The Prophet Murders (5 page)

The balmy, humid nature of summer nights in Istanbul makes it difficult to tolerate a warm body in bed – even my own. I toss
and turn from side to side, sleeping slanted across the sheets if have to. Then, when my own body heat has made one side unbearable,
I move to the relative cool of the other. That’s how I spend my summer nights.

But with the turning of the season and the autumn cool, especially before the central heating comes on, it’s nice to sleep
with a man in my arms. It warms me. I hold him; he embraces me. We sleep that way, all toasty.

I opened my eyes in the first light of dawn. My bedroom curtains are thick, barring all light. There’s no way to know that
morning has come, when in my bedroom. But if the door is open, sunlight streams in from the spacious living room windows,
fills the corridor and trickles into my room. Beams of light play across the floors. What I describe here is my house. But
I was not now in my bedroom. The thin curtains were allowing the sun to fill the room in which I had been lying all morning
long.

I looked at the man in my arms. Well, not exactly in my arms. His back was turned, and he’d claimed most of the covers. I’d
been sleeping half uncovered, which may be the reason I woke up.

I tried to tug the covers towards me. But failed. He was wrapped tightly in them. One foot poked out below. I don’t have a
fetish, but I must give the foot its due. It was a superb and shapely specimen.

I snuggled closer in an attempt to get warm. As I got nearer, he let out a snort and moved towards the edge of the bed. Egoist.
There’d be a reckoning when he rose.

I had to pee. I must have caught a chill, or I wouldn’t normally get up this early to go to the bathroom. I used the toilet,
then looked at myself in the mirror. Traces of makeup covered an unshaven face. My short hair was mussed and my puffy eyes
not the least bit attractive.

As I always say, I am a perfect example of the wonders of makeup. While I’m quite handsome as a man, well-applied makeup transforms
me into a goddess of the silver screen. Not the stars of this day and age. I refer to the glitteringly glamorous Hollywood
stars of the ’50s and ’60s.

A shaving kit lay ready before the mirror. But I had no desire to use it. He knew what he went to bed with. My current state
should not surprise him. Furthermore, he kept a firm grip on it all night long. Or at least until he fell asleep and turned
his back.

Once I get out of bed, there’s no returning. So I washed my face, and applied styling gel to what had degenerated into a post-punk
hairdo. A courteous-looking young man then gazed at me from the looking glass. I had become me.

The morning chill licked at my skin, and I got goose bumps. I considered getting dressed, but changed my mind. There’s nothing
like wandering nude in homes not one’s own, especially when they belong to rich men like the cover stealer.

I inspected the kitchen, with the intention of preparing breakfast. Every kind of tea imaginable was on offer, but no coffee.
Apparently, some people do not drink the stuff. Rows of vitamins, natural juices and oatmeal highlighted his obvious attention
to his health, also illustrated by his flat stomach.

Pictures of children were fastened with magnets to the fridge. Two boys, both with his thick head of hair. They were fairer
than their father. Or it could be that age has darkened his hair, and tennis and the solarium his skin. It was difficult to
guess the ages of the boys, but it would be at least another ten years, maybe even a dozen, before they would be of any use.
What’s more, I prefer mature sorts, like their father.

I rummaged through the fridge while waiting for the kettle to boil. Like most bachelors, his was empty except for a couple
of bottles of white wine, milk, eggs, types of cheese and a variety of exotic sausages. Also, bottles of health tonics and
energy drinks. I examined the label of one of them. If the bottle really contained what it claimed to, I would become still
hornier after drinking its contents. I put it back. The water was now boiling in any case.

I put a lemon teabag into a cobalt blue mug with gilded edges. I didn’t fill it to the brim with hot water, removing the tea
bag and adding room temperature water so I could drink it right away.

The newspapers had arrived. I took my tea and the papers into the living room. It had an amazing view of the Bosphorus. Lit
up from behind, the Asian shore seemed almost ghostly. It was a crisp, bright day. The sun streams in. Putting aside the paper,
I decided to enjoy the scenery, the beauty of which I had failed to appreciate fully the previous night.

