The Prophet Murders (3 page)

I have told him dozens of times that he just isn’t my type. But one day, in a moment of weakness, at a time when I needed
love and affection, he had enjoyed my favours. That was it. He’s been after me ever since. I don’t like, nor am I capable
of liking, men who beg. I prefer men with a sense of pride. Not clingers. If he really wants me, he’ll grab me by the arm,
drag me off and take me. Of course, cultivating this air of helplessness is part of the act. And part of the fun. No one who
really knows me would dare. Everyone in the neighbourhood is aware of my skills in Aikido and Thai boxing. As is Hüseyin.
Perhaps he’s just biding his time.

As I got out of the taxi, Hüseyin, true to form, proposed returning to pick me up. Not straying from our well-established routine, I refused him.

“Boss,” observed Cüneyt, as he held open the door for me, “you sure treat that guy bad.”

I flashed upon him the look of contempt he so richly deserved.

“But then again,” he corrected himself, “who am I to . . . ”

“Exactly,” I snapped. Short and sweet.

Particularly when it comes to my employees, I have rather limited tolerance for presumptuous behaviour. That is, none. No one could expect anything different. That said, I do have a certain amount of sympathy for Cüneyt. If nothing else, the boy is just so comical. He makes me laugh. Then there is his showy body, a critical attribute for a club doorman and the result of nearly daily sessions at the gym. He is also so refreshingly simple. By that, I do not refer to his intelligence, but to his purity. His naivety, if you will. Cüneyt just has a different way of looking at things, a degree of empathy that even I find excessive. Most importantly, he approaches his job with the utmost seriousness.

The club was empty. DJ Osman, barman Sükrü and our waiter, Hasan, were huddled together talking. When they saw me, they sprang to attention.

“Is everything all right, boss?” asked Sükrü. “You’re early tonight.”

“I have an appointment. With Afet,” I answered.

“I’ll get your Virgin Mary immediately,” said Sükrü. It is my habit to have my drink ready and handed to me the moment I enter the club. Then again, there was no way he could have known that I would arrive early.

Taking advantage of the absence of customers – or rather, my absence – Osman was playing his favourite ear-splitting heavy metal. With the club empty, and the lack of a general din to absorb the thudding, the music was even more violently audible than usual.

Taking his cue from my severe expression, Osman rushed to the DJ booth to change the music.

I wa left alone with Hasan.

“Not really,” I admitted. “It’s clear she didn’t die in that house. I smell a rat. I’m afraid the girl suffered.”

“I got to thinking after I talked to you . . . You’re right. There’s definitely something funny going on here.”

“The police won’t bother to look into it. They’ve already closed her file.”

“You’re right,” he agreed. “But there are still municipality and fire department investigations.”

It was now my turn to agree.

We looked at each other for a moment in silence. Osman had changed the music to some kind of elevator muzak. He returned, fighting off a smirk. In the middle of the table, a glass of mandarin soda, over half full, awaited him. No one else in the club drinks mandarin soda. None of the customers have ever ordered one. But it is the only thing he touches. Two cases a month are brought in for his personal use.

“What’s this music you’re playing?” I demanded.

“Adiemus. New Age. It’s a new group. Great isn’t it?” To add insult to injury, he was poking fun at me. New Age is one of the forms of music I simply don’t comprehend. Paul Mauriat, Franck Pourcel, Francis Lai and even Fausto Papetti have been playing this kind of music for years. The only difference is that they perform with an orchestra, not synthesisers and the piping of a flute. Nowadays, intellectuals have elevated this sort of music into an art form. Why the double standard? What have the others been doing wrong all these years? A succession of critics has slammed them. All right, I don’t think much of their work either, but I don’t see the difference. Do you?

“Look here!” I snapped. “Don’t push me. Go put on something decent!”

“Right, boss,” he said, straight back to the DJ booth.

Once again, Hasan and I were tête-à-tête.

“I tried to reach Gül. But I failed.”

Hasan spoke of failure, but he is in fact extremely gifted. What’s more, he’s sharp as a pin. He also loves gossip; he makes a point of inspiring and encouraging it. And he’s shameless about spreading stories. If there’s nothing to repeat, he just makes something up. There’s something crafty about everything he does. He thirsts for treachery and duplicity. He’s also the number one accomplice of Sofya, the patron saint of such matters.

Halfway to the booth, Osman turned to shout: “Turkish or foreign?”

“Turkish! But no wailing. And nothing too fast.”

“As you know, Ceren’s been hanging out with Gül lately,” Hasan continued.

