The Gigolo Murder

by Mehmet Murat Somer

  Those whose music has enabled me to find inner peace: G. F. Handel, Gustave Mahler, Schubert, V. Bellini’s Norma in particular, Tchaikovsky, Eric Satie, Philip Glass, Cole Porter, Eleni Karaindrou, Michel Berger, and all composers everywhere.

  And all the artists who give voice to these works, but especially the opera singers—I treasure their presence: Maria Callas; Lucia Popp; Leyla Gencer; Anna Moffo; Teresa Berganza; Montserrat Caballe; Inessa Galante; Gülgez Altındağ; Yıldız Tumbul; Aylin Ateş; Franco Corelli, for both his voice and physique; Thomas Hampson, whose portrait hangs in my bedroom, next to Maria Callas’s, for his Mahler lieder; Jose Cura; Tito Schipa; Fritz Wunderlich; Suat Arıkan for making me feel to the marrow each time I watch or listen to him, and for the joy of performance; and for the same reason, composer Leonard Bernstein; Yekta Kara, whose wonderful productions restored the visual pleasures of opera; and finally, on another level, the worst soprano of all time: Florence Foster Jenkins.

  For similar reasons Mina, whose albums I would rush to buy if they recorded no more than a belch; Barbra Streisand, back before she transformed every three-minute song into a five-curtain opera (that is to say, pre-1980s); Yorgo Dallaras; Hildegard Knef; Sylvie Vartan; Veronique Sanson; Jane Birkin; Patty Pravo; Michael Franks; Lee Oscar; Manhattan Transfer; Supertramp; Juliette Greco; and, again pre-1988—for better or worse—Ajda Pekkan; Hümeyra, for all she is; Nükhet Duru, who manages to inject a dramatic meaning into all of her songs, even when they are rubbish; Gönül Turgut, whose decision to leave music I have never understood and whose absence I continue to lament; Ayla Dikmen, for her costumes alone; and Madonna, whose songs I’m not wild about, but whose presence seems to me to be a good thing.

  Those geniuses of cinema, whose numbers seem without end, but whom I’ll try to reel off: Visconti; John Waters; Joseph Losey; Almadovar, for his “marginal” films, in particular La ley del deseo; Bertrand Blier, before he went too far; Fassbinder, for Querelle alone; John Huston; Truffaut; Salvatore Samperi for Scandalo alone; Mauro Bolognini; Ernest Lubitsch; George Cukor; Billy Wilder; Alain Tanner for Dans la Ville Blanche, the film I have watched most frequently; Audrey Hepburn, of course; Jeanne Moreau; Elizabeth Taylor, especially for her voice; Lilian Gish and Bette Davis for The Whales of August; Catherine Deneuve, who, even if she does age, ages beautifully; Faye Dunaway, before she became a caricature of herself; Giulietta Masina; Cate Blanchett; Tilda Swinton; Emma Thompson; Divine, the ultimate simulation; Bruno Ganz; Rupert Everett; Alain Delon, when he was fresh; Patrick Dewaere, whom I’m actually cross with for his early departure; Dirk Bogarde, despite his having denied everything in his autobiographies; Montgomery Clift; Gary Cooper at all times; Terence Stamp, during his The Collector, Teorema, and Priscilla periods; Franco Nero, for whose sake I sat through dozens of rotten movies; Steve Martin; Dennis Hopper; John Cleese and all of Monty Python and Fawlty Towers; Hülya Koçyiğit; Müjde Ar; Serra Yılmaz; and—why not—Banu Alkan; Güngör Bayrak for her legs and determination; Kadir İnanır, before he gained weight and became thick; Metin Erksan; Atıf Yılmaz; Barış Pirhasan for the screenplays he has written; and Sevin Okyay for her translations, critiques, and articles.

  Just for being men, John Pruitt; Tony Ganz; Jason Branch; Mike Timber; Taylor Burbank; Aidan Shaw; and the late—I was so sorry when I heard—Al Parker, as well as dozens of others whose names I don’t even know.

  Pierre and Gilles, for scaling the peaks of kitsch; Tom of Finland; Jerome Bosch; the Bruegels father and son; Edward Hopper; Tamara Lempicka; Botero; El Greco; Modigliani; Andrea Vizzini; Jack Vettriano; Pablo Picasso before his cubist phase; Leonardo and Michelangelo, for being both masters and members of “the family”; Caravaggio; Latif Demirci, who was the reason for my eagerly awaiting Sundays; the Zümrüt photograph studio, whose front window overwhelms me every time I pass it on Siraselviler.

  For reminding me, with their sparkling intelligence and wit of the pleasures to be had from life, Mae West, Tallulah Bankhead, and Bedia Muvahhit; Gencay Gürün for, in a word, embodying nobility and graciousness; and Truman Capote again.

  Finally, and most important, Derya Tolga Uysal, for his unstinting support in all things, for sharing with me for seven years the good and the bad, and for his unbelievably affectionate response to my flare-ups, outbursts, depressions, fatigue, mood swings, and malice.

  Thank you very much.

  I salute you all.

  March 2003

  Gümüşsuyu, Istanbul