Mehmet Somer - The Gigolo Murder

The association condemned the attacks on its drivers. This wasn’t the first one. In fact, as a form of protest and to enlighten the general public, they intended to turn out in force at the funeral. It was hoped that taxi drivers, too, would show up and swell their numbers.

The entire community was in mourning. They blamed the state for not providing security. If they weren’t safe, what difference did it make if they had insurance and health care? But they paid their taxes like everyone else. I was informed at length of the deep distress of the family, how brother Okan Sarıdoğan and brother-in-law Ziya Göktaş had the support and solidarity not only of the minibus drivers on the Sariyer line, but of all the drivers across Istanbul. So I was able to confirm what line the brother-in-law worked on, and learned that there was a brother: Okan. An interview with him could be helpful. The most useful tidbits often pop out of the least promising mouths.

I had just one problem to consider: In what guise should I pay a call? As a foxy lady journalist, or as a slightly camp correspondent? A short skirt surely would get me more information, but I would be a helpless sheep among a horny pack of wolves. I decided to go as a man.

I didn’t tell Ponpon what I was up to. She was liable to revert to her role of guardian angel and refuse to leave my side. I dressed and left, taking with me as accessories a huge old camera and my minirecorder.

The old minibus stop in Taksim was gone, and I had no idea where they’d moved it to. I was sorry I hadn’t thought to ask the association. It would be difficult to find in the hubbub of Beşsiktaş. I hailed the next cab, and the driver’s face lit up when I told him to take me to Sariyer. He even stopped slouching in anticipation of the fare. I seized the opportunity to tell him to switch off the harrowing music. I simply will not tolerate anguished songs drumming the message into my subconscious that life is full of pain and sorrow. Particularly when I’m just emerging from a deep depression.

I’d intended to use the long drive to the other end of the Bosphorus as an opportunity to do some serious thinking. But as we passed Maslak and traveled through forested land, I couldn’t help reflecting instead on how few and far between green spaces are in Istanbul today, and how people like me, who live in the heart of the city and rarely travel farther than a kilometer from their homes, seldom have the opportunity to see the few trees that are left.

The final stop was full of minibuses. They were parked in a long line, as they always are, except for rush hour. Everyone had heard about Volkan, and they all had different theories concerning his end. Most subscribed to the belief that he had been robbed. A few ventured the possibility of a jealous husband or boyfriend. None mentioned the fact that Volkan had been a gigolo. In fact, they pretended they weren’t even aware of it. After listening to a couple of the drivers I decided they spent too much time watching films on TV. One fact was obvious: a highflier like Faruk Hanoğlu wouldn’t have been caught dead getting into a minibus.

They graciously supplied me with a glass of tea while they looked for Okan and Ziya. Neither could be found, but I was assured that if I waited, they’d come.

“Ziya is a total wreck,” confided the older one. “He loved that boy like a son.”

The virtues of Volkan were listed at length. Such a good heart, so multitalented and ready to help anyone in need; the story of his rise from a boyish fare collector to the owner of a minibus was repeated several times, either by a single voice or as a gruff chorus.

I sipped the awful tea. My stomach would be skinned from the inside if I drank it, but failure to do so would be a terrible discourtesy. I took tiny sips for the better part of half an hour. As various drivers headed for the road, others replaced them, each doing his bit to contribute to the legend springing up around Saint Volkan. But there was still no sign of the brother-in-law, Ziya, or the brother, Okan.

I was getting bored. If any of the girls were here they’d be astonished I could get sick of sitting amid so many hairy men. But bored I was. It must have been the waiting.

Finally, I thanked them and stood up. A man in his forties rose to accompany me. He clearly wished to have a private word. I thought I’d been fairly discreet, but someone had spotted what I was. Yes, that must be it. He threw a friendly arm around my shoulder and walked with me as far as the main road.

His name was Tuncer.

“Don’t let on that you heard it from me, but Okan, Volkan, and Ziya-the three of them-are all trouble. Don’t believe anything the others said. They think they’re showing solidarity. It wasn’t like that at all.”

Interesting.

“What do you mean?” I prompted.

“I’m heading home, to Kurtuluş,” he said. “If you like, I can drop you off somewhere.”

“Thank you so much,” I accepted.

It was too good to be true.

Between deep drags on a cigarette, Tuncer talked the entire length of the trip. The brand he smoked and his choice of words pinned him as an old left-winger.

“Okan’s a substance abuser,” he began. “Totally useless.”

“An alcoholic?” I asked.

“At first he was, now he smokes hash. Actually, he takes whatever he can get his hands on. Then he runs out of money, of course. And he can’t work. Not all spaced-out. He had a couple of accidents, nothing serious. Realized he couldn’t go on. Couldn’t keep driving. He started leasing his minibus by the day. Started sitting in the coffeehouse all day, waiting to collect his cut. Once he got his money, he’d go and buy booze, hash, grass.”

“No one mentioned that.”

“They’d all clam up if you asked about it. That’s our way. All in the name of solidarity.”

“So why are you telling me?”

“So that someone knows the truth, knows the truth so they can write about it,” he said. “But like I said, I didn’t tell you.”

“I understand.”

We drove for a while in silence. Traffic grew worse near Maslak; we slowed to a crawl.

“Another accident,” Tuncer muttered. “At the sight of an empty road they floor it. And for what! We’ve all got the same gas pedals under our feet.”

“How true.”

It was a perfect time to change the subject and calm him down.

“I know about Okan now,” I said. “What about Volkan and Ziya?”

“They say you shouldn’t speak ill of the dead, but Volkan wasn’t anything like what they told you. You’d think he was some kind of angel. Far from it. Those manicured sideburns, tall and fit, full of himself, hitting on anyone in a skirt. He was nothing but trouble.”

He seemed hesitant to elaborate, unsure of exactly how much I already knew. I cut to the chase.

“He was a gigolo, they say.”

“Good for you,” he blurted out in relief. “So you know all about that. The word’s out.”

He’d begun by addressing me with the formal siz but had switched to the more familiar sen at some point. I wasn’t entirely pleased about that.

“He was a good-looking guy, knew how to please old ladies and homosexuals… for the right price, of course.”

The fact that he’d avoided a word more disparaging than “homosexual” was another indication of his left-wing background.

“Handy, was he?”

“How do I know? It’s not like I took him to bed…” he guffawed, showing tar-blackened teeth.

“Once he started earning money on the side he stopped coming to work regularly. He handed his minibus over to his brother. Not a smart move that. Okan would spend all day getting high, then pick a fight with whoever was using the minibus for the day, claiming they hadn’t handed over enough cash. And whatever he did get, he spent on booze and dope. Anyone with sense wouldn’t work for him again, but some were desperate for a job.”