The Prophet Murders (2 page)

“Gönül Turgut was the greatest singer of her time, you know. Even Ajda Pekkan used to imitate her when she first came out.”

“Whatever happened to her?”

“She gave up music when she got married. What a waste of talent. And a shame for music, too.”

“She was an alto. Just like us,” I threw in.

“How dare you!” she bellowed. “No one talks about my Gönül Turgut like that. How can you compare a foghorn to a voice like hers? Just listen!”

As she spoke, she stripped off another patch of hair, delibera- tely provoking a loud scream and deftly underlining her point.

“But Ceren never lived there. Her apartment’s in Cihangir, near Taksim. Right behind the German Hospital. I waxed her legs often enough to know.”

“What do you mean? That she didn’t die at home?”

“That’s what it looks like to me,” she replied. “Like I said, her place was in Cihangir. Near Siraselviler. And certainly not in some derelict building on Tarlaba
i. And it wasn’t abandoned. There are respectable people living on every floor. In fact, our girl Afet was living there. On the floor above.”

“I think she still lives there. She hasn’t made any appointments, but I ran into her on the stairs last time I visited. She didn’t even say ‘hello”.’

It was clear she looked down on standoffish Afet, but was it really fair of her to take it out on my groin? My eyes filled with tears.

“Don’t worry about it,” I groaned. “The world’s full of insensitive people.”

“I feel the same way. But what do I care if she ignores me? Am I the one who’s still wet behind the ears?”

“These new ones have no manners or respect,” I deliberately provoked her.

“Get her! Look who’s talking? And how long have you been around?”

We burst out laughing. But my groin still smarted.

“That girl’s disappeared too,” I murmured.

“That ‘girl’ is the same age as your mother. And what do you mean ‘disappeared’. She’s splashed across all the society pages. I think she even writes a column for one of them.”

“You mean U
ur Akdora landed a rich husband and gave up music, too?”

“Oh no, sweetie. Her family was well-off to begin with. She condescended to share her three songs with the people, and then reclaimed her place up there in society.”

She waved in the general direction of the ceiling.

Just as she was leaving, she got a puzzled look on her face. “It just doesn’t make sense. What on earth was that girl doing in a deserted building? All by herself . . . And she was so choosy about customers and where she worked. There were entire neighbourhoods she’d refuse to visit, let alone a place like that. It doesn’t make any sense. Anyway, may Allah grant a long life to the living,” she concluded, sighing heavily as she made her way down the stairwell.

Clearly, he’d just woken up. No, he hadn’t heard of Ceren’s death. Yes, he was truly upset. No, he didn’t really know her,
had seen her just a few times with some of the other girls. She’d been in great demand recently, and was willing to cater
to the more bizarre fantasies of her customers. She’d fallen out with her neighbour, Afet, so I wouldn’t be able to get much
information out of her. She usually went hooking with a new girl, Gül. No, Hasan didn’t know much about her either. Yes, Hasan
was going straight back to bed when I got off the phone. No, it wasn’t that he’d finally had an amorous adventure of some
sort, it was just that a crying baby on the floor above had kept him awake. We’d talk later at the club.

Although I wasn’t able to find out what I was looking for, I had managed to learn quite a lot about Ceren. And from someone
who didn’t even know her well.

Despite what I’d been told, I decided it would still be worthwhile to call Afet. She is one of the girls who hang out at the
club, if only from time to time. Afet is quarrelsome and malicious, and her long, aubergine-purple hair is teased up high,
in order to make her look taller. Unable to stand up straight on her high-heeled shoes, she bends her knees slightly while
walking, which gives her an even more menacing appearance.

Picking up the phone, Afet immediately announced that she was too busy to chat unless it was urgent, adding that she’d come
to the club early for a talk. We arranged a time.

I love cooking, and am good at it, but just don’t feel like bothering these days. At most, I grill a cut of meat and toss
a simple salad. When dining out at a quality restaurant, I’ve got no problem; but when it comes to snacking, I seem to gravitate
towards whatever’s labelled junk food. At this rate, everything in my wardrobe will have to be let out. So much for Audrey
Hepburn elegance!

Internet chat sites seem to be growing more popular and crowded by the day. In addition to the standard sex rooms, there are
ones for lesbians, gays and transvestites. I’m the webmaster of one of them. The room’s called “Manly Girls”! There’s a novel
of the same name. Full of high hopes, I bought it in high school. But when it turned out to be a runny-nosed melodrama I abandoned
it in a forgotten corner. The novel was a dud, but its title was perfect for us. In an inverted sort of way. I sometimes go
online to chat or to monitor other conversations. If someone catches my attention – and someone inevitably does if I stay
online long enough – I open up a private window.

The name of our chat room sometimes attracts aggressive trolls. They join in, cursing and threatening, until they’re kicked
out. The regulars agree that most of them are closet cases, as gay as can be. I could track them down and ban them for life,
but they tend to sign-in from internet cafes or secretly from their workplaces, so it wouldn’t do much good. They’d just find
another way to come back.

For example, we’ve got a radical fundamentalist who goes by the codename Jihad2000. This person drops in at least once a night
to warn us in capital letters that we’re all doomed. That we’re the reason the country has gone to hell, which is where we’ll
all burn for eternity. He claims it’s blasphemy for us to recite prayers, since our foul mouths would only soil the word “Allah”.
After a couple of minutes, he’s done. He storms into the room, interrupts everyone’s chat, fires off his messages and disappears
in a puff of fire and brimstone. Then he drops by again later if he’s got nothing better to do.

