The Prophet Murders

by Mehmet Murat Somer

  Selçuk was absolutely right when he said they were growing quietly but surely. The Yildiz Group didn’t appear in the media much. I couldn’t decide if that was by design, or the result of an incompetent PR department. I seemed to recall, though, that conservative companies generally prefer the stealthy approach. Not much information leaks out, but, below the radar, slowly but surely. . . And without attracting any attention.

  I’d connected to the internet by the time Ponpon came in with the tea, and was researching Astro shipping and Star Air. Other than chamber of commerce registration records, there was next to no information.

  “You know what,” said Ponpon. “Whenever you concentrate on something you’ve got this way of pursing your lips and frowning. I’ve always noticed it.” She contorted her face to illustrate.

  “It’s such a shame, ayol,” she went on. “You’ll get wrinkles.

  Once those lines have set in there’s no getting rid of them. You’ve got to look after yourself. I recommend facial masks. I’ll go and whip one up if you like. It dries on your face like some kind of shell. You can’t wrinkle your forehead if you try. Or you could get those injections. You know, like Tansu C, iller. Or save your money and use sellotape. That stops you screwing up your face too.”

  “Botox,” I said.

  “That’s it.”

  It wouldn’t be a bad idea to dispatch Ponpon to the kitchen while I got on-line with Jihad2000. I wasn’t sure what kind of messages Jihad2000 would write, and I really couldn’t risk Ponpon reading them.

  “What kind of mask are you going to make?” I asked.

  “Well, there’s nothing handier than a good mud mask. Open jar, spread on face. Presto!”

  That wouldn’t do. She’d be back, jar in hand, in seconds. I tried to think of something more time-consuming.

  “Haven’t you got anything a bit more unusual?” I suggested. “You know, all natural ingredients, Ayurvedic and the like . . . ”

  “Don’t I just!” she pounced. “It’s a fabulous concoction of my own. But it’ll take some time to prepare. If you’ll hang on for a bit I’ll go and whip it up for you. But promise to wait patiently!”

  I did my best to look intrigued.

  “How long will it take?”

  “Well, I’d say at least . . . ” She was calculating the ingredients needed, the time to prepare each one. “It’ll take a good twenty minutes, minimum.”

  “That’s great!” I replied with genuine enthusiasm. “If you get started right away we can wash it off before we go out to the club.”

  “You bet!”

  Nothing makes Ponpon happier than being entrusted with a task. Buzzing with a sense of mission, she trotted off to the kitchen.

  I began hunting down Jihad2000.

  He is online every waking moment, and his favourite pastimes involve haranguing or proselytizing those in the chat rooms. I located him immediately. He was in our “manly-girls” room, but hadn’t activated his status icon. I hate lurkers. I just don’t see the point in concealing your very existence in what is already a world of “virtual” names, descriptions, desires and orgasms. He spotted me right away, and opened a private window.

 
  i waited all day for you

  i didn’t even get online>

 

 

 

  He immediately sent a float.

 
  BISMI’LLAHI’R-RAHMANI’R-RAHIM

  ALL MIGHTY LORD SPARE US FROM INFIDELS

  SHOW THE TRUE PATH TO GOOD AND BAD ALIKE

  SHOW THEM THE PATH OF TRUTH,

  RIGHTEOUSNESS AND JUSTICE HAVE MERCY ON US!

  HEY GODLESS ONES! HEY INFIDELS!

  HEY UNMINDFUL SINNERS!

  REPENT!

  REPENT AND ESCAPE THE FLAMES OF HELL>

  Clearly, this was not going to work out. He was determined to roll out any and all variations of the Koranic verses, prayers and sermons that came to mind.

 

  I selected “99” as the number of times I wanted this message sent. He would be sure to notice. And he did.

 

  His return to lower case was a good sign.

 

 

 

 
  and I’ll know more tomorrow

  come over if you really want to know>

  Reciprocal blackmail had begun. If he was spoiling for a fight, I was ready. But first I had to know what he’d found out.

 

 

 
  give me a time:)>

  I had to admire his persistence. But that didn’t mean I had any intention of being the plaything of a pervert. I’d rather his mother be at home when I arrive. I could go in the morning, but tell him I’d be arriving in the afternoon. That would more or less guarantee the presence of his mother.

 

 

 

 
  but don’t be late

  i’ll be getting ready for you>

  I could only guess at the perversions involved in “getting ready”.

 
  What did you find out?>

 
  i want you here with me>

  The last thing I needed was a pervert on my hands. He was as weird as something from a B horror flick. Seeing that he had no intention of telling me anything, there was no point in continuing to chat. The conversation would go nowhere. At most he’d write something racy and jerk off over it. I would not, indeed could not, be a party to such things. Then I thought of all the things I had been a party to, and my chat friend’s desires suddenly seemed almost tame.

  Ponpon’s voice sang out from inside: “I’ve finished off your honey. I hope you’ve got some more.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” I said.

  “I can’t hear you,” she shrieked. “What was that? I can’t hear you over the blender!”

  I switched off the computer and went to the kitchen, to Ponpon. It was time for our beauty treatment.

