The Kiss Murder (16 page)
I didn’t agree with the lady journalist here. The name I was looking for could well turn out to be Korhan Türker. Buse had mentioned letters and photographs. Even if they hadn’t had a relationship per se, a single revealing photograph from the party that night would suffice. Letters would be icing on the cake.
Meanwhile, Buse found herself earning more and more, and climbed the social ladder accordingly. There was no hot spot, no fashionable holiday destination, she hadn’t visited. Women, as well as men, occasionally required her services. Lesbian lyricist Suat had taken her to Bodrum, then on a “blue voyage” cruise of the Aegean. Buse enjoyed a fling with the cabin boy, but was unable to escape the clutches of singer-pianist Mahmut Gürsel. That “character”—the term was meant to be derogatory—was as ugly as can be, but hung like King Kong. He’d screw her at every opportunity. It’d hurt like hell each time, but pock-faced Mahmut would ignore her cries. “No one can hear you out here,” he’d mock Fevzi, as he climbed onto her again. An exhibitionist, he’d usually have sex on the deck. In front of everyone. A glass of whiskey on the rocks in one hand, Suat would laugh raucously while she looked on, smoking.
Our lady journalist interrupted to confirm that the singer-pianist was a well-known exhibitionist. In a voice trembling with emotion, she pointed out that even onstage he would remove his shirt, citing the risk of heat exhaustion, in order to treat the audience to the sight of his muscular hairy chest and bulging biceps. She had heard the rumors about his penis. And yes, she had been intrigued, even fantasized about him a bit. But God, he was ugly.
Intimidated by the fame of these men, Buse/Fevzi said nothing. But each time was a painful ordeal. The cabin boy with the heart of gold—who was clearly a latent homosexual—would comfort her afterward, alleviating her suffering with caresses and massages.
“It’s not the size, it’s the way it’s used,” said the lady journalist sagely. Oh, really? Of course size is important. I mean, who’d compare an eggplant to an okra?
Thus ended the first side of the tape. Next came a great deal of idle chatter and homespun philosophizing on sex, the sordidness of women, and the treachery of men. Both the interviewer and interviewee were unable to speak clearly. Buse made little sense as she wandered aimlessly from subject to subject. She would certainly have found it expedient to later deny all she had said.
Then Buse/Fevzi launched into a diatribe about her determination to establish a brave new life. She started focusing on her body and the journey to full-fledged womanhood. Any progress would be expensive. Just as she set off on this transformation, she met Süreyya. He was young—in his late thirties—but still much older than Buse. A real lion of a man. Not exactly handsome, but strangely compelling. Buse asked if he wasn’t still as charismatic as ever.
The voice of the lady journalist was barely audible, as she was quite far from the microphone. Using the answering machine as cassette player made it even more difficult to hear her. While I couldn’t understand what she said word for word, the gist of it was connected to Süreyya. She was incredulous. She just couldn’t believe it.
Who was this person by the name of Süreyya that both Buse and the interviewer seemed to know? I continued listening.
The affair had lasted for years. It had been kept a total and complete secret. Buse would make an appointment to meet him at his house, where he lived alone, and would sometimes have to wait for hours to see him. She would then spend the night. If Süreyya had meetings to attend, or business out of town, he would sometimes be gone for days. He was very much involved in the party at that time. He would tell Buse not to see anyone else, to stay at home and wait for him. He was extremely jealous.
Party? What party was that? Who on earth was this Süreyya and what was his involvement with a party? I found the answer before my mind had even completed asking the series of questions: The second-ranking man at Hedef Party, Süreyya Eronat! I switched off the answering machine. I needed a moment to let it sink in: Hedef Party and Süreyya Eronat. The words ran in circles through my head. It couldn’t be! I realized my jaw had literally dropped; my mouth was wide open. I went to the bathroom to splash cold water onto my face. It didn’t do the trick. I drank a glass of ice water.
Hedef was one of the leading conservative parties. Its principles and platform were based on the role of the nuclear family, and it would not budge an inch on the question of the man’s traditional role as head of that family. While it wasn’t official policy, the party was associated with manly men at their best. It was anti-just about everything. Queers were at the top of the list of the abominable, no more than bugs to be squashed. Indeed, if the Hedef Party had its way they would all be executed.
