by Moris Farhi
To my surprise, I felt aroused. Since, given my hostess’ age, I had not entertained any thoughts of sex with her – such thoughts occurred only in fantasies – I can only assume I had sensed what was to come. But then, as şιk Ahmet would say, the body is wiser than the mind.
I filled two glasses with ice-cubes and poured large measures of raki. Then I prepared two glasses of mineral water, also with ice, and arranged the dishes of nuts, dried fruits and sweets, as best I could, on one of the coffee tables.
When she returned, the ice in the raki glasses had melted. Throughout that time, I had fidgeted indecisively, thinking I ought just to shout goodbye and leave, yet wanting to stay, if only to keep inhaling her perfume, which had lingered in the room and was sustaining my arousal.
She came in bearing more fragrance. This time, musk soap. Which, while it literally arrested my breath, also announced that she had just bathed. The realization that she had actually undressed, walked about in the nude, washed and soaped her private parts when I was in the house, no more than a ceiling, a wall and a staircase away, so overcharged my imagination that my mind ceased functioning.
She had changed into a peignoir – black, like her clothes, and gleaming. She was barefoot, her toes unpainted. She had let her hair cascade down on to her shoulders. It was quite curly; splashed against her black dressing-gown, it emanated a dusky sheen. The rest of her hair, having fallen forward, framed a cleavage that struck me as incomparably generous even though she did not have large breasts. She was not wearing a bra.
I forgot her age instantly.
I offered her the raki.
She examined it as if it were an exotic brew. ‘You drink it with water, I see ...’
‘No. With ice. It’s melted. But only just. It’s all right to drink.’
She nodded. ‘And the mineral water? A chaser? Right?’
‘That’s how I like it.’
‘Which is good enough for me.’ She pointed at the titbits on the coffee table. ‘Help yourself.’ She indicated a sofa. ‘Sit down.’
Immensely aroused – and embarrassed as well as ashamed for being so – I slumped on to it. Then, in the hope that munching might prove a distraction, I grabbed a handful of nuts. My heart was running so fast I thought it would burst out of my mouth and stop only when it hit the Byzantine city walls.
She sat opposite me on a cushion on the floor. ‘What’s your name?’
Her peignoir had parted, revealing one of her thighs. Fleshy, but muscular.
My mouth dried up and my voice squeezed forth as a hoarse whisper. ‘Mustafa.’
She smiled. ‘Named after Atatürk. I approve.’
I could not move my eyes from her thigh. Desperately, I gulped down a few mouthfuls of my raki. I was aware that she was watching me gaping at her. I forced myself to speak, say anything. ‘I’m what they call a Pomak. We’re originally from Bulgaria.’
‘Circumcised?’
‘What?’
‘Pomaks are circumcised, aren’t they?’
‘Of course. We’re Muslims.’
She crossed her legs. ‘Better-looking – circumcised cocks. Aesthetically speaking. More elegant.’
My heartbeats became uncontrollable. As she had crossed her legs, her peignoir had parted even more; now both her thighs were exposed. And above them, I could see the curvature of one of her buttocks and also, unless I was dreaming, a glimpse of her vaginal divide.
‘Don’t you agree?’
‘What?’
‘Circumcision. Gives a refined mien. Foreskins look so ugly.’
I forced myself to gaze at my drink. ‘I – I wouldn’t know.’
‘Haven’t you seen uncircumcised boys? I thought you had just about every race in your school. Surely you had a look. In the dormitory. Or in the shower.’
‘Yes ... But ...’
This time, as she uncrossed her legs and exposed more of her thighs, I caught a perfect view of her crotch. Smooth. Shaven. Not a trace of hair. I then thought maybe she was not an existentialist, not another Juliette Gréco. After all, women who shave their pubic hair – and armpits – are supposed to be devout Muslims. Depilation is a sign of personal cleanliness. It reflects mental and moral health.
I erupted in cold sweat. I could feel my hands shaking. I looked at her. She smiled.
Again, I felt I had to say something. ‘What’s yours – name, I mean?’
