The Serenity Murders (13 page)

Alı took us out for dinner, to an Italian restaurant that had just recently opened. He had tried the place before and had left satisfied. He chose our food for us. I didn’t join in the wine, but he and Hüseyin had a bottle of red Antik Special Kav. Hüseyin’s appetite was huge. I made do with nibbling at what was placed in front of me.

The club was quiet that evening. I think there was a national soccer match. We had very few customers on such nights, when everyone turned into pro soccer fanatics. Even among the girls there are plenty who are keen on soccer and who follow the league
closely. They never miss a match—and, incredibly, the only moment they’re interested in isn’t the end of the game when soccer players take their tops off to display their muscular naked bodies all sweaty and shining.

Hüseyin, who by now felt quite at home, was even more relaxed thanks to the wine he had drunk. He drank less at the club. I’d seen him helping Şükrü behind the bar at one point. He was learning how to mix cocktails. Judging by their laughter and giggles, they seemed to be getting along just fine.

I sulked all night. I didn’t even dance. I was bloated from the Virgin Marys I had gulped down one after the other.

I had hoped Officer Türkanş would show up at the club, but he didn’t. And thus, neither did the CD he said I had burned. I’d have to call Selçuk the next day.

H
üseyin, who had gotten plenty of sleep the night before, woke up at the crack of dawn. I hated getting out of bed without having gotten enough sleep, walking around like a zombie all day with bags under my eyes. I shouted from where I lay.

“Either sit quietly until noon or go back to sleep! No television, no music!”

He responded with a noisy flush of the toilet. There you have it, we were already getting a little too close for comfort!

He was holding me responsible for the voluntary imprisonment he himself had chosen, and kept calculating the loss he would incur by serving only me until the psycho killer got caught. Because he was afraid to go out on his own, our security guard Cüneyt had had to accompany him home the previous night to pick up his toothbrush, shaving kit, and some clean clothes.

Okay, he hadn’t turned the television or radio on, but the racket he was making in the kitchen pretty much made up for it. Whatever it was he was looking for, he kept opening and closing each and every kitchen cupboard door. He shook the utensils drawer at least twice. Finally there was silence, followed by the creaking of my bedroom door. My thick curtains were drawn, my room was dark. He whispered, as if speaking in a low tone would be less likely to disturb my sleep.

“Where’s the sugar?”

“There is none!” I said. “Whatever you’re having, have it without sugar! And don’t wake me…”

He murmured to himself as he shut the door. I pretended not to notice.

I wanted a stylish dream to carry me away, freeing me, even if only briefly, from this game of stress and suspense that I had been placed smack-bang in the middle of, from the nightmare of people being hunted down. I would like both my porn idol, Colt Studios superstar John Pruitt, and Audrey Hepburn to play the leading roles together. Well, all right, should Audrey not be available, I could take over her role. In one of her costumes from
My Fair Lady
, say the one she was wearing in the ballroom scene or at the Ascot Racecourse. There was no need for Rex Harrison. We could do without him. John Pruitt and I would be enough to make this a masterpiece. We could meet in the lush green countryside, on a bright sunny day. Or on a looong beach where tiny gentle waves licked the shore, swoosh, swoosh…

I was just getting into the groove, ready to doze off into this romantic and pornographic dream I had commissioned, when there was a second knock on the door. I was about to lose my temper now.

He was holding a piece of paper in his hand. And his face looked shattered.

“My mother gave me this when I was packing my stuff the other day. I just remembered and took a look. The bastard has been to my house. He gave this to her…”

So long, John Pruitt! The searing pain that surged through my head at that moment had nothing to do with the way I suddenly sprang up in bed.

“Give it here.”

It was a single-page note, typed up on a computer and printed on legal-size paper.

I read it four times while Hüseyin pulled open the curtains.

It was short enough, anyway.

It was short, simple, and effective. It made one’s blood run cold. There was no name, signature, or pseudonym. Nor a date or time. And on the envelope was only Hüseyin’s name, and two red stamps, one that read “Confidential” and the other “Urgent.” It had been delivered by hand. Hüseyin looked even more terrified in the light.

“If he’s found my apartment, he wouldn’t go do anything to my parents, would he?”

“I’m the one he wants,” I said, hoping to console him.

I admitted to myself that we were up against a real psycho who was temperamental and unpredictable and that, should he feel like it, might well target Hüseyin’s mom, dad, his whole extended family. In fact, he could even blow up the whole neighborhood if he felt like it.

“What do we do now?”

I didn’t know. My head felt like a balloon. And it hurt.

“I’ve barely woken up. I’ll think of something in a minute,” I said, as I walked to the shower.

“Shall I tell them?”

“No!” I shouted as I turned on the water. “Not yet.”

There was no point in making people who had no knowledge of what was going on panic. Here, solely as a result of panic, was
Hüseyin, living in my home with refugee status. I had neither room nor patience for more refugees.

And I couldn’t even open my eyes properly.

With this little sleep, I was certain to spend the rest of the day feeling an utter mess.

I wanted a spark of inspiration, or a comprehensive revelation to come to me in the shower.

Neither did.

