Superhandsome Haluk was pale when he returned. Even in the dimly lit room, it was clear the color had drained from his face.
“That was Faruk on the phone. He’s been arrested for murder.”
We both looked at him in astonishment.
“I don’t understand,” gasped his wife, Canan, who was dressed as a stylish Nişantaşı girl.
“On suspicion of killing a minibus driver.”
He looked at me apologetically as he spoke, sorry for having ruined what had promised to be a pleasant evening with this news.
That’s how it all started. While my dear friend Ponpon was onstage, putting on a sensational show at one of the trendiest, hip-pest, and priciest nightclubs in Istanbul, yet another murder fell right into my lap. My passion for amateur sleuthing was suddenly inflamed, my stomach full of butterflies.
Naturally, the beginning to this story has a prelude. I was smack in the middle of one of the most depressive periods of my life. If I had to describe it as a color, it’d be violet. I was imprisoned in a chunk of amethyst.
It had been ages since I’d left the house. Days since I’d shaved. I’d occasionally catch glimpses in the mirror of a strange presence: a cross between a cadaver and a ghost. It couldn’t be me. I was down in the dumps and unable to surface. Of course it wasn’t the first time I’d been jilted. But this time was different.
I’d hoped for a serious relationship, even indulged in foolish fantasies about the future. I’d imagined us growing old, shaving side by side in the morning, dozing in front of the TV, taking a long cruise together. I hadn’t envisioned the slightest friction of any kind, with the possible exception of those classic tugs-of-war for the morning newspaper, or scenes over who forgot to put the cap back on the toothpaste.
I loved waking up to his scent, nestled in the glistening golden hairs of his chest. I’d even begun going less often to my nightclub and made an effort to be at home when he returned in the evening. His routine was the opposite of mine, off in the morning, back in the evening, the reverse of the rhythm of my life. I’d normally leave just before midnight and return home at dawn. But what I really wanted was to spend evenings with him, next to him, just talking. His appreciation for my skills in the kitchen drove me wild, the way he’d come up behind me while I was cooking, throw his arms around me and kiss me, make love to me on the kitchen table, Jack Nicholson to my Jessica Lange in the The Postman Always Rings Twice.
Our affair was as trouble-free as any relationship between two men could be. He wasn’t ashamed of me, introduced me to his friends and even to his children. He wasn’t fussed by my choice of social identity, by what I wore, by whether I dressed as a woman or a man when we went out. He said he loved me for who I was, as I was, and didn’t try to change me.
Our relationship had not yet turned into a power struggle; there was no jockeying for the upper hand.
He’d explained to me why it had to end, but I still didn’t get it. I ran through everything from every possible angle, repeatedly analyzing each word of every sentence I could remember. But I couldn’t find the answer to that one-word question: Why?
It’s said that within every story there’s a vacuum just waiting to be filled with fantasies and fabrications. Wherever this vacuum had been in our relationship, I couldn’t find it. Were I to locate it, to fill it somehow, I would find peace. But I couldn’t. Either my powers of imagination were lacking or my brain wasn’t working.
I discovered for the first time the full physical effects of sorrow and heartbreak. And painkillers didn’t help.
The phone was unplugged. Visitors were turned away, politely at first, then harshly, with no regard for their feelings. I couldn’t have cared less about the number of friends I’d lost. For I was as alone as I would ever be. Abandoned. In the final equation, what difference would the addition of a friend, or the subtraction of two, make? Forsaken and alone, that was me.
In the old days, my pain would turn to rage. Perhaps that’s what was so difficult now. I couldn’t cry, couldn’t get angry. I just sat there.
I was too weak to shake myself out of it. If I could just shake myself out of it, I’d pull through somehow, I knew that. I’d never seen anyone in such a state, hadn’t heard of it, hadn’t read about it in books, hadn’t even seen it in films. It was something else entirely. Interminable and unrelenting. The rain would never end, the sky would remain shrouded in lead, forever dull, and I’d grow thinner and thinner, even though I ate only junk food, shivering always, trembling inside as I wasted away to nothing. Yes, my case was something else entirely.
Seeking relief for the pangs in my stomach, I rummaged through the kitchen cupboards. There wasn’t much there. I returned to bed with half a package of stale potato chips. The sheets were still warm.
The doorbell rang. There was no way I’d open the door. Whoever it was, they could ring and ring, get bored, and eventually go away. Ignoring the sound, I continued sipping coffee as I watched a music video on TV.
There was pounding on the door.
“I know you’re home. Open up, or I’ll break down the door.”
It was Ponpon. My loyal, devoted, ever cheerful friend Ponpon. At that moment, her numerous admirable qualities only made her that much more annoying.
