The Prophet Murders (6 page)

As always, she was in tears. She was wearing a loose print skirt covered with a busy pattern and held up, I suspected, by an elastic waist band. Hanging down to the ground, it was teamed with a white T-shirt emblazoned with a peacock design in sequins. Spotting me, she paused and fixed me with a long, hard look.

“You owe me a meal.”

It was not quite what one would expect as an opening line, particularly from somebody so histrionically weeping.

“A promise is a promise,” I assured her.

“But I’ve lost your phone number. How do I find you?”

I gave her my number again. The one at the office, where it’s most difficult to reach me. I go there once a week at most, but the secretary takes messages.

Her grief implied that she was bosom buddies with Ceren and Gül. I asked for confirmation.

“What have I to do with Ceren? She was real scum. Yusuf is another story. I’m crying for him.”

She resumed sobbing.

“I brought him here from Rize. He was a blonde Laz boy, all pink and white, with hair like corn silk. He was just like a girl. And wanted so badly to be one. I took him along with me for company. But then that whore Ceren separated us.”

I was on the scent. Gönül bursts into tears again. It was going to be impossible to get any more information out of her here. If I got her on her own, though, who knows what she would tell me.

“What do you say to a bite to eat now?” I suggested.

A smile slowly crept across her face, a face now nearly devoid of makeup. She was determined to get that promised meal. Gönül pointed to the forensic building.

“Let me just find out what’s going on,” she said.

“I’ll wait,” I told her.

“Promise?”

I promised. And confirmed it with a wink. She responded with a flirtatious kiss, then disappeared into the dreary forensic building.

I waited for nearly half an hour. She finally appeared, muttering to herself.

“I told them I was her guardian. What nasty people! No help at all. Anyway, there was this lady doctor. A pitiful, pig-headed thing. She’s doing some kind of study; she told me to come tomorrow morning on an empty stomach.”

Gönül told me all this in a single breath. Then inhaled deeply. I was certain she had no idea what awaited her the next day. There was no need to sabotage myself by telling her about the rectoscopy. I held my tongue.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“Wherever you like.”

“Would you go to Beyo
lu?”

“Of course.”

“So you won’t be embarrassed to be seen with me?”

“Of course not. Don’t be stupid,” I reassured her.

“If you’d rather not, just tell me. I don’t mind. Some people would rather not be seen with me.”

She had a strange habit of swallowing her ‘r’s. I hadn’t noticed it before. Perhaps she believed it gave her an air of refinement.

“What do you mean,” I protested. I took her arm and steered her towards the taxi rank.

The moment we sat down, I gave in to my curiosity.

“Tell me everything,” I demanded.

“Not in the taxi,” she refused. “I’ll tell you at the restaurant.”

Something had happened to the nightingale of a few moments earlier. She’d got it into her head to be bashful in front of the taxi driver.

“Why don’t we get out in Tünel or Galatasaray? Then we can walk to Taksim,” she suggested.

“Where would you like to eat?” I asked.

“You decide. I chose the area; you choose the restaurant. You’re paying; it’s up to you.”

I racked my brain, trying to think of an out-of-the-way place where we could speak openly and not be harassed by anyone. I came up empty.

True to form, Gonül began flirting with the driver. We all have our peculiarities. From what I’ve heard, the mere sight of a hand gripping a steering wheel is enough to seduce Gönül. Type and age are minor details to be dealt with later.

“Brother, where are you from?” she began.

Our driver was from I
dir.

When Gönül heard the word “I
dir” she inhaled so deeply you’d think she was sniffing at the elixir of eternal youth. The driver turned around with an alarmed expression.

“You really know how to handle a car,” she continued.

I felt a slow flush creeping up to my forehead. The driver began watching us in his rear-view mirror. There was no mistaking who and what we were, but he seemed uncertain how to respond.

We crossed Unkapani Bridge and were approaching the crossroads in Kasimpa
a. The driver asked the standard question.

“Galatasaray or Tünel? Which’ll it be?

Gönül seized the chance to get him involved.

“Which do you think would be better?” she fluted.

I was sure Gönül was kicking herself for not sitting in front.

“I mean, we’re grabbing a bite to eat. Is there a place you’d recommend? Maybe you know somewhere nice?”

