The Kiss Murder (24 page)
I was just about to call the taxi stand again, praying my phone wasn’t bugged, when I heard a rustling at the door. It was the silly boy from the corner market delivering my morning newspapers. I raced to the door and caught him. He seemed frightened by the sight of me, even taking a step backward.
He was right to do so. I was an unusual sight. The poor boy had never seen me in all my finery. It was unlikely he’d ever seen anyone like me at all. He was still quite young. If he liked what he saw, he’d dream about it for a night or two, that was all. Contrary to the folk wisdom of old school psychologists, a glimpse of a man in women’s clothing does not mean a certain future as a homosexual. I’ve never come across a single case of that.
I told him what to do, pressing some change into his hand. He listened, eyes fixed on me. After asking him to repeat what I’d told him, I sent him off. I decided not to watch from the window, in case I was being observed. I waited patiently until I heard the taxi drive off.
I waited a few minutes, then called the taxi stand. Yes, they had the envelope. The boy had told them not to deliver it before ten, “under any circumstances.” They knew the address, having made earlier deliveries.
I took off my shorts, which pinched like a corset, especially around the waist. I kept on the T-shirt as a precaution against the morning chill. I could now sleep in peace. As the reward for a hectic, exciting day, that’s all I asked for.
Chapter 27I
t was well after noon by the time I woke up. I’d had a short, troubled sleep. While I don’t need much rest, I needed more than I’d got. I’d been bombarded with film images, struggling with a blackmail operation just like the evil SPECTRE organization in the James Bond movies. The faces of the company chairmen, whoever they were, didn’t appear in my dream. But I could hear their perverted, growling voices as they made death threats to their victims.
t was well after noon by the time I woke up. I’d had a short, troubled sleep. While I don’t need much rest, I needed more than I’d got. I’d been bombarded with film images, struggling with a blackmail operation just like the evil SPECTRE organization in the James Bond movies. The faces of the company chairmen, whoever they were, didn’t appear in my dream. But I could hear their perverted, growling voices as they made death threats to their victims.
Sofya appeared as a diabolical woman based on the role played by Lotte Lenya in
From Russia with Love
. The wife of composer Kurt Weill in real life, in the film she played a Russian agent working for SPECTRE. Daggers would pop out of the tips of her shoes, and she fought to the death with Bond. Lenya’s homeliness didn’t really mesh with Sofya’s beauty, but so be it, it was just a dream. Sofya would have been much more appropriate as Pussy Galore, the character played by Honor Blackman in
Goldfinger,
or perhaps as Luciana Paluzzi in
Thunderball
.
From Russia with Love
. The wife of composer Kurt Weill in real life, in the film she played a Russian agent working for SPECTRE. Daggers would pop out of the tips of her shoes, and she fought to the death with Bond. Lenya’s homeliness didn’t really mesh with Sofya’s beauty, but so be it, it was just a dream. Sofya would have been much more appropriate as Pussy Galore, the character played by Honor Blackman in
Goldfinger,
or perhaps as Luciana Paluzzi in
Thunderball
.
Anyway, in my dream Lotte Lenya-Sofya and Süleyman, played by whomever, were standing in front of their boss, dejected at having failed to recover Buse’s letters and photos. Their fastidious boss was stroking a fluffy white cat as he listened to them. The more they tried to explain themselves, the more frantic they got, and they started accusing each other and begging for forgiveness. They asked for one last chance.
Süleyman was ready to admit to anything as he sank to his knees and pleaded for his life. He was a sorry creature indeed. He’d lost any and all shreds of dignity and breeding. It was a moving scene, but I was unable to feel any pity for him. The boss pressed a button under his desk. As Sofya looked on with eyes widened in terror, Süleyman writhed as though fried by an electrical current. And died.
Speechless and terrified, Sofya received a set of new orders. I didn’t hear what they were. My dream had ended.
I ran through the images in my head as I prepared my coffee. The conclusions I reached were highly unpleasant: Someone thought I had the blackmail materials. Yes, they were mistaken. But they didn’t know that. And they weren’t satisfied with my explanations. And now they were out to get me.
