thing to spice up their sex lives. Some prefer a call girl, others get hold of a rent boy. There are even some who opt for a TV. What’s the big deal?”
“I’m hardly one to judge, but try telling all that to his business partners,” I reminded Ponpon, who was badly in need of a reality check. “The financial markets are full of constipated types who frown on that sort of thing. Don’t you remember all the talk about that businessman who traveled in drag every time he went overseas?”
“So they talked. Then it was all forgotten,” she argued. “You’d think those doing the gossiping were different! They’ve all got something to hide. Each and every one. The ones who haven’t done anything yet are still fantasizing about it. You know that as well as me.”
Wagging her head in a world-weary I’ve-seen-it-all-and-then-some sort of way, Ponpon got up.
“Now I’ll go make us some eksili kofte; we’ll have a nice meal together.”
Just the mention of the dish made my mouth water.
Chapter 10
Two days of Ponpon’s devoted care had worked wonders on me. I scanned myself in the mirror. The shadows under my eyes were gone. I could still count my ribs, but I looked thin rather than wasted.
I’m no stranger to the transformative magic of makeup. While in New York on a tourist visa, broke and jobless, I worked for a spell at an undertaker’s. Illegally, of course. Young and fond of risks, I was struggling to establish a brand-new life, starting from zero. It didn’t last long.
I was paid a pittance at the funeral home, but I learned all the tricks of the trade when it came to makeup. My boss, Alberto, a queer old Italian, was the best in the business, working wonders on even the most damaged corpses in order to make open casket viewings less distressing.
With his heavily accented English, and the odd exclamation and curse in Italian, he’d flounce his way through the task of making a body beautiful. And instruct me along the way. He was incredibly painstaking when it came to the male bodies, examining them in detail and at length; as for the women, he devoted considerably less time to them. No matter what the age, the object was to create an air of girlish innocence, and he was big on pale pink lipsticks and light peach powder. A dab of rouge on each cheek was deemed essential for the older ladies, as well as a bit of white powder on their foreheads. The young ones inevitably received brown eyeliner and a thick coating of mascara, carefully brushed from the root to the tip of the lash. That’s the way families like it, he’d claim. The more innocent looking the corpse, the more cathartic the mourning process.
I also learned how to apply makeup to hands, which usually occupied pride of place, as it were, folded and clutching a string of rosary beads or a cross. Because the veins had collapsed, that is, because they’d been drained of blood, there were no unsightly bulges to deal with. Just a bit of powder was all that was needed, with some concealer if necessary. If the surface had been so damaged that even several coats of paint failed to create the illusion of dewy youth, warm paraffin was injected just below the skin. Alberto claimed the warm wax method was a family secret handed down from his late uncle, who was also a confirmed bachelor-that is, queer. Perhaps, by some twisted logic, my own sexual bent made him consider me a member of the family, for Alberto never hesitated to divulge all he knew.
When he died peacefully in his sleep one morning, I once again found myself alone, jobless and penniless, in deepest New York. I finally ditched the fantasy of starting a new life. I was an idealist back then, determined to earn whatever I got the old-fashioned way, through pluck and toil. I wouldn’t have considered relying on my sexual charms. And when confronted by the odd sexual predator, I would protest in the affronted tones I’d learned from watching Hulya Kocyigit films for so many years.
While reminiscing over those long ago days with dear old Alberto, I’d been busily making myself up. Although tastefully restrained, the result was stunning. It was now time to pay a call on Haluk Pekerdem. Just as the ugly duckling was transformed into the beautiful swan, so had Ponpon’s snotty-nosed friend turned into a real showgirl.
The colors that suit me best are baby pink and baby blue. And black, of course, which suits everyone. I was far too thin to pull off anything black, though, so I settled on a pair of pink trousers with a matching coat over a white sweater. White gloves completed the effect.
When I emerged from the bathroom Ponpon let loose a low wolf whistle.
“
“Thanks to you.”
We embraced, our heads held back far enough that we wouldn’t accidentally brush cheeks and spoil our makeup.
“You could use a bit more color,” Ponpon observed. “You look pale.”
Ponpon makes no distinction between everyday makeup and stage makeup. Subtlety is not her forte: it’s either absolutely nothing or buckets of whatever’s on hand!
But she’d managed to shake my self-confidence, if only slightly. I looked in the mirror again. The lipstick I’d selected did look a bit dull. I could at least apply a bit of gloss.
