The Kiss Murder (5 page)
I made up my mind instantly. Once again, I would have to get involved.
Chapter 6I
don’t know where the girls from the club live, or at least not many of them. Nor do I recall the exact addresses of those I have visited. I don’t even know most of their real names. It was therefore nothing out of the ordinary for me not to have the slightest idea of the exact whereabouts of the house of the dead transvestite’s mother. Her surname must have been mentioned on the news report that Hüseyin saw, but the story was almost certainly not important enough to be covered once more on the evening news. I could find out from the coroner’s office or the police. But that would take time, something that was in short supply. I had to find this elderly lady as soon as possible, and take possession of those letters and photographs.
don’t know where the girls from the club live, or at least not many of them. Nor do I recall the exact addresses of those I have visited. I don’t even know most of their real names. It was therefore nothing out of the ordinary for me not to have the slightest idea of the exact whereabouts of the house of the dead transvestite’s mother. Her surname must have been mentioned on the news report that Hüseyin saw, but the story was almost certainly not important enough to be covered once more on the evening news. I could find out from the coroner’s office or the police. But that would take time, something that was in short supply. I had to find this elderly lady as soon as possible, and take possession of those letters and photographs.
I tried to remember which of the girls Buse had been close to. Due to her advanced age, most of them had kept their distance. Not to mention that she was under the impression that she was made of finer stuff. As a transvestite, she was an odd duck. While most of the girls dressed in evening gowns or sexy outfits, Buse/Fevzi went in for more ladylike costumes. Once she had even arrived at the club in a tailor-made, pale pink, classic Chanel suit. If her alter ego wasn’t Catherine Deneuve, it was at least Sabine Azéma. I’d seen the latter more than a few times in outfits like that, sipping tea on the terrace of the Etap Marmara Hotel. While wearing a tad too much makeup, and something of a coquette, she did manage to stand out as her own woman.
I called Hasan at the club. If nothing else, we had Buse’s body to think about. If we didn’t claim it and the family refused to do so—as is so often the case—Buse would end up as a cadaver at some medical college. What, exactly, aspiring surgeons would do with it was another question. Anatomy lessons from the dissection of a decidedly male body, complete with pert breasts and loads of silicone in its cheekbones and lips? The times, they are a-changing indeed.
Hasan had seen the news, but couldn’t remember Buse’s surname, either. “Who would she hang out with?” I asked. He thought for awhile, running through a list of the names of all the girls he knew, then returning to the top of the list. He finally settled on one of the older girls, Sofya.
“You mean the Sofya I know?” I asked. “Didn’t she retire ages ago?”
“That’s right,” he confirmed. “She doesn’t get out much anymore. She leads a quiet life.” He paused. “At least I think she does.”
“How am I supposed to find her?”
“She still lives in Çatalçeşme.”
“Hasan, get to the point. Do you know exactly where she lives or not?”
“I’ve been there once. I’m not sure I can remember.”
“A simple yes or no will do.”
I do not, and cannot under any circumstances, tolerate shilly-shallying.
He thought for a moment. The seriousness of my tone apparently forced him to answer with a gulped “Yes.” Congratulations, Hasan. Then he added:
“But you know she can’t stand you. She’d tear me to pieces if I brought you to her house.”
“I know,” was my crisp reply.
It was all such a bore. Yes, I must admit that we were divided into various factions. Not every girl is overflowing with humanist tendencies and the capacity for fast friendships. Enmity is not unknown. It is, in fact, common.
“She absolutely hates you. She’s never forgiven you for coming between her and her friend Sinan. There’s no way she’ll ever help you, you of all people.”
While I expect Hasan to be frank with me, siding with Sofya was really going too far. My employee, supporting Sofya! This was absurd.
“Look here, Hasan, don’t push me. She won’t be helping me. This is serious. I’ve got to reach Buse’s mother. It’s a matter of life or death.”
“Why?” he asked.
I paused, then decided he had every reason to ask me that question. Buse/Fevzi had never been a favorite of mine, was not someone with whom I’d spent any time. The interest I was now showing far exceeded that demanded by my role of employer.
