Two days of Ponpon’s devoted care had worked wonders on me. I scanned myself in the mirror. The shadows under my eyes were gone. I could still count my ribs, but I looked thin rather than wasted.
I’m no stranger to the transformative magic of makeup. While in New York on a tourist visa, broke and jobless, I worked for a spell at an undertaker’s. Illegally, of course. Young and fond of risks, I was struggling to establish a brand-new life, starting from zero. It didn’t last long.
I was paid a pittance at the funeral home, but I learned all the tricks of the trade when it came to makeup. My boss, Alberto, a queer old Italian, was the best in the business, working wonders on even the most damaged corpses in order to make open casket viewings less distressing.
With his heavily accented English, and the odd exclamation and curse in Italian, he’d flounce his way through the task of making a body beautiful. And instruct me along the way. He was incredibly painstaking when it came to the male bodies, examining them in detail and at length; as for the women, he devoted considerably less time to them. No matter what the age, the object was to create an air of girlish innocence, and he was big on pale pink lipsticks and light peach powder. A dab of rouge on each cheek was deemed essential for the older ladies, as well as a bit of white powder on their foreheads. The young ones inevitably received brown eyeliner and a thick coating of mascara, carefully brushed from the root to the tip of the lash. That’s the way families like it, he’d claim. The more innocent looking the corpse, the more cathartic the mourning process.
I also learned how to apply makeup to hands, which usually occupied pride of place, as it were, folded and clutching a string of rosary beads or a cross. Because the veins had collapsed, that is, because they’d been drained of blood, there were no unsightly bulges to deal with. Just a bit of powder was all that was needed, with some concealer if necessary. If the surface had been so damaged that even several coats of paint failed to create the illusion of dewy youth, warm paraffin was injected just below the skin. Alberto claimed the warm wax method was a family secret handed down from his late uncle, who was also a confirmed bachelor-that is, queer. Perhaps, by some twisted logic, my own sexual bent made him consider me a member of the family, for Alberto never hesitated to divulge all he knew.
When he died peacefully in his sleep one morning, I once again found myself alone, jobless and penniless, in deepest New York. I finally ditched the fantasy of starting a new life. I was an idealist back then, determined to earn whatever I got the old-fashioned way, through pluck and toil. I wouldn’t have considered relying on my sexual charms. And when confronted by the odd sexual predator, I would protest in the affronted tones I’d learned from watching Hülya Koçyiğit films for so many years.
While reminiscing over those long ago days with dear old Alberto, I’d been busily making myself up. Although tastefully restrained, the result was stunning. It was now time to pay a call on Haluk Pekerdem. Just as the ugly duckling was transformed into the beautiful swan, so had Ponpon’s snotty-nosed friend turned into a real showgirl.
The colors that suit me best are baby pink and baby blue. And black, of course, which suits everyone. I was far too thin to pull off anything black, though, so I settled on a pair of pink trousers with a matching coat over a white sweater. White gloves completed the effect.
When I emerged from the bathroom Ponpon let loose a low wolf whistle.
“Maşallah! You look wonderful…”
“Thanks to you.”
We embraced, our heads held back far enough that we wouldn’t accidentally brush cheeks and spoil our makeup.
“You could use a bit more color,” Ponpon observed. “You look pale.”
Ponpon makes no distinction between everyday makeup and stage makeup. Subtlety is not her forte: it’s either absolutely nothing or buckets of whatever’s on hand!
But she’d managed to shake my self-confidence, if only slightly. I looked in the mirror again. The lipstick I’d selected did look a bit dull. I could at least apply a bit of gloss.
As I got closer to Haluk Pekerdem’s office in Harbiye, I realized how excited I was. I really must be head over heels. The thought of shaking hands, mine clasped ever so firmly in his, sent shivers down my spine.
The office was near the Hilton, on the side overlooking the sea. It was one of those prestige buildings from the forties and fifties, with high ceilings and impractically spacious rooms. Haluk Pekerdem’s office was like a showcase for select art deco pieces.
My first major obstacle presented itself in the form of a secretary/ receptionist well into upper middle age, the sort who insists on an exhaustive grilling before ushering guests to the magic door. Judging from the plaque on that door, Haluk has no partners or fellow attorneys using the premises. So the entire place, including every stick of furniture, was the exclusive property of Haluk Pekerdem.
“Have you got an appointment?” demanded the woman, after scrutinizing me for several long moments.
No, I didn’t.
“We’re quite busy today,” she explained dismissively.
