In Ponpon’s words, I was “back in business” and “good as new.” She left me no choice but to allow the world to come crashing in and to respond civilly as it did so. There was no point in putting it off.
“Make sure to smile when you speak; you’ll sound friendlier,” she instructed. Then Ponpon began dialing every one of the numbers she’d memorized.
She’d begin by speaking at length herself, before thrusting the phone into my hand, my cue to embark on a set string of pleasantries: “Hello… How are you… I’m fine…” This arrangement allowed Ponpon to dramatize the depths of my depression with a hair-raising description of my ruined health and cadaverous appearance, then move on to an excruciatingly detailed and heroic account of her own role in my salvation, from the shade of eye shadow she’d administered to what she’d prepared for each of my meals.
When headwaiter and gossipmonger Hasan heard my voice, he insisted on coming round. I had no doubt that he’d conspired with Ponpon to get his foot in the door. He is self-important and arrogant, but in fact he’s the only waiter at my club, and he had kept the place going during my breakdown, for which I was grateful. We agreed on a time that day for his visit.
At my insistence, we also called my employer, Ali. I freelance for his computer security firm, working on a commission basis only. Our partnership has been highly profitable for us both. He knows what I am and what I do nights, but doesn’t meddle; for my part, I overlook his yuppie ways and all-consuming quest for the almighty dollar. For days now, I hadn’t been by the office, answered the phone, responded to messages, or returned his e-mails. It was only natural that he’d wonder what had happened, especially since so much of his business depends on me. I’d have to bite the bullet and phone him. I had no intention of losing my day job as a computer whiz, custom designing antihacker security programs.
When I was put through, he cursed at the sound of my voice, telling me in dollar terms how much my absence had cost us-that is, him. I was ordered to report to the office immediately to discuss several new projects.
Ali and I don’t see much of each other outside work. Although our business relationship has lasted for years, and we’ve made each other rich, he’s never even seen my home. In any case, Ponpon hadn’t scheduled him in for a visit, so I promised to stop at the office as soon as I could.
“We’re losing business every day you’re in hiding,” he grumbled. “Competition is fierce. They’ll think we’re not available anymore. Kemal Barutçu is snapping up all our clients. I hope you realize we’ll be reduced to selling PC and standard software programs if things go on like this!”
I wasn’t ready for his tirade, so in order to end it, I meekly mumbled, “Okay.”
Perceptive Ponpon intervened on my behalf, snatching the receiver from my hand to interject, “He’s still very weak. I’ll have to ask you to keep it short.”
“Who was that?”
“A relative,” I said, grabbing the phone back. “My spiritual aunt.”
Ponpon grimaced. She’d have preferred being described as a younger sister.
Visitors starting arriving even before Fatoş Abla had finished waxing my legs. The appointments Ponpon had so carefully spaced out over the late afternoon and evening were running like clockwork, but unfortunately our growing number of visitors appeared disinclined to leave as punctually as they’d arrived. My living room had turned into what appeared at first glance to be a coffee klatsch of housewives in rather risqué costumes, perhaps a Tupperware party or Avon lady demonstration. I was the only person in the room who wasn’t engrossed in a screeching conversation. Occasionally, one of the girls would shoot me a glance of pity, but tinged with what was unmistakable envy.
I didn’t bother to attempt to follow their conversations, just sat there amid an unintelligible buzz of baritone and falsetto voices. Nor was I interested in which girl had poached which boyfriend, or triumphant accounts of the miracles wrought by hormone injections and silicon implants.
That is, until my attention was caught by Dump Truck Beyza.
“I had such a shock this morning! An old flame of mine was murdered! And who killed him? Some high-society loan shark! You can’t imagine how wonderful he was. Once he got it up, it never came down. And incredibly well hung, like he’d strapped on a Coke bottle. The sort of man everyone should experience at least once. Amen.”
“His death has no doubt added several inches,” Ponpon interrupted. “Feel free to elaborate as much as you like, sweetie. None of us will be able to verify what you say now that’s he’s dead.”
“If I’m lying, may Allah smite me right on the spot,” exclaimed Dump Truck Beyza, lodging a large hand between her considerable breasts.
Blackbrow Lulu jumped in, her mouth still full of cake.
“Don’t say that! You’ve been smitten enough as it is.”
“Common! You’re all just common,” Dump Truck Beyza spat, before turning to me with, “Excuse me. Not you, of course. But I can’t think why you’re still friends with this lot.”
I was intrigued despite myself.
“So you knew Volkan? The guy in the paper today?”
“What do you think I’m saying? You’re not even listening! You never listen to me!”
Ponpon responded to this unfortunate attack on my person by lifting a warning eyebrow. She wouldn’t allow any bad behavior. Dear Ponpon was protecting me. Allowing her eyes to flutter shut dramatically, she pursed her lips and pointed to her head with the index finger of her left hand. Then she silently mouthed the word “medication.”
What’s more, she did all this looking directly at me. There’s no way I could have missed it.
“What medication? What did you give me? When?” I asked.
“At breakfast,” she said, slowly mouthing the words in a barely audible and slightly ominous voice.
“What medicine?”
“Xanax.”
She smiled proudly, a child expecting a reward for a good deed.
