Mehmet Somer - The Gigolo Murder

I was immediately assigned the role of conversation piece: Canan monopolized the conversation with Haluk on the pretense that she was drawing him out for my benefit. She talked about every subject under the sun.

I sat there, silent and deeply ashamed, in a shapeless outfit and painted face, supposedly nursing an unhealed wound but all atingle for the unattainable man so close by. I was embarrassed by the whole situation. Still, I smiled at all they said and responded with the briefest possible replies.

Canan, who had taken pains to enunciate in bell-like tones each syllable of the Hanoğlu surname she’d inherited from her father, was not a lady of leisure, as I’d expect of someone of her class, but took an active interest in the family’s yarn business. They had connections overseas. She mentioned, in passing of course, that she was often forced to pop over to England.

I prayed that Ponpon would soon appear onstage, that for the rest of the night I’d be free to look elsewhere, that I’d no longer have to politely meet their eyes; or rather, that I wouldn’t have to refrain from simply staring into Haluk’s. My heart still aching from abandonment, my soul as black as night, there was most certainly no point in falling for someone oozing heterosexuality from every pore, particularly while he sat across from me and next to his doting wife. Sometimes one thing can lead to another, and a cautious overture is not necessarily ill-advised, but I wasn’t up to it. I was terrified that another blow to my fragile, bruised self-esteem could well push me over the edge.

Although I struggled to avoid his eyes, the table at which the three of us were seated was tiny. Even when I kept my eyes demurely downcast, I saw those hands, one holding a glass of whiskey, the other occasionally reaching for a nut, well-groomed, vein-filled hands that had grown strong and large playing elite sports but had remained entirely free of calluses. His nails were wide and curved at the edges, not trimmed too short. He was wearing a wedding ring, the only blemish on those perfect hands. I’m not a hand fetishist, but those paws were to die for. I’d have allowed them to travel the length and breadth of my body. In fact…

Ponpon took the stage in the nick of time.

Her new show had a Latin theme, from the melodic rhythms of sevillanas to the driving eroticism of the tango: samba, flamenco, castanets, multilayered skirts… After the frilly skirt had done its duty in a flamenco dance number, off it went, revealing a skin-tight skirt with hip-high slashes and fishnet stockings, and the entrance of a slightly mincing but tall and muscular tango partner.

As the simpering tyrant jealously guarded his submissive Ponpon, who was sweating buckets by now (and had thrown her considerable weight into his arms, as though for dear life), Haluk answered his cell phone. He was far too well bred to allow his phone to ring during a performance, so he must have felt its warning vibration. Looking at me and his wife apologetically, he listened for a moment. Whatever it was he heard over the Latin racket, his expression changed completely. Canan and I both looked at him, alarmed.

“Excuse me, I won’t be a minute,” he said, as he rose and walked to the door, cell phone still pressed to his ear.

Not missing a beat, hips thrusting and feet kicking, Ponpon was watching us out of the corner of her eye, no doubt wondering why Haluk had left so abruptly. She’s such a pro, I’m sure I’m the only one who noticed.

“It must be one of his clients,” Canan explained. “They ring at the most inconvenient times. Representing tycoons does have its drawbacks, I suppose.”

“I’m certain it does,” I murmured agreeably.

“They think that the fee he commands entitles them to pick up the phone whenever they please.”

“I’m sure they pay for the privilege,” I observed, even more agreeably.

She settled for a wan smile, then turned her face toward the stage to indicate that our little exchange had been terminated. The curve of her lip on the side of the face that she presented me with suggested that although events outside her world meant little to her, she was absolutely certain that no offense would be taken.

I wasn’t jealous. Not yet. But were I to become so-and it happens fairly often-it would be toward someone like Canan. The fact that she shares a bed with Haluk would have been sufficient grounds. But even if she didn’t, her feminine graces would have provoked envy at the least.

Haluk was noticeably pale when he returned to our table. Even in the dimly lit room, it was clear the color had drained from his face.

“That was Faruk on the phone,” he said.

That information was directed at Canan. After all, the name Faruk meant nothing to me.

“He’s been arrested for murder.”

I wasn’t the only person at the table to be stunned. But I was the only one content to gaze on worshipfully at Haluk. She insisted on speaking.

“I don’t understand.”

“On suspicion of killing a minibus driver.”

He glanced at me apologetically as he spoke; his eyes were deep and riveting. I wanted to dive into them, to surrender myself completely.

Canan was not about to allow me to do any diving.

“He had a traffic accident?”

“Dear, you know they don’t detain anyone right away for a traffic accident.”

When Ponpon, who had just begun her grand finale, realized that the attentions of her guests of honor, sitting at the VIP table no less, were focused on one another rather than on her spectacle, she resorted to a catcall from the stage.

“Sir, would you mind bargaining with the ladies after the show?”

With three sets of outraged eyes suddenly trained on her, Ponpon realized she’d committed a major faux pas. She froze for a split second.

“I’m afraid I have to leave immediately,” Haluk said.

“I’m coming, too.”

“But that would be rude to our guest.”

That he would think of me at a time like this, refer to me as their “guest” even though Ponpon had forced me on them, filled with me pride and allowed me to be gracious.

“I really must insist you leave now. Don’t trouble yourself by thinking of me at a time like this. You have urgent business. And Ponpon is a dear friend, so I won’t be left alone for long. I’ll pass along your regrets. Now please, do go.”

“This has all been most unfortunate,” said Haluk, a gentleman to the end. But they proceeded to leave me there anyway, each of them handing me a business card as they wished me a good night and assured me they wished to meet again as soon as possible. Ponpon’s astonished eyes on their backs, they left the club.

I couldn’t help looking at their departing backs as well. What a pair they were! My eyes had strayed to Haluk’s bottom. He’d thrust his hands into his trouser pockets, causing his jacket to ride up. Straining against the fine fabric of the seat of his pants-a silk blend, surely-was a magnificently muscular pair of buttocks, two thrusting halves of a crisp apple, the wondrous dancing motions of which were visible even from where I sat, riveted, until they’d swaggered right out the door.

That was how the murder fell straight into my lap, sucking me deep into a swirling vortex of events.

On the way back to my place I told Ponpon everything that had happened. So relieved was she to learn that they hadn’t merely walked out on her show that she began chattering on about everything she knew concerning both Canan and Haluk.

Canan came from money. Her prosperous central Anatolian family had settled in Istanbul shortly after World War II and quickly, in less than a decade, their small fortune had blossomed into a large one. The result of her father’s second, and final, marriage, she was an only child, although patriarch Hanoğlu had also fathered two sons with his first wife. Canan enjoyed all the advantages rich parents can buy, including nannies, private tutors, and a Swiss education. Her family did all they could to spoil her, and she was the apple of her doting father’s eye.