I briefly summarized the situation. He listened, breathless.
“So, it’s in her mother’s house?” he asked incredulously.
His question was normal enough. Possessions of such a highly personal nature are not usually left with one’s parents.
“Buse’s mother is blind,” I added.
“Ah, now I understand,” he said.
“Now go call that desiccated hag Sofya and get the address of Buse’s mother, if she knows it. Also, be sure to find out her last name. Then call me the minute you’re done.”
“But I don’t know her phone number,” Hasan said. “Only where her house is.”
Another fly in the ointment. I tried to put my thoughts in order.
“Look,” I suggested, “put Şükrü in charge of the club. I’ll pick you up and we’ll go to Sofya’s together. You talk to her while I wait in the car.”
I hung up before he had a chance to answer.
Next, I called for a taxi. Naturally, Hüseyin showed up.
“You can’t be going to the club at this time. Where to?”
“To the club,” I replied sharply.
His fleeting look of bewilderment pleased me to no end. His self-confidence was badly shaken, the insolent expression replaced with one of surprise. Then, of course, I had to tell him where we were actually going. I thought I detected a sudden gleam of excitement in his eyes. But images seen in rearview mirrors can be misleading, so I paid it no mind.
After picking up Hasan, then crisscrossing for some twenty minutes through the one-way streets of Suadiye and Çatalçeşme, above and below the railway tracks, and along the coast, we stopped in front of a tall apartment building. “This is it,” said Hasan. We parked. Hasan got out. Hüseyin and I waited in the taxi. You could cut the tension with a knife. Hüseyin appeared to be working up the courage to say something, but would then change his mind. I avoided his glance in the mirror. It was your standard French film: a man, a woman, and a quandary. Well, not exactly, but somewhere along those lines. He finally cracked.
“Do you want me turn on some music?”
“Whatever you like,” was my brief reply.
“What would you like?”
The question was a loaded one. I toyed with,
Anything but you.
But now was not the time.
Anything but you.
But now was not the time.
Instead, I settled for, “Something light. I need to think.”
“You mean slow, or classical?”
I raised an eyebrow. Our taxi stand drivers invariably play either arabesque or Turkish pop.
“It doesn’t matter, just make it something light.”
“I know you listen to classical music. I saw the CDs at your house,” Hüseyin revealed.
He had once again resorted to the familiar
sen,
and I started to correct him, then held my tongue. Just as I began to wonder what was taking Hasan so long, the door opened and he got in.
sen,
and I started to correct him, then held my tongue. Just as I began to wonder what was taking Hasan so long, the door opened and he got in.
“So?”
“I guess she’s not at home,” Hasan replied.
He sat there without a word.
Thanks to Hasan, we’d wasted a whole hour. And time was, as they say, of the essence. At this rate, someone was likely to get hold of Buse’s mother, and the photos and the letters, before I did. We’d traveled all the way to the Asian shore for nothing.
I had no time to sort through alternative courses of action. “To the coroner’s,” I ordered Hüseyin. “We’ll drop you off,” I told Hasan.
Hüseyin began forming his own interpretation of events, based on what he’d overheard.
“We’re looking for the mother of the friend I brought to your house this morning, aren’t we?” he asked.
“No,” I said. “We’re going to the coroner’s office to learn any details we can about Fevzi’s—that is, Buse’s—death.”
The three of us fell silent for the rest of the trip. When Hasan stepped out of the taxi, I said to him, “Let’s do whatever is needed for the funeral.”
“Don’t worry,” he said, slamming the door, doing his best to look responsible and mature.
We proceeded to Çapa.
Hüseyin broke the silence: “Well, he calls you
sen,
” followed by a glance over his shoulder.
sen,
” followed by a glance over his shoulder.
He had apparently comprehended my sensitivity over the use of
sen,
and had taken it to heart. That was good.
sen,
and had taken it to heart. That was good.
“Yes, but we’ve known each other for five years.”
Silence.
