Read The Prophet Murders Online
Authors: Mehmet Murat Somer
The Prophet Murders (11 page)
F
rom what Hasan was able to piece together, Adem Yildiz and Ahmet Kuyu had left the club accompanied by Aylin, Vuslat and Demet.
I wanted to arrange an interview with all three girls. I could have handled things on the phone, but thought it best to meet face-to-face. It would also give me a chance to escape Ponpon’s morning rituals. While I appreciate the importance of a thorough skin maintenance regime, Ponpon had embraced a daily ceremony the likes of which I’d never once encountered, whether in real life, books or film. It involved the application of every kind of cosmetic and natural preparation imaginable, in ways that aren’t so easy to imagine.
I left as she began pulverizing parsley in the blender for her morning mask.
As I made my way to Aylin’s house in the Cira
an district of Be
ikta, something occurred to me. Would it be possible to analyse the sperm found on the bodies, even though they had been damaged in the fire and water? If there really were traces of sperm in the anuses of Gül and Ceren, an obvious indication that they had had sexual intercourse just prior to their deaths, would an analysis be able to indicate who their partners were?
The answers to such questions were not in my realm of expertise. I would have to ask someone with a background in forensics. I did know, though, that such tests became more inconclusive the later they were conducted. That hag of a lady doctor could be of use to me. But at what price!
I love this neighbourhood. Despite its location in the very heart of Istanbul, it seems to me to capture everything that makes the city special: To one side is the Bosphorus; on the other, it is bordered by an enormous park, a virtual forest; charming buildings line steep cobbled streets. Most importantly, people still greet each other with
günaydin
every morning, the corner shop owner and butcher are locals, and the overall atmosphere is one of neighbourliness.
Aylin’s tiny garden apartment boasts slices of Bosphorus view from between the buildings in front of hers. She had just awoken, and hadn’t yet shaken off her morning grogginess. Opening the door a crack, she poked out her nose. She was astonished to see me.
“
Merhaba
hubby,” she greeted me. “Welcome . . . ”
The girls just love referring to their clients as “hubby”. Some of them find it strange that I sometimes opt for men’s clothing. That’s what was probably behind the matrimonial reference.
“I need to have a talk,” I told her.
“Come right in,
ayol
,” she said.
We sat down.
The grace and beauty of her body was truly enchanting. She rivalled anything you’d see in a
Playboy
centrefold spread. Her newly acquired breasts were rather small and pert, in contrast to the Dolly Parton model that are all the rage. Like the proud owner of any new toy or bauble, she was determined to show them off. She was topless. Below, she wore only a pair of shorts.
After a brief discussion of the weather, she sipping a can of cola, me drinking a glass of water, we finally came to the point.
“The night before last,” I said, “You went off with Ahmet Kuyu and company.”
“Don’t even remind me,” she said. “You know what he’s like.”
“What happened; what did the two of you get up to?” I asked.
“You know what I’m like,” she said. “Once the money’s been handed over I’m on for anything. There’s no whining about what I will or won’t do. So long as he doesn’t mess up my face, he’s welcome to beat me once he’s paid up.”
As I listened to her, I felt a knot in my stomach.
“Ahmet Kuyu is one of those. You know. . . ”
“What do you mean?”
“
Aman!
Whenever he’s got a bit of cash in his pocket there’s nothing he likes more than roughing up one of the girls. The more you scream and throw yourself about the more turned on he gets. I’ve got the guy sussed . . . ”
As she spoke, she toyed with her breasts. She cupped them, pushed them up from below to make them stick out further, circled her nipple with an index finger and all the while gazed down at them, entranced. Needless to say, she contorted her lips into a series of expressions designed to complement the gymnastics of her breasts.
“Actually, what they really expect is for you to play along with them,” she said. “I’m good. I scream to high heaven, throw myself at their feet, beg and plead . . . He was really taken with me. But it was the other idiot who paid the bill.”
“Which one?”
“Not Adem Yildiz, the other one. You know, the one dressed like some kind of accountant.”
So she knew full well who Adem Yildiz was. He hadn’t even bothered to keep his identity secret.
“So what did Adem Yildiz do?” I asked.
“What do I know,
abla
? He wasn’t what you’d call chatty. He just sat there, asking everyone what their name was.”
So it’s true he had a thing for names.
“What’s your real name?” I asked.
