The Kiss Murder

by Mehmet Murat Somer

  “Are you telling me it’s up to you and you alone to recover the pictures?”

  “Yes . . . I was given the job right from the start, and I’m expected to finish it. But how much power have I really got? How much influence do I have? Compared to them, what can I be expected to do? Who am I? I’m just a washed-up poor old transvestite.”

  This was hard to swallow. It’s true that she’d aged, and I agreed that she no longer worked her old magic, but the last word I expected to be used in connection with Sofya was “poor.” If that was true of Sofya, what could be said about the other girls, the ones who were truly hard up?

  “Just look at me!” she said, rising, turning around and lifting up her T-shirt. She was badly bruised.

  “I’m so sorry.” I murmured. It’ll pass, no one stays bruised forever, was what I said to myself.

  “If I manage to locate and hand over the pictures and letters I’ll be back in their good books. They won’t regard me as just another low-level foot soldier. I could become one of them, a real part of the system. And I’ve always dreamed about a big payment, a comfortable retirement. The chance to travel around the world a couple of times, to go on a cruise . . . If I don’t find those photos, I’m afraid they’ll kill me.”

  She let out a great sob to punctuate that final sentence.

  “You mean the way they killed that old lady upstairs?” I had to ask.

  “Look, that whole thing’s a bit complicated. One of our men went to the wrong floor, as you know. When the lady made trouble . . . it was unfortunate but necessary.”

  She illustrated her point with a finger cocked at her head.

  “It’s terribly sad, of course, but it was too late by the time they realized they’d entered the wrong flat. Naturally, the person responsible was punished. When they went down to the floor below they were unable to find either the blind woman or a single piece of paper.”

  “So where is Sabiha, then?” I asked.

  “We didn’t do a thing. We’re asking the same question.”

  “Well, if you didn’t take her off somewhere, who did?”

  Now it was time for both of us to be astonished. I was suddenly wide awake.

  Chapter 26

  Sofya and I just sat there staring at each other. She scrutinized me suspiciously; I did the same to her. The minutes passed.

  “I might as well make some coffee,” I said, breaking the silence. “It looks like we could both use a cup.”

  “That’d be great,” she said.

  “A little fat wouldn’t do me any harm, I suppose. Look, I’m still thin as a whip.” I stood up and ran my hands up and down my body as I said this. A girl has got to retain her sense of poise under all circumstances.

  I went to the kitchen. Before I’d even filled the machine, she was at my side.

  “If Buse’s mother took the pictures and ran—” she began.

  “She’s a sharper woman than we thought,” I said. I threw in an extra measure of coffee.

  “But that’s impossible,” Sofya protested. “The woman’s blind. What would she see, how would she understand what was going on?”

  “I don’t get it, either,” I admitted. “What’s more, Buse told me her mother didn’t know a thing about what she got up to. That it was possible to get away with anything at her flat, or to hide anything she wished.”

  “This is ridiculous,” she said.

  It was getting light. I felt the morning chill, and shivered.

  “I’ll go and put something on.”

  “You’d better,” she said. “Running around like a third-rate porn star, half your ass showing. A real woman retains an air of mystery.”

  “Weren’t you the one who advised me to show off my assets?” I asked. “Well, that’s exactly what I’m doing. And it’s hard as a rock, crisp and fresh.”

  In view of the fact that our lives were possibly in danger and we had no idea how to proceed, our dialogue was beyond belief. I put on my long-suffering pashmina. I’d been wrapping it around myself at every opportunity for the last two days. I returned to the kitchen.

  “Sofya,” I said, “you didn’t kidnap Sabiha Hanım, I saw no sign of her, even the nosy neighbor didn’t notice a thing. So how did she manage to just up and disappear without a trace, especially being blind and all?”

  “Good question. I suspected you. I even had you followed for awhile.”

  “I don’t believe it, Sofya! You had me followed?”

  “What’s the big deal, sweetie? How else was I supposed to know what you were up to?”

  “So you’re saying you sent a man after me?”

  Sofya was totally unpredictable. Her moral code inclined her to view as fair and square absolutely anything she chose to do. In that sense, she was a completely unfettered person. She’d do whatever she had to in order to get her way. I shouldn’t have been surprised.

  “It would be more accurate to say ‘men’ rather than ‘man.’ I’d hoped you’d lead us to Sabiha, but instead you foolishly wasted all your time in that building.”

  “But I had no idea she was missing.”

  The coffee was ready. I handed her a mug. She could pour it for herself.

  We sipped our coffees in silence. Sofya lit a cigarette. One of those thin More cigarettes that so beautifully accent her long, tapering fingers. By the time we finished, the sun had come up. My flat was filling with the morning light I love so much. I got up and turned off the lamp. Sofya’s makeup-free face looked even worse under the natural light. I was getting sleepy.

  “I’m not sure whether or not to believe you,” she said. She fixed that piercing stare on me again.

