Refik’s low murmur reached me from the bedroom, where he was trying to wake up his new favorite, the boyfriend he had, in a sense, inherited from his late lover. One question-other than Refik’s underwear-burned in my mind: What else and who else had been recorded by the security camera at the Hanoğlu mansion? If I had made an appearance, and I had no reason to doubt Selçuk’s account, there must be footage of Okan as well. Otherwise, why would he be a suspect? But if it was true that Okan had been at Refik’s side for the past two days, he couldn’t have been captured on camera. Someone was being economical with the truth. But who?
It would take some time for Okan to wake up, come to life, and be ready to meet me. I walked over to the window to enjoy the luxury of being on the fourteenth floor. The Bosphorus lay before me, stretching from Ihlamur Valley all the way to Sarayburnu. It was overcast. The night I’d smashed the windows I hadn’t even noticed the view. I’d been in no condition to do so. Gravity would have ensured that the pointed shards of glass were lethal weapons by the time they reached the ground. I hadn’t heard anything in the days following, so I assumed no serious accidents had been reported.
Why was I able to remember every detail of the havoc I wreaked that day but absolutely nothing about the boy, Ufuk? So he had a mole like a third nipple. I racked my brain but came up empty.
“Good morning…” said a sleepy but tense voice.
Okan Sarıdoğan was standing in front of me. He was taller and stockier than I’d expected, and not nearly as dark and shifty as his photo had indicated. But he was obviously nothing like his older brother, the brother so highly recommended by one and all as a “once in a lifetime, must-try” experience. It wasn’t just that he wasn’t handsome; he couldn’t even be considered “charismatic,” the term in popular use these days to describe ugly men. He had thick, unruly hair and a sulky expression, just like in the somewhat blurry photo. Even so, the doleful look in his eyes aroused one’s protective instinct.
“Good morning,” I responded.
“Refik said some things, but I didn’t really understand what he was talking about. I must have overslept. I’m still a bit woozy.”
He glanced over, as Refik spoke.
“I’ll make you some coffee. That’ll help.”
So, the period of mourning was officially over. The new romance was in full bloom.
“Would you like some?”
“Yes.” I smiled. “Black. No milk, no sugar.”
When Refik disappeared to prepare the coffee, I sat opposite Okan and we studied each other. Conflict or concord, which was it to be? I, myself, opted for the latter.
I related the breaking news, and told him he was wanted by the police. I also added that no one would think to look for him here, at Refik’s place-at least for the moment.
“But how could they accuse me? I didn’t even go to that house yesterday. There must be a mistake.”
The coffee arrived. Refik served him first. Welcome or not, I was a guest. Because they were sharing a bed, Okan was in fact an honorary member of the household, not a guest. I should have been served first. He must have considered Okan to be the man of his life, and the two of us to be no more than concubines or slave girls. Ha! I said to myself. What good are all those pronouncements on homosexual rights and feminism if this is the way you act at home? So much for all your politically correct articles, your egalitarian ideas. Of course, all of this was irrelevant to the task at hand. I’d allowed my mind to become hung up on detail and exercised by other things.
Okan pulled a small foil-wrapped disk of dope out of the pocket of his designer sweatpants and began rolling a joint intended to serve as breakfast. Whether it’s hash or heroin, I have the same opinion concerning drugs: I loathe them. And I loathe those who love them.
“We’ve got some serious talking to do,” I said. “Must you do that first thing in the morning?”
Raising his eyes from the joint he was rolling, he gave me a surprised and questioning look.
“You’ve been accused of murder! Do you want to be taken in for drugs, too?”
“This is just dope,” he said.
In his book, dope was not a drug apparently.
Refik, who was perched on the other end of the sofa we were sharing, tensed at the tone and direction of my little exchange with Okan. Although sitting on a thorn, his silly smile as he looked at Okan was that of a man who has reached nirvana.
“Well, he’s not butting in. And it’s his home. What’s it to you?”
