The Kiss Murder

by Mehmet Murat Somer

  Chapter 30

  Today is Buse’s funeral. That is, it’s the day I’ll at least find out who has claimed the body. I tried to suppress my curiosity; it was still early. Waiting around has never been my forte.

  If I were to continue going to bed early at night and rising with the dawn, my lifestyle would be turned topsy-turvy. I am a lady of the night; a man by day. Assuming there was no unanticipated trouble, I’d have to rest for a few hours after the funeral. Otherwise, I’d be a mess at the club: bags under my eyes, dulled gaze, no coyness, no airs. Someone who lets loose a succession of synthetic cackles. Not my style!

  I showered, prepared my breakfast, watched TV, dressed, changed my clothes . . . still not a single visitor or phone call.

  Satı Hanım knew I normally rose late, and wouldn’t come to clean until afternoon. I don’t like any movement in the flat while I’m sleeping, and will not tolerate the sound of a washing machine or vacuum cleaner. I usually leave the moment Satı Hanım arrives, and either go shopping, to the cinema, or spend the day at the office. It was still hours before she’d arrive.

  I riffled through the day’s papers, skimmed my favorite editorial columns. As I looked over the fashion pages I decided the outfit I was wearing was a bit much for a funeral. I’d have to change. But I couldn’t decide whether to attend as a man or a woman.

  If a crowd of our girls showed up, and that’s what I anticipated, I should appear as a chic but tastefully restrained lady; if the mourners were mainly from the neighborhood, I’d have to go as a man.

  The showier alternative was the more attractive of the two. I put on a navy blue dress. It was sleeveless, collarless, zipped up the back, and extended to midthigh. So far, so good. On my head, I placed a navy blue straw hat the size of an umbrella. Short satin gloves and black Gucci sunglasses finished off the demure effect. Just as I was trying to decide whether to wear a double strand of pearls or a fake corsage, Satı came. She has wonderful taste. I asked her opinion, and we decided on the pearls. Once I’d slipped into a pair of nearly heelless patent-leather buckled shoes, I was ready. I looked remarkably similar to the YSL models of the 1970s, and not unlike Catherine Deneuve in Belle de Jour, or perhaps Elsa Martinelli or Charlotte Rampling. I blew myself a kiss in the mirror. Yes! That was it: Once again, I’d managed to look just like Audrey, this time in How to Steal a Million.

  “Well, don’t you look wonderful, sir.”

  Satı Hanım is too polite not to address me as sir at every opportunity.

  I was ready, although still a bit too early. There was no reason for me to hang out there ahead of time.

  Thinking I might be required to say a prayer at the funeral, I began running through the sure I remembered. I hadn’t practiced for a long while, so hadn’t retained much. I was unable to recite the entire Fatiha. Only with Satı Hanım’s assistance was I able to complete the entire opening chapter of the Koran.

  The phone hadn’t rung all day. It was strange—I had expected that at least a few of the girls would be planning to go to the funeral together. But no one had called me to make a plan! I lifted up the receiver and listened to make sure it was working. The dial tone buzzed out loud and clear. No, it wasn’t broken and it hadn’t been cut. But no one had called me. I began creating conspiracy theories: Perhaps my phone was being bugged.

  I realized I was being silly. It’d be best to just call some of the girls myself.

  I started with the ones living nearest to me. Melisa answered in her sleepiest, most male voice. I asked if she planned to attend the funeral. She drew out each word as she replied.

  “Abla, but where is it? Let’s not go out to some godforsaken spot on a morning like this,” she said.

  I told her it was in Samatya.

  “Heaven help us, ayol, what business have we got way out there? Forgive me, won’t you, I’m worn out in any case. Problems kept me up all night.”

  Because I didn’t wonder what her troubles had been, I didn’t ask.

  “Go if you want to. If anything happens, let me know when you get back. It’ll be just like I went myself,” she said, hanging up.

  Next I rang Ponpon and İpekten, both of whom wanted to go with me. The fact that it was in Samatya wasn’t a problem. Ponpon would pick me up in her car, then we’d get İpekten on the way. Naturally, Ponpon asked what I was wearing.

  “My navy blue dress,” I said. “I didn’t want civilian clothes.”

  “Well, of course, ayol, it’s paying our last respects to her. I’m dressing up, too. I’d nearly decided to go civilian as well.”

  “Yes, but sweetie, from what I recall, all you’ve got are those fabulous costumes of yours. Will you be able to arrange a nice subdued outfit?”

  “You bet,” she assured me. “Why do you think I’ve been hanging on to my dear, late mother’s tailored suits all these years? I’ve got them in mothballs and bring them out for weddings, funerals, court appearances—that sort of thing.”

  She’d be quite a sight in her mother’s old-fashioned suits, but I didn’t say a word.

  While I waited, I copied onto another CD the programs I’d prepared for Ali. This time I didn’t take any chances, and called one of those motorbike courier services. I handed the envelope over to Satı Hanım with my instructions.

  As I was licking the envelope, Ponpon had arrived. I put on my hat and went down to the car.