She wouldn’t be able to break down a steel door. I brushed her from my mind, turning up the volume on the TV to mask the racket. Ponpon raised her voice to a shout. The voice lessons she’d taken many years earlier enabled her now, at my house, to produce a soulless screeching reminiscent of Sertab Erener in top form. Fortunately, her cries conveyed more emotion than Erener, who belts out each song with the same utter lack of feeling. There was something threatening about Ponpon’s cries; she was bullying me openly. And by now there wasn’t a soul in the apartment building who didn’t know it.
“If you don’t open up I’ll get the police to smash the door down. I mean it. Open up this instant!”
She meant it. Like the other girls, Ponpon doesn’t know where to stop. I waited until the clip for R.E.M.’s “Losing My Religion” had ended, deciding once again that it was my all-time favorite and that it accompanies full-blown depression beautifully.
Ponpon clearly had no intention of leaving. The screeching was intermittent, but the pounding nonstop. I decided to open the door. I’d make up some excuse to get rid of her; failing that, I’d tell her off and send her on her way.
When I opened the door a crack, she pushed her way in.
“Look here, girlfriend, if you’re trying to make me worry myself to death, give it up already. I’ll wring your neck first!”
Ponpon was at least as tall as me, but nearly twice the weight. The threat was not an idle one, as she grabbed me by the arm and propelled me inside. I was in no shape to defend myself with either Thai boxing or aikido.
“Leave me alone,” I said.
Her grip on my arm hurt.
“Don’t even think about it,” she barked. “I came here to get you to snap out of it. What’s with this depression, sweetie? Enough already. It’s been weeks. You’re acting like there aren’t any other men around. For a dish like you? They’re everywhere!”
Bug-eyed, she droned on and on, as though that was the only problem.
“Cut the long face! I’m not going anywhere until you’re better.”
“Enough Ponpon! Please… go. Leave me alone!”
“You’re a real nutcase! I came here under my own steam, and I’ll leave when I’m good and ready. I’m not taking orders from you. Humph!”
I was unable to lift a finger. Ponpon’s persistence is well-known. Once she’s made up her mind, that’s it.
She turned on the lights and threw open the curtains. I couldn’t understand why she bothered. It was dark outside.
“It’s so stuffy in here,” she scolded, opening the windows. A damp chill filled the room. Istanbul was suffering one of its raw, blustery winters.
“Ponpon, you heard me. Go!” I said, surprised by the vigor in my voice.
“Don’t be ridiculous, ayol. You’re not thinking straight. You’re not yourself…”
“Go, I said! Get lost, ayol!”
“See, you said ‘ayol.’ You’re coming around. And your eyes are positively shining.”
“Shining daggers, you mean,” I corrected her.
“Well, shining nonetheless,” she shot back.
“Ponpon, my nerves are shattered. Don’t push me. I’m in no shape to fight. Just go straight to the door, and leave.”
“Ayol, who do you think you’re trying to order around? Getting on your nerves, am I? Yes, sir! I’ve gotta laugh at that one. Ayol, you’re the one who’s been getting on my nerves-for a long time now!”
“This is my house,” I pointed out. “It’s my home, and I don’t want you here. That’s final.”
“You know not what you say. First we’ll get you bathed, then a shave and some makeup. Then you’ll be ready to chat.”
She radiated energy, positively glowing in the most meaningless and futile way.
Ponpon raked me over with her eyes. She was probably calculating exactly how much weight I’d lost. With my beard stubble and the rings under my eyes, I must have been a sight indeed.
“Ay!” she screeched shrilly, demonstrating once again those hours of formal voice lessons. “Just what is it with you? You’re skin and bones. I’m not leaving you like this. And your clothes stink. Now march! Straight to the shower!”
I was dragged to the bathroom and thrust inside. I didn’t have the strength to put up a fight. Like a helpless child, I surrendered.
“Are you going to wash yourself, or shall I?”
“I’ll wash myself,” I said, bowing my head.
“Good,” she replied briskly, but didn’t forget to take the key with her as she left. “Leave the door open…”
She must have been afraid I’d try something stupid. I hadn’t even considered such drastic measures. At most, I’d have locked myself inside and waited until she left. But Ponpon wasn’t going to be outdone in a waiting game or test of wills. She’d invariably come out ahead.
Ponpon had been around the block. She knew it all, and had a strong opinion on every subject and a solution to every problem. She spoke mysteriously of numerous adventures, had supposedly savored every conceivable flavor of love and screwed in every possible position. I’d never known her to be involved with anyone, though; just had a series of one-sided crushes.
She claimed to have become a transvestite solely to spite her family. She also claimed that she’d never worked the streets, that she’d always been too “refined” for that sort of thing. She’d been working at the same nightclub for years, taking to the stage in Bodrum in the summer. She was certainly consistent. The doyenne of our little circle, the Yıldız Kenter, even the Bedia Muvahhit, of our glittery stage. Ponpon paints on heart-shaped lips and vaudeville makeup, just like Bedia, and has us in stitches with the same subtle, cutting wit.
When I turned on the hair dryer, she poked her head in.
