Instead, I was flanked by Cuneyt, who’s considered cute only because of muscles regularly inflated at the gym, and Hasan, whose orientation and tastes remain a mystery, but who works for pennies at a transvestite bar, traipses around with his butt crack showing, and refuses to put out for man, woman, or anything in-between. This must be what they mean when they talk of cruel fate.
“Shall I drop you off at home?” Hasan asked.
“No!” I said. “I’ve just come to. And I’m fine. I just need a bit of air.”
“Boss, you gave us such a scare,” Cuneyt chimed in, his eyes like saucers. “And you’ve only just risen from your sickbed.”
“Do you want me to tell Ponpon?”
“No, Hasan,” I said. “It was hard enough to get rid of her. Let me rest in peace.”
“But you’ve been resting for weeks,” said Cuneyt.
“Keep out of this!” I scolded him, before turning on Hasan. “It looks like everyone knows everything. I’ll have a word with you about that later.”
“Oh, come on, is Cuneyt a stranger?”
He imagined he’d get off the hook by seeming to spring to Cuneyt’s defense. He was wrong.
“I’ve had quite enough air, and quite enough of you,” I snapped. “Let’s go back in.”
A special table had been prepared for me, the one Hasan dubs the VIP corner. At a strategic point just between the dance floor and the room, it’s the best place to see and be seen. I sat down. Sukru brought me my virgin Mary. It was perfect, the best I’ve had except for mixes imported from America. Not only could he make a perfect drink, Sukru was also one of the last of the twink-chasers. Just Sukru and Ziya, the brother-in-law of that most accommodating of gigolos, Volkan.
The girls took turns sitting with me, outdoing each other in expressions of concern and sympathy. But even as I nodded mechanically and smiled graciously, I continued thinking of Ziya Goktas. What was he up to these days? And what about his wife, Volkan’s sister? Did she know?
The moment I felt stronger, barring any more fainting spells, I’d go see Ziya. Yes, first thing tomorrow morning. Then I’d pay a visit to Cihad2000 to get the data he’d promised to download for me. He’d hit on me, as usual, and I’d either have to ignore him or give him a good dressing down. Not that the latter would do any good: He loves nothing better than being humiliated and abused.
My body still felt a bit wooden, but my mind was working a mile a minute. I fastened my eyes on Shrewish Pamir, who was dancing up a storm and almost certainly looking to start a brawl. As far as I knew she enjoyed playing the dominatrix with her tricks. With her tall muscular frame, toned by years of basketball in her youth, long legs, tiny leather skirt, and vinyl stiletto boots reaching hip high, she’d be perfect for the little job I had in mind. I called her over.
“Yes,
“Have a seat,” I said. “I need to have a word with you.”
“Anything wrong? What’s happened?”
“Nothing’s wrong. I’ve got a little proposal to make you.”
She listened intently as I gave a brief sketch of Cihad2000: a computer genius in a wheelchair who looks a bit like Stephen Hawking and is an insatiable masochist.
“Just have a go,” I said. “If it’s too much for you, I understand. I’ll pay your fee no matter what. I owe him a favor.”
“What do you mean, sister? I wouldn’t dream of taking money from you… When I think of all you’ve done for us… Wasn’t it you who took me to the emergency room when my eyebrow was split open and made them promise not to leave a scar? You saved my face. I’ve never forgotten it. And I tell everyone about it.”
“Really?” I said, truly touched.
I could feel myself beaming, just as I had been earlier that night.
“Of course,” she went on. “No one ever helps anyone anymore. I can never repay you. Think of all the times you got me out of jail; I’m not even counting that. Just tell me who you want me to do-I don’t care if it’s Woody Allen or Y?lmaz Erdogan. And not just once, for a whole week, if you want.”
So Pamir had no idea who Stephen Hawking was. As specimens of manhood, I’m not an Allen or an Erdogan fan myself, but she hadn’t yet seen Kemal, alias Cihad2000.
“You may want to meet him first,” I warned her, “before you decide anything.”
“No problem, if I have to I’ll just shut my eyes and do my duty…”
Rising from the table, she exploded in a nasal guffaw, still convinced she was a tempting siren.
My creative solution to the problem of Cihad2000 had improved my mood immensely. If only someone would speak to Haluk Pekerdem on my behalf, win him over for me! Just once! Once would be enough. Like winning an Oscar, Grammy, or Nobel prize. If I could just seduce him once, he’d be back for more. I knew it. One taste, and he was mine.