  Twenty

  The mask prepared by Ponpon had the colour and consistency of baby excrement. I hesitated to have it spread it on my face.

  “First, we’ll apply a skin tonic made of bijapura, I mean citrus medica and jayanti, that is to say sesbania seban,” she began.

  The liquid used to cleanse my skin smelled wonderful, but had a disgusting colour.

  “What is this stuff?” I asked.

  “Ay, I told you. Bijapura and jayanti. They’re from India . . . ”

  “You may have told me, but I’m not sure I . . . ”

  “Never mind,” she interrupted. I’m not sure exactly what they are. The important thing is, they work. I order them over the internet, and they’re here courtesy of DHL in less than a week.”

  “Great,” I said.

  “Shhh! Be quiet. The mask won’t set properly unless you’re completely calm and serene. Don’t get all irritable or it won’t work.”

  She moved on to the muddy baby shit, and was spreading it on my face with the attention of a microsurgeon.

  “No talking, ayol!” she scolded. I kept my mouth shut.

  “If you really want to know, it’s bijapura again, but this time not a diffusion, the whole thing, and it’s mixed with honey. Oh, and a pinch of ground fresh walnut shell . . . That’ll help exfoliate any dead cells . . . It’s great for deep-down cleansing. And it helps prevent blackheads . . . ”

  Once she’d finishing applying the mask she stepped back and examined me critically. Yes, I was a success.

  “Now there’ll be no talking for at least half an hour.”

  She tidied up the k
itchen, gathering up her things and singing. It was hard to believe that someone who had appeared on stage for so many years could have such an awful voice. I couldn’t help myself. I started to laugh.

  “Don’t laugh, ayol!” she said. “It’ll wreck the mask . . . Just so you know, I’m not making you another one!”

  I bit the insides of my cheeks.

  “Come on,” she said. “Show me the new porn you downloaded from the internet. Who was that guy, the one like a Greek statue . . . Have you got anything new of his?

  She was talking about John Pruitt. I’d already copied all my photos and solo films of John Pruitt onto a CD for her. As far as I knew, John Pruitt had done nothing but solos. I’d never spotted him in real porn, gay or straight.

  Because I was forbidden to speak, I used sign language to tell her I didn’t have anything new.

  “I don’t believe it!” she said. “You mean to tell me they haven’t taken any more pictures or made any new films of that hunk? What a disgrace!”

  We returned together to the computer. I presented her with everything I’d downloaded from the net. Her examination of the contents of each album was punctuated with cries of “I’ve got this one”, “I just love him” and “Ugh, this one’s horrible”.

  Anything that caught her eye was transferred to a dossier I’d opened just for her. Later, we’d download them onto a CD.

  There was still time before my mask came off, and I was in no mood for porn. I looked at the pictures with all the interest of someone who has just blown three loads.

  I began making a new list on the empty sheet of paper lying in front of me. Ponpon actually glanced at me from the corner of her eye, before returning all her attention to the business at hand. My list started off with the male and female names of all the victims Then I wrote the name Adem Yildiz, followed by adam star, starman, *adam and red star. Next to Jihad2000, I jotted down Kemal Barutçu. Last of all, I wrote Fehmi enyürek.

  As I glanced over the list, I reached over in front of Ponpon to get a red-ink pen. Next to “red star” I scribbled a huge red star. Ponpon checked to see what I was doing.

  “How do you know that madman?”

  I thought she was referring to Jihad2000. I pointed to his name with the pencil, since I was forbidden to speak.

  “No, not him, ayol,” she said, “Fehmi enyürek.”

  The mask flew out the window.

  “Who is he?” I asked.

  “Who do you think? Just my biggest admirer. He comes to see me perform at least once a week. He always sends flowers. He leaves huge tips. As you see, he’s my number one fan.”

  It was just the information I was looking for, from the last person I expected to provide it.

  “So he’s just a club acquaintance, then?” I quizzed her.

  “Not at all, ayol. He took to inviting me to his table and introducing me to his friends. Oh, by the way, he always runs with a big crowd. There’s almost never a lady at his table. As you can guess, he’s a real boy-lover, a true olanci. He’s not one of those who come with women just to watch us, to make fun of us. He comes for pleasure.”

  I paused to collect my thoughts. I hadn’t seen Ponpon perform for years, but from what I could remember she was no artist. Or a singer. Or even a comedienne. I kept my thoughts to myself. There was no point in voicing them.

  “Then he started inviting me to dinner. After the show. . . ”

  “Did you go with him?”

  “Ayol, do you think I’d just run off with a strange man? Is that what you think of me?” She gave a low laugh. “Anyway, we had fish on the Bosphorus. Just the two of us.”

  “You are now going to remember every single thing you said and tell me word for word.”

  She looked directly into my eyes, without blinking.

  “I’m not sure I’ll be able to tell you absolutely everything.”

  She paused for a full three seconds, then, clearly modelling herself on Julia Roberts, gave me a lascivious wink. Next, she attempted the famous smile. She couldn’t possibly pull it off! Julia Roberts amounted to half a Ponpon. In terms of both age and weight! “What do you mean you’re not sure you can tell me?” I said. “You remember things said a dozen years ago. Word for word. And you can’t recall a dinner conversation from three days ago?”

