The Serenity Murders (2 page)
“In order to commit murder with relative ease,
one must harbor an idyllic love, almost puritan in nature.”
MICHEL DEL CASTILLO,
La tunique d’infamie
(The Tunic of Disgrace)
The Serenity Murders
1.
I’
ve always enjoyed being watched, but the idea of going on TV, talking in front of hundreds, maybe thousands of people, and playing the know-it-all expert, saying levelheaded, inoffensive things while discussing the reality of transvestitism without seeming to “promote” it—the prospect of which made the producer break out in a cold sweat—had put me on edge. I was dreadfully nervous.
The other guest on the show was the author Mehmet Murat Somer, who had artfully augmented my adventures, using them as fodder for his novels. We had been invited onto the most popular talk show of Turkey’s most prestigious TV channels. And it would be live!
I had prepared modestly. I looked neither too plain, that is to say ordinary, nor as decked out and fancy as I would have looked in, say, one of Ponpon’s stage costumes. Refined makeup, short but well-kept hair, slightly supported breasts, a pair of black leather trousers of the latest fashion, and a transparent shirt with a low neck that reached all the way down to my belly button, allowing me to display my lace bra and porcelain-like décolleté. Admittedly, I wasn’t exactly in my best Audrey Hepburn mode. But I could hardly be faulted. After all, it wasn’t every day that I hit the small screen. In fact, this was, officially, my first time; I mean, if I
had
appeared
before, if I had happened to be caught on camera accidentally at some point, well, I could no longer recall it.
“We’re going to raise hell in every sense of the word! Our ratings are going to rocket sky-high! But still, don’t go overboard. If things do start getting nasty, if anything inappropriate slips out of our mouths, my friend the director over there is going to cut to a commercial break. Still, let’s be careful…” the producer and presenter Süheyl Arkın cautioned us.
Nothing would slip out of
his
mouth, that’s for sure. The “us” was actually “us two”; in fact, it was really just me. The host was an old hand at this game; he was on-screen with different guests almost every day of the week. I was sure he fed the same “our ratings are going to rocket” cliché to all of his guests. As we were waiting for the show to begin, he had said only a few words to the author and had cautiously avoided addressing me directly. As for the red-bearded media consultant who also acted as Mehmet Murat Somer’s manager, with him Süheyl Arkın appeared to be engaged in a deep, meaningful conversation. It was obvious who was going to get preferential treatment here. Still, I kept my spirits high.
We were ushered into the studio. I immediately set my sights on the chair in the middle, the one that would be in the camera’s view from every possible angle. If I were to sit there, though, the coffee table with the silly vase on top would hide my legs, in which case my John Galliano–designed Dior “Swinging Bombay” shoes, which I’d spent a fortune on and purchased especially for the show, wouldn’t be visible. Well, in that case I’d just have to cross my legs and make sure to flash them at every possible opportunity. Otherwise I would surely regret having shelled out so much cash for such incredible footwear.
Süheyl Arkın seated himself behind the desk. Since his feet wouldn’t be seen, he wore comfortable sneakers; as for the rest of
him, he had smartened up with a blazer, a white high-collar shirt, and a dark tie.
After receiving his final orders from his media consultant, Mehmet Murat Somer walked over to me. “My right-side profile’s just dreadful,” he said. “I look twice my age and bald as an eagle.” Just when I had made myself comfortable, there he was, trying to usurp my seat!
Left or right—what did it matter? As if he would actually look the twenty-seven years he claimed to be if they shot him from the left. Did he think he was Tom Cruise from the left, and Woody Allen from the right? I didn’t want to escalate the tension by making a big deal out of a petty seat-swapping issue. I look good from every angle. I did as he asked.
And it was, ultimately, for the better, since my new position afforded the camera an unobstructed view of my Swinging Bombays, with their sequins, stones, tiny mirrors, and cashmere patterns, clearly displayed in all their glory, for all the world to see. Not to mention my six-inch heels…
Though most women and some of our girls claim to be perfectly comfortable in high heels, the same cannot be said of me. Far from it. As a child I would put on my mother’s high-heel slippers, which were normally reserved for when we had guests, and first try to keep my balance, before attempting small steps. It was hard! Later, when I unabashedly started shopping at women’s stores, I immediately bought myself a pair of high-heel shoes, and then promptly stuffed them into the wardrobe after wearing them only twice. If you ask me, such shoes are not for walking in or standing on; at best, they are for posing, as I was doing now.
My new chair was lower and less comfortable than the previous one, but I kept my mouth shut.