Such is the enormous gulf between theory and practice. The second in command of that same party was a full-blown pederast.
Most of the members of the party were men. While there may have been women in symbolic positions, I had never heard of them.
The least likely element of their “macho man” image was homosexual relations. And Süreyya Eronat, the vice chairman of the party, was a homosexual! With that knowledge came the risk of death. Documentation would make a fatal end that much more certain and swift. The hairs rose on the back of my neck as I thought about it. Sofya was right, even just knowing about it was dangerous.
Using this documentation for blackmail! It was an act of suicide. Surely it wasn’t possible that our girl Buse had stooped to such a thing. It was far more likely that in a fit of nostalgia Süreyya Eronat had recollected the photos and decided to retrieve them. Either that or he sent his men. The emergence of the pictures and letters could spell the death of the party. Their chairman hadn’t been seen in public for quite some time. Although it wasn’t spoken of openly, everyone knew that Süreyya Eronat was in control. He was the real power behind the throne.
Eronat’s private life was of considerable interest to the press. He had married young, but lost his wife in a terrible car accident a few years later. It was hard to believe that he remained in mourning for the rest of his life, but everyone went along with it.
Of his two children, one was married. They lived very private lives out of the public eye. His son had moved to either Canada or America. The daughter had married, produced grandchildren, and quietly maintained her role as efficient housewife and self-sacrificing mother.
It was said that Eronat lived with his widowed mother and aunt. He went on nature walks and rode horses in his spare time. Holidays were spent at the hot springs with his mother and aunt. He was never photographed in shorts, a swimming costume, or
peştemal
. I couldn’t remember ever seeing a photo of him when he wasn’t wearing a tie. There was never any mention of a relationship. In fact, there was never so much as a suggestion that he may have had a love life. It was as though there were no evidence of any kind that Süreyya Eronat had ever been involved with anyone, either as a young widower or at present.
peştemal
. I couldn’t remember ever seeing a photo of him when he wasn’t wearing a tie. There was never any mention of a relationship. In fact, there was never so much as a suggestion that he may have had a love life. It was as though there were no evidence of any kind that Süreyya Eronat had ever been involved with anyone, either as a young widower or at present.
Because he was so feared, no one dared to indulge in gossip on the matter.
And my poor Buse, that dignified girl, had ended up his victim. And her blind mother may have been his victim as well.
My curiosity had been rewarded, but I just hoped I wouldn’t have to pay too steep a price for it.
I couldn’t decide whether or not to listen to the rest of the tape. Additional information would just put me more at risk. The more I knew, the greater the likelihood I would one day let something slip. Could I be certain that one day, in the arms of a lover, perhaps, or in a general rage over something, I wouldn’t lose control and reveal all I knew about these extortionist pimps? We’re all such unpredictable creatures! There’s no knowing what I’ll blurt out. Even if I weren’t so outspoken, I’d surely wish to share my secret with someone one day—I couldn’t possibly keep something that juicy to myself. I’d lose all sense of self-respect. My self-assurance would be shattered. I wouldn’t be me.
I pushed the play button. I was in too deep to stop now. Buse’s voice continued:
“But he was always so jealous. Especially when it came to me. Don’t do this, don’t visit there, don’t go out at night. After a while he began helping to cover my living expenses. There was no way I could have survived on my mother’s pension. Do you know how little she gets? I really pity old folks, they’re barely able to stay alive.
“Anyway, thanks to Süreyya we were comfortable. Anything and everything, even
kuş sütü,
bird’s milk, was mine for the asking. He was always so gracious about it. A real gentleman. After a while he started visiting me at home. He adored my mother, and she was fond of him as well. He always made a point of kissing her hand and chatting for a bit. She appreciated it. In the beginning she didn’t really understand my relationship with him, but after seven years she must have had some idea. You see, we were like a family. I was crushed when we separated. She comforted me. How many mothers would do that?”
kuş sütü,
bird’s milk, was mine for the asking. He was always so gracious about it. A real gentleman. After a while he started visiting me at home. He adored my mother, and she was fond of him as well. He always made a point of kissing her hand and chatting for a bit. She appreciated it. In the beginning she didn’t really understand my relationship with him, but after seven years she must have had some idea. You see, we were like a family. I was crushed when we separated. She comforted me. How many mothers would do that?”