In the same way a nurse asks if “we” have a fever or have remembered to take “our” medicine, the gorgon at the gate had so identified with her boss that “they” were apparently too busy to see me. As far as I could tell, the only item of business on her plate was to subject me to impertinent questions.
“You can wait if you like, but he may not be able to see you,” she said. “Or you could speak to Sibel Hanım or Ertunç Bey.”
My blank expression at the mention of the two names elicited the information that they were “Haluk Bey’s assistants” and a preliminary meeting with one of them would be advisable.
“I really must see Mr. Pekerdem in confidence,” I said firmly.
Damn Ponpon! It was because of her that I used dated expressions like “in confidence.” I felt like an a la turca stage actress.
“Please wait here for a moment.”
I was deposited into a room that was once no doubt used as a broom closet in this stately apartment, furnished with only a small conference table and two enormous armchairs covered in Moroccan leather. There was a window, but no view.
Spinning on her heel as she left the room, the secretary asked if I’d care for refreshments.
“A glass of water, please, at room temperature.”
Fashionable blends of tea or coffee don’t hold a candle to the source of life, plain old water. Unless they drink expensive malt whiskeys or imported beer, health-conscious society tends to favor aqua these days.
I was turning over in my mind what I would say to Haluk, and how I would say it, when the door opened and a girl with glasses poked her head into the room.
“Excuse me,” she said. “I thought it was empty.”
But she kept her eyes locked on me. I smiled lightly, staring back. We were still sizing each other up when she decided she’d seen enough to satisfy her curiosity and shut the door.
The professional secretary/receptionist must have flown straight to her colleague and fellow gossip with the news that I had arrived. And she’d come for a quick peek. It was probably the Sibel Hanım mentioned as an assistant. She couldn’t be called ugly, but she was unlovely, slightly sour, and far too curious.
I fought off boredom by going over in my mind the chronological order of Audrey Hepburn films, and also trying to remember her costars and costumes. My favorites were Roman Holiday, Love in the Afternoon, How to Steal a Million, Charade, and Sabrina. My least favorite ones were Green Mansions and The Unforgiven, directed by John Huston, whom I still admire. The former is set in a forest and features Audrey in tattered frocks. Nothing there for me. The latter is a western flick, with no changes of costume.
My Fair Lady had clothes galore, one outrageously over-the-top outfit after another… but nothing suitable for everyday wear. And I went cold on the film when I learned that they’d dubbed all of Audrey’s singing parts. I still hadn’t decided if I could rate it an overall success. My head hurt.
Just then the door opened and in came the gossip of a secretary to inform me that Haluk Bey was expecting me in his office.
Haluk greeted me on his feet and with the same insincere smile I imagine he presents to clients. His teeth were amazing, and he oozed charm in a light blue shirt and loosened striped red, white, and ultramarine tie. Not a trace of a belly. Were I to unbutton that shirt, well-toned muscle and golden chest hairs would await me. Of that much at least, I was certain.
The room had a splendid view over the gardens of the Hilton to the distant decorative bridges of the Bosphorus, smooth as a plate of china blue.
As he presented me with a chair, he murmured, “So pleased to see you again,” without even looking at my face. He was a professional liar.
“As am I,” I murmured breathily back.
He looked directly at me for the first time. He seemed to have detected a change in my appearance but couldn’t put his finger on what it was. The corners of his mouth turned up in a half smile.
He must have noticed me blushing.
We sat across from each other, on ultrasuede art deco chairs with black lacquer sloping armrests, our knees so close they’d have touched if I’d dared to inch forward.
“What would you like to drink?” he asked. He was still looking me full in the face. I searched for a spark of interest in his eyes. They were most decidedly sparkle-free.
“I’ve just had something,” I said. “Thank you.”
“If you’d like something later, let me know,” he said.
And that was that.
He was still addressing me with the formal siz. That beguiling specimen of manhood, honed and polished through years of work and play, full of self-assurance and effortlessly able to put any guest at ease, was looking straight at me, directly into my eyes. “So, what’s this all about?” his eyes said.
I could have explained, at some length and with numerous asides, that it was “about” the fact that I fancied the pants off him.
“The murder that Faruk Bey’s been accused of,” I said instead.
He seemed impervious to my intense stare, burning with love and admiration.
“I’m often a bit captivated by cases like this,” I explained. “They fascinate me. I like to do a little research on my own. Sometimes I stumble across things.”
“A bit of an amateur sleuth, are you?” he said.
“That’s one way of putting it,” I replied, a bit peevishly. “I have managed to contribute to the solving of a number of murder mysteries.”
