Mehmet Somer: The Gigolo Murder

“How’s it going?”

I turned my face, half-covered with shaving cream, and looked at her with empty eyes.

“You’re about to die of hunger, God forbid. I should have realized the second I set eyes on you.”

She walked over to my side and popped a piece of hard candy into my mouth. I had no idea where she’d found it.

“It’ll do you good, give you energy.”

Winking, she added, “For now at least.”

She was sucking on one as well, her scarlet lips pursed into a button as she spoke. Cinnamon flavor.

When I emerged from the bathroom Ponpon sat me down across from her, chattering all the while about who had done what with whom, as she applied a thick coat of makeup in the over-the-top style that was all she knew: for my face, a dusting of powder over layer after layer of foundation; for my eyelids, at least four different shades of eye shadow; and for my mouth, lilac lipstick and a dark shade of purple penciled along my lip line.

When I turned to look at myself in the mirror, I couldn’t help smiling in amusement. I looked like something out of Kabuki theater, a stylized, plastic version of myself.

Ponpon misinterpreted my smile.

“You like it, don’t you?” she said. “You look great. Baby’s back and it’s all thanks to me.”

“You don’t think it’s a bit much?” I ventured timidly.

“No, not at all. It’s perfect for a fresh-faced young thing like you. I know how much you adore pastels.”

It’s true that she’d thoughtfully chosen pastels, my favorite, but there were enough of them to paint at least three more faces. It would take me at least half an hour to scrape it all off.

I managed a smile, an appreciative one this time. It didn’t work. There’s no point in trying to fake it when Ponpon’s around. Her face fell when she realized I wasn’t completely thrilled by her artistry.

Every article of clothing selected from the wardrobe was too big for me. The Audrey Hepburn figure I’d struggled to maintain all these years was gone, swiftly replaced by Twiggy’s-and suffering from chronic wasting disease, no less.

“You’re a mess,” Ponpon confirmed. “At this rate we’ll have to choose your clothes in the children’s department.”

We finally decided on a bright red jacket and miniskirt ensemble that I rarely wear. I think Audrey Hepburn wore the same outfit in Charade, only hers was pale pink.

As I held the jacket up in front of me, I studied myself in the mirror. I’d hoped that smiling would make me feel better.

“That won’t do; you’ll need another lipstick,” Ponpon observed through narrowed eyes. She seemed to think that my only problem was that lilac and red don’t match.

The outfit was clearly too big, and the legs sticking out below it were spindly and unshaven.

“It doesn’t fit,” I said.

Lips pursed, a single eyebrow raised, Ponpon looked me up and down.

“You’re right,” she agreed. “It doesn’t.”

Taking off the skirt and jacket, I dejectedly sank down onto a corner of the bed. She came and sat down next to me, putting an arm around my shoulders and pulling me close. I leaned my head against her.

We wordlessly studied ourselves for a moment in the full-length mirror opposite. She sat erect, her ample bosom glorious in its generosity. Shoulders collapsed, I huddled against her dejectedly. Like a child in need of protection. A skinny, weak child with frightened eyes, my ribs sticking out. The garish makeup only heightened the effect: a clownish hussy face and an emaciated, hairy body.

She gently stroked my shoulders and leaned over to kiss the top of my head. Then she pulled me tight. She was watching me in the mirror.

I wanted to cry. To break down completely and sob on that sturdy, warm shoulder. To sniffle and drool. But I couldn’t do it. Ponpon cried for me silently.

“My mascara’s going to run,” she said with a weak laugh.

But she kept crying. Perhaps she was remembering a long ago adventure, one of those great love affairs she always talked about, the ones that inevitably ended in heartbreak, the ones that had left her numb and hard. Or perhaps she cried hoping I’d join in.

But I didn’t. I couldn’t.

The place where Ponpon took me to “have fun” after we’d eaten was none other than the club where she worked. It was nearly time for her to go onstage and, not wanting to leave me alone, she’d dragged me along. I hadn’t seen her new show. Nor was I even faintly interested in doing so. After all, I’d watched her perform for years. How much different would this one be?

The second we entered, she gave the headwaiter a quick rundown of my situation. She wanted to make sure they treated me well. That is, she wanted to make sure I was pitied!

A callous, hard-bitten old thing, the headwaiter nodded his head sympathetically. Compressing his thin lips, he studied me. I suppose he imagined the pose expressed understanding and an appreciation for how much I’d suffered.

The two of them kept talking. Like any true artist, Ponpon was casing the joint, gathering information about the crowd. Beaming, she turned to me.

“Two dear friends of mine have turned up. I’ll make certain you’re seated at their table. You’ll love them. They’re so refined. And there’ll be a man for you to check out, to boot.”

“Perhaps I could sit on my own? Somewhere in the back?”

“I won’t hear such nonsense! You can even watch me from the wings if you like. Really, sweetie!”

I was overcome with drowsiness from the food Ponpon had practically forced down my throat and didn’t have the energy to respond, let alone argue. Back home, all I’d wanted to do was sink back into bed. But the B 12she’d given me at dinner was beginning to take effect. Yes, I was definitely perking up.

We followed the headwaiter to the table with Ponpon’s esteemed guests. They were sitting right in front of the stage.

Ponpon kissed each of them on both cheeks, singing out greetings as she did so. I made a point of hanging back. Although I hadn’t even seen their faces yet, I was already recoiling from the couple’s confident chuckles and throaty coos. But fate had assigned me to Ponpon’s care, and the unavoidable inevitably happened: She turned around and introduced me.

Canan Hanoğlu Pekerdem was the personification of what they call a “true lady”: beautiful, imperious, elegant, and icy. Naturally, she didn’t rise, merely extended a hand for me to clasp, palm turned slightly toward the floor so I wouldn’t miss the large diamond ring. She also displayed a French manicure on that exquisitely shaped hand.

Her hair was styled in the latest fashion, her makeup deceptively simple-and oh so preferable to what I was wearing-her clothing screamed “label,” her jewels were few in number but no doubt insured, and around her floated the summery scent of Vera Wang. In other words, I was green with envy.

Her deep green eyes told me she was as calculating as she was clever.

I turned to the husband, who knew how to treat a lady and had risen to his feet. When I shifted my gaze from the seated wife to the standing husband, I got my first jolt: What a dish!

“My name’s Haluk Pekerdem,” he murmured, enfolding my hand in his. I went weak at the knees. “We’d be so pleased if you joined us tonight.”

Yes, and so would I. I felt myself blush, but was confident Ponpon’s handiwork with the trowel would mask the glow spreading across my face.

Having surrendered me to her friends, Ponpon headed for her dressing room.

Haluk Pekerdem was a well-known attorney who handled sensational corporate lawsuits and the occasional libel suit brought against the press. Any self-respecting businessman made a point of carrying his card. I could only guess at the number of court scribes and junior partners whose hearts he’d set aflutter. He was even better looking in person than the glimpses I remembered having of him in newspapers, magazines, and on the occasional news program. While previously he had caught my attention as someone worth a second look, he was certainly proof that not everyone is photogenic. Yes, his was one of those fabulous faces to which a photographer can’t begin to do justice.