Mehmet Somer - The Gigolo Murder

“In what way?” I asked.

“You know… like he wants it, but doesn’t want it. One of those who are desperate to give it up but don’t bend over when the time comes-and despise those who do. Do you see what I mean?”

I had no idea what she meant. If even Ponpon, who was as eloquent as they come, couldn’t find the words to express what she was talking about, it must be difficult indeed to explain.

“You know, there are some people who want something, crave it even, but they’re too proud to admit it, even to themselves. Then they despise, or belittle, or harm whatever it is. Almost as though mocking the object of their desire will stop them from wanting it. Do you get what I mean, sweetie?”

“Like the fable about the fox and the sour grapes?”

“No, not exactly… Ay , enough already! Forget it.”

As expected, Haluk Pekerdem was representing his brother-in-law. His name was mentioned in the article, but there was no photograph, or any further details.

“Snap out of it, sweetie. You’re all spaced out.”

Ponpon was right.

“Penny for your thoughts.” She winked.

No amount of money would have persuaded me to admit I’d been lost in a reverie over Haluk Pekerdem.

In Ponpon’s words, I was “back in business” and “good as new.” She left me no choice but to allow the world to come crashing in and to respond civilly as it did so. There was no point in putting it off.

“Make sure to smile when you speak; you’ll sound friendlier,” she instructed. Then Ponpon began dialing every one of the numbers she’d memorized.

She’d begin by speaking at length herself, before thrusting the phone into my hand, my cue to embark on a set string of pleasantries: “Hello… How are you… I’m fine…” This arrangement allowed Ponpon to dramatize the depths of my depression with a hair-raising description of my ruined health and cadaverous appearance, then move on to an excruciatingly detailed and heroic account of her own role in my salvation, from the shade of eye shadow she’d administered to what she’d prepared for each of my meals.

When headwaiter and gossipmonger Hasan heard my voice, he insisted on coming round. I had no doubt that he’d conspired with Ponpon to get his foot in the door. He is self-important and arrogant, but in fact he’s the only waiter at my club, and he had kept the place going during my breakdown, for which I was grateful. We agreed on a time that day for his visit.

At my insistence, we also called my employer, Ali. I freelance for his computer security firm, working on a commission basis only. Our partnership has been highly profitable for us both. He knows what I am and what I do nights, but doesn’t meddle; for my part, I overlook his yuppie ways and all-consuming quest for the almighty dollar. For days now, I hadn’t been by the office, answered the phone, responded to messages, or returned his e-mails. It was only natural that he’d wonder what had happened, especially since so much of his business depends on me. I’d have to bite the bullet and phone him. I had no intention of losing my day job as a computer whiz, custom designing antihacker security programs.

When I was put through, he cursed at the sound of my voice, telling me in dollar terms how much my absence had cost us-that is, him. I was ordered to report to the office immediately to discuss several new projects.

Ali and I don’t see much of each other outside work. Although our business relationship has lasted for years, and we’ve made each other rich, he’s never even seen my home. In any case, Ponpon hadn’t scheduled him in for a visit, so I promised to stop at the office as soon as I could.

“We’re losing business every day you’re in hiding,” he grumbled. “Competition is fierce. They’ll think we’re not available anymore. Kemal Barutçu is snapping up all our clients. I hope you realize we’ll be reduced to selling PC and standard software programs if things go on like this!”

I wasn’t ready for his tirade, so in order to end it, I meekly mumbled, “Okay.”

Perceptive Ponpon intervened on my behalf, snatching the receiver from my hand to interject, “He’s still very weak. I’ll have to ask you to keep it short.”

“Who was that?”

“A relative,” I said, grabbing the phone back. “My spiritual aunt.”

Ponpon grimaced. She’d have preferred being described as a younger sister.

Visitors starting arriving even before Fatoş Abla had finished waxing my legs. The appointments Ponpon had so carefully spaced out over the late afternoon and evening were running like clockwork, but unfortunately our growing number of visitors appeared disinclined to leave as punctually as they’d arrived. My living room had turned into what appeared at first glance to be a coffee klatsch of housewives in rather risqué costumes, perhaps a Tupperware party or Avon lady demonstration. I was the only person in the room who wasn’t engrossed in a screeching conversation. Occasionally, one of the girls would shoot me a glance of pity, but tinged with what was unmistakable envy.

I didn’t bother to attempt to follow their conversations, just sat there amid an unintelligible buzz of baritone and falsetto voices. Nor was I interested in which girl had poached which boyfriend, or triumphant accounts of the miracles wrought by hormone injections and silicon implants.

That is, until my attention was caught by Dump Truck Beyza.

“I had such a shock this morning! An old flame of mine was murdered! And who killed him? Some high-society loan shark! You can’t imagine how wonderful he was. Once he got it up, it never came down. And incredibly well hung, like he’d strapped on a Coke bottle. The sort of man everyone should experience at least once. Amen.”

“His death has no doubt added several inches,” Ponpon interrupted. “Feel free to elaborate as much as you like, sweetie. None of us will be able to verify what you say now that’s he’s dead.”

“If I’m lying, may Allah smite me right on the spot,” exclaimed Dump Truck Beyza, lodging a large hand between her considerable breasts.

Blackbrow Lulu jumped in, her mouth still full of cake.

“Don’t say that! You’ve been smitten enough as it is.”

“Common! You’re all just common,” Dump Truck Beyza spat, before turning to me with, “Excuse me. Not you, of course. But I can’t think why you’re still friends with this lot.”

I was intrigued despite myself.

“So you knew Volkan? The guy in the paper today?”

“What do you think I’m saying? You’re not even listening! You never listen to me!”

Ponpon responded to this unfortunate attack on my person by lifting a warning eyebrow. She wouldn’t allow any bad behavior. Dear Ponpon was protecting me. Allowing her eyes to flutter shut dramatically, she pursed her lips and pointed to her head with the index finger of her left hand. Then she silently mouthed the word “medication.”

What’s more, she did all this looking directly at me. There’s no way I could have missed it.

“What medication? What did you give me? When?” I asked.

“At breakfast,” she said, slowly mouthing the words in a barely audible and slightly ominous voice.

“What medicine?”

“Xanax.”

She smiled proudly, a child expecting a reward for a good deed.

“But isn’t that a drug?” asked Melisa, gulping down a mouthful of coffee.

Turning in Melisa’s direction, Ponpon slowly opened and shut her eyelids, thus replying in the affirmative to her question.

“I consulted a physician,” she added in authoritative tones. “They don’t sell it without a prescription.”

“I’m sure you did the right thing,” I said.