The Prophet Murders

by Mehmet Murat Somer

  They were as polite as can be. But observed solely with the eye of someone checking out the wares, there wasn’t the slightest trace of kismet for me. I banished all lingering signs of coquetry and flirtatiousness, and ordered like a gentleman.

  The chef, who I believe is French, sent out the most divine dishes from the kitchen. The chicken vol au vent was a tour de force. The celeriac salad retained its fresh colour and wasn’t the least bit watery. The chocolate soufflé, which I had preordered the moment I arrived, was, in a word, divine. I let each morsel slowly melt away in my mouth. Some of life’s pleasures, particularly those like chocolate soufflé, should be drawn out as long as possible. In short, I was captivated by both the meal and the view.

  I graciously refused their offer of coffee. The middle-aged, jaded waiter had apparently got my number. Clearly entertaining false hopes, he began hovering over me.

  “Compliments of the house . . . ” he said. Alas, it was not to be! I explained that I was in rather a hurry, and requested the bill. He pulled out my chair as I rose to my feet, and accompanied me all the way to the elevator with effusive cries of “Do come again”.

  Sixteen

  The heavy meal and autumn sun beating in through the windows had made me feel groggy. I was ready to fall asleep. If I’d been anywhere near a bed I would have lain down. Perhaps I shouldn’t have refused the complimentary coffee after all.

  I was in luck. A taxi appeared immediately and I set off for Gayrettepe.

  Dolly Vuslat lives on Ortaklar Caddesi in one of the few remaining apartments that isn’t now used as office space.

  A few months back I’d dropped in for a birthday party.

  “It’s really far more . . . convenient . . . living in a building full of offices,” she’d assured me. “It’s more . . . comfortable. No one pokes their nose into your business. There’s none of that . . . needless neighbourly nonsense and snooping.”

  As far as I recalled, she wasn’t really that young, but the Almighty had blessed her with the appearance of an eighteen-year-old. That’s why she’d been known for years as Bebek, or Doll. She was still asked for ID when she visited some bars or clubs for the first time. Dolly Vuslat was living confirmation of the old Turkish saying “A dwarf hen remains a young chicken forever”, meaning “A petite woman never grows old”. Her frame was tiny for a woman, let alone a man, and under the club spotlights she resembled nothing so much as a painted infant in an evening gown.

  The face that greeted me at the door was devoid of makeup, and not at all doll-like. It was bruised and battered.

  I went in.

  “Just look at what happened to me,” she began.

  She wore a faded track suit, and on her feet were high-heeled lamé slippers.

  “I went off with that bastard Adem Yildiz . . . Just look at me!”

  “What happened?” I asked.

  “I couldn’t get it up. On account of the medication. He was furious.”

  “I don’t understand . . . ”

  “He’s a bottom. It’s not my thing. You know me. Even if I were in bed with Marilyn Monroe I’d stick my rump up in the air. . . It just didn’t happen . . . And he was furious . . . ”

  “Wow!” I exclaimed. “There’s more to our Adem Bey than meets the eye.”

  “For the love of God. There are all sorts of perverts. These days there seems to be a real run on this particular kind. We’re meant to do it to them. I mean, really! If that’s what you’re into why not go give it up to a real man. What business is it of mine, fucking some guy?” She held in her hand an old compact mirror. While talking, she examined her face. Her upper left lip was split open. As she spoke, her mouth slid sideways.

  “Just look at me! It’ll be at least ten days before I’m at all presentable.”

  I offered my condolences.

  “But I do have to hand it to him. He’s a big tipper. With that kind of money, I can afford not to work for a whole month, let alone ten days.”

  I don’t get it. She’d been smacked, her face was covered with lumps, her lip split open, and she still considered it trade in kind.

  “What’s your real name, Vuslat?”

  “That’s funny. He asked the same thing. ‘Haven’t you got another name, a middle name or something?’”

  She’d told me everything I needed to know except her name.

  “Guess,” she said.

  It was highly unlikely I’d come up with the right name, just like that.