She waved a dismissive hand. ‘Oh, ugliest name in the world. I never use it. I prefer the names my friends give me. What do you think I should be called?’
I couldn’t think of a woman’s name – except my mother’s. ‘İpek.’
She nodded appreciatively, then raised her glass. ‘Excellent. Do you think I fit the name?’
She certainly did. İpek means ‘silk’. ‘Oh, definitely ...’
She stretched to pick up her cigarette case and lighter. ‘You’re so gallant ...’
This time I saw the full contours of her buttocks. I was so aroused I had visions of ejaculating into my pants.
She lit a cigarette as if performing a ritual.
I suddenly thought a cigarette might help my condition. ‘Can I – can I have one, too?’
‘Of course.’
She craned forward, proffering me her case. As I took a cigarette, I saw her breasts. As I had first observed, not very large. But mouth-wateringly pendulous. Dark aureoles. Pointed nipples.
I caught her watching me. Again, hastily, I looked away.
She lit my cigarette. Her hand brushed against mine. ‘Oh, dear. Your hands are wet.’
My hands were sopping – clammy with the sweat of excitement. ‘I ...’
She jumped up. ‘Here you are drenched by the rain and I’m jabbering away.’ She yanked my sweater off me before I could move. ‘Right, let’s take this off!’ She clutched my shirt. ‘And that!’
‘It’s all right.’
‘No, it’s not. It’s soaked. Off with it!’ Quickly, she undid the buttons and pulled the shirt off too.
I sat, turned into stone, unable to move.
‘The vest. Wet also.’ She pulled that off too. ‘They’ll dry in no time.’
I thought I should try and cover up my naked chest. But I couldn’t move.
She ran her hands across my shoulders. ‘Strong boy, aren’t you? Do a lot of sport, I bet.’
‘Yes.’
‘Like what?’
‘Swimming. Weight-lifting. Wrestling.’
‘A wrestling Pomak! Imagine that!’
I looked up sharply. ‘What’s wrong with that?’
‘Nothing. It’s great. Time the Pomaks showed how strong they are.’
‘Are you Pomak, too?’
‘No.’
‘What then?’
‘A bit of everything. Must be so exciting – wrestling. Body entwined with body ... Like sex, I should think ...’
‘I – I wouldn’t know ...’
‘No? Surely, you do ...’
‘It’s hard work, wrestling is ... Also you’ve got to think – the moves ahead. Like a chess player ...’
‘Like a chess player? Even more exciting. Constantly changing positions. One minute on top. The next, underneath ...’
‘Not quite ...’
‘I bet you’re good at it?’
‘No. I don’t think fast enough. I’m good at weight-lifting ...’
‘You’re so modest. Ever wrestled with a woman?’
My erection had begun to throb. ‘I ... How ...?’
She chuckled. ‘But you’d like to, right? You’ve got a lecherous mind, my boy. I can see it in your eyes ...’
I was on the verge of ejaculation. ‘You can ...?’
‘But that’s good. That’s how it should be.’
‘Yes?’
She smiled and nodded, then she felt my trousers. ‘What about these? They’re wet, too.’
‘They’re all right.’
‘Take them off!’
‘No, please ... I’m all right ...�
��
‘You’re not shy, are you?’
‘No, but ...’
She hauled me up. ‘Come on, come on. No need to be coy with me.’ She pulled down my trousers and saw my bulging pants. ‘Oh ... Oh dear ...’
I must have blushed the colour of a sunset. But where was the darkness to rescue me? I tried to cover my erection with my hands, but had forgotten that I was still holding my glass. So I spilt my raki on the carpet. I was near to tears. ‘I – I’m – I’m sorry ...’
She relieved me of my cigarette. ‘Lift your foot.’
I did so and she pulled off one trouser leg.
I continued mumbling. ‘I’m sorry ...’
She stubbed out the cigarette. ‘The other foot.’
I lifted that, too.
She pulled off the rest of my trousers.
‘I’m really sorry ...’
‘Don’t worry. Carpets love raki.’