“I learned that from you.”

My Virgin Mary arrived. There were still no customers, so Sükrü joined us at the table.

“No one knows where Gül is,” observed Hasan, adding, “Sükrü sweetie, could you get me a soda with ice?”

“Why didn’t you ask when I was at the bar? I just got here.”

“Sorry about that. I forgot.”

You’d have to be a fool not to realise that Hasan was doing this on purpose. The kids at the club tell me any number of stories about how he promotes himself to manager in my absence and give them all a hard time. But then again, he can be so appealing. It’s difficult to get cross with Hasan. He has a lovable quality, “a hair of the devil” as the saying goes, and is on intimate terms instantly with everyone. That is, he is nothing like me. Although he hasn’t allowed Sükrü to sit for even a moment, there will be no grudges. It is still to Hasan that Sükrü will first reveal his secrets. Naturally, Hasan will then come and repeat them to me.

“Who is this Gül?” I asked.

“She’s new,” Hasan answered. “Very young. A pink and white thing.”

Sükrü returned with an iced lemon soda, and jumped into the conversation.

“I saw her once. She was a real piece of Turkish delight.

Something to nibble on. You get the picture.” Even Sükrü has shining eyes as he describes her. “But I kept my distance. She was jail bait.”

“What do you mean?” I quizzed him.

“She was sixteen at most,” explained Hasan. “She came here twice, but we didn’t let her in.”

“She didn’t even have a beard yet,” Sükrü pointed out.

They know my unbending rule. No customers under eighteen years of age. I loathe complications. I don’t want the police on our backs for something as silly as that. There are clubs that let them in, that serve them drinks. But my club is not, and will never be, one of those establishments.

The door opens, and Cüneyt showed in Afet. Her hair was gathered into a tight bun. As a result, the angular lines of her face were even more strained than usual. Clearly, she had spent at least an hour applying eye makeup. Less than half a metre of cloth had been used to clothe her in a creation that passed for a dress, and sequins were liberally applied all across her throat and breasts. Afet totters precariously on that thin line dividing the ridiculously strange from the strangely beautiful. Her feet are large, even for a transvestite. Even so, she had chosen to emphasise them, spilling out of tiny high-heels. As usual, knees slightly bent, she appeared poised to leap forward.

While it was quite a show, it is far from my idea of true elegance.

As the proprietor, I rose to greet her. We exchanged air kisses.

We settled at a table away from the boys. Hasan immediately came up to ask what we’d like to drink.

“Whisky,” she said. “No ice. You have got Johnny Walker?”

“Of course,” said Hasan, indignant.

“One of those, then.” She turned to me and continued. “They said a fire broke out at her flat. I was terrified. We live in the same building, you know. Then I realised I was being ridiculous.

The whisky arrived. She beamed her thanks. Screwing up her face, she took her first sip.

“Ohhh . . . That does the trick,”

I didn’t ask her the reason for the facial contortions.

“So you found out about it,” I said. “She died in an abandoned building in Tarlaba
i.”

“You’re right.”

“I know I shouldn’t say this, but she really had it coming.”

I froze. As did she, realising what she’d just said.

“That’s not what I meant. It’s just that I’m still so cross with her.” She motioned with her eyes to Hasan. “He told you about it?”

He had, of course. But I played dumb.

“I don’t remember.”

“It was the most unbelievable thing! Quite astonishing, really.

I can understand it happening once or twice, my dear, but not all the time. She’d be at my door asking to borrow whatever she’d seen me wearing two days earlier. I’d give her what she wanted, telling myself she was young, new, and eager to model herself on others. But there was no returning anything. What she took was as good as gone. Now if she had just appreciated their value. I’m not at all selfish. You know that.”

Nearby, the trio of Hasan, Sükrü and Osman were eavesdropping on us. Not a peep came from their table.

“I’m afraid I blew my top one morning while I was hanging out the laundry. I saw her in a tunic I’d paid Belkis a small fortune for. Darling, I mean, it’s not her wearing it . . . but while washing the balcony? There’s such a thing as being a little too decadent. And I work hard for every penny.”

“You’re right,” I assured her, with a smile of commiseration.

“To tell the truth, she was the very picture of bad manners. Whenever she wanted something, it was ‘darling Afet’ this, ‘sweetie Afet’ that. Other times, she wouldn’t give me the time of day. I just won’t stand for that sort of thing.”

The door opened and the first group of girls flitted in. While it would not seem humanly possible for four girls to make such a racket, succeed they did. We exchanged greetings.