  “How am I supposed to know? Just tell me.”

  “Dursun!” she laughed. “Can you imagine me with a name like Dursun?”

  The phone rang. Interrupting further elaboration of the inappropriateness of her name.

  “Efendim . . . ” she answered. She spoke with the nasal whine adopted by so many of the girls. Even though her voice was high enough in any case.

  As Vuslat conversed with a series of ‘uh huh’s and ‘yes’es, I glanced around the room. On the wall hung a huge poster of Tom Cruise. The poor poster was plastered with sequins and a pair of false eyelashes had been glued on. Tom Cruise’s once sober white shirt was a riot of glitter. Sparkles and phosphorus pens had been used to apply highly exaggerated makeup to his face. The holes in his ears were no doubt used as holders for various sets of earrings.

  Vuslat ended the call with a drawn-out “No way”.

  “It’s quite amazing, isn’t it?”

  She was referring to the poster.

  “I did it myself.”

  When our girls aren’t working, their range of activities are rather limited. Most, if not all, are bored by the mere thought of reading a book. They can’t sit still long enough to watch a movie from start from finish. Meals are prepared with an eye to speed and convenience. The entire afternoon is spent applying makeup, styling and dyeing hair, and other creative nonsense.

  As if covering their dresses and T-shirts with sequins and glitter wasn’t enough, they’d moved on to defenceless Tom Cruise.

  “What else did he do to you?” I asked.

  “He’s a real maniac, abla!” she said. “First he asked if I’d done my ritual ablutions. I hadn’t of course, but told him otherwise. Then he went off to perform his. He washed himself from head to toe. Then prayed. While reciting “bismillahir-rahmanirrahim” he took mine into his mouth.”

  I was intrigued. I’d never come across anything like this. The most extreme case I’d encountered was Jihad2000 Kemal. However, he’d completely forgotten all about his prayers once he was erect.

  “It was all I could do to get it back out of his mouth. He was so determined to finish things off that he just sucked and licked, grabbed and squeezed . . . If it ain’t gonna happen, it ain’t gonna happen!”

  “Did he do anything else?” I asked.

  “He sure did, ayol! Do you think he paid me for nothing? First he beat me up for not getting it up. It hurt like hell. Then he forced himself on me. Anyway, he’s got a tiny one. It’s obvious what his problem is.”

  She waved her pinkie in order to give me an approximate idea of the size of Adem Yildiz’s penis.

  “They see they’re stuck with little dicks, so they hanker after a big one. But they’re not considered queer. We are.”

  She narrowed her eyes and leaned towards me, as though she were preparing to share a secret.

  “You know what,” she said. “Even if I’d done it to him I’d still be called an ibne. What’s the difference? I just don’t get it!”

  She had a point. I didn’t understand either.

  “He called me later. ‘Let’s try again’ he said.”

  “Was that him on the phone?” I asked.

  “No way, ayol!” It was the corner store. The owner’s son. He swings by sometimes; I get behind on my account. He asks if I’ve run out of anything, then offers to come by with some milk or sugar.”

  “You’ve got plenty of money There’s no need for any of that,” I said.

  “Don’t you get it?” she corrected me. “The
boy is so handsome! Exactly my type. He just finished his military service. Those bulging muscles, that chest like a hairy jungle. And his arms . . . now, that’s what I call a man! He’s got my number, no doubt about it. But I don’t want him to see me like this. After the swelling goes down a bit.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “In any case,” she added. “The wait will make him even hornier.”

  I wasn’t too interested in the sexy son of the market owner.

  “What was Adem Yildiz’s home like?” I asked “I’ve got no idea. We didn’t go there. We went to Ahmet Kuyu’s house. It’s on the other side. In a garden. It was dark so I don’t even know exactly where it is.”

  “In Göksu,” I remembered.

  I knew the house. I’d passed by once. Ahmet Kuyu had given me a try too, just as he had everyone else. But he’d regretted it. He’d apologised later and even helped me out with some work-related business of mine. Since that time, we’d only ever exchanged formal greetings when we ran into each other.