“Good for you,” she said. “See how much better you look. Fresh as a daisy.”
She studied my naked body, from head to toe. Clearly she didn’t think much of what she saw.
“When was the last time you ate? You look like one of those Ethiopians.”
“I eat,” I protested guiltily.
“Don’t lie to me. The kitchen’s bare. I checked the rubbish bin, too. Empty.”
I wasn’t pleased that she’d gone so far as to rummage through my garbage. But, on the other hand, her interest pleased me, gave me a sense of pride.
“I just had some potato chips.”
She screwed up her face, as aghast as any health nut.
“That doesn’t count. Junk doesn’t replace real food!”
Ponpon is one of those who believe there is a direct link between a balanced diet and health, and between a healthy appetite and happiness.
“Your legs are getting all stubbly, too, but we’ll sort that out another time,” she said. “Now why don’t you give yourself a good shave. I’ll be waiting.”
Shaving was more difficult than I’d expected. With shaky hands I set about doing something I used to do effortlessly twice a day. Now I was afraid of cutting my face. Fear! Yes, a sense of fear. So, somewhere deep inside, there was still a spark of self-interest. Not all my feelings had dried up and died. I was able to feel fear.
“How’s it going?”
I turned my face, half-covered with shaving cream, and looked at her with empty eyes.
“You’re about to die of hunger, God forbid. I should have realized the second I set eyes on you.”
She walked over to my side and popped a piece of hard candy into my mouth. I had no idea where she’d found it.
“It’ll do you good, give you energy.”
Winking, she added, “For now at least.”
She was sucking on one as well, her scarlet lips pursed into a button as she spoke. Cinnamon flavor.
When I emerged from the bathroom Ponpon sat me down across from her, chattering all the while about who had done what with whom, as she applied a thick coat of makeup in the over-the-top style that was all she knew: for my face, a dusting of powder over layer after layer of foundation; for my eyelids, at least four different shades of eye shadow; and for my mouth, lilac lipstick and a dark shade of purple penciled along my lip line.
When I turned to look at myself in the mirror, I couldn’t help smiling in amusement. I looked like something out of Kabuki theater, a stylized, plastic version of myself.
Ponpon misinterpreted my smile.
“You like it, don’t you?” she said. “You look great. Baby’s back and it’s all thanks to me.”
“You don’t think it’s a bit much?” I ventured timidly.
“No, not at all. It’s perfect for a fresh-faced young thing like you. I know how much you adore pastels.”
It’s true that she’d thoughtfully chosen pastels, my favorite, but there were enough of them to paint at least three more faces. It would take me at least half an hour to scrape it all off.
I managed a smile, an appreciative one this time. It didn’t work. There’s no point in trying to fake it when Ponpon’s around. Her face fell when she realized I wasn’t completely thrilled by her artistry.
Every article of clothing selected from the wardrobe was too big for me. The Audrey Hepburn figure I’d struggled to maintain all these years was gone, swiftly replaced by Twiggy’s-and suffering from chronic wasting disease, no less.
“You’re a mess,” Ponpon confirmed. “At this rate we’ll have to choose your clothes in the children’s department.”
We finally decided on a bright red jacket and miniskirt ensemble that I rarely wear. I think Audrey Hepburn wore the same outfit in Charade, only hers was pale pink.
As I held the jacket up in front of me, I studied myself in the mirror. I’d hoped that smiling would make me feel better.
“That won’t do; you’ll need another lipstick,” Ponpon observed through narrowed eyes. She seemed to think that my only problem was that lilac and red don’t match.
The outfit was clearly too big, and the legs sticking out below it were spindly and unshaven.
“It doesn’t fit,” I said.
Lips pursed, a single eyebrow raised, Ponpon looked me up and down.
“You’re right,” she agreed. “It doesn’t.”
Taking off the skirt and jacket, I dejectedly sank down onto a corner of the bed. She came and sat down next to me, putting an arm around my shoulders and pulling me close. I leaned my head against her.
We wordlessly studied ourselves for a moment in the full-length mirror opposite. She sat erect, her ample bosom glorious in its generosity. Shoulders collapsed, I huddled against her dejectedly. Like a child in need of protection. A skinny, weak child with frightened eyes, my ribs sticking out. The garish makeup only heightened the effect: a clownish hussy face and an emaciated, hairy body.
She gently stroked my shoulders and leaned over to kiss the top of my head. Then she pulled me tight. She was watching me in the mirror.
I wanted to cry. To break down completely and sob on that sturdy, warm shoulder. To sniffle and drool. But I couldn’t do it. Ponpon cried for me silently.
“My mascara’s going to run,” she said with a weak laugh.
But she kept crying. Perhaps she was remembering a long ago adventure, one of those great love affairs she always talked about, the ones that inevitably ended in heartbreak, the ones that had left her numb and hard. Or perhaps she cried hoping I’d join in.
But I didn’t. I couldn’t.