While no one was certain exactly what she was up to, the general consensus was that “a rich thug keeps her at home.” News of her annual pilgrimage to Ibiza, Mykonos, or Mardi Gras regularly amazed our little circle. Girls she found sufficiently distinguished would be invited to her home. They’d go skipping off to the appointment, returning with wondrous tales of the elegance with which they were lavishly wined and dined. They eagerly awaited the day, month, year in which a second invitation would be granted. In short, with her money, airs, and fabulous lifestyle, Spectac-u-lar Sofya had attained the unattainable. She was the living embodiment of what each and every girl aspired to.
It had been some time since she’d deigned to visit the club. Furthermore, we had both allowed a tiny misunderstanding to grow into cause for major offense. Over time, our friendship had withered on the vine, like any relationship that isn’t maintained and nurtured. The gossip and tales of devious self-appointed minions and intermediaries had caused further injury. We were both right on some points, wrong on others.
Considering the circumstances, it was strange indeed that Sofya had just up and come to my club.
Another strange detail was the absence of my Virgin Mary. And the fact that there was no sign of its being prepared anytime soon.
I began drumming on the bar with the two-and-a-half-inch gold fingernails I’d bought in America, as a way of making my displeasure clear. Şükrü looked at me as though to ask what was wrong.
“My drink . . . where is it?”
He apologized and hastily began mixing it. “Send it to me!” I ordered, as I made my way back through the crowd.
The girls weren’t completely ignorant of what had happened. As their sources of information, they had television, Hasan, and gossip. But they had nothing new to add. When discussing Buse, they’d lower their voices, but any sad expressions disappeared in seconds. Buse was not much loved. She had no close friends. She wouldn’t work in pairs, indulge in group activities, or entertain men she didn’t fancy. As I said earlier, she had a set of principles and a certain classiness.
I realized too late that the man waving to me from the far end of the bar was Ferruh, Belkıs’s husband. I have trouble recognizing him when he’s not with his wife.
He seemed a bit drunk. He began weaving his way toward me. I was in no shape to put up with him. With a femme fatale pivot, I headed in the opposite direction.
A crowd had gathered around Sofya’s table. I joined them. The moment I appeared, the crowd parted—fell silent, even. I came eye to eye with Sofya. The tension was palpable, like a scene in a film. First, we exchanged glances. Motionless. The crowd watched, breathless. As we sized each other up, we luxuriated in the process. My God, she was stunning. A real head-turner. She wore a dark green silk spaghetti-strap blouse that brought out her eyes. The silicone could not have been displayed to better effect. As was the fashion, she had spent hours at the coiffeur to have her hair artfully mussed. Again, as was the fashion, her skin was an unearthly white, like porcelain. In short, she had stepped out of the pages of
Vogue
. As the hostess, it would be my duty to initiate conversation.
Vogue
. As the hostess, it would be my duty to initiate conversation.
“
Merhaba,
Sofya . . . How lovely to see you here among us.” I couldn’t have sounded less sincere. The dryness of my voice was astonishing even to me.
Merhaba,
Sofya . . . How lovely to see you here among us.” I couldn’t have sounded less sincere. The dryness of my voice was astonishing even to me.
“Sweetie . . .” she hissed. Her lips slightly distended, fashioned into a kiss, her teeth gleaming, she extended both arms in my direction.
Our seating units are incredibly comfortable, but rather low. After sinking into the cushions, it is no easy task to rise with one graceful movement. Sofya was a clever girl. She didn’t even attempt it. Arms outstretched, she awaited me. I slowly moved toward her, bending my knees as I fell into her waiting embrace. We preserved our makeup by blowing air kisses over each other’s shoulders. The encirclement ceremony was over. The tension evaporated; the crowd released its collective breath. And applause broke out! We indulged our reverent congregation, flashing little smiles of appreciation all around.
“Condolences to us all,” she said.