Okan had revealed his true colors. Our boy with the hangdog look was a real rebel! He’d modeled himself on James Dean, most likely without even having a clue who that was. A misunderstood and undiscovered treasure, at least in his own mind, he was playing the rebellious and sulky Eternal Boy.
There was no point in antagonizing him right from the start. I still had so much to learn.
“You know best,” I said. “It’s your body and your brain. Destroy them however you like.”
He gave me a hard stare, then a smile spread across his face as he got back to his rolling. His hands were quick and practiced.
“How did you meet Faruk Hanoğlu?” I asked.
“Who hasn’t met him?” he said, without raising his head.
“Look, sweetie,” I said, in my famous warning tone, “don’t talk back to me! I came here to help you. And I don’t think he killed your brother. Someone’s trying to pin it on you. They’ll put it down to revenge, case closed and completely forgotten about while you rot in prison. Do you understand me?”
He took a deep drag on his joint, the tip of which gave me a fiery wink. An acrid sweetness reached my nostrils. I kept my eyes on his face, waiting for an answer, a response of some kind. He held the smoke in his lungs for a moment, speaking as he exhaled.
“I’m not stupid. I get it.”
“Good,” I said. “Then tell me all you know. Right from the beginning.”
Staring into space with an expression only he found meaningful, he was silent for as long as it took to take two more drags on his joint.
“I was staying with Volkan, my big brother…” he said. “Before he died.”
That was the cue for Refik to produce a shrill shriek, followed by a fit of hiccups.
“He lives on, for all time, in the hearts of those who loved him,” Refik whimpered. “He lives on… right here…”
Naturally, he closed his eyes and clasped his hands “right here.”
Okan and I looked on, both equally nonplussed. The only difference between us being that his eyes had begun fogging over.
“We were real tight,” he continued. “He always looked after me, like a good big brother. He’s the one who brought me to Istanbul from the village, taught me how to dress, how to act.”
Face soppy, eyes watery, Refik nodded and nodded. I had to look away to keep from bursting out laughing, but I couldn’t exactly plug my ears to keep out the low keening.
“There’s so much to learn… especially from someone like him.”
None of this had anything to do with the matter at hand, nor was I interested in the slightest, but the “boy” had opened his mouth at last. I would have to hold my tongue and be civil. A few well-timed questions would get him back on track, if necessary.
The prelude lasted even longer than I’d feared. Refik even had to make another round of coffee. The Volkan being described to me now was nothing like the one in the other testimonials. He was a Henry Higgins, a Svengali, an angel, even. A good-natured, thoughtful, sensible, responsible, and tender older brother. He’d been generous to a fault with his little brother, showering him daily with tokens of affection, handing him pocket money, and even presenting him with a brand-new minibus.
“What’s more,” added Okan, waving the joint in the direction of my face, “he never fussed about this. He’d even ring me up, ask about my stash so he could keep me supplied.”
Okan talked and talked, occasionally falling silent, spaced-out, head tilted back and eyes on the ceiling. Then he’d come to and keep talking. So far there had been no mention of the source of Volkan’s money, his reputation as a gigolo, or his relationship to Faruk Hanoğlu. I waited patiently. He’d finished his first joint and was sprawled out on the sofa, shoulders slumped, eyes glazed and faraway.
“So, what’s the story with Faruk Hanoğlu?” I finally asked, keeping my voice as soft and reassuring as possible.
“Oh yeah, that. It’s kind of complicated.”
“Do tell…”
“As you know, my brother helped them out now and again.”
Actually, I knew no such thing. In fact, I’d planned to confess that I’d never even met Volkan. But I said nothing as I sat there, gazing benignly at him. Refik looked on, as curious as can be, forcing a smile as he listened to Okan. The expression on his face was that of a mother braced for the worst but ever hopeful as she consulted a teacher about her good-for-nothing child. His eyes were trained on Okan’s lips; it was obvious that they hadn’t discussed any of this before. Depending on what Okan said, Refik would have to seriously revise his personal history with Volkan.
“How exactly did he help them?” Refik asked.
Okan looked over at Refik as though trying to place him.