When I came out of the shower, Hüseyin was kneeling down in the corridor, weeping and wailing over the threatening message he held in his hand.

“Don’t panic! Don’t panic!” I said, kneeling down next to him and trying to shake him out of his state.

He was acting like a stupid kid. Fear wouldn’t get us anywhere. The best thing we could do was to stay calm.

He wiped his eyes with the back of his fists. His eyes were red.

“I’m just upset…That’s why…” he said, pushing my arm away.

His manhood had been severely wounded in the last twenty-four hours. There was no need to be strong for me right now. He was right to be afraid, frustrated, and to cry. God knows what I would have done if I were him.

“My mom’s alone at home, my dad’s alone at the shop…If something were to happen to them…My mom opens the door to everyone without even asking who it is. Anyone can go in the shop…He’s just an ironmonger. If the bastard were to pick up an adze and hit him over the head…that would be it!”

He cried as if these scenarios that had come to his mind had already come to pass. Tears were streaming down his cheeks.

“Calm down!” I said, raising my voice.

He opened his eyes wide and looked at me, as if he were seeing me for the first time in his life.

“Let’s first get a grip on what’s going on,” I said, trying to be as calm as I possibly could. “Maybe this letter is a clue. Your mom might remember who brought it…If she could describe him, we’d know who we’re looking for.”

He kept on staring at me, sniffling. His eyes were blank. They looked lighter in color from all his crying. They shone.

“But first I need a cup of coffee!”

“But—”

I placed my hand over his mouth without waiting for him to finish. My hand was smeared in saliva and tears.

“We’ve waited long enough already, another hour won’t matter,” I said. “Plus, he’s after me. He has nothing against you, or your parents. Capiche?”

I wiped my hand on my bathrobe. I would have to remind Satı to wash it.

As a matter of fact, it really wasn’t clear who or what the psycho was after. He did whatever he felt like doing.

H
üseyin lived in the back part of Çağlayan. With a view of the Golden Horn. It looked onto what was left of the legendary Sadabad District, that fairy-tale citadel of history books. The apartment was in a multistory building, and even though it was fairly new, it already looked worn down because of the low-quality construction materials used to build it. Two rows consisting of six nine-story blocks, identical except for their different colors.

There were plenty of parking spaces, since there weren’t very many cars around. Kids were playing soccer in the parking lot. As part of so-called environmental planning, four young pine trees half my height had been jammed into the tiny space between the blocks.

The Kozalaks’ apartment was on the seventh floor of Block C. There were four apartments on every floor.

Before we left my place, Hüseyin had strictly cautioned me to behave properly and take great care not to reveal the “situation” to his mother. The “situation,” it seemed, was me!

“Careful with your arms and hands. And don’t say
ayol
.”

He had decided on what I should wear, choosing jeans, a tattered cotton tracksuit top I only wore to bed when alone on cold nights, and trainers. I wasn’t even allowed to put on lip balm.

“The more ragged you look, the better. Men in our neighborhood shave once every three days.”

He always had a nice smooth, close shave, reeked of deodorant, and splattered himself with aftershave lotion.

“They wouldn’t suspect me. I don’t bounce and wriggle when I walk.”

I could be a wild stallion when need be. Once, when he had gotten a little too feisty while hitting on me, I pulled an aikido number and knocked some sense into him, right in the middle of the street. He was so embarrassed he couldn’t bring himself to come to the taxi stand for days. So this was what he thought of me. Once everything was sorted out, and Hüseyin had calmed down and become his usual self again, I’d make him pay for this.

Mrs. Kozalak was a little shorter and slimmer than her son Hüseyin. Otherwise, she was the spitting image of her son. The same facial features, the same eyes…She was a cheerful, radiant woman. One of those people who are perfectly content to settle for the simple pleasures in life. So long as her son and husband enjoyed their supper, there was no fighting at home and no hard feelings with the neighbors, they had enough money to get them through the week, and she didn’t have to dig into her wedding chest and sacrifice a gold bracelet because business was bad, and if, to top it all off, her favorite program was on that night, she’d be as happy as a cricket in midsummer.

She gave Hüseyin a loving cuddle. Her son had been absent from his bed for two nights, yet she caressed him with such longing, it was as if he’d just gotten back from a trip to Timbuktu.

She forced me to kiss her hand and place it on my forehead as tradition dictated. Since I was visiting her sweet nest, with flowerpots outside every window, I had to abide by its rules.

Her damp hands, which she dried on her skirt as she opened the door, had a culinary smell to them; so did the whole apartment—a smell of aromatic vegetables, herbs, all sorts of spices, onions, and garlic, which had seeped into the walls over the years. In homes
like this, there was always sure to be a pot boiling on the stove. Either jam was being prepared for the coming season, or chickpeas or beans were being boiled, or bone marrow broth was brewing…

Following Hüseyin’s example, I took off my shoes. If I had known, I would have worn loafers, which are easier to take off and put back on, instead of laced trainers.

His mother was one of those people who loved treating her guests, who couldn’t sleep at night if she hadn’t filled up their tummies until they burst.

We’d barely made it through the door before she started with the offerings: “Let me make you some
mantı
dumplings. They’ll be ready in a jiffy…”