The Kiss Murder

by Mehmet Murat Somer

  Gönül’s stream of consciousness nouveau roman, in the manner of Nathalie Sarraute, had me reeling. I immediately revised my rather low opinion of her intellect. I tried, and failed, to suppress an appreciative smile.

  “It’s not possible to talk here. Would you like to go and have a chat over tea? I could really use your help.”

  She was eyeing the crowd, which was still growing. She seemed reluctant to miss the show—perhaps she thought she might even seize a leading role in it. But I had no time for such indecision. Grabbing her arm, I said, “March. I’ll explain everything.”

  Chapter 7

  The moment we got into the taxi I told Gönül as much as she needed to know. In the front seat, Hüseyin listened silently, and was therefore fully briefed as well. In fact, he even went so far as to interrupt near the end to tell Gönül how he had spotted a panicked Buse in front of the club while looking for me, and then brought her to my house. Then he added, in his most injured-male tone, that I had refused his offers of help, or even to allow him to come inside. The consolation he sought was forthcoming. Gönül Ablam sprang to his defense:

  “A dependable young man like this. He wouldn’t be able to help? Of course he’d have been of use. I mean, really.”

  Hüseyin basked in the praise. Gönül’s commendation was apparently interpreted as giving him the right to make further claims on me.

  “Now, that’s more like it!” he exclaimed. I was subjected to a lascivious wink.

  Hüseyin would require a sound thrashing once we were through with our business. Right in the middle of the neighborhood, from pavement to pavement, somersaulting through the air.

  All traces of urgency and sense of our real mission erased from her mind, Gönül focused exclusively on Hüseyin.

  “Where are you from?”

  “Istanbul,” said Hüseyin. “The whole family’s from Istanbul, on both sides.”

  “Istanbulians are so refined. There’s nothing they like more than a bit of ladylike friskiness in bed.”

  I wondered just what methods of comparison Gönül had used to arrive at this arbitrary conclusion.

  Gönül turned to me. “He’s such a lion of a man, ayol. His heat alone would be enough for any girl. Real men have no time for coyness. They don’t wait around. Oh, no. Someone else snaps them up!”

  Judging from the trademark sideways simpering, Gönül liked what she saw of Hüseyin. She was declaring that unless I pounced on him, he was fair game.

  “These summer nights are hot enough,” I said. “I have trouble tolerating my own skin, sometimes.”

  Hüseyin wasn’t going to let that go by.

  “We’ll cool you off,” he said with a leer, the grinning dog-face making a reappearance.

  The insolence! I had really had enough. Heedless of the fact that we were hurtling down Vatan Caddesi, I inflicted a sharp chop on the back of his lower neck, near his left ear. He must have seen lightning. A strange croak erupted from his mouth. But—and I really had to hand it to him—he continued driving as though nothing had happened.

  “That’s really shameful,” he said. “Ever since last night, I’ve given up my job to ferry you around, and look what I get in return. It was a joke! I understand. You said I’m not your type. Okay, fine. But we’ve been in the car together for three hours, and you haven’t spoken once to me the whole time. That’s okay, too. But at least don’t hurt me! What’s the big deal? So I like you, so what?”

  “He’s right.” Gönül said. “Those dark eyes. Those eyebrows. He’s young. He’s handsome. A hunk of a man.”

  “Okay, okay, I apologize. You can see how wound up I am. We’ve got to hurry. I just lost my temper when you started drooling at me.”

  Under the mistaken illusion that we’d become fast friends, Gönül gave me a playful pinch, as though to say, Good for you. I deplore that sort of behavior, but I forced a smile. Now she poked me, as though to say, Keep going.

  “Tell us exactly where we’re going so Hüseyin can get us there as soon as possible,” was my only response.

  Staring at me foolishly, and clearly miffed that the fun and games had come to an end, Gönül said, “But you were the one who invited me. I thought we were going to have a drink somewhere. It’s not up to me to tell Hüseyin where to go.”

  Hüseyin seized the opportunity. “Come on, abla; let’s go to the house of Buse Hanım’s mother, whatever her name was.”

  “Who are you calling ‘big sister’?” retorted Gönül, ready to lash out at Hüseyin.

  “Her name is Sabiha,” I interrupted.

  “But it’s so far away!” Gönül whined. “Can we at least have something to eat first? I haven’t even had dinner. I was too distraught to think of myself. Just ran right out of the house.”

  She cast an appraising eye at her shoulder, as though it were the first time they’d met.

  “And my clothes are all wrong. Look at these old worn-out shoes.”

  Hüseyin continued driving in a circle between Vatan Caddesi and Millet Caddesi.

  I grasped her hand, squeezing firmly but gently. “Look, we’ve got to hurry, or something terrible could happen to that nice old lady. Afterward, I promise we’ll all go out to eat.”

  “But won’t it be awfully late by then?”

  A good number of Gönül’s brain cells are obviously in a state of indolent dormancy.

  “What do you mean, ‘late’? The Etap is open past midnight, until two in the morning.”

  “But they won’t let me in there.”

