leaves drizzled with olive oil, and a generous helping of
The question came as we were enjoying our late lunch. In fact, I was, at that moment, once again totally absorbed by the Bosphorus; I was skimming the waters as I flew all the way to the Asian shore.
“Why do you dress like that?”
I paused for a long moment, eyes fixed on the view. Then I turned to look at her. I deliberately chewed a piece of chicken, and swallowed hard.
“You’re obviously a man; why do you wear women’s clothing?”
I chewed it over some more. Then I reached for my glass of water, taking care to smile.
Something was missing. Yes, we would need some music. Light strings would do, or a chamber orchestra. Or even some soft crooning. Dean Martin, perhaps.
“I like it,” I said.
She wasn’t satisfied. She continued looking at me with questioning eyes.
“Do you feel like a woman?”
Alright, we had a couple of murders to solve and needed to work together, but I wondered if that gave her the right to delve quite so deeply and abruptly into my private life.
“Sometimes…” I said.
“How long have you been like this?”
“A transvestite, you mean?”
“Yes…”
“For quite some time, I suppose. I also dress as a man at times.”
What was I saying? That last part sounded almost defensive.
“If you’d rather not talk about it, let’s not. I just wondered…”
She’d returned to her plate and was avoiding my eyes. She toyed with a piece of warm
“I haven’t met many people like you, that’s all…” she said.
I could have gone into the philosophy and history of cross-dressing, expounding my own views and feelings on the subject, bringing up the fact that not a few straight men get a kick out of wearing silky panties, heels, and nail polish, not to mention that some women, too, choose to dress in masculine clothing on occasion, among them Marlene Dietrich and George Sand… But I couldn’t be bothered.
The fiery reflection of the setting sun was captured in the tens of thousands of windows on the Asian shore, the deepening shadows bringing into stunning relief each detail of the view I watched in silence.
Cihad2000 had worked hard. When combined with Volkan’s papers and Faruk’s notebooks, we would get a clearer picture. Nimet was one of those compulsive note takers. Color-coded pens were used to mark dossiers laid on the floor.
“Mind mapping,” she said. “I was taught in Switzerland. It’s a highly effective aid in study, organization, and problem solving.”
She was right. We’d made significant progress in sorting through a complex web of relationships. But we hadn’t yet found the killer or the motive.
The servants were told to turn away visitors and not to put through phone calls.
During a break, I called Ponpon, to tell her where I was and not to worry, as well as Kemal Barutcu and Hasan. I kept it short. I’d have plenty of time to share details later.
“I’d like some cognac,” Nimet announced as she stretched out on the Josephine. “It’s getting chilly. A spot of cognac would warm us up. Would you like one?”
“Certainly,” I told her.
“You know,” she said, “this reminds me of my school days. Boarding school… just us girls and a bottle of cognac…”
I wanted to hug her. I’d decided to love her, and it didn’t matter what she said or did.
Crystal balloons of cognac cupped in our hands, we sat on the floor, looking over the mapped-out and labeled files and papers. We switched a few of them over. New links were established. It was getting dark outside. Lights twinkled, one by one, on the opposite shore; ships began to glow.
I was pacing around the room. We’d taken nearly all of the notebooks out of Faruk’s rosewood cupboard. The palatial carpet was obscured by papers and notes.
“Why don’t we play some music?” I suggested. “It always does the trick with me. It’s inspiring.”
I suddenly remembered that the house was still in mourning. “Would music be disrespectful?”
“Of course it won’t.” She smiled. “What shall we listen to?”
There was no point in asking what she had. It’d take too long to run through a whole list of selections.
“Something soft,” I said.
“I’ve got just the thing. Wait a moment. I’ll go and fetch it from my bedroom. This is-was-Faruk’s sitting room. He listened mostly to Turkish music, along with the occasional French chanteuse.”
She raced out of the room. I returned to the rows of papers, each of them numbered and affixed with notes in the precise handwriting that is a hallmark of Central European culture.
Nimet was back in a flash.
