The Kiss Murder (28 page)

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Authors: Mehmet Murat Somer

Tags: #mystery, #gay, #Istanbul

BOOK: The Kiss Murder
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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
W
e 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.

 

Buse was right when she told me that “the blind see with their hands.” The elderly lady also had a keen sense of smell. She’d immediately understood that I was wearing lady’s perfume.
“You’re Buse’s friend, aren’t you, my child? You don’t have to call her Fevzi. Even I started calling her Buse toward the end.”
I wanted to ask her what she was doing in Süreyya Eronat’s car, where she’d been hiding all this time, how she managed to disappear without a trace. But she placed her hand on my mouth so she’d be able to hear the imam. Closing her eyes, she began muttering a prayer, her lips twitching. When she closed her eyes I realized how full of pain her face was. The unseeing eyes masked a great deal when open. At the moment, though, the muscles around her eyes twitched, the corners of her mouth tightened, and her brow was furrowed. Each muscle told a separate tale of suffering.
I must have looked quite a sight with my upper body in the car, my bottom stuck outside. I accepted Süleyman’s invitation for the moment and got in. Although the doors were open, the air conditioner was on. It didn’t do much good, but the interior of the car was slightly cooler.

 

Sabiha Hanım ended her prayer with a nearly inaudible “Amen,” and I remembered to pray. I pronounced the Fatiha I had practiced with Satı Hanım before leaving the house. I suspect I missed a few verses, but I believe the intention is more important than the words themselves. I mean, if prayer really does any good at all, my version would do just as well.
From the stirring of the crowd I realized that the funeral
namaz
had ended. Wondering if Süreyya Eronat would act as one of the pallbearers, I quickly got out of the car for a better view. Süleyman suddenly turned around as I got out. I silently gestured to him that it was all right, that there was no reason for alarm. He returned to his original position.

 

Yes, indeed, right there in front of everyone, a corner of Fevzi/Buse’s coffin rested on the shoulder of Süreyya Eronat. What was most strange was the complete absence of the media, who usually followed his every move. Not a single photographer or TV camera. So the choice of a mosque in a secluded neighborhood of narrow streets hadn’t been entirely coincidental. The media hadn’t caught wind of it. Or they hadn’t been permitted to approach. Perhaps the entire neighborhood had been sealed off.
Süreyya Eronat spent no more than a few seconds carrying the coffin. He turned his spot over to another mourner. After shaking hands with a few people, he then returned to the car, surrounded as before by bodyguards.

 

The bodyguards formed a protective shield around him, but even so, the wall of flesh wasn’t enough to prevent a few people from shaking his hand, with one or two even managing to embrace and kiss him. I wasn’t surprised to see that one of those kissing his hand was none other than the law clerk husband of Aynur, the chubby-cheeked neighbor. That act of deference was to be expected from someone who hung a photograph of Süreyya Eronat in pride of place in the living room. Who knows what else the husband had done for him? It seemed that everyone I met was involved with either gangsters or the Hedef Party.
In order to allow Süreyya Eronat to slide into the car, the people were kept back. I, too, was pushed back into the watching crowd.

 

Once he was in the car, he looked out the window. When he saw me, his eyes remained fixed.
“If you please, we’ll drop you off. And we’ll have a talk on the way,” he said.

 

Instructed by a motion of his hand, the bodyguards tugged me toward the car. He was sitting in the back seat with Sabiha Hanım, and my enormous hat alone was reason for him not to invite me to sit beside them.
“In the front, if you please,” he said.

 

I did please. Now the bodyguards hustled me around to the other side of the car. The door opened. Removing my hat, I got in. A mini-convoy of three vehicles, off we drove.
I was holding the hat in my hand, unable to find anywhere to put it. I tried to place it on my lap, but it didn’t fit. Nor was there room between Süleyman and me or under my legs on the floor.

 

“If you’ll allow me, I’ll put it in the back window,” Süreyya Eronat offered. He was far more courteous and well spoken than I’d expected. I handed him my hat. Removing my dark glasses, I held them in one hand. Then I attempted to turn halfway around, so I could face him.
“Please fasten your seatbelt,” said Süleyman.

 

I did as I was told. With the doors closed, the air conditioner made itself felt. Cool air spread through the car.
“I’m listening,” I announced. Silence makes me edgy.
“First of all, I’d like to say that I appreciate all you’ve done,” he began. “I had you tracked, and know everything. I know that you tried to help us, to protect Fevzi, may Allah rest her soul in peace, and to reach Sabiha Teyze.”
So there had been hordes of spies following my every move for the past few days: Sofya’s gangsters on the one hand, Hedef’s henchmen on the other. And I hadn’t noticed a thing. I put it down to the fine line separating an amateur from a professional.
“Be at ease. We have everything you were looking for. We had it all from the beginning. There was no danger. I destroyed it all. With my own two hands.”
I wanted a more detailed explanation. Noting my look of surprise, he continued:
“The attachment I shared with Fevzi ended many years ago.”
I was made uneasy by the apparent ease with which he talked of this queer incident from his past—and right in front of the mother of the boy in question. Again, he sensed my feelings.
“Süleyman knows everything about me. He’s been at my side since he was a child, like an adopted son. I have nothing to hide from him.”
So were these secret and forbidden sexual needs now met by Süleyman? Had a transvestite with breasts been replaced by a strapping bodyguard? I turned and looked at Süleyman again. Without taking his eyes from the road, my Gary Cooper was listening. He spoke.
“
Estağfurallah,
sir. You’ve always treated me like a son.”
I wasn’t sure whether or not I detected passion in his voice, but, even if it was only the result of profound respect, his voice quavered. And here I was thinking that beautiful friendships, the kind that one spoke of in trembling tones, belonged only to a bygone era.
“Thank you, Süleyman,” he said. “If necessary, he’d lay his life on the line. Fortunately, that has not yet been Allah’s will.”
Sabiha appeared to have added deafness to her blindness, sitting without saying a word or reacting in any way. She fiddled with the wedding band on her left hand, turning it around and around on her finger. Süreyya placed a hand on hers.
“As for my dear
teyze,
she’s known everything for years. Allah alone knows more than she does.”
Sabiha shook her head and tears began streaming down her cheeks. Süreyya’s well-manicured, gentlemanly hand took both of her hands in his. And squeezed. Harder than would seem necessary as an act of condolence. I’m not sure how much it hurt, but the tears started coming faster.

 

“It’s no comfort to be told not to be upset. You’re grieving. It’s the will of God. There’s no avoiding it,” he said, his voice as icy as before.
Sabiha turned her face toward his voice. Süreyya pulled her onto his shoulder. They were like a mother and son, locked in an embrace. No, actually, they weren’t. Their ages were too close for that. Sabiha withdrew a handkerchief secreted in her sleeve, wiping her eyes and nose. Then she bit the corner of the handkerchief as she wept silently.
“My relationship with Fevzi ended, but not with my Sabiha Teyze. I would call by to kiss her hand when possible, and would definitely phone on holidays and
kandil
days. She’s like a mother to me. She has embraced me as a son, ever since the day we met. She also listened patiently to my troubles. I confided in her about everything. You know how Christians confess, rather like that. Whenever I was burdened with a problem, uncertain about how to proceed or weighed down by a guilty conscience, I would go to Sabiha. Tell her everything.”

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