“But why do you get so cross when I say
sen
? You call me
sen
. I don’t have a problem with it.”
sen
? You call me
sen
. I don’t have a problem with it.”
I considered whether or not to embark on a long monologue. Were I to let it slide, he’d misunderstand. Were I to try to explain, he’d misunderstand.
“Whatever. Don’t worry about it.”
We arrived at Çapa.
The entrance to the morgue was an unusually colorful sight, thanks to our girls. They were as loud as they were vibrant. Some were decked out in costumes, others were in civilian clothes. News, particularly bad news, travels swiftly in our circle. I’ve always believed that the system of communications goes beyond mere telephones. It could even be a form of telepathy, but I have yet to fully comprehend what exactly it is and how it works. Nor did I have any intention of dwelling on it. It was enough to see that, whatever it was, it was running smoothly.
I looked for Gönül, who regularly haunts the morgue. She’s a large girl, badly dressed and quite ugly, but with a saucy tongue and bold manners. More important, though, I had heard that she was somehow related to Buse.
Most of the girls were here in the name of solidarity. There was an unbelievably united front against all enemies of transvestites and the police who failed to be of assistance to girls like us. I wondered how many of them had known Buse personally. Most of the girls were from a world unfamiliar to me—that is to say, they were the girls of Aksaray, Laleli, and the motorway. I pressed my way through to the middle of the crowd. Intent on extracting any shred of possibly useful information, I began questioning one and all.
Fury boiled in the eyes of some. They were prepared to take any form of action in order to demonstrate their rage. I quickly realized that most not only didn’t know Fevzi/Buse, they weren’t even aware of what exactly had happened. All they knew was that a transvestite had been murdered. One of them! This meant action was required. I had growing doubts about their reliability as sources of hard information.
I approached one of them.
“My condolences. Did you know her?” I asked.
She sniffed, eyes running with mascara. An unmistakably baritone voice, altered through habit into a falsetto, demanded to know, in a thick Eastern accent, why I was asking. “She’s dead. They killed her. Isn’t that enough?”
“I knew her well,” I said. “We hung out at the same club.” There was no need to mention that I owned a stake in the club, or that the girls looked up to me as their boss.
“Hmm . . .” was her reaction. She sniffed again. I waited, sensing a possible breakthrough. She knew something.
In my most affected voice, I continued, “I adored Buse. We were such good friends.”
She stopped sniffing and looked me up and down. All she saw was someone dressed as a man, and lacking even a single piece of jewelry. I looked far too masculine to have been a bosom buddy of Buse’s.
Determined to put her right, I mincingly added, “Don’t pay any mind to my clothes right now. I’m one of you. Like Buse.”
She continued scrutinizing me. Cutting me off, she demanded to know, “Are you one of the girls, or just a fag?”
Well, I never!
“Oh, I’m completely different by night. I dressed like this for the funeral.”
Suddenly the graceless Gönül materialized, spouting unintelligible cries.
“Ay,
ablam,
” she said as she embraced me. “There’s nothing in the world like a loyal friend.”
ablam,
” she said as she embraced me. “There’s nothing in the world like a loyal friend.”
I was enfolded in a stifling bear hug. She reeked of fake Joop.
“Gönül,
abla,
do you know this person?”
abla,
do you know this person?”
“Ay, of course I do,” said Gönül, introducing us.
I took Gönül by the arm and led her off.
“Did you know her?” I asked.
“Her real name was Fevzi.”
“I know,” I said. “And she had a mother . . . I wonder if anyone’s informed her.”
“You mean Sabiha Teyze?” That was it! The name of the blind lady. “How do I know?”
“There’s no point in waiting around here. Let’s go check on her. She may need us. She can’t see, after all. At least, that’s what Fevzi said.”
“What’s with calling her Fevzi? Her name was Buse,” scolded Gönül.
Moments ago, it had been Gönül who for no reason had introduced the name Fevzi into the conversation. There’s no predicting what our girls will do or say, and Gönül is the most erratic of them all. She was glaring at me.
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