Mehmet Somer - The Gigolo Murder

Seeking relief for the pangs in my stomach, I rummaged through the kitchen cupboards. There wasn’t much there. I returned to bed with half a package of stale potato chips. The sheets were still warm.

The doorbell rang. There was no way I’d open the door. Whoever it was, they could ring and ring, get bored, and eventually go away. Ignoring the sound, I continued sipping coffee as I watched a music video on TV.

There was pounding on the door.

“I know you’re home. Open up, or I’ll break down the door.”

It was Ponpon. My loyal, devoted, ever cheerful friend Ponpon. At that moment, her numerous admirable qualities only made her that much more annoying.

She wouldn’t be able to break down a steel door. I brushed her from my mind, turning up the volume on the TV to mask the racket. Ponpon raised her voice to a shout. The voice lessons she’d taken many years earlier enabled her now, at my house, to produce a soulless screeching reminiscent of Sertab Erener in top form. Fortunately, her cries conveyed more emotion than Erener, who belts out each song with the same utter lack of feeling. There was something threatening about Ponpon’s cries; she was bullying me openly. And by now there wasn’t a soul in the apartment building who didn’t know it.

“If you don’t open up I’ll get the police to smash the door down. I mean it. Open up this instant!”

She meant it. Like the other girls, Ponpon doesn’t know where to stop. I waited until the clip for R.E.M.’s “Losing My Religion” had ended, deciding once again that it was my all-time favorite and that it accompanies full-blown depression beautifully.

Ponpon clearly had no intention of leaving. The screeching was intermittent, but the pounding nonstop. I decided to open the door. I’d make up some excuse to get rid of her; failing that, I’d tell her off and send her on her way.

When I opened the door a crack, she pushed her way in.

“Look here, girlfriend, if you’re trying to make me worry myself to death, give it up already. I’ll wring your neck first!”

Ponpon was at least as tall as me, but nearly twice the weight. The threat was not an idle one, as she grabbed me by the arm and propelled me inside. I was in no shape to defend myself with either Thai boxing or aikido.

“Leave me alone,” I said.

Her grip on my arm hurt.

“Don’t even think about it,” she barked. “I came here to get you to snap out of it. What’s with this depression, sweetie? Enough already. It’s been weeks. You’re acting like there aren’t any other men around. For a dish like you? They’re everywhere!”

Bug-eyed, she droned on and on, as though that was the only problem.

“Cut the long face! I’m not going anywhere until you’re better.”

“Enough Ponpon! Please… go. Leave me alone!”

“You’re a real nutcase! I came here under my own steam, and I’ll leave when I’m good and ready. I’m not taking orders from you. Humph!”

I was unable to lift a finger. Ponpon’s persistence is well-known. Once she’s made up her mind, that’s it.

She turned on the lights and threw open the curtains. I couldn’t understand why she bothered. It was dark outside.

“It’s so stuffy in here,” she scolded, opening the windows. A damp chill filled the room. Istanbul was suffering one of its raw, blustery winters.

“Ponpon, you heard me. Go!” I said, surprised by the vigor in my voice.

“Don’t be ridiculous, ayol . You’re not thinking straight. You’re not yourself…”

“Go, I said! Get lost, ayol!”

“See, you said ‘ ayol. ’ You’re coming around. And your eyes are positively shining.”

“Shining daggers, you mean,” I corrected her.

“Well, shining nonetheless,” she shot back.

“Ponpon, my nerves are shattered. Don’t push me. I’m in no shape to fight. Just go straight to the door, and leave.”

“ Ayol , who do you think you’re trying to order around? Getting on your nerves, am I? Yes, sir! I’ve gotta laugh at that one. Ayol , you’re the one who’s been getting on my nerves-for a long time now!”

“This is my house,” I pointed out. “It’s my home, and I don’t want you here. That’s final.”

“You know not what you say. First we’ll get you bathed, then a shave and some makeup. Then you’ll be ready to chat.”

She radiated energy, positively glowing in the most meaningless and futile way.

Ponpon raked me over with her eyes. She was probably calculating exactly how much weight I’d lost. With my beard stubble and the rings under my eyes, I must have been a sight indeed.

“Ay!” she screeched shrilly, demonstrating once again those hours of formal voice lessons. “Just what is it with you? You’re skin and bones. I’m not leaving you like this. And your clothes stink. Now march! Straight to the shower!”

I was dragged to the bathroom and thrust inside. I didn’t have the strength to put up a fight. Like a helpless child, I surrendered.

“Are you going to wash yourself, or shall I?”

“I’ll wash myself,” I said, bowing my head.

“Good,” she replied briskly, but didn’t forget to take the key with her as she left. “Leave the door open…”

She must have been afraid I’d try something stupid. I hadn’t even considered such drastic measures. At most, I’d have locked myself inside and waited until she left. But Ponpon wasn’t going to be outdone in a waiting game or test of wills. She’d invariably come out ahead.

Ponpon had been around the block. She knew it all, and had a strong opinion on every subject and a solution to every problem. She spoke mysteriously of numerous adventures, had supposedly savored every conceivable flavor of love and screwed in every possible position. I’d never known her to be involved with anyone, though; just had a series of one-sided crushes.

She claimed to have become a transvestite solely to spite her family. She also claimed that she’d never worked the streets, that she’d always been too “refined” for that sort of thing. She’d been working at the same nightclub for years, taking to the stage in Bodrum in the summer. She was certainly consistent. The doyenne of our little circle, the Yıldız Kenter, even the Bedia Muvahhit, of our glittery stage. Ponpon paints on heart-shaped lips and vaudeville makeup, just like Bedia, and has us in stitches with the same subtle, cutting wit.

When I turned on the hair dryer, she poked her head in.

“Good for you,” she said. “See how much better you look. Fresh as a daisy.”

She studied my naked body, from head to toe. Clearly she didn’t think much of what she saw.

“When was the last time you ate? You look like one of those Ethiopians.”

“I eat,” I protested guiltily.

“Don’t lie to me. The kitchen’s bare. I checked the rubbish bin, too. Empty.”

I wasn’t pleased that she’d gone so far as to rummage through my garbage. But, on the other hand, her interest pleased me, gave me a sense of pride.

“I just had some potato chips.”

She screwed up her face, as aghast as any health nut.

“That doesn’t count. Junk doesn’t replace real food!”

Ponpon is one of those who believe there is a direct link between a balanced diet and health, and between a healthy appetite and happiness.

“Your legs are getting all stubbly, too, but we’ll sort that out another time,” she said. “Now why don’t you give yourself a good shave. I’ll be waiting.”

Shaving was more difficult than I’d expected. With shaky hands I set about doing something I used to do effortlessly twice a day. Now I was afraid of cutting my face. Fear! Yes, a sense of fear. So, somewhere deep inside, there was still a spark of self-interest. Not all my feelings had dried up and died. I was able to feel fear.