As I scanned the papers, I listened to my answering machine. Hasan had left a message informing me that the funeral would be held the following day after noon prayers. It was to take place in Samatya at a mosque I’d never even heard of. The service had been arranged by whoever the family members were who had claimed the body. It’d be a good idea to stop by the funeral if I had failed by noon the following day to sort everything out. It would give me a chance to see who was attending the funeral, or at least find out who had claimed the body.
There were two more messages in which the caller hadn’t bothered to speak. Of course, it infuriated me. I was tense enough as it was, and, after the nightmares, this was the final straw.
If it hadn’t been so hot, I would have gone to the gym to work off some toxins and stress. I suppose I could always go to an air-conditioned gym. I’d exercise and look over my fellow enthusiasts.
And the showers are always a mine of titillation. Some look down their noses at me at first, but when they see that I’m every bit as fit as them, if not more, their attitude changes and they approach me one by one. All that’s left for me to do is choose between them. If I time my exit to the showers just right, I’m flooded with offers to lather up my back. What follows is limited only by their imaginations and my inclinations.
But it really was a hot day. Air-conditioned or not, I didn’t feel like going to a fitness center. Neither the desire to maintain my figure nor the thought of shower play was enough to entice me from my home.
I thought it best to sit lazily where I was. I’d watch TV or pick a DVD from off my shelf.
I took a shower to wake up more fully. The cool spray brought me to my senses. As I stepped out, the phone rang. I was soaking wet, and didn’t want to drip water everywhere as I ran to the phone. I listened carefully as I dried myself off, close enough to the answering machine to hear any messages.
It was Turkey’s first and only certified hypnotherapist, Cem Yeğenoğlu. He wished me a good Sunday in his brightest voice. I raced to the phone just in time to catch him. After the usual pleasantries, I asked him for his professional opinion: Could someone be hypnotized without realizing it? If hypnotized, how much would a person reveal? Can you trust what someone says under hypnosis?
He listened carefully without interrupting.
“The answer to all your questions is yes!” he announced. “Although we don’t advise it, hypnosis of the kind you mention is done. Looking directly into the patient’s eyes can be enough to set off a hypnotic trance. In fact, by simply ordering the patient to ‘look at me, look at me,’ followed by a sharp jab with a single finger in the center of the forehead, a hypnotic trance can be initiated. As I told you, however, this is not something we advise or implement.”
His use of the third-person plural “we” would imply that there were others, like himself, who had been certified in America. Considering his claim to be the first and only certified hypnotherapist in Turkey, I wondered who they were. If they existed, I’d never heard of them. No, I think this was simply a case of using the royal “we.”
“Statements made by patients under hypnosis are generally accurate. That is, unless the patient is induced to tell a falsehood. The wishes of the patient are also important. We do not consider it ethical to hypnotize anyone without his permission and full knowledge.”
He’d answered all my questions. Buse could have spoken under hypnosis. The question of who would have hypnotized her, and under what conditions, was one I could not answer.
“So is just anyone able to hypnotize others?” I asked.
“It’s not that simple,” the doctor replied. “Technically, the answer is yes, anyone can do it. A little information, a course, would suffice. In fact, some do it as a hobby. But it only works if the subject is open to being hypnotized. Technically speaking, there is little chance of success otherwise. In order to be a truly effective hypnotist, however, years of training are required.”
“I know that. You told me earlier. What I’d really like to know is, would it be possible for someone to hypnotize someone else just for the fun of it? Without being certified or anything.”
“Of course it would be. And there are those who do, particularly these days. A woman from Portugal even offers them some sort of so-called training. She’s been churning out hypnotists left and right. My Web site and I are both bombarded with questions. There’s so much they don’t know . . . Sometimes they find themselves in a bind and panic. Then they come to me. Oh, by the way, the site could do with updating. It wouldn’t be a major project, just adding some links and some of my more recent photographs. You’ll be able to help me, won’t you?”
It was no time to refuse, or to demand payment. He’d been of use and had immediately demanded payment in kind. He was prompt about settling all debts. The answering machine was still on. It announced with a piercingly unpleasant tone that the message was full, and switched itself off.
Mimicking the sound, I said, “Of course.”
“Come by today if it suits you. I’m free. It’s summer. Everyone’s on holiday; I have few requests for therapy.”