  “Whatever, that’s the place,” Vuslat said. “He didn’t take me to his own house.”

  “How are you going to call him?” I asked.

  “There’s no need,” she replied. “He calls me every day.”

  Dolly Vuslat needed a warning. If he was really phoning her every day, she could find herself in big trouble. But how much should I tell her? All of my suspicions? If it turned out that she trusted him more than me, or considered the whole thing a joke, or just wanted to get more money, she could well spill the beans, pass along everything I’d told her. Then I’d be the one in big trouble. If Adem Yildiz sent his men after me how many would I be able to fight off?

  While I was weighing this up, my eyes strayed to the Tom Cruise poster. Could I really trust someone with such a kitsch approach to life?

  On the other hand, I imagined the pangs of conscience I’d suffer if something terrible happened to the girl.

  My concerns about my conscience won out, and I decided to tell her, omitting as many details as possible. She sat hunched on the sofa, knees pulled up to her chin, emitting periodic short, sharp screams until I was finished. Her hands, bunched up in fists, were pressed to her lips and her eyes wide open with fear.

  “That’s about it,” I concluded.

  “My God, I’m terrified,” she said. “I knew the guy wasn’t normal but . . . a serial killer!”

  “Look, I told you all of this so you’d be careful. Not to frighten you. As I said, we don’t know anything for sure. But whatever you do, be careful.”

  Laughing, she walked me to the door.

  “Would you believe it? This is the first time the name. Dursun has done me any good. What if I’d been named Isa, Musa, Nuh, Hazreti Ali, Hasan, Hüseyin or something like that! I might be dead.”

  I didn’t mention the fact that Hazreti Ali wasn’t really a prophet, that he was the uncle of the Prophet, and Ali’s sons were Hasan and Hüseyin. I just left it. She could continue reeling off the names of prophets to herself.

  What I’d learned was enough. That is, Adem Yildiz occasionally surrendered himself to our well-endowed sweeties.

  Seventeen

  Actually, I’d found out all I wanted to know. There was no need to pay a call on Demet. What’s more, when I thought about how out of the way her house was it put me off the idea even more.

  Cengiz could wait. There was no way Adem Yildiz would have had his fun at his family’s summer house, risking his reputation. In any case, I had other reasons to see Cengiz. Something more might develop between us.

  I was eager to get back home as soon as possible to look over any new information sent by Selçuk and to find out what else Jihad2000 had been able to learn.

  Although it’s not my habit, I decided to get on the metro, since I was so close to a stop. It was better than getting stuck in traffic, fending off the meaningless prattle of a taxi driver or having to listen to his choice of music on the radio. Furthermore, it would be the fastest way to get home.

  Billboards displayed the börek and pastries sold by the Yildiz market chain. They bragged that the number of stores had doubled in just five years, talked of embracing consumers of all ages and thanked Turkey for its appreciation of Yildiz products.

  It was a vivid reminder of Adem Yildiz, and an omen of the darkest kind.

  I couldn’t wait to tell someone that Adem Yildiz was the passive partner in bed. But who? I felt like I’d explode if I couldn’t share this juicy nugget with someone. Whether or not he was the killer, he was certainly a pillar of society. And he gave it up in bed. And to whom!

  Ponpon came to mind first. I doubted I’d get satisfaction from her, though. She always went one better. If I mentioned having a headache, she’d double over with cramps. If I brought up Adem Yildiz, she’d be sure to reel off a list of famous men of the same persuasion. I mean, what’s the point of a good gossip with someone like that?

  It was a short walk from the Taksim metro stop to my home. There was a chill in the air, and the slope to Gümüsuyu was windy as usual, winter and summer.

  Hasan seemed the most worthy of my news. He’d be on the phone to someone else before it even had a chance to sink in.

  The general upheaval, open window and freezing cold that greeted me as I entered my house were all signs that Sati had come. I’d completely forgotten that it was her day to clean.