  “That’s not it,” said Ponpon Roberts. “What passed between us was just too private. I couldn’t possibly repeat it.”

  I hovered over her.

  “Now listen, and listen good! This is no laughing matter! That man could be dangerous!”

  The innocent, engaging Julia Roberts was gone, replaced by a panicked Ponpon. The scream she attempted to repress had the tone of an Yma Sumac classic, the intensity of a pressure cooker.

  Lips trembling, she stared at me with eyes like saucers.

  I explained. “He’s one of Adem Yildiz’s men. They’ve been working together for years. Fehmi works for him,” I said.

  “They may have done everything together. And in any case, Adem Yildiz is bottoming for our girls. Who knows just what the two of them are capable of?”

  I’d finally let the cat out of the bag, but Ponpon merely held her breath and looked at me expectantly, waiting for more. She hadn’t even reacted to my news about Adem Yildiz. My bombshell had fizzled right out.

  “And that admirer of yours has a flat in the building where Deniz died,” I added.

  This time she failed to suppress a scream.

  “Ay! I’m terrified . . . ” she screeched.

  A frightened, overly excited or panicked Ponpon is a sure sign that worse is on the way. The last thing I needed was a fit of hysteria. That was definitely best avoided.

  “I could be wrong,” I reassured her. “I haven’t got a shred of proof. I’m only acting on a hunch. That’s why you’ve to got to tell me all you know, everything you can remember. The answer to the whole puzzle could lie in some tiny detail.

  Deep in thought, Ponpon gnawed the nail of her pinkie.

  “So, Fehmi Bey’s boss may be some crazed killer? And Fehmi is his accomplice, is that right?”

  “At least that’s what I suspect at the moment . . . ” I confirmed.

  I expected those words to calm her down; instead, she began trembling.

  “Tell me the truth,” she said. “Is he the killer? Is it Fehmi?”

  “I don’t know,” I admitted.

  And I really didn’t.

  I’d slapped my forehead, getting sticky baby poo all over my hand.

  “I don’t think so . . . ” I backtracked. By the time I’d washed my hands and face she was weeping uncontrollably.

  “Why can’t I have a single normal relationship? My greatest admirer turns out to be a murderer.”

  “It’s not him!” I sharply corrected her.

  She raised her head, looking at me hopefully. Her mascara had run.

  “It’s not him, is it?” she half pleaded.

  “I told you, I just don’t know,” I repeated. “He could well be the killer’s henchman. Or at least mixed up in it.”

  “If he was some crazed killer he wouldn’t have chased after me for so long, would he?” she asked herself, brightening. “I’ve seen it in films. People get killed right on the spot. If he was really a murderer he wouldn’t go through so much trouble, spend so much money on me, would he?”

  “No, he wouldn’t.”

  I decided to drop it. Pursuing the subject would get me nowhere. And the last thing I needed was for Ponpon to fall apart.

  Twenty-one

  After washing her face, Ponpon joined me. Dimming the lights, she sat down opposite.

  “I feel better now,” she said. “Ask me anything you want.”

  “There’s something I need to know,” I said. “Just tell me, from the beginning, everything that’s happened. Don’t worry about the order. Any little detail could be important.”

  She settled into her chair, drawing on all her years on the stage as she prepared to face an audience of one
: me. She cleared her throat with a tiny cough.

  “I’ll be back in a second,” I told her, and went to the kitchen to pour myself half a glass of whiskey.

  “All right, I’m ready now. . . ” she said. It wasn’t long before I regretted having told her the order wasn’t important. What she told me involved not only her entire life story, but that of everyone she had ever been involved with. James Joyce, Virginia Woolf, Marcel Proust and even Ouz Altay would have envied her stream of consciousness narrative skills.

  I thought I’d fall asleep before she ever got to the bit about Fehmi. But I didn’t. I did get up and phone the club, though, to let them know I might be late, or perhaps not even show up. I was prepared to devote my entire night to Ponpon on the off chance of being provided with a critical detail.

  I knew all about her past, as well as most of her adventures . . . I mentally filtered them out, concentrating only on Fehmi.

  Fehmi enyürek hadn’t been on the scene for all that long. At most, since the beginning of summer. And if he had ever come to watch her show before, Ponpon couldn’t remember having seen him. Then, one night, just before the summer holiday, he’d arrived as part of a large group at Zilli meyhane, a nightclub where she regularly worked. It was probably a weeknight, since there weren’t many customers. As always on nights like that, a large group attracted the attention of both the waiters and those performing on stage. They’d requested a bunch of songs from the warm-up act that went on before Ponpon, singing along with the poor girl in total disregard of tune or lyrics.

  For some reason, perhaps because they’d had their fill of entertainment or were drunk, by the time Ponpon appeared on stage they treated her with the utmost respect, as though they were listening to the great Hamiyet Yüceses. At first, Ponpon thought they didn’t like her, mistaking their rapt silence for coolness. At the end of her song, though, the flowers, four plates of rose petals showered over her head and napkins tossed up into the air proved her wrong.