was incapacitated by depression. (He hadn’t bothered sending flowers at the news of my “condition,” but I’d long since learned not to expect courtesies of that sort.)
Then there was news of my old archenemy, Sofya. In order to show off the winter tan she’d acquired during an extended holiday in Morocco, fabulous Sofya had thrown a dinner party, with those pointedly left off the guest list immediately relegated to the class of undesirables. Hasan, who naturally copped an invitation, said the entire affair was one of Sofya’s typical events, designed solely for shameless boasting and showing off, but that didn’t stop the guests from talking it up as a fete of legendary proportions. Those lucky girls claimed “the only thing missing was bird’s milk,” and described each item of fabulous furniture in Sofya’s house, embellishing them to the extent that later gossips dared suggest that one or two pieces sounded a bit kitsch.
Hasan’s final bombshell concerned that man of all seasons, the poet Refik Alt?n, who was also in advertising, a director, and a fixture on talk-show TV. The lover he concealed from everyone but droned on about ad nauseum had apparently simply disappeared. Refik had appeared at the club the previous night, drank heavily, wept into his cups, and attempted to pick a fight with anyone who dared approach him. Our staff had placated him somewhat, but once everyone left at nearly dawn and the lights were turned up, he was discovered under a far table, where he lay on the floor, snoring. With the assistance of the bodyguard, Cuneyt, Hasan had managed to stick him into a taxi and take him home.
Not a single detail escapes Ponpon, and she jumped in to interrogate Hasan.
“How did you know where that contrary faggot lives?”
Despite his undeniably flaming ways, suspiciously precise speech, and the trademark jeans slipping down his hips to expose his butt crack, Hasan insists he isn’t gay. Ponpon and the rest of us are eternally vigilant when it comes to Hasan, hoping for a slipup that will reveal all. That’s why she’d interrupted.
“Well, if he was so drunk, he couldn’t have woken up to give you his address…” she pounced.
The knowing look on her face said “gotcha.”
Hasan faltered for a moment, eyes wide, shoulders hunched.
“It’s not what you think,” he stammered.
“And what is it that I think?”
“I’ve never been with Refik Alt?n.”
“Really?” asked Ponpon disbelievingly.
“Yes, really! Even if I was into that kind of thing, surely I’d find someone better than…”
“Don’t be so sure, sweetie.”
The verbal sparring between Ponpon and Hasan was eternal and never ending. They adored each other, even as each did everything possible to get the upper hand. Their barbed brawls were a hoot to watch, but still quite dangerous. If Ponpon weren’t my best friend, Hasan would long since have ridiculed her to all and sundry. It was only the prospect of a good dressing-down from me that made him hold his tongue.
“I used to be a huge fan of his poems,” Hasan continued. “I’d buy his books the day they came out and read them right away, even memorize the ones I liked best. Of course, I didn’t know him as a person. It was his poems I admired. Anyway, I was still young. A child, really.”
“You’re too much of a smart aleck to have ever been a child,” Ponpon cut in.
“Hear me out if you want to. If not, don’t. Anyway, I don’t have to answer to you.”
Hasan turned to me and continued his story.
“After a book signing we followed him home to learn where he lived. Then, one day, I gathered up all his books and went to visit him.”
“Just who do you think you are?” asked Ponpon.
“Myself,” Hasan answered coolly.
“So why are you using the plural? You said ‘we followed him.’ I suppose you went with your lady-in-waiting.”
Ponpon was patiently pushing each of Hasan’s buttons, one by one.
“Must be the ‘royal we,’ ” she cackled scornfully.
Ponpon’s laughter is a sight to behold. First, her entire body quivers, in all its bulk. Then, if she’s still not finished, she repeatedly slaps her hands on her knees. Even when her laughter has finally died down, she continues shouting in the same ear-piercing tone. That’s what she did now.
This was the first I’d heard about the apparent friendship between Refik Alt?n and Hasan. I was surprised. But it had all happened a long time ago, so I didn’t take it seriously. And I’d long since resigned myself to the fact that Hasan had formed some sort of attachment to every dodgy character in town. What’s more, everyone I knew had had some fort of feud, run-in, or disagreement with Refik.
Having dispensed with the subject of Refik Alt?n, we moved on to Istanbul in general. Hasan asked when I’d be stopping by the club.