  “We’ll go anywhere you like. Now come on, tell us the address.”

  I squeezed her hand. This time, it hurt. Her eyes widened as she realized the seriousness of the situation.

  “Ay! That smarts, girlfriend. Okay, fine. Take the next right. Toward Kocamustafapaşa.”

  We shot across three lanes of traffic, barely managing to make our turn. Winding our way through a series of increasingly narrow roads, in ten minutes we reached it. There was a sharp tang of smoke in the air. Daytime balcony barbecue parties had created a stench.

  We parked in front of a rundown, sixties-style, four-story apartment building. The cramped hallway smelled of bleach and urine. Gönül giggled, as though the odor were somehow cause for hilarity. It’s a scientifically proven fact that our brain cells are dying with each passing second, but Gönül was miles ahead in that particular race. That much was certain.

  Each floor contained three flats. The corridor walls had been painted milky brown up to shoulder-height, and the paint was peeling.

  Emboldened by Gönül’s attentions, and now considering himself a full-fledged partner, Hüseyin followed us, a respectful few steps behind. If I put my mind to it, I am able to walk with minimal wiggling of the hips. I had no intention of treating Hüseyin to the sight of a swaying bottom. With a determined—even manly—gait, I led the way. In any case, even I would find it difficult to shimmy in trainers.

  We rang the bell of the only flat whose entryway was not cluttered with rows of unpolished shoes. No one had removed shoes in front of Sabiha’s door. There were no visitors offering their condolences. We waited, then rang the bell again. And resumed waiting once more. Meanwhile, one of the doors behind the mountains of shoes opened slightly, and a five-year-old girl with badly cut curly hair poked out her head. She looked at us intently. We stared back.

  The smell of cooking wafted out from the partly open door.

  Hüseyin smiled uncomfortably. I reached over and gave the door a sharp rap. Perhaps the blind lady was also a bit hard of hearing. She may have gone to bed. Or she could be watching TV and unable to hear the bell. I stopped for a moment to ponder whether or not blind people watch TV.

  Interpreting Hüseyin’s smile as an offer of friendship, the girl spoke.

  “She’s not home.” Bashful, the little head withdrew into the apartment. The door closed. If a child knew Sabiha was not at home, her parents may well have known where she was. We moved to the door and rang the bell. I
t opened instantly. Before us stood a stout woman of about thirty. Red-cheeked and cheery-looking, she was nothing like her daughter. Her eyes traveled from me to Hüseyin, then to Gönül.

  “May I help you?”

  “We were looking for Sabiha Hanım. Your daughter just told us she wasn’t at home. We thought you might know where she is.”

  “I don’t know,” she replied, still looking at us, the same smile plastered across her considerable face.

  “I—I mean, we—are friends of her son’s, Fevzi,” I explained. “We really must see her.”

  “You mean her girl Fevzi.” Her smile became slightly mocking. “He became a woman. By the name of Buse. We were good playmates as kids.”

  “So you were Buse’s childhood friend? How nice.”

  Did she have any idea Buse was dead? And was I really the person who should be informing her?

  “Sabiha Hanım doesn’t really get out much. If she does, it’s to visit us, or the neighbor upstairs. That’s it. The rest are all tenants. We’re the old-timers. This flat belonged to my mother, and my husband came to live here with us.” Mercy. We’d known each other for all of five minutes and I was already drowning in unnecessary details.

  “Why don’t you go upstairs and check on flat number seven? If she’s not there, come on over. I’ve just made a pot of fresh tea, and we’ve got some ice-cold watermelon. We can all enjoy it together.”

  I thanked her and set off for the top floor. As we approached the landing her voice rang out from below, “I’m expecting you. Do come.”

  The door to flat seven was slightly ajar. I rang the bell nevertheless. A television blared from inside, but no one came to the door. “Good evening,” I called as I pushed open the door and entered. The others followed me in. I can smell danger, and a strong whiff of it hit me as I stood near the doorway. The flat was dark, illuminated only by the flickering light of the TV. I carefully made my way to the source of the racket. There, in the middle of the dark room filled with old armchairs, I saw her. Even in the gloom, there was no mistaking the round hole in the middle of her forehead. Her head was tilted back, lifeless.

  Chapter 8

  It would seem an obvious case of murder. Elderly ladies are generally not found slumped in armchairs with bullet holes in the center of their foreheads.

  “Is she dead?” Hüseyin asked. I nodded yes. Gönül bellowed in a decidedly masculine fashion.

  “They found her, too,” I said.

  “We’re in deep shit now,” sighed Hüseyin. He was white as a sheet.

  We had two choices: inform the police or scram. Simply running away seemed the less intelligent of the two. The robust lady downstairs had seen us. And I had touched a few things since we’d entered the flat, so some of the fingerprints would belong to us. It did cross my mind that the police didn’t always bother with things like fingerprints, but caution was still advisable. And what was there to be afraid of? We had every reason to be there. We had come to pay our condolences to the mother of a dead friend. Unable to find her at home, we’d checked at the upstairs neighbor’s and been greeted by a corpse.