I looked out of the window to conceal my embarrassment. The dark driver was staring at me in the mirror. I flushed even deeper.

On top of everything else, referring to me, while dressed as a man, as “big sister”! I didn’t know what to do. Why on earth would the taxi driver come to eat with us? He hadn’t said a word, just looked at us in the mirror. Because we didn’t give him directions, he opted to turn into Tünel, and was now heading for Galatasaray.

“I’m just wild about Eastern men.”

Everything Gönül says, no matter what it is, verges on the obscene. And her facial expressions are fit only for porn.

“In fact, I’m from the East myself. From Van.” She was clearly flirting, while licking her lips non-stop like some actress in a German sex flick.

“There’s nothing like the men out East.”

The driver turned out to be a real gentleman. He turned into Tepebas,i, and then stopped at Odakule.

He pointed to a building next to Odakule, not even looking at us.

“The top floor of that building.”

I quickly handed over the fare, then tried to open the left-hand door. The sooner I got out in the street the better. The door refused to open.

“It’s broken. You’ll have to use the other side,” he said.

Gönül opened her door, but had no intention of getting out.

“What if we can’t find it? Come on, why don’t you escort us?”

He pointed to the building once again.

“The top floor,” he said. “It’s called Mefharet, or Meserret or something like that.”

He gave me my change and I gave Gönül a push. She had to be shoved.

“He was such a looker! Just my type,” she sighed. “And you didn’t help out one bit. Shame on you!”

I grinned foolishly, the last resort of the truly speechless. It can signal understanding, humility or apology. I left the interpretation to Gönül.

We took the lift to the top floor, then climbed a flight of stairs to a rooftop terrace with a sweeping view of the Golden Horn.

The waterfront districts of Balat, Fener and Ayvansaray lay before us. There aren’t many customers, which was a good thing.

I wanted to get our orders out of the way and get down to business. The second we were handed menus I asked the waiter what he recommended.

“Prawn casserole as a starter, followed by. . . ”

Gönül interrupted.

“I don’t eat prawns.”

“What’s today’s special?” I asked.

“Filet mignon with mushrooms; or schnitzel.”

“Which would you like?” I asked Gönül.

“Why don’t we order both and share,” she suggested. “That way we won’t be eyeing each other’s plates.”

It wasn’t a bad idea. We ordered. Once the waiter left, Gönül began to talk.

“As you may know, I sometimes go out on tour.”

I didn’t know. But it didn’t seem important, so I didn’t react. Still, she was determined to explain everything in detail.

“Sweetie, a real merchant knows when and where to make money. You’ve got to wait till the hazelnuts or cotton has been harvested. Then you call in your debts. You’ve got to know when they come to pick cotton in Ceyhan. That’s the time to offer your services. Once the work’s done, when men have empty hands and full pockets, what’s on their minds? Us! So you see, I work systematically.”

I had to hand it to her. I couldn’t believe no one else had thought of it. If one gets past her affected lisp, her sense of technique is certainly praiseworthy.

“That’s clever, all right,” I complimented her.

“Of course. I know what I’m doing. The others think I’m some kind of hick, but I know every trick in the book. I won’t tell you any more, though. That just won’t do.”

I read somewhere that people can influence the intelligence of others nearby. Gönül is definitely one of those. Sitting across from her, I felt my ability to think dwindle away, my IQ retreat into double digits.

“Anyway. I headed for Rize last year just after the tea harvest. You can’t imagine how hard it is to keep track of those things. I hear the harvest dates on TV and off I go.”

The assistant waiter brings us our drinks. Gönül is quiet until he leaves.

“So I went to Rize, wondering what my share of the tea harvest would be. There are special coffee houses where the tea merchants and workers hang out. I had a seat at one of them. The air simply heaved with kismet. One day a young man arrived. He was a handsome, well-built guy. We reached an agreement. Off we went to his house. There were six or seven of them, all brothers. And Yusuf was the baby of the family. I sized him up at a glance. He was just like a girl. So beautiful. Those eyes. Those lips. That pink complexion. As though he was born with a powdered nose. Once his brothers were done with me, and I was on my way, he followed me all along the road, pestering me with questions about Istanbul, what kind of work he could find if he came. What he was getting at was just so obvious.”

Our food arrived.

“Which one do you want to start with?” she asked.

I let her choose.