This time I managed to cover my erection with my hands. ‘I – I don’t know what to say. I – I couldn’t – can’t help ...’
She looked at my erection and burst out laughing. ‘Oh, you mean that ...’ She patted it. ‘No need to apologize. I’m flattered.’ She collected my clothes. ‘I’ll hang these up to dry. Won’t be a moment ...’
I realized I was going to ejaculate. I had passed the point of no return and was rising fast. I bit my lip in a desperate effort to stop the eruption.
She paused by the door. ‘Actually, these are so wet they could do with a wash, too.’
‘Please – no need to do anything ...’
‘On the other hand, do you have to go home this weekend?’
I started shaking. ‘What?’
‘You could stay here. Then I can iron them ...’
I sank on to the sofa. I was ejaculating. ‘But I ...’
‘You boys don’t always go home at weekends, do you? I’ve heard sometimes you’re punished and have to stay in ...’
I was coming in torrents, messing my pants. ‘Yes, but ...’
‘Good idea, don’t you think? I can ring your parents. Pretend I’m the matron. Tell them you’ve been detained for some misdemeanour. Easy ...’
I was coming so beautifully. Yet I couldn’t enjoy it. Instead of shouting deliriously I had to be quiet, feign that nothing was happening. ‘I – I ...’
‘It’ll be fun. Think about it.’ She waved my clothes like a banner. ‘I’ll get these dry while you decide. In the meantime, fix us another drink!’
She came back a moment later. Seeing that the glasses were still empty, she gave me a quizzical look. ‘No drinks?’
I had forgotten about the drinks. Perched on the edge of the sofa with my hands covering my pants, I was trying to figure out how I could leave the room and go and wash without her noticing that I had soiled myself and, once washed, how I could ask to have my clothes back. ‘I – I’m sorry ...’
She noticed my discomfort. ‘Are you all right?’
‘Yes. Yes. I – I just – need to – go to the bathroom.’
‘Upstairs. Door facing you.’
I hauled myself up, still trying to cover my pants with my hands; all uncomfortably sticky.
She laughed. ‘Aren’t you a bashful boy!’
‘I’m ...’
Then she noticed. ‘Oh, I see ...’
‘I’m sorry ...’
She came up to me, pulled my hands away and inspected my pants. ‘And so much of it ...’
‘I – I couldn’t hold ...’
She pulled my pants down. ‘What a compliment! What an acclamation! I’m honoured ...’
I tried to edge away. ‘Please ... I must wash ...’
‘And waste all this delicious cream?’
‘What?’
She pushed me down on to the sofa. ‘Lie down.’ She pulled off my pants. ‘What a feast!’
I watched in horror as I became erect again. ‘What?’
She held my penis, smiling. ‘Oh, what a virile boy ...’
I protested meekly. ‘I need to wash ...’
She started caressing me. ‘I’ll tell you what. When I’ve gorged myself, I’ll ring your parents. I’ll tell them you’re being kept in. And then ...’ She took me into her mouth.
I moaned and surrendered to a softness that can never be imagined, only experienced.
And in no time at all, I climaxed again.
She dropped me back at school on Monday morning. We had made love all through the weekend and, by way of goodbye, just before leaving her house. She had proven to be one of those women – a rarity, as I was to discover in later years – who became aroused at the merest touch and who made love unceasingly as if born to do just that. But that morning, when, if anything, she had been even more ardent and had clung to me during her intense and repeated orgasms and had described these, using my own favourite Sufi metaphor, as ‘witnessing the deity’, I had begged her not to let me go. I had told her I would give up school, run away from home, beg, steal, murder, if need be, in order to remain welded to her. She had refused: that way, we would be each other’s slaves, she had said; no amount of joy would compensate for the loss of freedom.
Desperately, I had changed my plea. I had promised her all the freedom in the world. I would respect her independence with devotion and patience. I would ask nothing in return except to be with her a few hours a week.