I suspect that Jihad’s nick refers to a holy war waged against us.

In other chat rooms, he’s the perfect gentleman. If you respond in kind, he answers immediately. Then he starts boasting,
telling you what a whiz he is when it comes to computer systems. Actually, he’s not half bad. As long as he doesn’t ask anything
personal, I usually respond. He comes up with various cyber solutions, explaining how different programs can be used. And
he never seems to tire of informing you how brilliant he is.

Because we both stick to the same nicks whenever online, we’ve developed a sort of virtual acquaintance. I can’t say we’re
friends, but then again, who needs friends in cyber space?

As far as I can tell, Jihad2000 is a young, completely inexperienced and totally repressed closet homosexual. The girls sometimes
egg him on, and then things really get going. I worry that one of these slanging matches will end with the site getting permanently
shut down.

The second I got online, Jihad2000 appeared. He was in fine form. He had prepared all his messages in advance, ready to be
floated in. So there was no way to respond. We were all quiet, reading what he’d written.

I skimmed through the list of nicks while waiting for his diatribe to end. I recognised a few names. Most of those in the
room try to pass themselves off as super macho types. They choose names they think are provocative, or at least obscene. As
I read through them, I kept an eye on Jihad2000’s messages. He was banging on about a transvestite who burned to death, who
suffered the tortures of hell while still on this earth.

All eyes, I began concentrating. This was the first time he’d gone into such detail. He must have read about it in the newspaper,
and been inspired.

As always, his connection was cut as soon as he’d floated his message. Either one of our operators had kicked him out, or
he’d bolted. I had too much on my plate to know which.

Thanks to Jihad2000, all hell broke loose. The room buzzed with panic. Those who hadn’t yet witnessed his antics showered
the others with questions. Who died? Where? When? How? Who did it? Were religious fanatics responsible? Were we all doomed?
It took some time for chat to return to normal. Using my webmaster code, I took a look at what he’d written earlier. I’d
only caught the end, and wondered what I’d missed.

One of the girls I know from the site opened a private window and asked me what was going on. I quickly summed it up for her.
She hadn’t read the papers, and became upset. Then vindictive.

I’d had enough, and it was clearer than ever that I faced a migraine. I switched off the computer and went to the living room.
It was almost time for my game show.

I never get the slightest pleasure out of game shows. I’m just addicted. It’s upsetting to realize how much more I know than
the average contestant. Their lack of knowledge makes me cross; I curse their ignorant certainty. But I don’t miss a programme.
I suspect this is a form of masochism.

The first contestant was a young woman, an Istanbul University student. Her glasses, straight hair parted down the middle
and drab clothes lent her an intellectual air.

It concerned music terminology. She was asked to identify the odd one out from: symphony, sonata, opus and oratorio. Naturally,
she wasn’t aware that opus refers to the numerical chronology of a composition. She chose oratorio, and was neatly eliminated.
My headache had worsened to the point where I require medication. I turned off the TV.

After tackling one of a growing number of purse snatchers, my standing in the neighbourhood increased still further, and not
just in the eyes of the rescued victim, Hümeyra Hanim, a woman banker.

I generally exercise in my guest room, which is usually empty. I prefer working out to music, but my throbbing head demanded
otherwise. Physical activity and a rush of adrenalin would ease the pain.

I finished my standard warm-up routine. Then I moved on to mid-air kicks, first single, then double. With a good leap, I can
manage three short jabs with the same foot. In rapid succession, it’s enough to stupefy any adversary. With an even higher
leap, my blows connect quite nicely with my adversary’s head.

Next, I moved on to forward and reverse hits. It’s easier when faced with an opponent. But you can’t always get what you want.
I made do, working at switching legs in mid-air, which I’m not so good at. Sometimes I lose my balance. I need more practice.

I worked out until I was gasping for breath and soaked in sweat. But no trace remained of that headache. I sprinted to the
shower.

Having decided to go to the club early, I began to get ready. When I’m feeling low, I dress simply. That is, no make-up and
absolutely no glitz of any kind. I was ready in no time.

I wriggled into a white jersey halter-neck I found among my mother’s old clothes from the ’70s. Teamed with a red patent leather
mini-skirt, it made me look like the Turkish flag. Then I slipped into a pair of ankle-laced, low-heeled sandals.

I considered replacing my clear nail varnish with red. But the thought of having to apply nail varnish remover to each toe
put me off the idea If I fussed around any more, I’d be late for my rendezvous with Afet. I had to leave immediately. I called
the taxi stand. I was certain Hüseyin, who’s practically my private chauffeur, would be the one to pick me up. And he was.

He paused, arm draped over the seat, turning back to give me a long look. Everyone at the stand knows this is around the time
I go to the club. So had Hüseyin.

“What are you waiting for,” I asked. “Let’s get going.”

“You don’t give me so much as the time of day anymore.”

I’m not sure how I look at him. But he instantly turned round.

“I’m not in a very good mood tonight,” I apologised.

“Forgive me.”

He continued talking, as though to himself.

“Some people can make others feel better. But they’re never given a chance.”

Hüseyin never misses an opportunity to proclaim his passion for me. No matter how strongly I object, he persists, never losing
hope. He follows me whenever possible, a bit like an unwanted shadow. When he isn’t giving me reproachful glances, though,
he does manage to keep the car on the road.