  I got into the car and we looked each other up and down, then burst out laughing. She wore a smoke-gray headmistress’s blazer with a matching skirt.

  “How could you wear a woolen suit in this heat?”

  “What could I do? The others didn’t fit,” she said. “You look like you’re off to a fashion show, not a funeral.”

  “Ascot,” I corrected her.

  “What?”

  “Ascot, the English horse races. Where everyone shows off their hats . . .”

  “You mean the one in My Fair Lady?” she asked. She’s a cultured girl and knows about such things. She also knows how much I adore Audrey.

  We giggled all the way to İpekten’s. Neither of us had mentioned our dress intentions, so she was in men’s clothing.

  “Just look at the two of you,” she began. “They’ll never let you perform namaz in those outfits. We’ll all be stoned.”

  Ponpon asked, “Who’s planning on performing namaz? I intend to stay to one side and get a good look at who’s coming and going. Oh, and to accept condolences.”

  “As you can see, I have no intention of praying, either,” I said.

  “Well, I never,” İpekten complained. “Why are we going, then? To provoke the public?”

  “Look,” I said, “if this is enough to provoke the public, so be it! In any case, we’re far too lazy to go to this much trouble just to offend people.”

  “Maybe it will do them good,” added Ponpon with a low, drawn-out laugh. “The time has come. Whatever will be, will be.”

  “Cut it out, ayol! We’re going to a funeral, not a gay pride parade.”

  Asking directions along the way, we found the mosque in Samatya. It had a small garden, and there was a children’s play-ground right next door. We parked the car in front of it, opening the doors and waiting inside. I lowered my long legs out of the car, keeping them parallel. But it was just too uncomfortable to maintain that pose for long, so I crossed them.

  Two funerals were scheduled, with both parties waiting. It would be another half hour. I spotted a few of our girls. Most were dressed as men, with the others in fairly restrained costumes. I looked for Hasan, but didn’t see him. The enormous flower wreath sent by the club had been placed near the coffin. I caught a glimpse of Cüneyt standing among the neighborhood mourners, and he also saw me. Without letting on to those around him, he nodded a greeting. I could tell he was embarrassed. He was reluctant to be seen with us, but loyal enough to come and pay his last respects to Buse.

  The crowd was swelling. From where we sat, we could see those arriving from only one side, and the entr
ance to the mosque was blocked from view. If it went on like this, I would miss whoever it was I thought I was looking for. I decided to get out of the car and join everyone.

  The first person I noticed was someone I’d expected to see, but had hoped wouldn’t be the first person encountered. The moment she spotted us, Gönül lunged toward us. A head scarf tied securely under her chin, she also sported an enormous pair of sunglasses.

  “You can really tell who your friends are at a time like this,” she cried, attempting to embrace me.

  She crashed into my hat. Its wide brim was a natural protective device against unwanted advances like hers. I introduced her to the girls. Perhaps mistaking her shabby outfit as a sign of a natural affinity, she familiarly took İpekten’s arm. İpekten is impatient. She bores easily. I couldn’t understand why she put up with this.

  In her serpentine fashion, out popped the killer question from Ponpon’s lips:

  “And who is this person in the prayer shawl?”

  I briefly explained who Gönül was. Her lower lip protruding, head shaking slightly, she listened to me.

  “İnşallah, she won’t be one of our party,” she murmured, looking in the opposite direction and saying not another word.

  The other mourners were looking at us a bit disapprovingly. I didn’t give it a second thought. We had as much right to be there as anyone else.

  I threw my arms around Dumper Beyza, who’s famous for her bad temper. But as was always the case on days like this one, there was a general atmosphere of goodwill. Dumper had let her long black hair spill down over her shoulders. She was a mix of restraint and show: a sensible pair of jeans and a T-shirt, but full stage makeup. She asked me in low tones so that not everyone would hear:

  “Do you think the imam will announce funeral services for a man or for a woman?”

  I laughed, biting the insides of my cheeks like Ajda Pekkan to keep from exploding.

  Hasan finally appeared, climbing out of a car. His jeans were slipping off his hips, as usual. As he extended a hand to the person he was assisting out of the car, his entire butt crack was exposed. My eyes traveled from Hasan’s bottom to the person he was helping: Sofya!

  I knew the two had met, but I never expected them to arrive at the funeral together. Hasan waved and grinned when he saw me.

  Sofya had managed to get out of the car. Her sunglasses covered most of her face. One side of her mouth looked swollen. I went over.

  Yes, the left side was definitely swollen. And her foundation failed to hide a dark bruise. With a crooked mouth and much difficulty, she spoke.

  “It wasn’t at all easy to persuade them about you,” she said, pointing to her face.

  I held my tongue. I mean, was it my fault she’d been beaten? She wrapped her arms around me.

  “Whether you accept it or not, I love you in my own way.”

  I didn’t know what to do. I felt not the slightest urge to throw my arms around her and weep gratefully. I checked my throat. No, no sign of a knot or obstructions of any kind. No emotional reaction at all. I slapped her on the shoulder in an easy, loutish way.

  Despite my black Gucci glasses, Hasan was able to detect my withering glance. It would have been impossible not to. He seemed tense.