The trick of never fully closing her lips was one she had developed since our last meeting. No matter what she said, or where she looked, Sofya appeared to be bestowing a small kiss.
I whispered into her ear, “I would like to speak to you, when you’re available . . .”
“Now!” she said, leaning her full weight into me as she rose to her feet. I was nearly knocked off balance. Sofya is an eyeful, and far from petite. She seized my hand. Like two haughty queens who have annihilated their subjects in a futile, bitter war, then decided to make peace with each other, we sauntered hand in hand to the stairs leading to my office.
“We have to speak outside. We can’t talk here,” she said. She had a way of giving each and every syllable its due, like an actress with the state theater.
“Why?” I asked. My voice was still dry.
“You have no idea of the danger. There is so much you don’t know.” During her many years in France, she’d cultivated the habit of lightly rolling her
r
’s. No doubt she thought it was sexy.
r
’s. No doubt she thought it was sexy.
The expression on my face must have been one of stupid admiration.
“Hasan told me everything. You came to my home. I was out. Then I found out. I was wretched. Of course. For Buse. Then, I thought, this is critical. But there is no need for panic. Or perhaps there is. It depends on your point of view. So I left my home to come here, to see you.”
While incomprehensible, it was beautifully put. And she had told me nothing. As she spoke, her eyes widened and narrowed. Each word rang with significance and hidden meaning. Even the spaces she left between the fragmented sentences were electrifying.
“What did Buse tell you?” I asked.
“It’s what she told you that’s important.”
Just as I’d expected. We were at it again.
Reaching into a tiny handbag, a performance of the utmost sensitivity that apparently required her undivided attention, Sofya extracted a long, slender More cigarette. She lit it with an exquisite jeweled lighter, then fixed her eyes on me.
“I’m waiting. Begin.”
There is nothing that infuriates me more than being subjected to the airs of the English royal family. Sofya had me right where she wanted me.
“She came to see me that morning, not you,” I began.
“Exactly. Which is why you know more. Now tell me everything.”
I decided against dragging things out. The surest way to get quick results was to pool what little we knew. I began to relate all that had happened. I neglected to mention the corpse of Sabiha’s upstairs neighbor. She listened intently, not moving a muscle. Ash collected on the tip of her cigarette. When it had reached halfway, I stopped.
“It’s even worse than I thought,” she said.
She thought for a moment. Or at least pretended to. Eyes frozen to slits, she began:
“Look, the situation is more sensitive and complex than you’re able to comprehend. There’s so much you don’t know. From what you’ve told me, it’s begun to get dangerous. The murder makes it even more so. It means I’m at risk as well. In fact, so are you. Perhaps not yet . . . but soon.”
She struck a dramatic pose, shifting slightly in her seat. Chin raised high, she blew a cloud of smoke toward the ceiling. It seemed like she was trying to tell me something. But what, I couldn’t make out. I suddenly felt a bit pathetic.
“I still don’t understand a thing.”
“I don’t expect you to.” In an even more dramatic gesture, her hands fluttered gently in the air, as though to say,
None of this means anything to you; leave me alone with my troubles.
“If you’ll try to be a bit patient, to understand what we’re up against . . .”
None of this means anything to you; leave me alone with my troubles.
“If you’ll try to be a bit patient, to understand what we’re up against . . .”
How was it that she seemed to reveal so much while saying so little—and managed to humiliate me as she did it? I ran through all the times I’d felt the way I did now. Every time, Sofya was there.
“So who is the man in the photographs? What’s written in the letters? Do you know that much, at least?”
Her eyes changed expression, as though to retort,
How could you possibly ask me such ridiculous questions?
How could you possibly ask me such ridiculous questions?
“I mean, you may have seen the photos. Or perhaps Buse told you about them.”
Silence. Tension. Anticipation. Everything! She’d managed them all.
“Look,” she said, once again narrowing her eyes slightly, “I know who he is. It would be a mistake for me to tell you. He’s not just anyone.”
