Copyright © Mehmet Murat Somer, 2003

Translation copyright © Kenneth James Dakan, 2009

Originally published in Turkish under the title Jigolo Cinayeti.

Ali Money-counter Ali; freelance computing employer

Ponpon Drag queen, close friend

Sofya Former mentor, current archenemy

Hüseyin Taxi driver, admirer

Kemal Barutçu (Cihad2000) Fellow hacker, confined to wheelchair

Selçuk Taylanç Police bureau chief

Refik Altın Gay poet

Cüneyt Club bodyguard

Hasan Club waiter

Osman Club DJ

Şükrü Club bartender

Volkan Sarıdoğan The late gigolo

Okan Sarıdoğan Volkan’s brother, a junkie

Ziya Göktaş Volkan’s uncle and former lover

Haluk Pekerdem Handsome lawyer

Canan Hanoğlu Pekerdem Haluk’s wife

Faruk Hanoğlu Loan shark, Canan’s stepbrother

Nimet Hanoğlu Faruk’s wife

Sami Faruk’s business partner

Afet

Aylin

Dump Truck Beyza

Çişe

Hairy Demet

Blackbrow Lulu

Mehtap

Melisa

Nalan

Shrewish Pamir

Bearded Barbie

Sırma

abi elder brother

abla elder sister

aman oh! ah! mercy! for goodness sake!

ayol/ay exclamation favoured by women; well!

ayran drink made of yogurt and water

bey sir; used with first name, Mr.

börek a flaky, filled pastry

dolma cooked stuffed vegetables

dürüm sandwich wrap

efendi gentleman, master

efendim Yes. (answer to call). I beg your pardon?

estağfurallah phrase used in reply to an expression of thanks, exaggerated praise, or self-criticism

fatiha the opening chapter of the Quran

geçmiş olsun expression of sympathy for a person who has had or is having an illness or misfortune

hacı hadji, pilgrim to Mecca

hanım lady; used with first name, Mrs., Miss.

hoca hodja, Muslim teacher

ibne faggot (derogatory)

inşallah if God wills; hopefully

kandil one of four Islamic feast nights

kilim flat-weave carpet

lokum Turkish delight

maşallah what wonders God has willed; used to express admiration

mevlit a religious meeting held in memory of a dead person

meyhane Turkish taverna

meze appetizers, traditionally accompany drinking

namaz ritual worship, prayer

oglancı pederast, not necessarily considered “gay” in Western sense

peştemal waist cloth worn at a Turkish bath

poğaça flaky pastry

rakı raki, an anise-flavored spirit

sen you, second person singular; used in familiar address

siz you, second person plural; used in formal address

teyze aunt; used to address older women

vallahi by God; I swear it is so

Superhandsome Haluk was pale when he returned. Even in the dimly lit room, it was clear the color had drained from his face.

“That was Faruk on the phone. He’s been arrested for murder.”

We both looked at him in astonishment.

“I don’t understand,” gasped his wife, Canan, who was dressed as a stylish Nişantaşı girl.

“On suspicion of killing a minibus driver.”

He looked at me apologetically as he spoke, sorry for having ruined what had promised to be a pleasant evening with this news.

That’s how it all started. While my dear friend Ponpon was onstage, putting on a sensational show at one of the trendiest, hip-pest, and priciest nightclubs in Istanbul, yet another murder fell right into my lap. My passion for amateur sleuthing was suddenly inflamed, my stomach full of butterflies.

Naturally, the beginning to this story has a prelude. I was smack in the middle of one of the most depressive periods of my life. If I had to describe it as a color, it’d be violet. I was imprisoned in a chunk of amethyst.

It had been ages since I’d left the house. Days since I’d shaved. I’d occasionally catch glimpses in the mirror of a strange presence: a cross between a cadaver and a ghost. It couldn’t be me. I was down in the dumps and unable to surface. Of course it wasn’t the first time I’d been jilted. But this time was different.

I’d hoped for a serious relationship, even indulged in foolish fantasies about the future. I’d imagined us growing old, shaving side by side in the morning, dozing in front of the TV, taking a long cruise together. I hadn’t envisioned the slightest friction of any kind, with the possible exception of those classic tugs-of-war for the morning newspaper, or scenes over who forgot to put the cap back on the toothpaste.

I loved waking up to his scent, nestled in the glistening golden hairs of his chest. I’d even begun going less often to my nightclub and made an effort to be at home when he returned in the evening. His routine was the opposite of mine, off in the morning, back in the evening, the reverse of the rhythm of my life. I’d normally leave just before midnight and return home at dawn. But what I really wanted was to spend evenings with him, next to him, just talking. His appreciation for my skills in the kitchen drove me wild, the way he’d come up behind me while I was cooking, throw his arms around me and kiss me, make love to me on the kitchen table, Jack Nicholson to my Jessica Lange in the The Postman Always Rings Twice.

Our affair was as trouble-free as any relationship between two men could be. He wasn’t ashamed of me, introduced me to his friends and even to his children. He wasn’t fussed by my choice of social identity, by what I wore, by whether I dressed as a woman or a man when we went out. He said he loved me for who I was, as I was, and didn’t try to change me.

Our relationship had not yet turned into a power struggle; there was no jockeying for the upper hand.

He’d explained to me why it had to end, but I still didn’t get it. I ran through everything from every possible angle, repeatedly analyzing each word of every sentence I could remember. But I couldn’t find the answer to that one-word question: Why?

It’s said that within every story there’s a vacuum just waiting to be filled with fantasies and fabrications. Wherever this vacuum had been in our relationship, I couldn’t find it. Were I to locate it, to fill it somehow, I would find peace. But I couldn’t. Either my powers of imagination were lacking or my brain wasn’t working.

I discovered for the first time the full physical effects of sorrow and heartbreak. And painkillers didn’t help.

The phone was unplugged. Visitors were turned away, politely at first, then harshly, with no regard for their feelings. I couldn’t have cared less about the number of friends I’d lost. For I was as alone as I would ever be. Abandoned. In the final equation, what difference would the addition of a friend, or the subtraction of two, make? Forsaken and alone, that was me.

In the old days, my pain would turn to rage. Perhaps that’s what was so difficult now. I couldn’t cry, couldn’t get angry. I just sat there.

I was too weak to shake myself out of it. If I could just shake myself out of it, I’d pull through somehow, I knew that. I’d never seen anyone in such a state, hadn’t heard of it, hadn’t read about it in books, hadn’t even seen it in films. It was something else entirely. Interminable and unrelenting. The rain would never end, the sky would remain shrouded in lead, forever dull, and I’d grow thinner and thinner, even though I ate only junk food, shivering always, trembling inside as I wasted away to nothing. Yes, my case was something else entirely.