I have always watched awards ceremonies-especially the Oscars-with a sense of amazement and good-natured envy. The award winners invariably present a long list of those believed to have contributed in some way to their general development. It is a fascinating life survey, embracing everyone from parents and teachers, to those well-known sources of inspiration, neighbors and pets.
Presented with the opportunity to compile my own list, I have decided to milk it for all it’s worth. If I have overlooked anyone, I apologize for the oversight of my editor and consultant.
First of all, I would naturally like to thank my family: My mother, dearest Meloş; my late father, even if he is unable to read this; my brother, who I believe has always taken life much more seriously than I have; his spouse, the happy result of my skills as a matchmaker; my late grandmother on my mother’s side, who was always a source of joy and panic in the house where I grew up; that pillar of dignified calm, my late great-grandmother on my father’s side; various other relatives, some living, others no longer with us, including my aunts, uncles, maternal uncles, first- and second-generation cousins-those passed over know who they are-and, finally, because anything but a specific mention would be a disgrace, my “special” cousin, Yeşim Toduk; my aunts’ husbands, and my aunts-in-law.
Next come the friends I would like to thank: Naim Faik Dilmener, who patiently read my manuscript, guiding and encouraging me, and who is himself a keen reader of detective stories and an authority on golden oldie 45s, as well as his son, but in particular his wife, “Belinda”; Berran Tözer, who set out with me when this project was a five-book miniseries, but threw in the towel by the time we reached page 27; my esteemed partners and fellow consultants with whom I make a respectable living-for it would be impossible for me to survive on my earnings from writing books-Işıl Dayıoğlu Aslan and A. Ateş Akansel and their spouses Burçak and Suada (who is also my Reiki master), as well as Işıl and Burçak’s daughter, Zeynep; and Ateş and Suada’s dogs.
Despite their not really know what exactly was going on, I would like to thank, for their unfailing emotional support, Mehmet “Serdar” Omay; Murathan Mungan; Füsun Akatlı and her daughter, Zeynep, though we haven’t seen each other in a long time; and Zeynep Zeytinoğlu; Yıldırım Türker; Nejat Ulusay; Nilgün Abisel; Levent Suner; Nilüfer Kavalalı; Mete Özgencil, whose painting, in which I lose myself from time to time, hangs on the wall of my study; and Barbaros Altuğ, who somehow managed to motivate me without making his intentions obvious, and who is now my agent and imagines that he will somehow emerge unblemished from all of this.
Miraç Atuna, who constantly reinvents herself and, like me, wakes up before dawn, therefore making it possible for me to have a phone conversation with someone before 7 AM.
My business colleagues Kezban Eren, Derya Babuç, and-yes, her surname is real-Pelin Burmabıyıklıoğlu; the ever-smiling Remzi Demircan and Meral Emeksiz, who are the most positive people I’ve ever met; everyone I’ve met and encountered at offices anywhere, especially the sometimes capricious secretaries for enduring all kinds of cruelty; all of my eccentric former managers and bosses-I have somehow never been able to locate the normal ones, with the exception of Ergin Bener, who, of that group, is the only one completely at peace with his inner child.
And as far as those responsible for my technical development: naturally, all of “our” girls, if for no other reason than their courage and their very existence. My encounters with each and every one of them has enabled me, consciously or unconsciously, to make use of their many impersonations, gestures, styles, and sometimes the revealing detail of a single word.
The publishing house that will print this book, my editor or editors, copy editor, proofreader, binder, cover designer, and all those involved in promoting, distributing, and selling the book.
The many who through their works have inspired me over the years, including Honoré de Balzac, Patricia Highsmith, Saki, Truman Capote, Christopher Isherwood, Reşat Ekrem Koçu, André Gide, Marquis de Sade, Pierre Choderlos de Laclos, Yusuf Atılgan, Hüseyin Rahmi Gürpınar, Gore Vidal, Serdar Turgut, and many others.
Those whose music has enabled me to find inner peace: G. F. Handel, Gustave Mahler, Schubert, V. Bellini’s Norma in particular, Tchaikovsky, Eric Satie, Philip Glass, Cole Porter, Eleni Karaindrou, Michel Berger, and all composers everywhere.