“Who is it,
ayol
? The president? The prime minister? The American president?”
ayol
? The president? The prime minister? The American president?”
A plastic chortle silenced me. Like the sound a doll would make. Without so much as a facial twitch, Sofya was able to produce a wide range of sounds.
“You’re so naïve.”
I knew it. I was fully aware that all her efforts were aimed at confusing me. And she was succeeding.
She finished her cigarette. When she was unable to spot an ashtray upon a cursory glance to the left and right, the stub was flung to the floor and elegantly extinguished with a twist of the right ankle. She rose, gathered her long skirts, and began the descent to the club. After a few steps she turned, widened her eyes, and offered this naughty child a bit of advice:
“Blackmail. Big time. It’s dangerous. Extremely dangerous. Caution is advised. Teamwork will be needed.”
The eyes narrowed once again as she scrutinized me. A finger landed on the tip of my nose.
“I like you,” she purred. “Despite everything,” she added, after waiting a full beat. “Listen to me. Stay out of this.”
She turned, and was gone.
Chapter 12I
t wasn’t until later, after I’d had a few drinks, that I was able to begin processing what Sofya had said. It is impossible, the first time around, to get beyond her body language and narrative style. Sofya has mastered the art of playing the inscrutable woman.
t wasn’t until later, after I’d had a few drinks, that I was able to begin processing what Sofya had said. It is impossible, the first time around, to get beyond her body language and narrative style. Sofya has mastered the art of playing the inscrutable woman.
I couldn’t decide whether or not to envy her this skill. But it was food for thought.
Sofya had me absolutely stupefied. I was drained, and would be unable to carry on until closing time. To make matters worse, Belkıs’s husband, Ferruh, was still at the club, eyes rolling in their sockets, too drunk to speak, but wanting to do just that. He’d taken full advantage of the discount we offer to friends.
“But it’s important,” he insisted. “I need to talk to you alone. You’re the only one who can handle this.”
He was having trouble focusing his eyes on me as he spoke. Sweaty hands pawed at my arm. Everyone knew he had a thing for our girls. Knowing how jealous Belkıs would get if he chased after them when she wasn’t around, I surrendered him to Cüneyt and he was bundled into a taxi and sent home.
I needed more alcohol. I don’t usually drink at the club on principle, so I went home. I’m not really a drinker, but a bottle of Absolut and a good selection of wine are kept in stock for those times when I do need a drink. Wine wouldn’t do the trick. I opened the vodka.
I spread out before me the findings of my earlier search of the house. I sorted through the heap, losing myself in memories, while simultaneously losing myself in the cool lap of Absolut.
After the fifth shot, my already shattered mind was completely muddied. That was a good sign. I held a notebook I’d painstakingly prepared in middle school. I’d glued photos of beautiful women and gorgeous men on every page. They were censored versions of photos I’d cut out of a
Playgirl
I’d secretly bought. By the seventh shot, my mind was clear as crystal. The sight of the notebook conjured up the literature teacher who had given me a stinging slap across the face. I remembered her name and face, and even the khaki skirt, shiny from repeated ironing, that she always wore. I remembered the first man I slept with . . . but my first evening gown: no.
Playgirl
I’d secretly bought. By the seventh shot, my mind was clear as crystal. The sight of the notebook conjured up the literature teacher who had given me a stinging slap across the face. I remembered her name and face, and even the khaki skirt, shiny from repeated ironing, that she always wore. I remembered the first man I slept with . . . but my first evening gown: no.
I flipped through an old passport, every page of which bore a CANCELED stamp. I remembered in vivid detail every moment of my stage experience at a Parisian cabaret. I wore a wig much like Sofya’s current hairstyle. My makeup was perfect; my show was a disaster. At that time, it was all the rage to lip-synch to well-known pop songs, mimicking every move of the women who made them famous. All the audience wanted was a good guffaw. But there I was in my best outfit, pursuing a career as a singer. Unsurprisingly, it didn’t work out.
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