sympathetically to his troubles. Ay! I’d been transformed into the very picture of a morally upright, considerate proprietress.
Hasan trotted to my side with short, quick steps. He’d been thrashed.
“What happened to you?” I asked. “What’s all this?”
“Let’s go upstairs and I’ll tell you about it.”
I left my drink on the bar and Hasan and I climbed up to our infamous storage room/office. He shut the door behind us the second we entered.
I cocked an eyebrow in an attempt to look sufficiently inquisitive.
“I was beaten,” he said. “It wasn’t an accident.”
“Oh? Why? Who did it?”
“In my neighborhood. I was beaten up in my own neighborhood. You know the grocer on the corner of my street… He’s got a son. Turan… Just back from military service. A good-looking guy.”
I was preparing to spring to his defense when he silenced me.
“He may not be your type, but he’s a real drink of water. In a Tom Cruise sort of way…”
“Did you hit on him?” I asked.
What really annoyed me was that after running around for all this time with his jeans hanging off his hips, butt crack exposed for all to see, flirting and carrying on with everyone in his path, steadfastly rejecting various admirers of all ages and both sexes, he’d decided to hit on some grocer’s boy. Just to initiate him, and uncertain of his tastes, I’d even gone so far as to offer to arrange a tryst with one of our girls or our gay-loving clients. He’d refused them all.
“That’s not it,” he said. “I liked him, is all. I started doing my shopping during his shift, having it home delivered. You know me, I’m the friendly sort. I warm to people straight off… I joke around… I liked him. We’d chat now and then. That’s it.”
“So that’s why you got beat up?”
“No!” he said. “He has friends in the neighborhood. Real scum. They hang out in front of the grocer’s, talking and poking fun at everyone passing.”
“Did they beat you up?”
“Yes, they did it. I’d just turned the corner one evening on the way home when they cornered me over by the rubbish bins. They jumped me.”
“But why? Just because you were flirting with the grocer’s boy?”
“It’s a bit complicated,” he said. “It was only later that I found out why they did it. It seems Turan has a thing for the girl on the floor below me, Sengul. He’d been hitting on her for a while. I joke around with Sengul sometimes. We lend each other books. Borrow things from each other when we run out. Once in a while, on Sundays, we go to the cinema. We’re friends. We live in the same building and all that… Anyway, it seems Turan got jealous. He’s got a thing for the girl, thinks he owns her. Sometimes I’d joke around with him about Sengul. He thought I was making fun of him for being jealous. So he decides that not only am I after his girl, I’m rubbing his nose in it. Then he sends his friends after me…”
“How’d you find all this out?”
“When Sengul saw them beating me up she came running out to help. She’s the one who told me about Turan. He’d been sending her love letters, you see…”
“So they let you go when she turned up?”
“No, that’s not what happened. They just ignored her and kept hitting and kicking me. That is, until Sengul, at the top of her lungs, so she was sure they’d hear her over the racket we were making, screamed out that I was a faggot, that there’d never been anything between us and never would be… When she finished, you could have heard a pin drop. They all froze, gaping at me. Then one of them shouted ‘faggot’ and they started beating me up again.”
I’d heard enough. I was feeling sick to my stomach. I wanted to rush over and flatten the grocery first, then the entire district.
“How’d you get away?”
“When they’d had enough they left. I’d passed out… Sengul dragged me home and dressed my wounds…”
“I’m so sorry,” I said. “My condolences. Have you told the girls?”
“Of course not. They’d run off and raid my neighborhood… It wasn’t easy finding that flat!”
“Fine,” I said flatly.
I hadn’t yet decided what to do.
“What would you like me to do?” I asked.
“You’ve got friends in the squad. Arrange a good thumping. A night in jail, even…”
“There’s no need to get the police involved,” I said. “I can handle the whole lot on my own. How many are there?”
“Four or five, tops.”
“If necessary, I’ll go around with Shrewish Pamir or a couple of the other girls…”
“That’s no good,” he said. “This thing’ll turn into a blood feud. And what about my standing in the neighborhood? As you know, I’m not gay. It’d just give them another reason to call me a faggot.”
“So what can you do, file for slander?”
“Not only would the police make it official,” he insisted. “They’d realize I have friends in high places…”
“And were you to be rescued by transvestites, just think what it’d do to your reputation, right?”