Watching the girls display their most erotic, even obscene, dance moves for prospective customers, I sat at my table dreaming of Haluk until dawn.
Chapter 17
With the address Selcuk had given me in hand, finding Ziya Goktas’s home was dead easy. His apartment building was on one of those narrow streets in Ihlamur where the weekly market is held. He lived on the top floor of a nondescript building distinguishable from the others only by the smells of cooking that wafted out onto the street.
The stairwell looked as though it hadn’t been painted since the building was constructed. The steps were shiny with years of constant wiping and smelled faintly of soap.
The doormat of his flat was completely concealed by shoes, as was much of the floor on either side of the hallway. Shoes of all shapes and sizes, the men’s unpolished with heels worn down.
The door was opened by a young girl wearing the self-important expression of a school monitor. In this case, she’d been assigned the task of receiving guests coming to offer their condolences. Determined to live up to her grown-up duty, she was suitably somber, with just the hint of a proud smile playing around her lips. Moving to one side, she gestured for me to come in.
“Come in, uncle,” she said.
I wasn’t about to let that one word spoil my mood. “Uncle” indeed!
Heading toward the sound of soft weeping, I was cut off by a neighbor determined to play the role of hostess. She was way past middle age, her bracelets and gold earrings a calculated display of wealth and status.
“Welcome, my son,” she said. “I was like an aunt to him. His mother and my mother suckled together…”
She was expecting me to make a similar announcement. I quickly made something up.
“My condolences,” I said. “I’m so sorry.”
“So many loved him. They’ve been coming to pay their respects all day long. Bless them all. Come in…”
I was waved into the living room. It was full of men. The women must be sitting in a second parlor, with the guests separated by gender. The man with bleary eyes sitting right across from the TV had to be Ziya Goktas. He looked like the typical baddie in an old Turkish film: dark and mustachioed. Right out of the school of Erol Tas, Bilal Inci, and Hayati Hamzaoglu. He looked up at me. His expert eye immediately determined what I was, and assigned me points. Suddenly, he rose to his feet and embraced me.
He reeked of tobacco.
I was taken aback by the unexpected attention. He must have confused me with someone else.
“Have a seat, chum,” he said.
The word “chum” spoke volumes. He wasn’t at all upset. Or if he was, he’d recovered in no time. Beneath black brows, his eyes shone with the shifty cunning of the film villain plotting some dastardly plan.
As is the tradition, everyone in the room droned at length about the flawless character of the newly departed and his endless good deeds. I would have to say a word or two. I did.
The brother-in-law stared at me, the kind of look that imprisons its target. He was on to me; in fact, he fancied me. But he had no idea who I was, why I had come, or how he could make a move on me without anyone else noticing.
I, too, wished to be alone with him. But for entirely different reasons.
None of the sitters seemed to have any intention of leaving their chairs. Whenever there was silence, someone would emit a long, heartfelt “ahhhh,” and begin a lengthy monologue on the implications of death and the relative meaninglessness of life. Ziya and I appeared to be the only ones there who actually looked at each other. Everyone else was either staring at the floor or contemplating the distant corners of the universe.
Like any troublemaker, Ziya was quick on his feet.
“Come, my lion, let me show you Volkan’s old room,” he said. I assumed I was the “lion” he referred to, since he didn’t know my name.
Holding up an arm in a gesture meant to urge the others not to interrupt their floor gazing, he threw the other one around my shoulders and led me off. I was able to shake it off with a light shrug, but he then moved behind me. I could feel his eyes on my bottom as we walked down the hallway and into a tiny bedroom. There was no indication that the room had ever belonged to Volkan. In it was only a single bed, a chair piled high with blankets, and a rickety-looking wardrobe.
As he’d opened the door and lightly pushed me in, Ziya had copped a feel of my arm and my shoulder.
“You’re him!” he exclaimed, once he’d closed the door. “I knew it the minute you walked in. Well, I’ve got to admit it. Our boy had good taste.”
There was nowhere to sit but the bed. I didn’t want to sit right next to him and be subjected to more groping, so I headed toward the window, intending to sit at the foot of the bed, as far away from him as possible. I pretended to look outside at the dark courtyard garden, which contained two fruit trees and a pile of junked furniture.
“Volkan and I were real close,” he said. “He showed me some of your poems.”
So that was it! The idiot thought I was Refik Alt?n, the latest lover Volkan had sponged off of. I decided not to correct him for as long as the mix-up suited my