“He’d arrange girls and stuff when asked. For customers…”
Yet another dark chapter in the life of Volkan was unfolding: his role as a pimp. It was anyone’s guess who had been peddled to whom. When I considered Faruk Hanoğlu’s client portfolio, the names just kept on coming.
“Sometimes he’d go over himself… to loaded broads and all that…”
I was watching Refik out of the corner of my eye. He was growing tenser by the minute. Was his new lover about to confirm that the brother, his former lover, had been a gigolo?
“You mean he was a gigolo?” I asked, eyes still on Refik.
“I suppose so,” said Okan.
Refik’s face ran like a watercolor. I savored the sight.
“My brother wasn’t into it, but the money was good. But lately, when work came in, he’d try to get out of it. He had plenty of money. Said it wasn’t worth putting up with those rich bitches’ bad breath.”
Refik sat up straight, eyes wide, biting his lower lip.
“Did you ever visit any of those ladies?”
Refik’s eyes blazed at Okan, and he was no doubt furious with me, too, for having dared ask such a thing.
“Nope,” Okan said. “I got no time for that stuff… I’m a boy lover. Through and through.”
Lowering his eyes bashfully, he proudly smiled at Refik.
What a family, I thought to myself.
“What about your brother-in-law?” I asked. “Ziya…”
“He’s all talk!” he said, grinning unpleasantly. “All talk and no action.”
“What if he killed your brother? They’d had a falling out. He tried to stab him once…”
“No way!” he said. “He hasn’t got the balls.”
“Faruk Hanoğlu and his men could well have killed Volkan,” I said.
“Come on,” he drawled. “If he’d had him killed, why’d they come looking for me later? Some dog-suckler pimp of a gypsy bitch knifed my brother. I’m sure of it. The pimp bastard probably wasn’t happy with the money Volkan gave him. And if his whore told him she’d been to a five-star hotel, he’d have held out for even more. Then, when my brother didn’t give it to him, he stabbed him. Volkan should never have gotten mixed up with those types. He was asking for it. And it was a big mistake to hold back the dough, of course. But how was he supposed to know? That’s what I think. Why else would he have been in Belgrade forest?”
“Surely Volkan’s clients wouldn’t have asked him to arrange for some third-rate hooker.”
“That’s what you think! You wouldn’t believe the types they’re after. The lowest of the low. Straight from the whorehouse. Some big-mouthed, rough-talking bitch who’ll do what their wives and mistresses won’t. Different strokes for different folks, and we got all types in this country, my friend.”
There was no point in getting into the sexology and sociology of our beloved homeland.
“What did you mean when you said Faruk Hanoğlu came looking for you? What did he want?”
“To help me, what do you think?” he said. “He was a real class act, that guy. When he was in jail, his lawyer came and asked me if there was anything I needed. They kept the press off my back, gave me some cash. They told me not to get the wrong idea about the money, said Volkan had been an employee, even if he hadn’t had insurance or nothing. They’re the ones who arranged the funeral, even said they’d have prayers read at the memorial service. When he got out of jail, he called me himself. His wife called, too. They invited me over to their house. They said Volkan was like a son to them, treated me real good. Faruk was a great guy. I’m sorry to hear he’s dead.”
Even if I hadn’t visited the very same Faruk Hanoğlu just the previous night-and even if his treatment of me hadn’t been so abhorrent-I would have found his special interest in Okan to be highly suspicious.
“Have you never wondered why Faruk was so good to you?”
“So I’d keep my mouth shut; you think I’m stupid, or what?”
“Keep your mouth shut about what, exactly?”
“The girls. All the pimping they did. We’re talking high society here. ‘They all do it, but it’s always hush-hush,’ Volkan would say. May he rest in peace…”
Refik jumped in with a heartfelt “amen.”
“You’ve been to their house, haven’t you!”
“Hang on! I said I didn’t go last night. Not that I never went.”