“Seçkin,” she said. “My name is proof I’m queer. My brothers were named Mustafa and Reat, after our grandfathers, but by the time they got to me there weren’t any grandfathers left, so I was called Seçkin. It was a fashionable name at the time. When my dad found out I was queer he said, ‘Just look what that name did to him!’”
Now she ran the cola can down between her breasts, trying to hold up the empty can with them. It slipped down to her lap.
“Were you with Adem Yildiz?’’
“No way,
ayol
,” she said. “He’s a chicken hawk. I guess I was a bit too mature for him. But I still think he’s the one who paid me. Where would Ahmet Kuyu get his hands on so many dollars?”
She cursed the can as it slipped off her lap and dropped to the floor.
“Did they pay in dollars?”
“Naturally. . . They’re special customers with special tastes. The payment’s got to be special too, don’t you think?”
“You have a point,” I agreed.
“So
abla
, what’s come out of all of this? Now that I’ve answered your questions what have you solved?”
I laughed.
“Actually, not a thing.”
“Oh . . . You mean to tell me I’ve told you all this for nothing?” she asked.
“No, not at all. It’ll come in handy one day.”
“Good,” she said, and resumed playing with the cola can.
“What did the other girls do that night?” I asked.
“I’ve got no idea.”
She was concentrating on her breasts again, playing with her nipples.
“They’re real beauties, aren’t they?”
“They’re incredible,” I complimented her.
“I’m just crazy about them. I could spend the whole day admiring them and still not get my fill.”
“You’ll get used to them,” I said.
“Of course,” she said, suddenly contrary. “Of course I will. It’s not as though I could spend the rest of my life worshipping my tits, is it? I’m playing with them a lot now so the novelty will wear off quicker.”
“Who slept with whom that night?” I asked.
“I think Adem Yildiz was with Dolly Vuslat. I told you he was a chicken hawk.”
“Do you know what they did?”
“
Ay
, of course not,” she said. “How am I supposed to know? I left as soon as I was done. I’m not one for spending the night and all that. The girls were still there . . . I didn’t actually see them. But I’m pretty sure they were there.”
“Didn’t you talk to them later?”
“What about? What have I got in common with them?”
Rising to her feet, she squeezed her breasts together, then suddenly released them. They shook violently. And she was approaching me.
“Demet doesn’t even bother to wax. And Vuslat’s nothing but a hairy little monkey. But as for me, well, I’ve got breasts!”
A new caste system was emerging in the world of transvestites. Those with breasts considered themselves superior to those without. In other words, the girls with tits had decided to look down on the likes of me.
“But I haven’t got any. . . ” I began.
She interrupted. “Yes, but hubby, you’re practically the boss.”
The “hubby” she referred to was of course yours truly. I had no intention, and indeed would never have the intention, of playing husband to anyone, let alone one of the girls. Years earlier, out of curiosity, I had taken on the role a few times. To tell the truth, though, I don’t get much pleasure out of playing husband to either men or women. At a pinch, I can do my bit, provided it is reciprocal. But there are times when, in the line of duty, as a nod to my sense of professionalism, I do what is asked of me.
Clearly, our conversation had run its course. From here on in, I could expect only that peculiar brand of silliness that I put down to excessive injections of female hormones.
When I stepped outside I noticed the air had cooled. The east wind helped clear my head. A breeze blowing in from the shores of Uskudar contained all the scents and odours of the Bosporus. The occasional whiff of exhaust fumes and petrol is Istanbul’s way of flirting.
Dolly Vuslat and Demet were next in line. As I walked down the cobbled hill I realised I was hungry. It would be good to get something to eat before visiting Vuslat in Gayrettepe. What’s more, dropping in on her a bit later would mean not waking her up.
I decided to go to a restaurant located on the top floor of La Maison. It has an incredible view. As I remembered their soufflés my mouth watered and my stomach growled.
It was still a bit early for lunch, so the restaurant was empty. I was the only customer. Although late in the season, the terrace was open. Not fully trusting the changeable Bosphorus breezes, I headed for a sunny table inside. The view was every bit as spectacular as I’d remembered! I’d taken to really looking at the Bosphorus the last few days. There’s nothing like it during these crisp autumn days, when you feel as though you can see forever. I looked at the Maiden’s Tower, Topkapi Palace, the Sublime Porte of Sarayburnu and the Sepetçiler Kasri, letting my eyes wander up to the silhouetted minarets jutting into the sky from Haghia Sophia and the Blue Mosque. Istanbul was living up to its reputation as “the city of 1001 nights”. I realised I was smiling to myself.