As I got closer to Haluk Pekerdem’s office in Harbiye, I realized how excited I was. I really must be head over heels. The thought of shaking hands, mine clasped ever so firmly in his, sent shivers down my spine.
The office was near the Hilton, on the side overlooking the sea. It was one of those prestige buildings from the forties and fifties, with high ceilings and impractically spacious rooms. Haluk Pekerdem’s office was like a showcase for select art deco pieces.
My first major obstacle presented itself in the form of a secretary/ receptionist well into upper middle age, the sort who insists on an exhaustive grilling before ushering guests to the magic door. Judging from the plaque on that door, Haluk has no partners or fellow attorneys using the premises. So the entire place, including every stick of furniture, was the exclusive property of Haluk Pekerdem.
“Have you got an appointment?” demanded the woman, after scrutinizing me for several long moments.
No, I didn’t.
“We’re quite busy today,” she explained dismissively.
In the same way a nurse asks if “we” have a fever or have remembered to take “our” medicine, the gorgon at the gate had so identified with her boss that “they” were apparently too busy to see me. As far as I could tell, the only item of business on
“You can wait if you like, but he may not be able to see you,” she said. “Or you could speak to Sibel Han?m or Ertunc Bey.”
My blank expression at the mention of the two names elicited the information that they were “Haluk Bey’s assistants” and a preliminary meeting with one of them would be advisable.
“I really must see Mr. Pekerdem in confidence,” I said firmly.
Damn Ponpon! It was because of her that I used dated expressions like “in confidence.” I felt like an a la turca stage actress.
“Please wait here for a moment.”
I was deposited into a room that was once no doubt used as a broom closet in this stately apartment, furnished with only a small conference table and two enormous armchairs covered in Moroccan leather. There was a window, but no view.
Spinning on her heel as she left the room, the secretary asked if I’d care for refreshments.
“A glass of water, please, at room temperature.”
Fashionable blends of tea or coffee don’t hold a candle to the source of life, plain old water. Unless they drink expensive malt whiskeys or imported beer, health- conscious society tends to favor aqua these days.
I was turning over in my mind what I would say to Haluk, and how I would say it, when the door opened and a girl with glasses poked her head into the room.
“Excuse me,” she said. “I thought it was empty.”
But she kept her eyes locked on me. I smiled lightly, staring back. We were still sizing each other up when she decided she’d seen enough to satisfy her curiosity and shut the door.
The professional secretary/receptionist must have flown straight to her colleague and fellow gossip with the news that I had arrived. And she’d come for a quick peek. It was probably the Sibel Han?m mentioned as an assistant. She couldn’t be called ugly, but she was unlovely, slightly sour, and far too curious.
I fought off boredom by going over in my mind the chronological order of Audrey Hepburn films, and also trying to remember her costars and costumes. My favorites were Roman Holiday, Love in the Afternoon, How to Steal a Million, Charade, and Sabrina. My least favorite ones were
My Fair Lady had clothes galore, one outrageously over-the-top outfit after another… but nothing suitable for everyday wear. And I went cold on the film when I learned that they’d dubbed all of Audrey’s singing parts. I still hadn’t decided if I could rate it an overall success. My head hurt.
Just then the door opened and in came the gossip of a secretary to inform me that Haluk Bey was expecting me in his office.
Haluk greeted me on his feet and with the same insincere smile I imagine he presents to clients. His teeth were amazing, and he oozed charm in a light blue shirt and loosened striped red, white, and ultramarine tie. Not a trace of a belly. Were I to unbutton that shirt, well-toned muscle and golden chest hairs would await me. Of that much at least, I was certain.
The room had a splendid view over the gardens of the Hilton to the distant decorative bridges of the Bosphorus, smooth as a plate of china blue.
As he presented me with a chair, he murmured, “So pleased to see you again,” without even looking at my face. He was a professional liar.
“As am I,” I murmured breathily back.
He looked directly at me for the first time. He seemed to have detected a change in my appearance but couldn’t put his finger on what it was. The corners of his mouth turned up in a half smile.
He must have noticed me blushing.
We sat across from each other, on ultrasuede art deco chairs with black lacquer sloping armrests, our knees so close they’d have touched if I’d dared to inch forward.
“What would you like to drink?” he asked. He was still looking me full in the face. I searched for a spark of interest in his eyes. They were most decidedly sparkle-
