“How did you find out he’d been released? Was it on television?”

“No, sweetie. When I called Canan to offer my sympathies, she told me. They were elated, of course. But it’s still just too horrid: accused of murder, detained in a cell. May Allah not visit such a fate on even my worst enemies. Protect us, O mighty one!”

“But he still has some explaining to do. Why had a gigolo phoned him? If you’re looking for a scandal, you’ve got it in spades. It’s a bit early to pop open the champagne.”

“That’s true, honey, but you do agree that there’s a world of difference between hiring a gigolo and killing one. I mean, any number of couples dabble in that sort of thing to spice up their sex lives. Some prefer a call girl, others get hold of a rent boy. There are even some who opt for a TV. What’s the big deal?”

“I’m hardly one to judge, but try telling all that to his business partners,” I reminded Ponpon, who was badly in need of a reality check. “The financial markets are full of constipated types who frown on that sort of thing. Don’t you remember all the talk about that businessman who traveled in drag every time he went overseas?”

“So they talked. Then it was all forgotten,” she argued. “You’d think those doing the gossiping were different! They’ve all got something to hide. Each and every one. The ones who haven’t done anything yet are still fantasizing about it. You know that as well as me.”

Wagging her head in a world-weary I’ve-seen-it-all-and-then-some sort of way, Ponpon got up.

“Now I’ll go make us some ekşili köfte; we’ll have a nice meal together.”

Just the mention of the dish made my mouth water.

Two days of Ponpon’s devoted care had worked wonders on me. I scanned myself in the mirror. The shadows under my eyes were gone. I could still count my ribs, but I looked thin rather than wasted.

I’m no stranger to the transformative magic of makeup. While in New York on a tourist visa, broke and jobless, I worked for a spell at an undertaker’s. Illegally, of course. Young and fond of risks, I was struggling to establish a brand-new life, starting from zero. It didn’t last long.

I was paid a pittance at the funeral home, but I learned all the tricks of the trade when it came to makeup. My boss, Alberto, a queer old Italian, was the best in the business, working wonders on even the most damaged corpses in order to make open casket viewings less distressing.

With his heavily accented English, and the odd exclamation and curse in Italian, he’d flounce his way through the task of making a body beautiful. And instruct me along the way. He was incredibly painstaking when it came to the male bodies, examining them in detail and at length; as for the women, he devoted considerably less time to them. No matter what the age, the object was to create an air of girlish innocence, and he was big on pale pink lipsticks and light peach powder. A dab of rouge on each cheek was deemed essential for the older ladies, as well as a bit of white powder on their foreheads. The young ones inevitably received brown eyeliner and a thick coating of mascara, carefully brushed from the root to the tip of the lash. That’s the way families like it, he’d claim. The more innocent looking the corpse, the more cathartic the mourning process.

I also learned how to apply makeup to hands, which usually occupied pride of place, as it were, folded and clutching a string of rosary beads or a cross. Because the veins had collapsed, that is, because they’d been drained of blood, there were no unsightly bulges to deal with. Just a bit of powder was all that was needed, with some concealer if necessary. If the surface had been so damaged that even several coats of paint failed to create the illusion of dewy youth, warm paraffin was injected just below the skin. Alberto claimed the warm wax method was a family secret handed down from his late uncle, who was also a confirmed bachelor-that is, queer. Perhaps, by some twisted logic, my own sexual bent made him consider me a member of the family, for Alberto never hesitated to divulge all he knew.

When he died peacefully in his sleep one morning, I once again found myself alone, jobless and penniless, in deepest New York. I finally ditched the fantasy of starting a new life. I was an idealist back then, determined to earn whatever I got the old-fashioned way, through pluck and toil. I wouldn’t have considered relying on my sexual charms. And when confronted by the odd sexual predator, I would protest in the affronted tones I’d learned from watching Hülya Koçyiğit films for so many years.

While reminiscing over those long ago days with dear old Alberto, I’d been busily making myself up. Although tastefully restrained, the result was stunning. It was now time to pay a call on Haluk Pekerdem. Just as the ugly duckling was transformed into the beautiful swan, so had Ponpon’s snotty-nosed friend turned into a real showgirl.

The colors that suit me best are baby pink and baby blue. And black, of course, which suits everyone. I was far too thin to pull off anything black, though, so I settled on a pair of pink trousers with a matching coat over a white sweater. White gloves completed the effect.

When I emerged from the bathroom Ponpon let loose a low wolf whistle.

“Maşallah! You look wonderful…”

“Thanks to you.”

We embraced, our heads held back far enough that we wouldn’t accidentally brush cheeks and spoil our makeup.

“You could use a bit more color,” Ponpon observed. “You look pale.”

Ponpon makes no distinction between everyday makeup and stage makeup. Subtlety is not her forte: it’s either absolutely nothing or buckets of whatever’s on hand!

But she’d managed to shake my self-confidence, if only slightly. I looked in the mirror again. The lipstick I’d selected did look a bit dull. I could at least apply a bit of gloss.

As I got closer to Haluk Pekerdem’s office in Harbiye, I realized how excited I was. I really must be head over heels. The thought of shaking hands, mine clasped ever so firmly in his, sent shivers down my spine.

The office was near the Hilton, on the side overlooking the sea. It was one of those prestige buildings from the forties and fifties, with high ceilings and impractically spacious rooms. Haluk Pekerdem’s office was like a showcase for select art deco pieces.

My first major obstacle presented itself in the form of a secretary/ receptionist well into upper middle age, the sort who insists on an exhaustive grilling before ushering guests to the magic door. Judging from the plaque on that door, Haluk has no partners or fellow attorneys using the premises. So the entire place, including every stick of furniture, was the exclusive property of Haluk Pekerdem.

“Have you got an appointment?” demanded the woman, after scrutinizing me for several long moments.

No, I didn’t.

“We’re quite busy today,” she explained dismissively.

In the same way a nurse asks if “we” have a fever or have remembered to take “our” medicine, the gorgon at the gate had so identified with her boss that “they” were apparently too busy to see me. As far as I could tell, the only item of business on her plate was to subject me to impertinent questions.

“You can wait if you like, but he may not be able to see you,” she said. “Or you could speak to Sibel Hanım or Ertunç Bey.”

My blank expression at the mention of the two names elicited the information that they were “Haluk Bey’s assistants” and a preliminary meeting with one of them would be advisable.

“I really must see Mr. Pekerdem in confidence,” I said firmly.

Damn Ponpon! It was because of her that I used dated expressions like “in confidence.” I felt like an a la turca stage actress.

“Please wait here for a moment.”