  Against my will, I found myself listening to the game show still blaring on the TV set. The question was: The most common intrusive igneous rock type is: (A) granite; (B) rhyolite; (C) basalt; (D) andesite. It was easy enough to whittle down the right answer to (A) granite. After all, it’s the only intrusive rock on the list. Of course, the contestant was clueless.

  Gönül’s voice brought me back to my senses and the present situation:

  “Abla, who is this woman?”

  But wasn’t it Sabiha Hanım? Perhaps not. There was no way for me to know. I turned to Gönül, my face a question mark. She provided a swift answer.

  “This isn’t Sabiha.”

  The contestant had eliminated two of the possible answers. Rhyolite and andesite were erased from the screen. I devised my own set of possible answers to the question confronting me. (A) This was an unrelated murder; (B) We were face to face with a serial murderer prepared to eradicate all who crossed his path; (C) This woman, whoever she was, had mistakenly been killed in place of Sabiha Hanım; (D) Why on earth were those letters and photographs worth killing for? The response deserving of immediate elimination was, of course, D.

  Hüseyin placed a hand on my shoulder. “Maybe we’d better get out of here.”

  I politely, but firmly, removed the overly familiar appendage. “No way,” I said.

  In a clear voice, for their benefit, I summarized the situation: Getting the police involved would mean being escorted to the police station and spending the rest of the night there; Gönül would most likely be roughed up, and have a visit to the state venereal clinic arranged for her; there was no telling what exactly would happen to Hüseyin.

  The contestant insisted on “basalt” and was promptly eliminated.

  The corpse was not yet cold. The time of death was fairly recent. Who was behind this? Were the blackmail materials so damning that they justified these cold-blooded killings? How was I supposed to find out his identity? Where was the real Sabiha Hanım? What, if anything, had happened to the letters and photographs?

  It was safe to assume that Sabiha Hanım was still alive. I ran through the list of alternatives once again. Finally, I decided to consult the studio audience:

  “Look,” I began, “if this woman is not Sabiha Hanım, we still have to find her—that is, we still have to find Buse’s letters and photographs.”

  “First let’s get out of here. I don’t like cops,” said Gönül.

  She had a point. Neither do I. And I suspected Hüseyin wasn’t partial to them, either. Taxi drivers are such easy pickings for the cops, real whipping boys when it comes to issuing tickets and general bullying.

  “Well then, let’s remove all signs we’ve been here and clear the hell out!”

  I had to hand it to Hüseyin; perhaps he wasn’t so dim after all.

  After we had restored the scene to its original state, we slowly pulled the door nearly shut, as it had been when we’d arrived. It was like a film being played backward. In order to pull off the pretense that we had never set eyes on the freshly killed corpse, to be able to say we had not seen, heard, or learned a thing, we had to first make an appearance at the home of Mrs. Robust. Only then would it be wise to flee the scene. Truly, the last thing we needed was a compulsory visit to the local precinct, followed by an interrogation at police headquarters at the homicide desk.

  I silently considered the possibility of forcing our way into Sabiha Hanım’s flat, conducting a thorough search of Fevzi’s old bedroom and finding the photographs. I suppressed the urge, stopping instead in front of the collection of shoes, where I rang the bell. The door immediately opened. It seemed at least one of the inhabitants of this flat was stationed in front of the door at all times.

  This time, it was the man of the house. He was the type of man who wears a tie even at home, a sight seldom seen these days. His collar was even buttoned down. Like his wife, the husband, too, had a cheery demeanor. He reacted as though he had been expecting, and was now receiving, dear old friends.

  “Welcome . . . Do come in.”

  The apple-cheeked wife had no doubt told her husband all about us. He was prepared to greet us.

  “I’m afraid we can’t, but thank you so much,” I politely refused. “We were looking for Sabiha Hanım. Your wife suggested we check on flat seven.”

  Perhaps afraid I would say too much, Hüseyin interrupted. “No one was at home. We rang, but no one answered the door.”

  The smile froze on the husband’s face. He looked surprised.

  “That’s strange. It’s impossible. Hamiyet Hanım doesn’t ever close her door. She’s hard of hearing. She always leaves it open in case she doesn’t hear the bell. Just give it a push and go right in.”

  Trouble had announced its imminent arrival. Now he would decide to accompany us upstairs to show us that the door was indeed open a crack, the corpse would be d
iscovered, and we would all end up at the police station. No, I couldn’t let that happen.

  With a swift fluid movement, he removed the imitation leather house slippers from his white-stockinged feet, slipping into a pair of of shoes waiting in front of the door. Hüseyin grabbed his arms.

  “Aman, dear abi, don’t trouble yourself—”

  “Ah, what do you mean, ‘trouble’? It’s just one floor up.” He shouted into the house, “Aynur, I’m showing our guests to Hamiyet Hanım’s. I’ll be right back.”

  Before he’d finished speaking, the small girl appeared between his legs, taking his hand. If it weren’t for me and Hüseyin directly in front of him, blocking the way, and Gönül, a brick wall of reinforcement just behind us, that agile man of the house would long since have bounded to the floor above.