Hmmm, now, that was interesting. Süreyya Bey and his male lover’s mother. A typical relationship between a mother-in-law and her groom. I’d never met Sabiha Hanım, but I could visualize the scene. The blind mother, a rather vacant smile on her face, sits in her favorite rocking chair. Her blank eyes stare at the ceiling. Right in front of her, in the throes of passion, are her son and Süreyya. They make love in absolute silence. The mother’s eyes are lowered, unseeingly looking straight in their direction. They bite their lips and continue, not making a sound. When they’re finished, Süreyya kisses the old lady’s hand and thanks her for her hospitality. The scene is straight out of a film, but I can’t remember which one. If asked to identify it on a game show, I’d be eliminated.
Yuck! It was so difficult to imagine Süreyya Eronat having sex. From what I’d seen of him in the media, he was the type who had seemingly gone beyond the carnal, who had either transcended sexuality or had been of an asexual nature from the start. There are few men that I would identify that way, but he was one of them. His behavior, speech, mannerisms, gestures, clothing . . . everything. There was not a trace of anything even remotely sexual about him.
I searched through some old newspapers to find a photograph of him. He wasn’t particularly media-friendly, and was well known for his scathing indictments of the press. He certainly wasn’t given much coverage in my own favorite paper. After a thorough search, though, I was able to find a photo. I examined it. Just imagining him with one of our girls would be an insult to the dear things.
Many more names were named in the remainder of the tape. I recognized some, while others were strangers. None of them were particularly dangerous types, as far as I knew. At least half had been the subject of so much gossip there was really nothing to add. Blackmail may have been possible, but a measure as drastic as murder would have been extremely unlikely.
I couldn’t decide what to do with the tape. The most entertaining alternative was to leak it to the media. But then again, it had reached me through the media, by way of the lady journalist. If they’d failed to recognize how newsworthy it was, that was their problem.
Another option was to try to get the tape to Süreyya Eronat. That would be dangerous. If I posted it, it would be impossible to trace the sender. There was the risk, however, that they would identify the voice of the lady journalist, and somehow reach me through her. That would be a real mess, like sorting through rice to find a pebble. They’d get me in the end.
The only other choice was either to destroy the tape or hide it. Which would be preferable? Even if I destroyed it, how could I prove that I did? Let’s say they came after me. Would they believe me? How would I persuade them? As long as the lady journalist kept her mouth shut, no one would know I had a copy. I decided to keep it.
And now for the bonus question, one that carried no cash prize: Where would I hide it? And once it was hidden, what good would it do me? But that was yet another riddle.
Chapter 21I
needed to stop thinking about the tape and get ready for the night. Otherwise I’d be late getting to the club. As always on the weekends, it would be packed—a real circus. I thought about the people I would have to bar at the door.
needed to stop thinking about the tape and get ready for the night. Otherwise I’d be late getting to the club. As always on the weekends, it would be packed—a real circus. I thought about the people I would have to bar at the door.
The lady journalist, whatever her name was, would not be admitted. I had a ready excuse: women were not allowed on the weekends.
Ferruh, the husband of Belkıs, the boutique owner, would not be let in if he arrived on his own. I had already made that mistake the previous night. If he had left with one of the girls, Belkıs would have raised hell yet again. And I didn’t appreciate his flirting with me.
As for the so-called “gays” who only came on weekends when they had had no luck at their own bars, staying until dawn in order to spare the expense of staying at a hotel, they would also not be allowed to pass through my doors. They were the sort who made a great show of friendship when it suited them, but had nothing but the worst insults for us at other times. I will not stand for such class consciousness.
And the penniless merrymakers, those who nursed a single beer the entire night, would also be barred. On weeknights I tolerated them, but the club was just too full on Friday and Saturday nights. Cüneyt had a special ability for spotting them. A natural-born talent.
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