The set technician lad came up to me with a look in his eyes that shouted,
I know you and your kind
. He attached a microphone
onto my décolleté, careful to keep physical contact to a bare minimum. As if touching me would give him a
bad
name, or, I don’t know, as if he’d catch the incurable transvestitism bug, as if it would possess him, gradually taking over his entire being! I responded with a similarly patronizing, stern gaze. Once he had completed his task, I grabbed hold of his hand and thanked him. Of course he jumped back in a fright.
When the countdown for the live broadcast began, Süheyl Arkın, with his carefully mussed-up hair—each and every strand styled separately—put on that mask I was so accustomed to seeing on the screen: an expression that was equal parts Lothario and genuine curiosity.
I watched the monitor in front of me. After making his usual opening remarks and bidding his viewers a good evening, Süheyl Arkın introduced the topic and that day’s guests, which were us. He reminded viewers who might have questions of the studio’s telephone numbers and then turned to Mehmet, asking him for a definition of transvestitism. Mehmet proceeded to expound in his know-it-all tone. The camera had zoomed in on him, capturing only the left shoulder and knee of yours truly, who was sitting to his right.
I had meant to take one last look in the mirror before we went into the studio, but out of sheer nervousness I had forgotten. I wondered if my hair and everything else looked okay. I could feel the outer corner of the fake eyelash on my right eye rising a bit, but I didn’t dare touch it. The last thing I wanted was to get caught on camera like that; after all, one never knew when they might switch to a master shot, and then there I would be, for all the world to see, fussing with my makeup! I knew all the girls from my club would be glued to the television, on the prowl for the slightest imperfection, which they would then rattle on about for days. While I myself had gone to no great lengths to announce the event, my
photos, acquired from God knows where, had appeared in the television pages of the newspapers and all day long during ads for the show. Before I left the apartment my dearest friend Ponpon had called to wish me luck.
“
Ayolcuğum
,” she said, “I can’t tell you how proud I am of you! I believe with all my heart that you’ll represent us in the best possible way.”
My right-hand man Hasan, the headwaiter at the club I ran, had offered to come with me, an offer which I had politely declined. I thought it best not to arrive with a crowded entourage.
And then all of a sudden Süheyl Arkın turned to me and asked, “So, Burçak Veral, how did you become a transvestite? Would you like to share your story with us?”
This question wasn’t among those we had discussed backstage. I was caught completely off guard. Over the previous two days I had rehearsed, albeit surreptitiously, everything I was going to say, thoroughly preparing myself for what was to come. But I was not prepared for this! The camera was on me. I smiled, blinking my eyes like Audrey Hepburn.
“I am sure you do not mean in terms of sexual development, Süheyl,” I said, wondering if I should have addressed him by his first and last names. But wouldn’t that have been a bit too
cool
? Besides, by addressing him as I did, I had, in my own way, expressed a kind of reserved intimacy. “If you like, I could tell you about my influences, and about how I find inner peace despite so many problems in the world.”
I told them everything—from Reiki, which I had recently taken an interest in, to Thai boxing and aikido, which I had already mastered, to my high school days when I insisted on becoming an actor and made my parents hire a private tutor to give me acting lessons. But what I told them was really more about the things that had made me who I was than about how I achieved inner peace. I
think I was talking a bit too fast, and had forgotten all about the lessons I’d learned from Alberto, a New Yorker who had taught me the fine points of makeup application, and from that mysterious woman, the marvelous Sofya, whom I followed slavishly back when I was filled with ambition to become a TV star.
The three of us talked about the crime novels penned by Mehmet, about how much of what was described in them was really true, and how none of the crimes in question could have been solved without the help of the police, and so on and so forth. It was smooth sailing, as we passed the ball to one another without a hitch.
“Of course, I get support from the police when I need it,” I said.
“So you have a police connection,” Süheyl responded, trying to corner me. The fake expression of surprise on his face must have looked more sincere on-screen, because close up it wasn’t in the least.
“You could say that, but I wouldn’t want to make his name public.”
“Oh, look, we have an incoming call,” he said, wearing a naughty smirk. “Hello?”
The caller was my childhood friend, my man, my police connection: Selçuk Tayanç, who never denied me his help, and who always showed great concern for my silly caprices. In complete disregard for his position as a member of the force, he proudly announced on national television that, yes, he was my friend. Although, in order to keep his name clean, a couple of times he highlighted our relationship as that of “childhood friends.” I felt my eyes well up. I was already grateful for all he had done, for all I had made him do, and now this. Selçuk’s courage, the way he proudly stood by me, warmed the cockles of my heart.