“But?” I stammered. “If you weren’t there last night…”
This could only mean that Okan had been recorded by the camera on a different night. According to the police, last night’s footage contained both Okan and me. The answer to the riddle was obvious. Someone had rigged the recordings. The camera was pointed at what was usually an empty garden or doorway. It would have been easy enough to splice in footage of Okan from another night. I wondered how I looked. The camera would have been positioned at an angle to capture faces.
“I think I know what happened,” I said, and explained.
“That’s pretty smart,” Okan said. “That way they’re fooling the police, too. Perfect.”
“Yes, but you’re the one taking the bullet,” I reminded him. “Perfect!”
Refik made his presence known with a tiny high-pitched scream meant to express shock and horror.
“Nothing will happen to him?” he said. “Don’t terrify us like that, I beg you. We’re only just recovering from the deepest anguish.”
He really was worried, but I couldn’t decide if he was a total idiot or if he was just pretending to be one. I didn’t deign to respond.
“What did you talk about with them, at their house?”
“Nothing much… They invited me to stay for dinner. Then we had cake and coffee… What a house, huh? More like a palace!”
“So they just invited you over for a social chat?”
“Yeah…” he said. “Oh, and they asked me to bring Volkan’s address book and some other things with me.”
Intriguing. My brain and teeth were set on edge.
“What ‘things’?”
“Whatever I had. Bank books, business cards, videocassettes… That kind of stuff. They paid good money for it. In dollars, cash on the barrel.”
“Ayol, a regular mopping up operation,” I said. “Sounds like the CIA. They gathered up all the evidence and destroyed it. Without a trace. I still don’t understand why they felt the need to be so thorough, though…”
“But what’s going to happen to Okan now?” said Refik, sticking his nose into the conversation again. He’d adopted the arrogant and quarrelsome look of the parent who has decided to blame any bad news on the teacher.
“How am I supposed to know, ayol!” I said. “Things are mixed up enough as it is. I still think they were looking for a fall guy. And Okan’s the chump who’s going to get nailed for all of this. Once he’s inside, there will be no one left to squeal. Cleanest job in the world!”
“Thank you ever so much, sister, for your encouraging words. Ayol, people don’t talk like that to their worst enemies. Not that anyone needs enemies with friends like you. Here I am, trying to ask your advice, and what do you do? I hope you’re pleased with yourself. And someone like you, with your record of sleuthing and snooping and crime solving… I really must deplore your insensitivity. I hope you know that.”
That final sentence was punctuated with a ducking of the chin that only served to expand his jowls.
I ignored his pleas for help. There wasn’t anything left to talk about. Even if Volkan’s killer was still at large, it didn’t matter anymore. How could anyone hope to get the better of such a well-organized and powerful racket? Everything was running like clockwork. Evidence of the slightest misstep or mistake was eliminated with the force of an atomic bomb.
“Cat got your tongue, sister? You’re as quiet as a nightingale with a beak full of mulberries…”
“It’s nothing,” I said. “Everything’s been set in motion. I was just trying to figure out if there’s anything we can to do to stop it.”
Okan turned to Refik with a giggle.
“Do you know why nightingales are so quiet after they eat mulberries?” he asked.
“What on earth are you talking about?” Refik scolded him. “You’re a bit too happy-go-lucky for your own good. We’re talking about you, and what’s going to happen to you… and you just sit there grinning.”
Slapping his knees, Okan had a fit of the giggles. I put it down to the strain, not the joints. Spluttering and giggling, he managed to choke out a few sentences.
“When the nightingale eats mulberries it gets the runs. With every squawk, it goes plop! So it shuts up and stops squawking… Isfendiyar Dayı told us that back in the village. It plopped into my head. Plop! The runs! A squawk… and a plop!”
He felt compelled to demonstrate with his hand just where the plop was produced.
Confronted by our icy faces, our little nightingale seemed astonished that we weren’t laughing at his squawks and plops. He suddenly stopped his guffawing and presented us with a surprisingly serious expression, considering how stoned he was.
“I didn’t say I handed over everything, did I? That would have meant drying up my money supply… What kind of patsy do you take me for, anyway?… Of course I kept a few things for my own protection.”