My chief suspect for Faruk’s suspicious death was, of course, Volkan’s burnout brother, Okan. Even as I was pondering Okan’s murderous motives, others had drawn the same conclusion: Television pundits were even now noisily accusing the brother. Up flashed the juicy caption “Drug Abuser Avenges Slaying of Elder Brother?” and the usual gang of windbags duly pontificated. The accident reported just a few hours earlier was now a sensational murder case. Police were searching everywhere for the main suspect. A snapshot of the brother appeared on the screen: dark, shifty, and ugly, with hangdog eyes, he looked nothing like Volkan.
Typically opportunistic, one of the channels seized upon Okan’s sudden notoriety to reair a program on drug addiction featuring grim doctors in white coats droning on and on. While abusers of marijuana were bad enough, anything could be expected of users of heroin. Random violence of a maniacal nature was apparently scientifically linked to doses of X opioid and Y hallucinogen. Sometimes I seriously considered giving the TV set to Fatoş Abla or the janitor, or even throwing it out of the window. I’d easily come up with something attractive to fill the empty space. As a matter of fact, that black, plastic box had always clashed with the room’s overall color scheme.
I hadn’t thought talking to Okan would be of much importance, nor had I managed to find him. Now I had to. I’d be racing against the police to get to him first. If he was arrested-as he no doubt would be, eventually-he would speak only on the record, nothing else. But I was only too aware of the methods employed in extracting official confessions and testimony. I’d have to be quick.
I hurriedly threw on some clothes that wouldn’t draw too much attention: a black sweater and a pair of relatively high-waisted jeans. Ever since waists started heading south, I haven’t bought a single pair of jeans measuring more than a hand’s length from crotch seam to belt loop. And my hands are not like those of the other girls: while strong, they are slender and elegant.
As I walked out the door, it occurred to me that I had no idea where I was going, and no idea where to find Okan. A street -by-street search would be less than effective. In fact, in this day and age, it isn’t even the preferred method for apartment hunting, let alone a hunt for a murder suspect. Undeterred, I locked the door and walked off.
Having silenced the nerve-racking music in the taxi, I gave the driver Refik Altın’s address. Less than fifteen minutes later I was entering his new apartment building in Esentepe. While there was nothing particularly grand about the place, it reflected him perfectly: well past its prime but stubbornly pretentious. As I rode an elevator redolent of Ajax to the top floor, I examined myself in the mirror. An impertinent hair had grown out just above my nose. I struggled to pinch it between two fingernails, but it was too short to pluck out. The hair won, and I was left with a red spot right between my eyebrows. Let’s hope for the best, I remarked to my third eye as I stepped out of the lift.
Refik was expecting me.
“Look, sister, you got me all wound up on the phone. I’m taking tranquilizers as it is, just to pull myself together. You can imagine the state of my nerves. It’s an understatement to say I’m not feeling particularly lucid these days. I haven’t got the slightest idea what I’m saying, or even what I’m being told. Do forgive me…”
It’s never too late to know thyself, I thought.
I was determined to keep the ritual expressions of sympathy to a minimum; he was equally determined to blubber and bawl over every last detail, embroidering and embellishing ad nauseam. Of the most recent news, he had not a clue.
“Ay, please, you can’t be serious. As though I have the strength to pick up a newspaper or switch on the TV. I’m in mourning, sister, scorched and in pain, utterly incapable of finding amusement in the simplest pleasures of life…”
I’d always been astonished that someone whose speech oozed treacle of such a vulgar nature could manage to produce such compelling poetry.
“If I weren’t worried about the neighbors, I’d be listening to hardcore arabesk at full volume. Gut-wrenching music belting out as I throw myself to the floor, thrashing and weeping, grieving to my heart’s content… But a sea of salty tears won’t bring him back, will it? Quiet! I know… But still!”
This final outburst, accompanied by facial contortions meant to simulate anguish, was all the confirmation I needed. Yes, once again he was performing. Puro teatro! The green light on his stereo was still burning; he must have switched it off just before I arrived. I was up against an a la turca Blanche DuBois at her most ludicrous, provincial, and overwrought.
“Look here,” I said, pointing my right index finger at his left eye. “I do believe you’re grieving and in pain. He was your lover, after all. However, please try to understand what I’m about to say. I speak not out of a lack of respect for your suffering and your love but because you’re about to spin completely out of control. So cut the drama for a moment, or I’ll smash you and your flat to bits.”
The lightning in my eyes convinced him I was serious. He knows all too well what I’m capable of when I lose my temper. Once upon a time, back when I was practically apprenticed to stupen-dous Sofya, I’d been provoked into breaking into Refik’s flat, tearing the place apart, and demonstrating for the benefit of Refik and my so-called lover boy at the time a series of recently mastered Thai boxing moves. And with bonus background information on each kick and slam thoughtfully provided free of charge. After that it was a long time indeed before I was able to refer to any man as my lover.