“But isn’t that a drug?” asked Melisa, gulping down a mouthful of coffee.
Turning in Melisa’s direction, Ponpon slowly opened and shut her eyelids, thus replying in the affirmative to her question.
“I consulted a physician,” she added in authoritative tones. “They don’t sell it without a prescription.”
“I’m sure you did the right thing,” I said.
So the wave of fatigue hitting me was caused by Xanax, not the large breakfast.
“But darling, they say Xanax causes anxiety and suicidal tendencies.”
It was just like Fatoş Abla to bring up side effects. She won’t even use aspirin, relying instead on homeopathic remedies, herbal teas, and incense.
“Oh no,” screeched Dump Truck Beyza, as though I had set off on a pathway to inevitable self-destruction.
“I told you, I asked the doctor,” Ponpon said. “A pill or two won’t hurt, he said.”
Seizing the reins of general conversation, determined to steer us back to what really interested me-Volkan Sarıdoğan, Faruk Hanoğlu, and Haluk Pekerdem-I addressed myself to Beyza.
“Beyza sweetie, tell me all you know about Volkan. From the beginning.”
I was depressed, in need of attention, care, and cheering up, so the girls conscientiously shut up and listened to Dump Truck’s long-winded ode to the glories of Volkan, which I occasionally interrupted with a question. I’d intended to glean some information about Haluk Pekerdem, but was unable even to get to Faruk Hanoğlu. All Beyza would talk about was the well-hung stud.
Beyza met Volkan when he was fresh from military service and had just begun driving minibuses. It was one of the many occasions on which lusty Beyza, having failed to find a customer, began haunting the minibus routes in search of a man. As usual, she got on a minibus with a driver she fancied, sat next to him in the front seat, and flirtatiously crossed and uncrossed her legs until the last stop. If payment isn’t expected, this method works nine times out of ten. As it did that night. Instead of going to the back of the line when the last passengers got out at the final stop, Volkan drove off to a secluded grove in Hacı Osman. Volkan’s staying power astonished even Beyza, whose libido never quits. In fact, he wore her out. Volkan began visiting Beyza at home, a blissful arrangement that pleased them both and lasted for some time.
Volkan was “handsome as a movie star,” in perfect shape as a result of his recent stint in the army, full of the stamina of the young and sex starved, and the proud owner of an impressive organ that would have guaranteed him superstar status in the adult-film world. Or so Beyza claimed, in descriptions so detailed I suspected she may even have been telling the truth.
“It was thick… and it was long… and it had a massive head the most luscious shade of pink… I mean, once you got your hands on it they had to be pried off. The edges of the crown were like delicate lacework, the snaking veins of the shaft like needle-work. So rare; so fine! Wonder of wonders, wrought with the utmost care by the Lord above. And when he came, well, it positively gushed… Never in my life have I seen or feasted on anything like it.”
Her audience had fallen completely silent and was on the edges of their seats, spellbound, sighing, hearts racing, palms sweaty.
Every good story has a bad guy, and in this case it was Volkan’s brother by marriage, his sister’s husband. The brother-in-law had a strange control over Volkan, who followed his advice to the letter and would do nothing without consulting him first. But the two were also known to have long and loud arguments. Volkan would say horrible things behind the brother-in-law’s back but was reduced to an obedient child in his presence.
According to Beyza, the bad brother-in-law, who was also a minibus driver, had forced Volkan to go from being an amateur gigolo to a professional one.
Blackbrow Lulu was having none of it. “He must have had it in him,” she protested. “He couldn’t have done it otherwise. Do you really think just anyone can become a gigolo? You’re all so gullible! Wake up!”
“I don’t care if you believe me or not. The boy was an angel. It was that brother-in-law who spoiled him. And who put him off me. Of course the money had something to do with it. Volkan was up to his ears in debt. He owed for the minibus. I was helping him out but could only do so much.”
“Didn’t I tell you! See, he was taking your money!” Lulu roared triumphantly. “Instead of blaming him, why don’t you take a good look at yourself? You’re the one who got the boy used to accepting money.”
“Look, Lulu,” interrupted Melisa, “if you go on like that you’ll get a good walloping. And Dump Truck’s got a heavy hand. Take it from me, girlfriend.”
“She got that right,” growled Dump Truck.
I interjected. “Ignore them. What happened next?”
Not only was I their hostess, but these girls hung out every night at my club. My wish was their command. The girls shut up and Dump Truck continued.
Whether it was the brother-in-law’s idea or not, it wasn’t long before Volkan became the most sought after gigolo in Istanbul. Nor was it long before the visits to Beyza suddenly stopped. He still got behind the wheel of his minibus from time to time, but he usually left his vehicle in the care of a younger brother or a driver hired for the day. Volkan’s time had become far too valuable for ordinary work.
“Such a pity,” she concluded. “A lion of a man, and a dick unlikely to grace this earth ever again. What a waste. May Allah strike down whoever did it! May their hands be broken, their eyes blinded, their hearths extinguished… Have I left anything out?”
“That should do it, dear,” Melisa assured her.
So, the part-time minibus driver allegedly killed by Haluk Pekerdem’s brother-in-law, Faruk Hanoğlu, had also been a well-known gigolo…