  When he hugged me, I whispered, “You little snake!” into his ear. That was enough. He’d be off balance for the rest of the funeral. I didn’t know what it was that bound him to Sofya, but, knowing her, it was something unsavory. Maybe Hasan was a part of her gang of blackmailers.

  “I can explain,” he said.

  “I’m sure you can,” I answered.

  I looked away. I really didn’t care to hear an explanation. It wouldn’t be difficult to excise Hasan from the club and from my life.

  I told myself a funeral wreath sent by a local market couldn’t possibly be intended for Buse. Meanwhile, a group of militant girls arrived. They didn’t know Buse, but whenever there was a funeral for a murdered transvestite they would show up in full force. Just like the other day at the morgue, they were on the verge of exploding. Their movements were short, swift, and menacing. They looked around restlessly, eyes blazing, hackles ready to be raised at the first sign of trouble. They were absolutely right to rebel, and my sympathies lay with them. In contrast to their apparent lack of organization, they managed to protest events in an incredibly systematic way. I can’t say I appreciate their style, though. I’m more of a drawing room type, myself.

  Noon prayers were read and the congregation began to enter the mosque to perform their namaz. Cüneyt and İpekten went in nearly side by side. I remembered Dumper Beyza’s question, and wondered whether İpekten would pray with the women or the men.

  While I busied myself with these thoughts, three dark luxurious cars pulled up in a line. The crowd was stirring. As the murmuring grew louder, the crowd started to mill toward the cars.

  I’m tall, but was unable to see exactly who got out of the cars. I think they were men in suits, and they carried two ostentatious funeral wreaths.

  From somewhere behind me, I heard Gönül cry out, “Aha, it’s my Sabiha Teyze!”

  I immediately began shoving my way through the crowd toward the cars. It wasn’t easy with my hat, but a few well-directed, discreet elbow jabs and one light kick cleared my path.

  There was a large group in front of the middle car. It was surrounded by men in suits. The back door was open. Sitting in the back seat of the car, on the side nearest to me, with the blank unfocused stare of unseeing eyes, was Sabiha Hanım, in a state of dignified silence. Surprisingly, those eyes were not swollen with weeping, but she did look drained. She extended her hand, allowing those offering their condolences to kiss it. On that hand was a simple ring.

  The bodyguards kept most of the crowd back, and the few well-wishers allowed to reach the old lady were permitted only to kiss her hand before being hustled off.

  On the other side of the car was another small crowd. While a certain amount of shoving and pushing was going on, the crowd was silent, in deference to the funeral. Bending my legs slightly, I leaned down to get a look at the other occupant of the car.

  What I saw was more of a shock to me than the simultaneous pinch on my bottom: Sitting in the back seat, next to Sabiha Hanım, was none other than Süreyya Eronat!

  Ignoring the pinch, I quickly maneuvered around to the other side of the car. Upon seeing Süleyman sitting in the driver’s seat, I was even more astonished. A sharp curse escaped my lips, and all heads turned in my direction. Momentarily, a space cleared between me and the car, which was two or three yards away, and I came eye to eye with Süreyya Eronat.

  Just like in the photographs, he had a certain gravity. A faint smile played around the corners of his mouth as he looked at me.

  Chapter 31

  We exchanged the briefest of glances. With his right hand, he gestured for me to come closer to the car. The bodyguards made way. Propelled forward by the crowd, and drawn by curiosity, I approached him.

  “Reaching you proved to be more difficult than I’d hoped,” he said.

  The look he fixed on me was compelling. His face was free of expression, almost lifeless. But his eyes darted about like two little black bugs. I tore my eyes away from his and glanced around me. Gary Cooper Süleyman sat like a statue in the front seat. He didn’t even turn to look at me. You would never have thought he was the one whose bashful airs had seduced me just two nights earlier. That sort of thing is a real blow to one’s self-confidence.

  “I wanted to meet with you. Süleyman was rather unsuccessful at arranging that.” As he said this, he touched Süleyman lightly on the shoulder. “Please don’t go right after the funeral. In fact, let’s leave together if possible.”

  Despite the courteous phrasing, it was clearly not a casual invitation. I accepted without a second thought. Considering that Sabiha Hanım was with him, I believed he’d do me no harm.

  “Now if you’ll excuse me I’d like to join the namaz.”

 
I’d stationed myself directly outside the car door, blocking his way. I moved over, he got out, and was immediately surrounded by bodyguards. From the courtyard of the mosque he called out:

  “Wait for me in the car.”

  The authority in his voice was unmistakable. It must be part of what they call charisma. Otherwise, what were all these men doing at his beck and call? A path was cleared as he advanced, everyone stepping back to make way for him.

  Süleyman said, “Please get in the car. Don’t stand out in the sun.”

  I was amazed. It was as though I had no relation to the person he had tried to kidnap, the one who had knocked him out, tied his hands, and left him out in the middle of nowhere without a car. Yet he was determinedly civil. I thanked him, but didn’t get in. I just leaned over to extend my condolences to Sabiha Hanım. I introduced myself as a friend of Fevzi’s.