I was short and snappy as I summarized the latest for him. He was a bit thrown by my criticism, a bit miffed that his portrayal of an inconsolable widow had gone unappreciated. Eyes fixed on my wagging index finger, he meekly nodded from time to time to confirm that he was listening.
“Oh good,” he said, when I told him about Faruk. “He got what he deserved. Thought he’d get away with it. It’s called divine retribution, sweetie. I sometimes believe in it. There you go.”
When it was time to bring up Okan, I stopped. I’d been talking so fast and so loudly my throat was dry.
“Don’t look at me like that,” he said. “I didn’t do anything.”
“Have I said anything about you having done something?”
“No, you haven’t… yet. But you’ve been banging on for so long, I can’t help but wonder if I’m next. I ask but one thing: If you must beat me up, please don’t touch my face. As you well know, it took two operations to straighten my nose that last time.”
Reminded of what had happened, I couldn’t help laughing. He had no idea why, of course.
“What is it, sister? What happened now?” he ventured timidly.
“Nothing,” I said. “It’s just that I remembered how you wet yourself when I smashed your windows that time.”
“That’s not the least bit funny. I’ve chosen to forget all about it. I attributed your behavior to a fit of jealousy, temporary insanity. Otherwise, I’d never have spoken to you again.”
I didn’t bother to remind him that he’d slandered me all across town, that he hadn’t spoken to me until the club opened, and that when he’d arrived there, hoping to bag a boy, none had shown any interest in him, which was the reason he was now pretending to have forgotten the whole thing.
“You weren’t entirely innocent,” I said.
“That was different. You still haven’t let go. You’re so vindictive!”
He was as determined as ever to get the upper hand.
“The boy you bedded happened to be my lover,” I said.
“He was like Kleenex, nothing more. One of those one-night, one-use types. I didn’t take it seriously. But now I see that you did; you’re still obsessing. Aren’t you a funny old thing.”
We weren’t getting anywhere. I couldn’t even remember the boy’s face. All I recollected was throwing everything that came to hand at the windows, stuffing a huge towel into the toilet, knocking over the lit candles so they burned holes in the carpets and upholstery, and, of course, my little Thai boxing exhibition. Oh, and the sight of Refik scampering around the room wearing nothing but a pair of pink panties.
“Whatever,” I said. “That’s not what I’ve come to talk about. I’d forgotten the whole thing. To tell you the truth, I can’t remember the boy.”
“What do you mean, can’t remember?” he said, out of sheer spite. “His name was Ufuk. He was medium height. A bit on the thin side. Big eyes, like chestnuts. Had a mole on the right side of his chest that looked like a third nipple.”
The flourish with which he indicated, on his own chest, the location of the third nipple just begged a good thrashing.
“Shut up, ayol!” I shouted, glaring at him. “End of subject. Forget Ufuk. It doesn’t matter. Okan, your Volkan’s little brother, has been proclaimed a killer. They’re going to pin it on a drug abuser and close the case, nice and tidy.”
“No, that can’t be! Okan wouldn’t have. He couldn’t have…”
“How can you be so sure?”
“He’s here, sleeping in the bedroom. He hasn’t been outside for two days. Neither have I.”
“What are you saying?” I said. “Okan is here with you?”
“That’s right,” he answered calmly. “I called him, to hand over some of Volkan’s things. He was good enough to come right over. We had a few drinks, wept on each other’s shoulders… Then he… comforted me.”
An inappropriate and groundless note of pride had crept into his voice. As though he’d pulled off a difficult stunt. Lips twisted into a wicked smile, he continued.
“And I comforted him right back… then… he spent the night… with me…”
“So neither of you has gone outside for two days?”
“Well, not since yesterday. As I told you, Okan has been here with me. He couldn’t have killed that money-lender. Anyway, why would he do something like that? After all, Faruk Bey helped him out, gave him tons of money.”
“Run that by me, again,” I said. “Nice and slow. I’m a bit confused.”
Ponpon’s Xanax couldn’t still be affecting me. I seemed to have suffered lasting damage.
“Let’s call the police and tell them! They’d better leave him alone…”
“Yeah, right,” I said. “The police have been waiting for a call from you. They’re just dying to cross their top suspect off the list, I suppose. Get real!”
“So what are we going to do?” he said, biting his lower lip anxiously. “He can’t hide here for the rest of his life, can he? That would be impossible.”
The combination of campy vamp and imbecilic child star was too much for me. Wincing, I looked him up and down.
“Stop staring, sister! Say something!”
“Go and wake him up. We need to have a little talk,” I said. “Then you can go write a bit of poetry.”
As I watched Refik going off to rouse Okan, I couldn’t help wondering what kind of underwear he was wearing.