Again, she had refused, this time telling me to be true to my political beliefs. It was all very well claiming to be a devotee of Nâzιm Hikmet’s poetry, but I should also prove myself a practising socialist, an egalitarian who would share with his comrades anything and everything life had given him, including the woman he loved – particularly the woman he loved. After all, my chums from my dormitory – well, those she had known to date – had shown their valour by agreeing to this. More to the point, they had honoured her trust in them – as she expected I would – by maintaining complete silence about their association with her.
It was then that I had discerned the cause of the melancholy that had devastated Agop, Cengiz, Dimitri, Eşber, İsmail and Kâzιm. She had soon admitted, gently but candidly, that I was number seven out of my dormitory’s complement of twenty-four. This did not indicate, she had reassured me, that I was a middle-rung lover, simply that, in the alphabetical order of first names, mine came seventh. (Even so, I agonized for years – and even quite frequently in adulthood – that being number seven was not as good as being number one, that maybe Agop, who had been number one, had surpassed us all by wresting from her a superior ‘witnessing of the deity’.)
And so, that Monday morning, she dropped me at school, or, rather, at the newsagent.
The rain had cleared. And the bright sun appeared to have set aflame, as in Nâmιk Kemal’s famous poem, all the windows in Kandilli, across the Bosporus. The air, having acquired substance from the soft wind and sweetness from the budding flowers on the hills, felt edible. The sea was like mercury: placid, unmarked, but intimating viscid density and unyielding depths. I registered these impressions purposefully, as if taking an inventory, with the thought that this Monday morning might be – should be – my last morning on earth.
Then I saw Dimitri, Eşber, İsmail and Kâzιm, respectively numbers three to six, clustered by the gate, watching me. Behind them lurked the other two: Agop, number one; Cengiz, number two. (How lucky my name didn’t begin with an ‘S’ or a ‘T’ or, worse, with a ‘Z’ like poor Zeki – he would have been number twenty-four – because, for one thing, cancellation of leave kept us in at school some weekends and, for another, our semester comprised eighteen weeks, which meant that even if we had not had some leave cancelled, the last six in the alphabetical order would have had to wait for the next semester ...)
I approached the boys, hating them, wanting to tear them apart. I could see they were trying to read from my expression whether our beloved had discarded me as she had discarded them or had chosen to continue with me. I thought, villainously, that I would pretend I had done better t
han they, but I could neither find the will to break my promise to her about keeping our tryst a secret nor, had I been inclined to be so treacherous, find the energy to do so. Energy for any activity, even for a romantic suicide, I soon discovered, had deserted me. Today I am very thankful for that. Imagine how many of life’s miracles I would have missed had I had the nerve to kill myself.
As I carried on walking, the boys fell in behind me. We climbed the hill without exchanging a word. We checked in at the dormitory, then went to our classes.
Thereafter, as, in the following weeks, numbers eight to thirteen joined our ranks, we maintained an obdurate silence.
Then the summer holidays arrived.
When we returned in the autumn, we found out that, to şιk Ahmet’s great fury, our dormitory had been disbanded.
That might have been bearable. But we had also lost our beloved.
We never saw Suna again.
Of course, we thirteen who had been her lovers inquired about her in the village, even shared the meagre information we received. She had left in mid-summer, suddenly and surprisingly. (According to her landlord she had more than a year to run on her tenancy.) She had not left a forwarding address.
Some of us came to believe she had left because she had met a real man and found him preferable to us boys.
Then we started hearing gossip about our ‘depravity’. At first we thought şιk Ahmet’s fury had more to do with our assignations than having our dormitory disbanded. Then we reasoned that since he had tried to keep the dormitory intact, he could not have been too outraged by our activities. We further argued that, given his radical principles and his belief in the benedictions of carnal love, he might even have approved of the manner of our initiation. Therefore, we postulated, it had been other factors that had forced our beloved to leave.
Fortunately, gossip is never selective. Details of secret machinations started leaking out. And we were proven right.
A neighbour of our beloved’s, having observed her weekend dalliances, had informed on her to a college teacher living in Bebek. (A denunciation borne out of spite, the gossip intimated. The neighbour, a middle-aged man who fancied himself as a Don Juan, had tried to seduce our beloved and had been rebuffed.)
