The Prophet Murders (14 page)

“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.

“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.

“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 kitchen, 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.

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.

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.

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?”

“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.

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.

“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.

“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 O
uz 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.

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.

“It’s always more festive on nights like that, with just a few people,” Ponpon went on. “I got into the spirit. Since they had not only come, but shown such appreciation, I jumped through hoops to give them their money’s worth. That is, I let them have it.”

They didn’t even exchange words that night. But later, Ponpon, wondering who had paid the bill, asked for details.

That’s how she found out about Fehmi
enyürek. She’d already seen his name on the flowers he sent.

“It was the following night, or maybe the next Friday night. Just before the holidays, and the place was packed to the rafters. Naturally, I was at my most haughty. As imperious as can be. You can imagine. You’d have thought I was Maria Callas or something. And there, in the middle of the crowd, I spotted him. Of course, I didn’t know at the time that he was a psychopath – and I still can’t really get my head round that. I mean, he was as polite, as gracious as can be. But of course I want to believe you, as well. If he’s a maniac, I’ve got to accept it, I suppose! Anyway, I was thrilled to see him that particular night. I ribbed him a bit from the stage, saying things like, ‘It seems the gentleman is back; have you become a regular then?’ He shot right back, along the lines of ‘Who wouldn’t come back for more of you?’ He was a real charmer, you see. I was more than a little tickled and flattered. Then he sent a note backstage, asking if he could come and have a drink with me. I had another show, so I had to refuse him. But I did send him my card, with my cell phone number on the back . . . ”

Ponpon was slurping down her whiskey. At this rate, she’d be out cold any second. I weighed up the pros and cons. If she passed out, I’d enjoy a calm, restful night. But if she passed out before she’d told me what I wanted to know, or started getting silly. . . Actually, that wouldn’t be such a problem. It’s not like it was our last night together. She could tell me the rest tomorrow.

“As you know,” she went on, “I then went to Bodrum on holiday and to Antalya to work. I completely changed my show, of course. There are a lot of tourists. I had to choose songs and singers they are familiar with. Still, I am a bit of a patriot. I began every performance with Tarkan’s “, Simarik (Spoilt Rotten)” and ended each show with Ayten Alpman’s “Memleketim (My Country)”. Well, not even a week had passed before I saw him again. Once again, he was part of a big crowd. They sat right in front.”

As I watched Ponpon I visualised Michel Serrault playing Alben in “La Cage aux Folles”. They were incredibly similar. With the same air of hyper-sensitivity, conceit and naïve effusiveness, as well as identical gestures and even the same way of holding a glass. Ponpon was doing a first-rate impersonation. I had to bite the insides of my cheeks to keep from bursting into laughter.

“What’s with the hollow-cheeked Ajda Pekkan look,” she fired at me, so I stopped. “Anyway, all their attention was focused on me. I was sent drinks and invited to their table.”

“Did you go?” I asked.

“Well, I wouldn’t say that, exactly.”

“What do you mean?” I cross-examined her. I really didn’t understand. You either go to a table or you don’t.

“I didn’t exactly stop by their table. Just sat down for a moment, then got up.”

“So, you did go then.”

“I suppose I did,” she allowed. “Why this jumping all over me for it? If I did, I did.”

“What did you talk about?”

“We didn’t exactly have a conversation,” she replied. “I was pinched a bit, slapped on the bottom. They offered me a couple shots of whiskey. That’s all! I wouldn’t say I sat with them for longer than any performer would during the instrumental bit.”

“Just like you said, they were real gentlemen,” I teased. “A real couple of English lords.”

“Hmmph! You’ve got a real bee in your bonnet over all of this,” she said.

Ponpon was invited to their villa, but apparently politely refused because they were such a large group and so very drunk.

They showed up again the following night, then disappeared as abruptly as they’d arrived.

“They must have returned to Istanbul when they finished their business in Antalya,” I guessed.

“Probably,” she agreed. “I didn’t see any of them again for a long time. I had nearly forgotten all about him, until the opening night at Zilli in Istanbul. That first night I found the most enormous bouquet of flowers in my dressing room. It was the size of a funeral wreath. Then he started coming regularly once a week.”

“Does he know your real name is Zekeriya?”

She looked me up and down as though I’d said something shameful.

“How on earth would he ever know my real name, unless that Hasan creature of yours told him?”

“What do I know? I just thought they might know your name at the places where you work. They could have told him if he asked.”

“They don’t know either,” she interrupted. “It’s not as if I hand over my identity card.”

“But you sign contracts and all that,” I reminded her.

“For the love of God! Contracts and agreements! There’s none of that. They simply count the cash into my hand and everyone’s happy.”

There was no point in pursuing this any further. Maybe Ponpon didn’t use her real name for work contracts or tax reports, but someone, somewhere, had to have come across the name Zekeriya. If either Fehmi
enyürek or Adem Yildiz really wished to learn her true identity it would have been easy enough for them to do so. However, there was no reason to inform her of this.