Now, that was a bit too prompt. I couldn’t be expected to be free just because he was. I saw no need for such immediate repayment.
“I won’t be available,” I said. “Unless it’s urgent, I’ll give you a call soon and we’ll sort something out. I’m a bit weighed down with work at the moment.”
“It can wait. Oh, and I’ll be going on holiday next Saturday. It’d be nice to be finished by then.”
I was at his command. As if I didn’t have enough on my plate, I’d now have to update his Web site.
“I don’t think I’ll be able to,” I said. “I’ve taken on so much. And next week will be even busier. Maybe later. Let me finish what I’ve got and I’ll give you a call.”
His reaction was far more reasonable than I’d expected, thankfully. We hung up, promising to speak again as soon as possible.
There was no reason to leave the conversation recorded on my answering machine. I pushed the erase button. I began spreading lotion on my body, my conversation with Cem playing in the background. I started with my shoulders, working my way down. My skin became beautifully slick; I nearly started desiring myself.
One word that Cem had said suddenly caught my attention: “Portugal.” I hadn’t noted it when we were talking, but now I remembered that he had specifically mentioned a hypnotist from Portugal. The lady journalist whose name I’d never learned was also from Portugal. It could be a coincidence. But then again, it might not be.
Excited, I sloshed lotion onto my legs. I wanted to visit the journalist as soon as possible. I threw on some clothes.
As I was going out the door the phone rang, but I didn’t answer. As I locked the door, Ali’s voice floated out. Good—I assumed he’d received the package and had called to chat.
Chapter 28I
gave the waiting taxi driver the address. It was one of the older drivers. Given the slightest encouragement, he’d hold forth on any subject.
gave the waiting taxi driver the address. It was one of the older drivers. Given the slightest encouragement, he’d hold forth on any subject.
As we drove up the ramp to the main motorway, he began:
“I was just about to deliver your package this morning when a customer came. Hüseyin handled it instead. That young friend of yours.”
So Hüseyin was back in action. For whatever that was worth. Strange, the way he seemed to show up whenever there was a crisis.
“Good,” I said.
My tone of voice suggested I was not interested in further conversation. The driver interpreted it correctly.
It suddenly hit me. I’d sent the envelope early in the morning, but hadn’t gone to the window to see who the driver was. I’d also warned them to make sure it wasn’t delivered before ten a.m. Hüseyin had been at the club the previous night, flirting with tubby Müjde. If he’d arrived at work by ten, then nothing much could have happened between them. I wondered how much Müjde had cost him. Or had she serviced him for free, on account of his good looks and youth?
Some of the girls do that. If they run into someone they like, they’ll say, “This one’s just for fun,” and off they go. Although I don’t think much of him, Hüseyin is actually a good-looking guy. Müjde could well have been attracted to him. It’s not like anyone decent ever approaches her. We called her our “country gal.” Because of her plumpness, only those with a predilection for some extra cushioning—that is, country men visiting the big city, mostly middle-aged and older—prefer her. During those rare periods when she adheres to her diet she bargains ferociously, but when her figure is at its fullest, she’ll go for the first bidder, no playing hard to get at all.
The motorway was riddled with road works, as it always is in summer. And as always on a Sunday, everyone in Istanbul takes their family out sightseeing. Any bit of grass, or area shaded by a tree, was a potential picnic spot. The nauseating smell of grilling meat wafted into the open window of the taxi from all directions.
“Just look at this; everyone’s dumped their cars in the middle of the road. What if there was an emergency? There’s no way we’d get through!” I complained. I said all this without thinking. Otherwise, I had no intention of encouraging the driver.
“Isn’t that the truth, sir,” he began, leaping at the chance to make conversation. “Traffic is the worst on Sundays. The roads are pretty clear until noon, but after that it’s a nightmare. If we’d tried to go to the Bosphorus we wouldn’t have made it. That’s how packed it is. I went last week. As if getting there wasn’t bad enough, it took me two hours to get back. As you can imagine, it meant I was out of pocket. It’s because of the coast road, Bağdat Caddesi. Take Hüseyin, for example. Off he went all those hours ago and he still hadn’t returned by the time you called. He may have picked up a fare on the way back, but even so . . .”
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