  “Do whatever you want,” I said. “I’m tired. I’ve had it. Just when I thought I was free of those thugs you’d sent after me I found myself leaping out of a moving car. I couldn’t care less anymore. All I want to do is sleep.”

  “So you’re telling me to go.”

  “Implying you should go, yes. Of course, you can stay here if you like. I’ll put you in the guest room, last slept in by Buse. You’ll be comfortable. God knows I stayed at your place often enough.”

  “Do you realize that if I leave here empty-handed there’s no saying what’ll happen to me? I can’t bear the thought of it. It’ll be a lot more difficult for me to convince them than it was for you to convince me. They expect me to come up with those pictures.”

  “So are you saying there’s someone waiting outside the door even as we speak?”

  “I don’t know. There shouldn’t be. I didn’t station anyone outside. But there’s no way for me to know for sure. I’m not in on everything. If someone else is now involved I have no way of knowing what they’ll do.”

  We exchanged a long look.

  “Sweetie,” she said, “no one gives a damn about the blind lady, but if you have the letters or photos and you hand them over, it’ll make your life a whole lot easier. They might even make you a handsome payment. You wouldn’t have to hang out at the club all night. If there’s some guy you fancy, just tell me his name. You can keep him at home, use him all you like. Whatever your heart desires.”

  “Sofya, you really don’t believe me, do you?”

  “I can’t decide. I don’t know anything anymore. I want to believe you, but I can’t. My instincts are sending mixed signals. Something tells me you haven’t been completely open with me. I’ve got no idea what it is; it’s just intuition. So I just can’t decide whether or not to believe you.”

  “Maybe it’s because of what we went through together all those years ago.”

  “It could be,” she admitted. “Whatever. At the moment, I believe you. But that could change later. That’s why I’d better get going. I don’t know how to handle them. I’m sure I’ll find a way. Or at least I’ll try. I suggest you use your head, keep your ears pricked, and call me the second you hear anything.”

  She stood up and walked toward the door. When she caught herself in the mirror, she stood up straight, pulled back her should
ers, and ran her hand through her hair. It would take a lot more to bring back the old Sofya, but that bit of effort did her good. She took a pair of sunglasses from the little basket next to the door and put them on. Then she examined herself in the mirror once again. It was most definitely an improvement.

  “It’s light outside. I can’t go out like this. Lend me the glasses. I’ll return them.”

  In order to get rid of her as soon as possible I’d have been prepared to throw in my favorite dress with the sunglasses.

  “But of course. You’re welcome to them.”

  Blowing kisses over each other’s shoulders, we said our farewells. She turned and left.

  I took a deep breath. It had been an eventful and tense night, but it had ended calmly and easily. Handling Sofya had been as easy as pulling a hair out of soft butter. That was strange. I was too tired to ponder it. It was nearly seven.

  Not even bothering to take the mugs to the kitchen, I headed straight for the bedroom. The flat was a mess in any case. I’d sort it out later. After all, some people lived like the lady journalist. Two mugs and a Napolitano coffeemaker were no big deal.

  On the way to the bedroom, I noticed the envelope I’d prepared for Ali. If I went to bed now, there was no telling how late in the afternoon I’d get up. It would be best to call the taxi stand now and arrange for the envelope to be dropped off at about ten.

  Using my final ounce of strength, I called the stand, explaining what I wanted. I asked for someone to be sent over immediately. I would, of course, tip them extra for their courier services. Hanging up the phone, I proceeded to the bedroom, where I drew the heavy curtains. I heard the taxi honk in front of the building.

  I decided against my usual practice of tossing the envelope from the living room window with shouted instructions. If I was really being followed, as Sofya claimed, it might cause a misunderstanding. I didn’t want the driver to get into trouble. Sleepy or not, I had apparently retained my faculties. But I hadn’t asked for the driver to come to my door. He’d honk the horn until I appeared at the window.

  I was just about to call the taxi stand again, praying my phone wasn’t bugged, when I heard a rustling at the door. It was the silly boy from the corner market delivering my morning newspapers. I raced to the door and caught him. He seemed frightened by the sight of me, even taking a step backward.

  He was right to do so. I was an unusual sight. The poor boy had never seen me in all my finery. It was unlikely he’d ever seen anyone like me at all. He was still quite young. If he liked what he saw, he’d dream about it for a night or two, that was all. Contrary to the folk wisdom of old school psychologists, a glimpse of a man in women’s clothing does not mean a certain future as a homosexual. I’ve never come across a single case of that.

  I told him what to do, pressing some change into his hand. He listened, eyes fixed on me. After asking him to repeat what I’d told him, I sent him off. I decided not to watch from the window, in case I was being observed. I waited patiently until I heard the taxi drive off.

  I waited a few minutes, then called the taxi stand. Yes, they had the envelope. The boy had told them not to deliver it before ten, “under any circumstances.” They knew the address, having made earlier deliveries.

