The Serenity Murders

by Mehmet Murat Somer

  “Does anyone else have any questions?”

  The girls and some of the drivers were clearly ready to cause a commotion.

  “Now, please, let’s get into search groups,” said Hasan, with all the authority of a military commander. “Twos or threes…Then everyone can take one of these sheets and each unit can start searching its own area!”

  We were ready to embark upon our desperate operation.

  The start signal had been given.

  26.

  Just as Hasan finished, two police cars and one police van with blue and red police lights flashing on their roofs arrived. They closed off both ends of the street.

  Our tiny little street was turning into a circus.

  “All right, everyone, come on, clear out,” they began, the words blaring through the vehicle megaphones. “C’mon, now, clear out!”

  They were more than ready to charge at us.

  The girls weren’t afraid of the police; to the contrary, they were capable of standing up to them, even openly defying them. But the taxi drivers weren’t like that. The drivers shrank back immediately.

  Someone had called the police.

  It could have been a neighborhood inhabitant who was alarmed at what was going on outside her window, or even our psycho himself.

  Clearly the police didn’t want to miss this opportunity. They always saw transvestites as trouble (from whom they were nevertheless plenty eager to demand free sex whenever they caught us alone in a quiet corner), and now those same transvestites had fallen into their clutches en masse; they were ready to play it rough. We were ready to give it right back to them.

  I remembered what Hakan Gülseven, a journalist I admired, had once written: “Doubtless the wheels will continue to turn this way until the security forces realize it is their duty to save people’s necks, not break them.”

  I was the cause of all this. It would have been unfair for Pamir or Hasan to be blamed just because they were the organizers.

  I stepped forward.

  I would accept all responsibility as the leader of this gang, on the condition that no one else was taken into custody. They invited me to the police station in an extremely polite manner I found difficult to fathom.

  Even though Pamir tried to intervene—“No way, abla, you won’t go alone!”—I was having none of it.

  “Stay out of this,” I said. “This has nothing to do with you.”

  This motley crew crowding the small street was her doing, it was true, but I was the one who had let it go on. I could have stopped it. I hadn’t. So I had become responsible.

  Hüseyin, who didn’t want to leave me on my own, and Hasan, who couldn’t bear to miss a single moment of this adventure, were determined to come with me. A driver whose face I recognized but whose name I didn’t know stepped forward heroically to support Hüseyin.

  When Pamir almost ignited an uprising to stop them from taking me away, I had to calm the girls down.

  “Thank you,” I said. “But there’s no need. You all have things to do, families to go to…We’ll handle it.”

  Our visit to the police station was perfectly civil—both on our part, and on those of the police officer gentlemen. They offered us tea. We sat in the chief’s office, opposite the chief. He looked at me and muttered something or other every now and then; unsure of what to do, I looked at him and played silent piano sonatas on his table with my fingers.

  We were waiting but didn’t know for what.

  About an hour later, my friend and police contact Selçuk Tayanç arrived. He’d been informed of what had happened. The station staff stood at attention to greet him. The chief left us his office so we could speak in private.

  Selçuk waited until the door was shut.

  “Are you out of your mind?”

  He was angry. Really angry. I know him when he’s like this…and how to handle him when he’s in a mood like this. After all, we spent our entire childhood together.

  “You create panic in the neighborhood. Start a human hunt to find the psycho killer. You were practically inciting a public riot!”

  He was exaggerating, but I wouldn’t have my say until he’d calmed down.

  “I can’t believe it! And there I was, thinking you a perfectly smart and rational human being…Now look what you’ve done! Typical transvestite behavior! I don’t know where you get these crazy ideas. If I didn’t know you…”

  It was no use trying to explain myself when he was so angry. He roared and thundered.

  “How could you? Calling an entire neighborhood to arms…A gang of transvestites convening in the middle of the street! Taxi drivers joining them…Who are you, to plan such a search? What were you going to do if you found him? Lynch him? Beat him to death?…You couldn’t have stopped them…Like in a murderous riot! No wonder a neighbor called the police.”

  He finally sat down. Not at the chief’s desk, but in the chair opposite me. He pulled out a pack of Marlboro 100’s and tossed it onto the coffee table (which really could have used a new coat of varnish) between us.

  “I quit, you know, but then I started back up again because of you! I smoked two on my way here.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said.

  Well, if it really was my fault he’d started smoking again, then what else could I say?

  “But please, stop scolding me as if I were a child.”

  “But what you did was childish. You have to admit it.”

  He reached out and took a cigarette from the pack. He placed it between his lips and lit it with the plastic red lighter he was holding in his hand. He dragged on the cigarette, held the smoke in his lungs for a while, and then exhaled. In his actions I saw the passionate behavior commonly exhibited by nicotine addicts who had started again after quitting. He inhaled the smoke with immense pleasure, held the cigarette in his hand cautiously so as not to waste a single breath of it—like a lover fulfilling his hunger for a beloved he had remained separated from for a long time.

  “Look, Burçak,” he said, stretching his arm out toward me without letting go of the cigarette caught between his fingers. “What you’ve done…it isn’t right.”