Before me lay a bird’s eye view of the Bosphorus from the hills of Ulus. Ships were gliding through the dark blue sea. A grove
of pines stood between the house and the water. A brilliant emerald. I recalled how much of Istanbul’s greenery has disappeared,
and sighed. My grandmother’s claim that “Istanbul didn’t use to be half this green; the hilltops along the Bosphorus were
totally bare,” didn’t stop me from indulging in a false nostalgia for “green Istanbul”.

Captivated by the view, I sipped my tea. It was still far too early for me to hit the street. And he didn’t seem to have any
intention of waking up just yet. My stomach grumbled, but I was certainly going nowhere near that oatmeal. A fruit bowl contained
two peaches. I ate them both.

Then I made another tea. I settled into the same deep leather chair. As the morning light changes, watching the Bosphorus
is like viewing a film. The opposite shore was now illuminated in a completely differently way. Each and every moment had
a visual drama all its own.

From somewhere inside I could hear the sound of a toilet flushing, followed by gargling. So Cengiz had got out of bed. I shifted
into a more alluring pose. He was soon at my side. Also naked. As always with those proud of their bodies.

He was smiling.

“You’re up early,” he remarked.

He leaned down to kiss me, his breath smelling of mint mouthwash.

Sitting down in the armchair opposite, he began scrutinising me. His eyes were still bleary with sleep; I couldn’t tell what
he was looking at, or how it affected him.

“You’re quite something like this too.”

I knew it. I know men like Cengiz. He was intending to go at it again. I simply smiled.

He rose, came to my side and kissed me again. He was full of desire. But I was not. I stood up and slipped free.

“The kettle’s boiled. I’ll go make you a cup of tea.”

Cengiz moved into my chair as I headed for the kitchen.

When I brought in his tea he thanked me. He was looking at the newspaper. His morning passion had subsided.

“Another transvestite’s dead. Have you seen this?” he asked.

“It was in the paper yesterday. A fire,” I answered.

“No, not that,” he said. “Another one. Drowned in a cistern. Have you seen it?”

I hadn’t. The paper had been there all morning, but I hadn’t even scanned the headlines. So much for relegating transvestite
deaths to the third page.

A dead transvestite a day. It was truly upsetting. Yesterday Ceren, and then today. . . Gül! Even in the regulation snapshot
she was breathtakingly beautiful. And, according to the paper, all of seventeen.

Gül was found dead in a well in Kücükyali. It is no longer used because of the new coastal road. The cause of death was drowning.
The coroner’s office is investigating.

I must have looked as distraught as I felt. Cengiz perched on the arm of my chair. He stroked my shoulder without a word.

At first, I was annoyed; then I felt comforted.

One died in Tarlabasi, far from her home, in a fire in an abandoned building. The other drowned in a well belonging to an unused house, on the Asian shore of Istanbul, in Kücükyali, a neighbourhood not particularly fruitful for transvestites. The two girls were friends. While it’s true that genuine friendships are the exception among us, they did at least have an intimate working relationship. Perhaps Gül, so new to the scene, hoped to build herself a new life by working with the more experienced Ceren.

When I get home I begin surfing newspapers on the internet for more information. Nothing I found seemed significant.

Gül’s real name was Yusuf Seçkin. She was from the Black Sea. So Sükrü to must have been referring to her general complexion when he described her as “pink and white”.

It was particularly noteworthy that she became a transvestite while still a mere child. Morals and national values are apparently in jeopardy. I decided, as soon as possible, to crash the website claiming this. This sort of thing doesn’t happen through mere imitation, or because of a so-called role model.

There was no news of the child-transvestite’s family.

Abandoned wells are a grave public threat. What is the municipality doing? Measures must be taken. The reporter and editor responsible for drawing such lessons from the death deserved a good thrashing.

Next, I of course rang Hasan.

“Sükrü fell apart when he heard the news. I’ve been trying to comfort him,” he said. “You know he was such a fan.”

“What do you know?” I demanded.

“Nothing at the moment. If I find out anything I’ll let you know,” he assured me.

I showered at Cengiz’s, but he’d been unable to keep his hands off me, and I felt sticky. I took a quick shower and got ready to go out. It’s best to go to the morgue looking like a real gentleman. They would have the most detailed account of the deaths.