He shifted in his seat, simultaneously shifting the expression on his face. I wasn’t sure if he was now looking at me with grudging admiration or as though he’d just realized he had a crazy tranny on his hands.
“I’ve stumbled across some things in this case, too.”
I didn’t know what else to say. It would have been nice of him to help me out. But he just sat there, raking me over with those dreamy eyes, making me even more tongue-tied.
I wanted to reach over and caress his cheek, then lean forward and plant a kiss on those hungry lips. I restrained myself.
“So, what have you found?” he finally asked.
“Volkan Sarıdoğan, the late Volkan Sarıdoğan, wasn’t particularly loved by those who knew him. He was a gigolo who managed to make a considerable amount of money in a short period of time.”
“Yes,” he drawled, not the least surprised.
The hand cupping his chin was exquisite. Was it possible to have come-hither cuticles?
“It appears I’m not telling you anything new.”
“No, you’re not… It’s not exactly a closely guarded secret that the, ah, victim, was not popularly esteemed.”
“He has a brother who’s a drunk and a junkie. They say there’s nothing he won’t do for money. Nothing he won’t do to feed his habit,” I continued.
I waited for his reaction. Nothing.
“Go on,” he said, after a moment.
“And there’s the question of the cell phone. Were the police to trace all the dialed numbers and received calls on his cell phone, I imagine there’d be quite a series of scandals.”
His laughter was genuine.
“I’m not so sure about that,” he said.
“Don’t be too sure either way,” I said.
“The murder was most certainly not motivated by robbery,” he said thoughtfully. “Whoever did it didn’t touch his wallet, which contained some cash, nor his gold watch and chain or his cell phone.”
Haluk was as up-to-date on the police records as I was.
“Don’t you think the murderer made a stupid mistake, then?” I asked. “Why leave behind an important piece of evidence like a cell phone?”
Eyes narrowed, he studied my face for a moment. He was nibbling the thumb of his right hand. Delicious.
“It may have been deliberate,” he offered. “Done specifically to implicate Faruk.”
“But just as you said, planting a cell phone on the body wouldn’t be enough to incriminate Faruk Bey. And if he didn’t do it, who did? And why are they trying to make it look as though he’s the murderer?”
“Bravo!” said Haluk. “Those are all perfectly reasonable questions, but I suggest you let the police answer them. I’ve done all I could, which was to get Faruk released and cleared of the charges as quickly as possible.”
“But he hasn’t been cleared,” I pointed out.
“Well, he can’t be charged either,” he countered. “In a worst-case scenario he could be accused of having contacted a gigolo. That would be unpleasant but not damning. Rumors die down as quickly as they flare up. I only hope that his family won’t be affected. His wife must be standing behind him. Otherwise, she’d have made a statement by now. At worst, he’ll be branded immoral, a sexual pervert. A few people may turn their backs on him. That’s all.”
“That’s all?” I asked incredulously.
Leaning forward, he placed a hand on my knee.
I was overwhelmed.
“When we consider that you must overcome this sort of thing, and far worse, every day of the week…”
I wanted to respond. But couldn’t. All I really wanted was to take him in my arms. I wanted that hand to remain on my knee forever. A warm glow spread through my body.
I placed a hand on his.
“You’re so right,” I whispered. “But it’s not that difficult. One just has to be strong.”
An electrical current passed between us. My spine tingled. Our faces were inches apart. I felt his warm breath on my face, my throat, my skin. I breathed in his scent, my eyes traveling to his, then to his lips. Just looking at him set me aflame.
“I have friends at the force,” I suddenly said.
I had no idea why those words left my lips. It was important to continue to talk, to maintain our pose. What we said didn’t matter.
“I’ll have access to more information, if necessary. Like the list of phone numbers.”
He removed his hand from my knee and leaned back.
“That could be interesting,” he mused.
I’d provoked his interest.
“I wonder how far back they can trace his calls,” he said.
“I don’t know.”
Looking deep into his eyes, I smiled.
“That would be a good starting point,” he said.
He’d found something for me to research. I’d do anything for him, I thought to myself. But I also had a few questions of my own.
“I heard that Faruk Bey isn’t very popular.”
“Who is popular in the markets? Successful men are envied.”
On his neck, just above his collar, a few stray hairs glinted. Clearly, even his wife, Canan, hadn’t noticed after he’d shaven that morning. If he were my man, I would never send him off to work like that, I thought.
As he saw me off, he only shook my hand. Yes, he held it in a tight caress, but I’d been hoping for so much more.