His face, already distorted by swelling, became deformed with astonishment.
“How can you say that? I’ve never been ashamed of you or the girls. Never.”
Yes, behind the windowless walls of the club, at home or in our own specially designated spaces, there was no problem, no cause for embarrassment; still, I knew, deep down, that I was right to take offense. Even worse, so did he.
Chapter 24
When I woke up the next morning, at an hour ordinary people refer to as “the afternoon,” I felt like a sharp blade had pierced my forehead, entering just below my right eyebrow. I pulled back the thick curtains; bright winter sunshine filled the room. A wonderfully crisp day, the kind that brings joy and energy! I sighed contentedly. Pity about the headache. Such things simply should not be on a day like this.
On the way to the bathroom I ignored the flashing light of my answering machine. Whoever had called at such an early hour deserved to wait. First I’d enjoy a long shower and the sumptuous breakfast offerings laid in by Ponpon. Followed by a couple of Advil, if required. The brilliant blue sky urged me to find an outdoor spot to warm my bones and to spend the rest of the day lazing about.
Wrapping myself in a robe, I began fixing breakfast. Flitting across the floor on tiptoe amused me, as well as minimized contact with the freezing tiles. As the bread toasted, I switched on one of those determinedly dispassionate but in fact utterly partisan twenty-four-hour news channels. One simply must remain abreast of current affairs!
Only watched bread toasts just right, so I turned up the volume and returned to the kitchen. I listened to the latest on the financial markets: international stock market closings; dollar, euro, and yen parity; and fluctuations in oil and gold prices. The information did nothing for my pounding headache, but still I listened. I am not the sort to surrender to pain.
When each slice had begun to turn a golden brown, I flipped them over: I like my bread toasted on both sides. The market reports, so avidly followed by the good people of our nation, ended, and the regular news began.
I couldn’t believe my ears. The female presenter failed to repress the thrill in her voice as she announced: “Leading financial consultant Faruk Hanoglu has been killed in an unfortunate accident.”
I rushed back out to the living room. The news account was accompanied by stock footage of Faruk Bey, tensely holding forth on the consequences of foreign direct investment. Looking more unpleasant than ever in a tailored suit that did nothing for her complexion, the presenter droned on in a small window in the bottom right- hand corner of the screen: Faruk Bey was fifty-three years old, had been educated abroad, and had served as a financial consultant for many years. He had recently been arrested for murder but was subsequently cleared of all charges.
No additional information about the “unfortunate accident” was provided.
The smell of burning bread had me racing back to the kitchen. It had happened again. I’d turned my back for a moment and the last two slices of bread had turned to charcoal. Shortly after my visit, during which I’d been outrageously mistreated, Faruk Hanoglu had died. And how? An “unfortunate accident.” Whatever that meant!
The stabbing pain just above my right eye suddenly spread to my entire forehead. I’d scared myself: Surely I couldn’t have called down a curse on the late Faruk… Or could I have? No, I was being silly.
I didn’t know whether to blame the headache on the news of Faruk’s death, on an empty stomach, or on having spent such a long night in the stuffy smokiness of the club. I definitely needed an Advil. After downing half a glass of cold milk to coat my stomach, I took two. I would remain seated until I felt better.
I tore to shreds a now stale slice of cake made by Ponpon, reduced the shreds to crumbs, and unenthusiastically chewed as much as I could as I sat there in the kitchen. The tiles were freezing, I was getting cold feet, and things were getting more complicated. I couldn’t find rhyme or reason for the seemingly random series of events in which I was now hopelessly entangled.
First I needed more details about the “unfortunate accident.” I nearly called Selcuk, my police connection, but thought better of it. Pestering him every time I had a question, particularly when it had nothing to do with his job at the force, didn’t seem fair. I decided against it. Then I remembered Olcay. These days he was working for that insipid twenty-four-hour news channel. Once upon a time we had enjoyed intimate relations for an entire weekend. His career had since taken off.
I dialed his number at the network and was connected almost immediately. So, he was not yet important enough to warrant five layers of screening.
I told him who I was.
“What’s up, girl? Where you been?” he began. It is a manner of speaking I detest. I even considered hanging up on the spot.
“Oh, I’m around. And fine,” was my terse response. “What have you been up to? How are you?”
“I’m around too, my rose… So you’re alright then?”