“What do you think?” she asked, eagerly handing me Pergolesi’s
“It seemed appropriate,” she said. “ ‘ The mourning mother was standing…’ Neither of us is a mother, but I am in mourning, like the Virgin Mary as she stood beside the cross…”
“Certainly,” I said. “You know, it’s one of my favorite pieces. Especially this particular recording.”
“Really?” She beamed. She looked ten years younger at that moment. “I first heard it in Switzerland. I played the record so often I wore it out. Then I looked everywhere for a CD. The other versions just aren’t the same. Anyway, I only recently found this. I was so thrilled.”
I silently sang along: “Stabat mater dolorosa juxta crucem lacrimosa dum pendebat filius…”
Cognac, Pergolesi, the ever-deepening dusk… And after switching around a couple of pieces of paper I cried out, “Look! Here it is!”
Chapter 37
It was nearly nine at night, and all of our guests had assembled in the enormous drawing room of the waterfront mansion. That it would be a finale straight out of an Agatha Christie novel, I had no doubt. For that was our intention.
As the guests arrived, we were on the floor above completing our preparations. Preparations that were both physical and mental. It was critical that we planned exactly what would we say, as well as when and how, and that each and every allegation be backed up by the appropriate source or document.
And, of course, we had our costumes to consider. After our quick, separate showers, Nimet and I began rummaging through her wardrobe. That is to say, by opening up her wardrobe to me, as well as her heart, Nimet confirmed beyond a doubt that all of my intuitions on the subject of her generous nature had been spot on. She chose a simple, dark blue dress. No sleeves, no collar. A perfect fit. When it was my turn, she instinctively gestured to the area of the capacious wardrobe reserved for frills and embroidered evening gowns. While it’s true that my eyes had involuntarily strayed to the sequins and ostrich feathers, tonight was different. And what’s more, Haluk Pekerdem would be coming. I’d have to rein it in a bit. I selected an ensemble every bit as sober as hers: white, high-waisted YSL trousers and a white silk blouse. They were, of course, rather too big, so I accessorized with a wide belt. Perfect.
The guest list was long and varied, compiled in a process not unlike that of a wedding, with “yours” and “mine.” I’d insisted on my commissioner friend, Selcuk, Cihad2000, who was also in it up to his ears, and Ponpon, who would be enraged if uninvited. Nimet chose her attorney, Haluk Pekerdem-how could I say no?-Canan, who was his wife and Faruk’s sister; Hikmet, who is not only Nimet’s brother but could also apparently be counted upon to maintain order if things got out of hand; and, finally, Faruk’s assistant, Sami Bey, whom I hadn’t yet met. Nimet told me he was a prominent member of the Jewish community and summed him up as taciturn, tense, and trustworthy.
On our joint list were: Volkan’s brother-in-law, Ziya Goktas, who was to be picked up by Nimet’s chauffeur; and Okan, who would be escorted to the house by the always dependable Selcuk. And, of course, where Okan goes, the great poet Refik Alt?n also goes.
It was exactly nine o’clock when Nimet and I descended to the drawing room. Everyone was present and accounted for. We’d planned an impressive entrance, but Ponpon spoiled it by running up the moment she saw me.
“Sweetie!” she said. “What on earth’s going on here? Tell me quick. I dropped everything and came straight over. I’m dying of curiosity. Don’t do this to me! Come on, tell me everything this instant!”
“All in good time,” I said coolly.
“What do you mean,
“It won’t take long. Take a seat, if you like,” I said in my calmest voice.
“And if I don’t
Hands on her hips, Ponpon had thrown back her head. She’d neglected to apply foundation under her chin. I even spotted some shadowy stubble.
Leaning forward, I whispered in her ear. Her hands and chin shot down to a more appropriate level. Cupping her chin, she shot me a wink. She looked slightly embarrassed.
“And stop screeching,” I added. “Everything’s on track. I only invited you because I thought you’d want to see for yourself. And it’d take too long to tell you all about it later…”
Flashing me a look of sisterly solidarity, she trotted off to her chair.