  “I know,” I said calmly. “But it was the best idea we could come up with. We had even localized it. We might have even found him if your lot hadn’t turned up.”

  It made no difference how much of what I said he did or did not believe. I had to put up a defense, no matter what. I had done this, allowed it to happen, and I had no intention of making excuses. He knew how stubborn I could be.

  “Please don’t start again! What did I just say?…Only the police have the right to conduct searches…It’s not up to you. If you’ve localized him to a certain area, let us take care of the rest…”

  Selçuk was getting old too. His body was still toned, but I noticed a few white hairs on his temples. And the contours of his face were not what they used to be.

  “If you think you can fool me by saying that, well, you’re wrong,” I said. “The police need a zillion documents to get a search warrant. There’s a whole load of procedures. I read all about it, I know.”

  I really had read the new laws line by line. I did it so that I could protect the club from the officers who were new to the area and didn’t know me, and came to the club claiming they were there to search us, but who were really just asking for protection money. I knew they couldn’t walk in whenever they felt like it, and no way could they search us.

  I was right. And Selçuk knew it. Instead of answering me, he took a puff from his cigarette.

  “If you really know so well what we can and can’t do, don’t call me every time you get yourself into a mess! I just left my family’s dinner table to come here.”

  “I really do apologize,” I said.

  The lines of his dimples were getting deeper. Those tiny holes, once attractive when he smiled, now looked like deep scars. He really was getting old.

  “I’m not telling you so that you apologize,” he said, lowering his voice and sm
iling to soften the effect of having lashed out at me a second ago. “I wouldn’t have come if I didn’t want to. But I did. Didn’t I? Just leave this to me, that’s all I ask.”

  I must be getting old too. Selçuk was two years older than me. Did two years make that much of a difference? Were my cheeks starting to sag too?

  “I’m the one who’s in danger,” I said. “I get threats every second, my home is bugged with listening devices, someone has access to my computer and can do whatever he wants on it. He sends letters everywhere addressed to me. And other people are in danger too. Sermet Kılıç was murdered. Hüseyin’s car was set on fire. You want me to go on?”

  He listened to me, his mouth firmly closed, his eyebrows raised. I noticed when he fiddled with his hair that it was getting thin, even though he wasn’t losing it entirely. He had combed it back, carefully, like he always did.

  His angry glare was chilling. I couldn’t bring myself to continue.

  It was Jihad2000 who had triggered the whole thing. He had called the psycho from his own pay-as-you-go SIM again and again, and dialed from my number every now and then too, waiting for him to pick up. Of course he hadn’t picked up, but instead called my number to make new threats, which Jihad2000 had redirected to his own computer. This was enough to determine which cell towers he was calling through. He was in my neighborhood. Once Jihad2000 shared all of his findings with Pamir, Pamir had called Hasan, and the plan of action was made. Even though I wanted to believe that they had acted with all good intentions, I couldn’t help being mad at them both. They were both in for a stern lecture, once my anger had cooled off.

  And if our psycho had any brains at all, he wouldn’t be sticking around after all that had happened.

  Selçuk dropped the three of us off at the club on his way back home. Our invitation to join us for a drink was kindly turned down. I owed him, yet again.

  27.

  All of the girls, led by Pamir, were waiting for us, brimming with curiosity. There was a small cry of joy when they saw we had made it back safe and sound. Yes, the neighborhood raid had fallen through, the psycho hadn’t been found, their appetite for lynching had been left unsated, but still, they said, they had enjoyed themselves. As if this were some kind of game.

  The marvelous plan had come to naught, I had made yet another visit to the police station, and I had been scolded by Selçuk. What’s more, the psycho was still loose. I didn’t have the energy to join in the girls’ laughter, or recount the psycho’s threats, make fun of him, and entertain them. The night in our world was still young, and I realized that his threat to get Hüseyin must still be valid.

  Hasan got back to work, and Hüseyin went behind the bar to join Şükrü the bartender, where he could have some peace without being pestered by anybody. The two of them got along well enough.

  I summoned DJ Osman. He knew from Hasan that I was pissed off; he wiped that saucy smile off his face and walked over to me.

  “I want a peaceful night,” I said. “Play soft, sweet music. No Brazilian CDs…And don’t go trying to squeeze in any other pieces that will annoy me either.”

  I knew how he was. Now that I’d said this, he’d start by playing all the pathetic, tearful songs he could find, and then switch to techno, trance, and hip-hop because the customers were asking for it.

  “Not going to happen,” I said. “We will not be taking those kinds of requests from customers, not tonight.”

  My testiness had proven quite useful; in one go Osman had understood what I didn’t want. He remained unsure, however, as to what exactly I did want.

  “So what should I play?” he asked.

  “You’re the one who’s the DJ, darling. I can’t choose for you.”

  He gave me a hesitant, worried look, as if to say that he knew I’d object to every piece of music he’d play, and then all hell would break loose.

  “You tell me what to play, ma’am…”

  Even if I were to tell him two songs, the third was again going to be a problem. Or he’d keep coming to me all night asking if that was okay, or whether he should play this, and so forth. That, or he’d just play whatever he felt like playing and drive me mad.