And all the artists who give voice to these works, but especially the opera singers-I treasure their presence: Maria Callas; Lucia Popp; Leyla Gencer; Anna Moffo; Teresa Berganza; Montserrat Caballe; Inessa Galante; Gülgez Altındağ; Yıldız Tumbul; Aylin Ateş; Franco Corelli, for both his voice and physique; Thomas Hampson, whose portrait hangs in my bedroom, next to Maria Callas’s, for his Mahler lieder; Jose Cura; Tito Schipa; Fritz Wunderlich; Suat Arıkan for making me feel to the marrow each time I watch or listen to him, and for the joy of performance; and for the same reason, composer Leonard Bernstein; Yekta Kara, whose wonderful productions restored the visual pleasures of opera; and finally, on another level, the worst soprano of all time: Florence Foster Jenkins.
For similar reasons Mina, whose albums I would rush to buy if they recorded no more than a belch; Barbra Streisand, back before she transformed every three-minute song into a five-curtain opera (that is to say, pre-1980s); Yorgo Dallaras; Hildegard Knef; Sylvie Vartan; Veronique Sanson; Jane Birkin; Patty Pravo; Michael Franks; Lee Oscar; Manhattan Transfer; Supertramp; Juliette Greco; and, again pre-1988-for better or worse-Ajda Pekkan; Hümeyra, for all she is; Nükhet Duru, who manages to inject a dramatic meaning into all of her songs, even when they are rubbish; Gönül Turgut, whose decision to leave music I have never understood and whose absence I continue to lament; Ayla Dikmen, for her costumes alone; and Madonna, whose songs I’m not wild about, but whose presence seems to me to be a good thing.
Those geniuses of cinema, whose numbers seem without end, but whom I’ll try to reel off: Visconti; John Waters; Joseph Losey; Almadovar, for his “marginal” films, in particular La ley del deseo; Bertrand Blier, before he went too far; Fassbinder, for Querelle alone; John Huston; Truffaut; Salvatore Samperi for Scandalo alone; Mauro Bolognini; Ernest Lubitsch; George Cukor; Billy Wilder; Alain Tanner for Dans la Ville Blanche, the film I have watched most frequently; Audrey Hepburn, of course; Jeanne Moreau; Elizabeth Taylor, especially for her voice; Lilian Gish and Bette Davis for The Whales of August; Catherine Deneuve, who, even if she does age, ages beautifully; Faye Dunaway, before she became a caricature of herself; Giulietta Masina; Cate Blanchett; Tilda Swinton; Emma Thompson; Divine, the ultimate simulation; Bruno Ganz; Rupert Everett; Alain Delon, when he was fresh; Patrick Dewaere, whom I’m actually cross with for his early departure; Dirk Bogarde, despite his having denied everything in his autobiographies; Montgomery Clift; Gary Cooper at all times; Terence Stamp, during his The Collector, Teorema, and Priscilla periods; Franco Nero, for whose sake I sat through dozens of rotten movies; Steve Martin; Dennis Hopper; John Cleese and all of Monty Python and Fawlty Towers; Hülya Koçyiğit; Müjde Ar; Serra Yılmaz; and-why not-Banu Alkan; Güngör Bayrak for her legs and determination; Kadir İnanır, before he gained weight and became thick; Metin Erksan; Atıf Yılmaz; Barış Pirhasan for the screenplays he has written; and Sevin Okyay for her translations, critiques, and articles.
Just for being men, John Pruitt; Tony Ganz; Jason Branch; Mike Timber; Taylor Burbank; Aidan Shaw; and the late-I was so sorry when I heard-Al Parker, as well as dozens of others whose names I don’t even know.
Pierre and Gilles, for scaling the peaks of kitsch; Tom of Finland; Jerome Bosch; the Bruegels father and son; Edward Hopper; Tamara Lempicka; Botero; El Greco; Modigliani; Andrea Vizzini; Jack Vettriano; Pablo Picasso before his cubist phase; Leonardo and Michelangelo, for being both masters and members of “the family”; Caravaggio; Latif Demirci, who was the reason for my eagerly awaiting Sundays; the Zümrüt photograph studio, whose front window overwhelms me every time I pass it on Siraselviler.
For reminding me, with their sparkling intelligence and wit of the pleasures to be had from life, Mae West, Tallulah Bankhead, and Bedia Muvahhit; Gencay Gürün for, in a word, embodying nobility and graciousness; and Truman Capote again.
Finally, and most important, Derya Tolga Uysal, for his unstinting support in all things, for sharing with me for seven years the good and the bad, and for his unbelievably affectionate response to my flare-ups, outbursts, depressions, fatigue, mood swings, and malice.
Thank you very much.
I salute you all.
March 2003
Gümüşsuyu, Istanbul