A small bribe and a smile should get me the information I needed. I managed to reach the doctor on duty after getting past her insubordinates. She was a particularly ugly woman, and I hesitated on whether or not to pay her a compliment on her appearance.

I decided to be merely gracious. I explained my problem in moving tones. I appealed to her conscience. While I doubted that such a thin, dried-up vessel could possibly harbour anything resembling a conscience, I suppressed that thought.

She watched me intently, without speaking.

“And are you one of them?” she asked.

I despise such questions, which I find them overly aggressive. I don’t claim to “pass”. But, given my general condition, outfit and two-day stubble, I was a bit shaken by being asked so directly.

Madame doctor smiled at me knowingly.

“It doesn’t matter,” she said. “Some of my best friends are gay. I have no problem with it.”

If she expected her indulgence to be rewarded with gratitude, she was sadly mistaken. I detected a hint of malice in her words. My reserves of tolerance are limited. I felt myself getting annoyed.

“Are you going to help me?” I asked.

“We’ll see.”

She did not say what we would see or even what she expected from me. The words “hideous bitch” passed through my mind.

She was still giving me the once over. I responded by doing the same. Actually, the general contours of her face were not entirely objectionable, and each of her appendages, when viewed independently, was more or less normal. But the sum of her parts was a repulsive sight indeed. Her badly dyed hair had become the colour of flesh, and over-enthusiastic applications of hairspray had produced an impenetrable helmet. Apart from being merely puffy, it had no style what so ever. She looked like a schoolmistress who stands ready, ruler in hand, to pounce on the first schoolboy to giggle.

There was no wedding ring, which was unsurprising. Her eyebrows had been plucked nearly to extinction, and were thin, arched and shaped like parentheses. They contributed to the general tension of her face. Her makeup was virtually nonexistent, but managed to be disastrous none the less.

She pursed her lips as she stared.

“I’m doing some research,” she revealed.

I knew full well and immediately that any such research would result in no good. But I kept my mouth shut.

“On homosexuals,” she elaborated.

“So?” I prompted her.

“I would like you to participate.”

I was unable to resist asking the nature of her research. I had every right to learn what I faced and whether or not it was worth the information I sought.

She aggressively twirled her pen. Obviously she was weighing her words, wondering how to get an affirmative response out of me.

“Our research focuses primarily on vice cases and homosexuals who have applied for treatment to the venereal clinic.”

I was astonished. Apparently, some of the girls check into the clinic of their own accord. I’d been under the impression that they were ushered to the hospital after being rounded up during police raids. The girls choose only the best doctors and private hospitals. Being sent to the venereal clinic is more of a punitive measure, like going to jail.

“The research is of a practical nature and concerns changes and deformation exhibited by the sphincter.”

I wondered if I’d heard her right.

“Meaning?”

I didn’t care if she found me ignorant. I needed to know her exact intentions concerning my bottom.

“Basic measurements,” she explained. “We measure alterations in the constriction of the sphincter. As well as deformation exhibited by the rectum and surrounding areas.”

“I think I understand,” I gently murmured.

“Oh. And there’s also a brief survey,” she added. “Questions concerning your past sexual history, experiences, frequency of intercourse and so forth. Naturally, you are not required to use your real name.”

“I’m happy to fill out a survey, but I have no intention of revealing my rectal details.”

She was astonished by my reluctance.

“We won’t hurt you. It may smart just a bit.”

“That’s not the problem. It’s just the idea of a metal instrument entering my bum.”

What was the name of that instrument? Something like a gyroscope or a periscope. I got annoyed at not being able to remember.

“Rectoscopy,” she informed me.

“No thank you.”

“You know best,” she said, leaning towards the papers in front of her.

When she saw I remained in the chair, she fixed her eyes on me, without raising her head.

“And now if you’ll excuse me, I’ve got work to do.”

Yuck! She’d obviously grown up with Turkish films of the ’60s. What kind of line was that?

She had no intention of helping me. Until she had measured my sphincter, conducted a rectoscopy, handled and investigated my arse, she would reveal nothing concerning Ceren and Gül. That much was clear.

Actually, there was no need for her to tell me anything. Letting me glance through the files would be enough. She looked at me like a teacher’s pet about to tattle.

I got up.