  Thankfully, I was rescued by the arrival of Belinda D. and her husband Naim. They liked dropping by the club. And I liked them. Belinda D. had recently made a habit of popping in on her way home from DJ’ing gigs at high-society clubs and private parties.

  “Belinda, my lamb,” I said, pointing at Osman, “please tell this man what to play. Something calm and quiet that won’t put us all to sleep. No one would know better than you.”

  Vivacious as ever, Belinda burst out into a hearty laugh, making her large breasts bounce up and down.

  “Don’t you worry, my sweet bon filet,” she said, pinching my cheek.

  The “bon filet” in this sentence had to be me. No one had called me bon filet before. Or was I putting on weight? Perhaps my cheeks were getting chubby?

  “I have a spectacular album with me,” she said. “It’s new…not even out yet. They sent it to me to be previewed. It’s fabulous!”

  She turned to her husband, who stood behind her, smiling.

  “Hand over the CD case!”

  Quite naturally, the financial advisor husband was responsible for schlepping the CDs to and from gigs.

  She went on praising the new album as she shuffled through the CDs trying to find it.

  “He’s a new guy…with a ravishing voice. What they call a baritone tenor…He’s good-looking too…He’s going to be massive, you’ll see, everyone will be talking about him…He’s going to steamroll right over those pathetic, wishy-washy, second-rate acts that dare to call themselves singers!”

  She had finally found what she was looking for. She passed the coverless CD to Osman.

  “Be sure to give it back when you’re finished, though,” she warned him.

  I led them to the table reserved for our most respectable customers. I told Hasan to take their drink orders. Meanwhile, Osman had turned down the lights, and once the dim light on the dance floor was reduced to nearly complete darkness, he started to play the CD. It was a familiar tune. Yes, it was “Hijo de la Luna,” originally made famous by Montserrat Caballé, who had sung it in celebration of International Women’s Day, but which then found its way onto the albums of all sorts of different singers, from the shrieking soprano Sarah Brightman to María Dolores Pradera, whose voice absolutely mesmerized me, and the pristinely voiced Mario Frangoulis, that handsome young man of classical music. This new singer was singing in Turkish. He had a beautiful and familiar voice.

  “Who is this, ayol?” I asked. “What a beautiful voice. It sounds very familiar.”

  Belinda D. let out another hoot of laughter. She wasn’t one to hold back or feign embarrassment if she got a little loud. Her laughter was vibrant and carefree.

  “Oh, of course you know him…Aykut Batur! You know, the backup singer at the opera!”

  I did. In fact, it was only this morning I had listened to the pirated copy of a special duet we had done together. I shuddered. I didn’t know if it was the song or the past that made me shudder.

  “Did you see Süheyl after what happened?” she asked.

  “I went to the hospital but it was too crowded, I couldn’t get into his room.”

  “Well, I have seen him,” she said, boasting. “He’s as fit as a fiddle, maŞallah! But he was terrified! He still is, if you ask me…”

  The man had every right to be.

  She burst into a fit of laughter once again. Belinda D. was one of those people whose joy could be contagious. I was gradually beginning to lighten up myself.

  Aykut’s album really was magnificent.

  I had started laughing at the stories Belinda D. told one after the other. There were five celebrity names in every sentence she spoke. She had a hilarious story about everyone. And she made herself laugh most of all. The stories were never ending. There was the one about the long-established singer who’d b
een calling her every hour for a week begging for an endorsement for her new album, and all the latest on who’d had plastic surgery in which part of the body, and who was getting it on with whom in the world of pop music…If I’d been my usual self, I would have retained everything she said, each story a jewel to be recounted later. But, as it was, I simply laughed and forgot them instantly.

  Şükrü, who approached us to refresh our drinks, encouraged by the cheerful look on my face, told me he’d like to speak to me in private, when I had a minute.

  “Right away,” I said.

  I am always sensitive when it comes to the plight of my workers.

  We made our way upstairs, him ahead, me following.

  He began talking, rubbing his hands together as he spoke.

  “Boss, I know you’ve got a lot to deal with these days.”

  “Go ahead Şükrü, dear,” I said. “I always have time to listen.”

  I myself was shocked at how reasonable I sounded. Or was Şükrü popping Prozac pills into my Virgin Marys?

  “There’s someone,” he said, looking down.

  Based on the intro, I was betting he had the hots for an underage boy again. That was the problem with Şükrü. Whenever he found a young, skinny, girlish boy with slightly long hair, he instantly fell for him. He would become mad with desire, absolutely smitten, talk about the amorous object of his affections for days, take pictures, send gifts…

  “Who is it this time?” I asked. “Which high school did you meet him in front of?”

  He gave me a reproachful look.

  “This one’s not like that,” he answered. “He’s a college graduate. He’s got a job too. He’s really smart.”

  Now, that was a radical change for sure. The boy had to be over twenty, at least. I was sure Şükrü had pointed out the boy’s intelligence in order to win my approval.

  “We met at a pub.”

  Fine. People at that age were free to go to a pub for a pint and flirt with each other if they wished.