Free The Kiss Murder by Mehmet Murat Somer Page A

joined them. The moment I appeared, the crowd parted—fell silent, even. I came eye to eye with Sofya. The tension was palpable, like a scene in a film. First, we exchanged glances. Motionless. The crowd watched, breathless. As we sized each other up, we luxuriated in the process. My God, she was stunning. A real head-turner. She wore a dark green silk spaghetti-strap blouse that brought out her eyes. The silicone could not have been displayed to better effect. As was the fashion, she had spent hours at the coiffeur to have her hair artfully mussed. Again, as was the fashion, her skin was an unearthly white, like porcelain. In short, she had stepped out of the pages of Vogue . As the hostess, it would be my duty to initiate conversation.

    “ Merhaba, Sofya . . . How lovely to see you here among us.” I couldn’t have sounded less sincere. The dryness of my voice was astonishing even to me.
     
    “Sweetie . . .” she hissed. Her lips slightly distended, fashioned into a kiss, her teeth gleaming, she extended both arms in my direction.

    Our seating units are incredibly comfortable, but rather low. After sinking into the cushions, it is no easy task to rise with one graceful movement. Sofya was a clever girl. She didn’t even attempt it. Arms outstretched, she awaited me. I slowly moved toward her, bending my knees as I fell into her waiting embrace. We preserved our makeup by blowing air kisses over each other’s shoulders. The encirclement ceremony was over. The tension evaporated; the crowd released its collective breath. And applause broke out! We indulged our reverent congregation, flashing little smiles of appreciation all around.
     
    “Condolences to us all,” she said.

    The trick of never fully closing her lips was one she had developed since our last meeting. No matter what she said, or where she looked, Sofya appeared to be bestowing a small kiss.

    I whispered into her ear, “I would like to speak to you, when you’re available . . .”

    “Now!” she said, leaning her full weight into me as she rose to her feet. I was nearly knocked off balance. Sofya is an eyeful, and far from petite. She seized my hand. Like two haughty queens who have annihilated their subjects in a futile, bitter war, then decided to make peace with each other, we sauntered hand in hand to the stairs leading to my office.
     
    “We have to speak outside. We can’t talk here,” she said. She had a way of giving each and every syllable its due, like an actress with the state theater.

    “Why?” I asked. My voice was still dry.
     
    “You have no idea of the danger. There is so much you don’t know.” During her many years in France, she’d cultivated the habit of lightly rolling her r ’s. No doubt she thought it was sexy.

    The expression on my face must have been one of stupid admiration.

    “Hasan told me everything. You came to my home. I was out. Then I found out. I was wretched. Of course. For Buse. Then, I thought, this is critical. But there is no need for panic. Or perhaps there is. It depends on your point of view. So I left my home to come here, to see you.”

    While incomprehensible, it was beautifully put. And she had told me nothing. As she spoke, her eyes widened and narrowed. Each word rang with significance and hidden meaning. Even the spaces she left between the fragmented sentences were electrifying.
     
    “What did Buse tell you?” I asked.

    “It’s what she told you that’s important.”

    Just as I’d expected. We were at it again.

    Reaching into a tiny handbag, a performance of the utmost sensitivity that apparently required her undivided attention, Sofya extracted a long, slender More cigarette. She lit it with an exquisite jeweled lighter, then fixed her eyes on me.

    “I’m waiting. Begin.”

    There is nothing that infuriates me more than being subjected to the airs of the English royal family. Sofya had me right where she wanted me.
     
    “She came to see me that morning, not