  Under Ponpon’s supervision she had taken up all the carpets, stacked the chairs onto each other and pulled out the heavy furniture. Muttering under her breath, Sati cleaned in a distant corner. I could read displeasure on her face. If this went on, and Ponpon stayed for another ten days, I was liable to lose Sati.

  Dressed for cleaning, Ponpon had wrapped her head in a gypsy-pink turban, Maharajah style.

  “Welcome home, sweetie,” she sang out. “I thought I’d best get this house sorted. I may as well be of some use while I’m here.”

  “Madame had me pull everything out.”

  Sati sounded utterly defeated. “Madame” obviously referred to Ponpon.

  I wasn’t expecting this at all. Ponpon’s known for her tidiness, but she was now imposing her idea of orderliness on me. It would be impossible for me to get any work done or to collect my thoughts. I felt like fleeing on the spot.

  “Er, well done,” I said. “Keep up the good work. Have you got much more to do?’

  “We’ve only just started. Sati Hanim didn’t even get here until nearly 11:00.”

  “But you asked me not to come early,” said Sati, defensively.

  “We hoovered all the curtains. They were black with dust! It’s not obvious at night, but in the morning light I just couldn’t believe my eyes. Sati Hanim, dear, could I ask you to wash them all at least once a month? The longer you let things go the worse it gets.”

  Ponpon had taken over. There was no point in saying anything. I wouldn’t be able to get a thing done with the house in this state. I went into my study and shut the door.

  I called Hasan the minute I sat down. As always, the line was busy. He’d die if he knew what he was missing. Eh, there’s such a thing as fate.

  Next I called Selçuk. He wasn’t there. I was told he’d be back shortly. The secretary was a capable girl.

  “Have you received the envelope we sent you?” she asked, underlining her authority and proving she knew who I was.

  “If you’d prefer, we’ll get back to you,” she added. “Where can we reach you?”

  “That’d be great,” I said. “I’m at home.”

  Under these conditions, with my home sweet home turned upside down, however, I wasn’t certain how much longer I would be able to stay. But for the moment anyway, home I was.

  My computer had warmed up, and I got online. Something told me not to contact Jihad2000 just yet. I’d followed my hunches so far, and this was no time to abandon them.

  While waiting for Selçuk’s call I did a little research into the Yildiz markets. They had their own website, of course. They e
ven offered home delivery to some parts of town. On one of the “corporate background” pages appeared a photograph of the family patriarch. He was clean shaven, without a trace of a beard or moustache, and had the intense gaze of one who has put his trust entire and solely in God. He looked exactly like a self-assured candidate forwarded by a conservative political party.

  Father Yildiz related how “by the grace of God” they achieved such success and how his “faith” had always helped show him the way.

  Adem Yildiz was pictured on a page devoted to the corporate executives. He displayed a bashful smile, with just a hint of teeth showing between thin lips. I’d read in Radikal newspaper that the children of religious families were invariably educated in America. I wondered once again why they weren’t sent to countries like Iran, Afghanistan, Saudi Arabia or at least Egypt.

  The products page was mouth-watering. Despite the lingering flavour of soufflé on my palate, the pastries pictured had me salivating.

  The company has branches in virtually all of Turkey’s provinces, with 16 outlets in Istanbul alone. I discovered that there was one shop in Van and three in Antalya. What did that mean? Adem Yildiz could have paid a visit to either city. Then again, there were plenty of reasons to visit Antalya other than family business.

  I was just beginning to lose interest when the phone rang.

  The all-knowing secretary was on the other end.

  “I’ll put you through to the chief,” she said.

  A moment later, I was on the phone with Selçuk.

  “Merhaba Poirot.”

  “You may refer to me as Miss Marple,” I shot back. “I’m dying of curiosity.”

  “First,” he began, “the address you asked about is owned by Fehmi enyürek, and the records show that he also resides there.” Strike one. The red-star flat didn’t belong to Adem Yildiz, as I’d supposed.

  “What’s wrong?” Selçuk asked.

  “Nothing,” I replied. “It’s just that the name doesn’t mean anything to me. I was thinking.”