  I took off my shorts, which pinched like a corset, especially around the waist. I kept on the T-shirt as a precaution against the morning chill. I could now sleep in peace. As the reward for a hectic, exciting day, that’s all I asked for.

  Chapter 27

  It was well after noon by the time I woke up. I’d had a short, troubled sleep. While I don’t need much rest, I needed more than I’d got. I’d been bombarded with film images, struggling with a blackmail operation just like the evil SPECTRE organization in the James Bond movies. The faces of the company chairmen, whoever they were, didn’t appear in my dream. But I could hear their perverted, growling voices as they made death threats to their victims.

  Sofya appeared as a diabolical woman based on the role played by Lotte Lenya in From Russia with Love. The wife of composer Kurt Weill in real life, in the film she played a Russian agent working for SPECTRE. Daggers would pop out of the tips of her shoes, and she fought to the death with Bond. Lenya’s homeliness didn’t really mesh with Sofya’s beauty, but so be it, it was just a dream. Sofya would have been much more appropriate as Pussy Galore, the character played by Honor Blackman in Goldfinger, or perhaps as Luciana Paluzzi in Thunderball.

  Anyway, in my dream Lotte Lenya-Sofya and Süleyman, played by whomever, were standing in front of their boss, dejected at having failed to recover Buse’s letters and photos. Their fastidious boss was stroking a fluffy white cat as he listened to them. The more they tried to explain themselves, the more frantic they got, and they started accusing each other and begging for forgiveness. They asked for one last chance.

  Süleyman was ready to admit to anything as he sank to his knees and pleaded for his life. He was a sorry creature indeed. He’d lost any and all shreds of dignity and breeding. It was a moving scene, but I was unable to feel any pity for him. The boss pressed a button under his desk. As Sofya looked on with eyes widened in terror, Süleyman writhed as though fried by an electrical current. And died.

  Speechless and terrified, Sofya received a set of new orders. I didn’t hear what they were. My dream had ended.

  I ran through the images in my head as I prepared my coffee. The conclusions I reached were highly unpleasant: Someone thought I had the blackmail materials. Yes, they were mistaken. But they didn’t know that. And they weren’t satisfied with my explanations. And now they were out to get me.

  As I scanned the papers, I listened to my answering machine. Hasan had left a message informing me that the funeral would be held the following day after noon prayers. It was to take place in Samatya at a mosque I’d never even heard of. The service had been arranged by whoever the family members were who had claimed the body. It’d be a good idea to stop by the funeral if I had failed by noon the following day to sort everything out. It would give me a chance to see who was attending the funeral, or at least find out who had claimed the body.

  There were two more messages in which the caller hadn’t bothered to speak. Of course, it infuriated me. I was tense enough as it was, and, after the nightmares, this was the final straw.

  If it hadn’t been so hot, I would have gone to the gym to work off some toxins and stress. I suppose I could always go to an air-conditioned gym. I’d exercise and look over my fellow enthusiasts.

  And the showers are always a mine of titillation. Some look down their noses at me at first, but when they see that I’m every bit as fit as them, if not more, their attitude changes and they approach me one by one. All that’s left for me to do is choose between them. If I time my exit to the showers just right, I’m flooded with offers to lather up my back. What follows is limited only by their imaginations and my inclinations.

  But it really was a hot day. Air-conditioned or not, I didn’t feel like going to a fitness center. Neither the desire to maintain my figure nor the thought of shower play was enough to entice me from my home.

  I thought it best to sit lazily where I was. I’d watch TV or pick a DVD from off my shelf.

  I took a shower to wake up more fully. The cool spray brought me to my senses. As I stepped out, the phone rang. I was soaking wet, and didn’t want to drip water everywhere as I ran to the phone. I listened carefully as I dried myself off, close enough to the answering machine to hear any messages.

  It was Turkey’s first and only certified hypnotherapist, Cem Yeğenoğlu. He wished me a good Sunday in his brightest voice. I raced to the phone just in time to catch him. After the usual pleasantries, I asked him for his professional opinion: Could someone be hypnotized without realizing it? If hypnotized, how much would a person reveal? Can you trust what someone says under hypnosis?

  He listened carefully without interrupting.

  “The answer to all your questions is yes!” he announced. “Although
we don’t advise it, hypnosis of the kind you mention is done. Looking directly into the patient’s eyes can be enough to set off a hypnotic trance. In fact, by simply ordering the patient to ‘look at me, look at me,’ followed by a sharp jab with a single finger in the center of the forehead, a hypnotic trance can be initiated. As I told you, however, this is not something we advise or implement.”

  His use of the third-person plural “we” would imply that there were others, like himself, who had been certified in America. Considering his claim to be the first and only certified hypnotherapist in Turkey, I wondered who they were. If they existed, I’d never heard of them. No, I think this was simply a case of using the royal “we.”

  “Statements made by patients under hypnosis are generally accurate. That is, unless the patient is induced to tell a falsehood. The wishes of the patient are also important. We do not consider it ethical to hypnotize anyone without his permission and full knowledge.”