Mehmet Somer - The Gigolo Murder

I observed that Nimet’s eyes had narrowed, as with pursed lips she sorted through the documents more and more quickly. Whatever she was looking for, she obviously hadn’t found it.

The upstairs room of the Hanoğlu yalı I was led to was even more spectacular than the one in which Faruk Bey had received me. The view and the antiques were equally magnificent. I felt like I was in a château in the Loire Valley. But then again, nothing in the Loire Valley looks out on the Bosphorus, today a deep blue and at arm’s length. A white vapur glided past. I fought the urge to wave to the passengers in childlike delight.

“Here’s your computer!”

Nimet had placed a laptop on the tiny writing desk in front of the window. The legs of the desk appeared too delicate to support the weight of the laptop.

“Now,” she said briskly, “while you do whatever it is you need to do, I’ll continue examining the things from the safe-deposit box. Faruk’s account books are here as well. If necessary, we’ll look them over, too.”

“Nimet, I’d love you to address me as sen,” I said. I’d deliberately used only her first name, along with the more formal siz . She didn’t need to know that it was a privilege enjoyed by few.

The smile she bestowed on me was warm and somehow heart-breaking, perfectly encapsulating the current state of her heart, mind, and soul.

“Naturally,” she said. “But use sen with me as well, would you…”

The cupboard she opened was filled with notebooks, labeled and leather-bound.

“As you can imagine, these are strictly confidential. But I no longer have the luxury of privacy. We’ll look through them together and destroy what we must.”

I turned on the computer, hesitantly flipping through one of the notebooks while I waited. It comprised a meticulously penned list of names, sums, and dates. There were also explanatory notes next to some of the names: identities, references, questions.

Nimet had settled onto a “Josephine” sofa at the other end of the room. I’d always wanted one, upholstered in Bordeaux velvet, like hers. Behind her, a mille fleurs tapisserie , fine as a Botticelli, hung from the high ceiling. Standing among thousands of wildflowers in the clearing of a dark forest was a maiden, in a pale blue gown and conical hat, and three hunters, the faces of whom were obscured. Cinnamon-colored game birds with huge wings drooped gracefully from the mouths of long-eared hunting dogs. In the background, a fairy-tale hilltop castle and nearly transparent white unicorn, its head peeping out from behind a tree, its eyes on the maiden.

The computer was ready to go, and so was I. Sitting on the spindly Gobelin tapestry chair, I uploaded my CDs. The chair was more comfortable than it looked. I was soon absorbed in my work.

“Would you like something to eat?”

I often forget to eat when I’m concentrating. Many hours had passed since breakfast, and I didn’t feel hungry. But I liked the idea.

“Please,” I said.

“I’ll see what we have,” she said as she left the room.

We were soon being served by Esra Hanım, a rotund woman in her fifties with ample breasts. On one side of the enormous platter she carried were rows of cold cuts; on the other side, my favorite delicacy of all time, Circassian shredded and dressed chicken. The middle of the platter was heaped with stuffed cabbage and vine leaves drizzled with olive oil, and a generous helping of kuru mantı.

The question came as we were enjoying our late lunch. In fact, I was, at that moment, once again totally absorbed by the Bosphorus; I was skimming the waters as I flew all the way to the Asian shore.

“Why do you dress like that?”

I paused for a long moment, eyes fixed on the view. Then I turned to look at her. I deliberately chewed a piece of chicken, and swallowed hard.

“You’re obviously a man; why do you wear women’s clothing?”

I chewed it over some more. Then I reached for my glass of water, taking care to smile.

Something was missing. Yes, we would need some music. Light strings would do, or a chamber orchestra. Or even some soft crooning. Dean Martin, perhaps.

“I like it,” I said.

She wasn’t satisfied. She continued looking at me with questioning eyes.

“Do you feel like a woman?”

Alright, we had a couple of murders to solve and needed to work together, but I wondered if that gave her the right to delve quite so deeply and abruptly into my private life.

“Sometimes…” I said.

“How long have you been like this?”

“A transvestite, you mean?”

“Yes…”

“For quite some time, I suppose. I also dress as a man at times.”

What was I saying? That last part sounded almost defensive.

“If you’d rather not talk about it, let’s not. I just wondered…”

She’d returned to her plate and was avoiding my eyes. She toyed with a piece of warm kuru mantı.

“I haven’t met many people like you, that’s all…” she said.

I could have gone into the philosophy and history of cross-dressing, expounding my own views and feelings on the subject, bringing up the fact that not a few straight men get a kick out of wearing silky panties, heels, and nail polish, not to mention that some women, too, choose to dress in masculine clothing on occasion, among them Marlene Dietrich and George Sand… But I couldn’t be bothered.

The fiery reflection of the setting sun was captured in the tens of thousands of windows on the Asian shore, the deepening shadows bringing into stunning relief each detail of the view I watched in silence.

Cihad2000 had worked hard. When combined with Volkan’s papers and Faruk’s notebooks, we would get a clearer picture. Nimet was one of those compulsive note takers. Color-coded pens were used to mark dossiers laid on the floor.

“Mind mapping,” she said. “I was taught in Switzerland. It’s a highly effective aid in study, organization, and problem solving.”

She was right. We’d made significant progress in sorting through a complex web of relationships. But we hadn’t yet found the killer or the motive.

The servants were told to turn away visitors and not to put through phone calls.

During a break, I called Ponpon, to tell her where I was and not to worry, as well as Kemal Barutçu and Hasan. I kept it short. I’d have plenty of time to share details later.

“I’d like some cognac,” Nimet announced as she stretched out on the Josephine. “It’s getting chilly. A spot of cognac would warm us up. Would you like one?”

“Certainly,” I told her.

“You know,” she said, “this reminds me of my school days. Boarding school… just us girls and a bottle of cognac…”

I wanted to hug her. I’d decided to love her, and it didn’t matter what she said or did.

Crystal balloons of cognac cupped in our hands, we sat on the floor, looking over the mapped-out and labeled files and papers. We switched a few of them over. New links were established. It was getting dark outside. Lights twinkled, one by one, on the opposite shore; ships began to glow.

I was pacing around the room. We’d taken nearly all of the notebooks out of Faruk’s rosewood cupboard. The palatial carpet was obscured by papers and notes.

“Why don’t we play some music?” I suggested. “It always does the trick with me. It’s inspiring.”

I suddenly remembered that the house was still in mourning. “Would music be disrespectful?”

“Of course it won’t.” She smiled. “What shall we listen to?”

There was no point in asking what she had. It’d take too long to run through a whole list of selections.

“Something soft,” I said.