“As soon as possible,” Ponpon answered for me.
“Not tonight,” I added.
“Well, what are your plans for tonight?” Hasan asked. “Why not go to the cinema? There’s a fabulous Cate Blanchett film out. It’s just super. You’d love her. She plays a whore in this one. Just the most appealing thing you’ve ever seen.”
“At the very mention of the word ‘whore’ he starts drooling. But still all the protests: ‘I wouldn’t; I couldn’t!’ ”
“Really, it’s a wonderful film. And Cate is something else! Go see it; you won’t regret it. Just watching her will bring you around.”
Ponpon was watching me with questioning eyes.
“I’m in no shape to go out,” I said. “I want to sleep.”
“At this hour?” asked Hasan. “It’s not even six yet.”
True, but it was getting dark.
“Come on, let’s go out. You’ll feel better,” Ponpon urged. “Even if we don’t go to the film, we’ll have a nice walk and come back. Then you can come with me.”
“To your
Ponpon can’t bear to have the nightclubs she works at referred to as “pavilions,” which in Turkish implies a clip joint with shady ladies sipping five-hundred-dollar bottles of watered-down champagne. For her, a gig at a pavilion is as low as it goes, and even whorehouse workers are a mark above. “At least they make dozens of men happy every day of the week,” she remarks.
Ponpon wasn’t about to let Hasan’s comment go unanswered. Eyes narrowed, lips pursed, she hissed sharply as she drew breath. If her exhalation was as dramatic as that intake of breath, all hell was about to break loose.
I had to do something.
“All right,” I blurted out. “I’ll go to the cinema. Where’s that film playing?”
I placed a hand on Ponpon’s knee. Her lungs slowly deflated, but she fairly crackled with electricity.
Hasan picked up a newspaper and began reading out cinemas and screen times. When he was done, he began flipping idly through the pages.
“That’s him!”
“Who?”
“Refik’s lover! The one who’s gone missing!”
“Which one?” I asked.
“This one here,” Hasan said, pointing to a picture of Volkan Sar?dogan.
“But you said Refik never took him out or showed him to anyone. How do you know it’s him?” demanded Ponpon.
“He showed me a photo. One he took at home.”
“And you’re certain this is the same man?” I asked.
“Of course I am,” he said. “Volkan. His name’s even written right here.”
He quickly read the article, then raised his eyes to ours.
“So they killed the guy,” he said. “Refik’s going to take it hard.”
He thought for a moment, his expression morphing from surprise to sadness, then to something rather alarming.
“But just think of the poems he’ll write,” Hasan cooed with an evil grin.
Chapter 6
Cate Blanchett really was fabulous. But becoming enamored of another willowy woman would mean betrayal of my all-time idol, Audrey Hepburn. Audrey would remain top of the list, while Cate would be given second place. I refuse to assign any rank at all to uncharismatic fashion model types.
As we left the cinema Ponpon said we’d have to dash back home to gather her things and head straight for the club. She was clearly determined that I accompany her. But I was preoccupied with thoughts of Volkan Sar?dogan. Cate Blanchett’s porcelain beauty had driven him from my mind during the length of the film, but now my mind returned to him. I wanted to sit alone, thinking, and perhaps even researching. I had somehow found myself sitting atop another unsolved murder. Back to my role of amateur detective. And all because of that dish of a man!
Feigning fatigue, I managed to push Ponpon out the door. Then I prepared myself a large mug of fennel tea and began thinking. In order to focus, I switched on the TV, looking for an idiotic game show. No luck. I quickly decided a music video channel would not do. They’re more useful as a sedative or hypnotic agent.
My tea was nearly finished, but my mind was as confused as ever. The best medicine would be Handel. Scanning the shelves, I couldn’t decide between the
Working-class lad Volkan had graduated from driving a minibus to a career as a gigolo. He’d bedded Dump Truck Beyza, God knows how many others, and then finally Refik Alt?n before being killed by loan shark Faruk Hanoglu for reasons unknown but perfectly obvious to me.
The thought of Faruk Hanoglu brought to mind an image of Haluk Pekerdem: that strong chin, the thick hair of the young Franco Nero, the crinkles at the corners of his eyes when he smiled, his incredibly even white teeth. Every bit as tasty as John Pruitt, every known photograph of whom I owned and treasured. It had been ages
