Ordinary Whore

by Dieter Moitzi

  All my questions lead to the most tantalizing, the most worrying one, the queen of questions: what the fuck is going on?

  “Whose car is this?” I finally ask. It seems the most innocent question; one that could help me initialise some kind of dialogue. I’m feeling too lonely right now to bear the silence.

  But I get no answer. All I get is the eerie night around us, with its spectral trees, the silhouettes of the mountains, dark and unfriendly against the dark sky, the sea shimmering like a faded silver plate down below. And that ever-changing, yet ever-same narrow piece of greyish asphalt rolling through the headlamps’ light and disappearing under the car.

  Me asking questions, Kerem not answering… it’s all so déjà vu! I sigh and mumble, “There we go again…”

  Which makes Kerem decide to finally talk. “It’s a car Murat’s wife uses when she wants to roam the region without anybody noticing,” he says. “And we’re wearing some spare clothes that belong to one of Murat’s sons. I didn’t want us to be recognised.”

  “Oh. Murat has a wife. And sons,” I murmur.

  “You didn’t know it?”

  I shake my head.

  “You do know who he is, at least? Murat, I mean…”

  “Well, he’s that rich guy from Turkey. Do I have to know more?”

  Incredulous, Kerem peers at me. Then he grips the wheel harder. “I don’t get it,” he says, his voice toneless. “Aren’t you interested in people at all? Even if it’s a basic security rule to know who you’re dealing with?”

  “I didn’t have to worry about my security until now,” I snap. “And don’t you go all judgemental on me again! Who gives you the right—!”

  “Do me a favour and shut up! Just shut the fuck up, okay!” Kerem’s voice is flat and devoid of anger.

  I flinch and lean away from him. I find it easier to study the void darkness outside. Easier to remain in my lonesome exile.

  I should have known. Others never give you answers. They only give you more questions.

  —44—

  We finally turn left and jolt down the bumpy trail that leads to the tree house settlement. After a few metres, the car’s headlamps shine on a pair of faded tracksuit trousers, a naked, wiry male chest, a familiar face. I recognise the lazy smile: it’s the young Turkish guy who welcomed us a few hours ago.

  Kerem steps on the brakes, kills the engine, and lets the car roll behind a bush.

  When we get out, the young guy hasn’t moved.

  “What are we doing here?” I whisper into the darkness.

  “Sessiz tutun!” the guy whispers back. I discern his vague contours, his movements suggesting that he is putting a finger to his lips.

  He lights a little torch and leads us downhill. I can hardly make out where I put my feet; more than once, I stumble. Yet I don’t complain. I feel beyond complaining, beyond anything. Once intangibility has swallowed you, there’s nothing left. Only blind obedience. I hope the two guys know what they’re doing. Because I bloody don’t.

  Our slow steps crunch on dry earth and gravel. I hear odd whistling and rustling sounds. Strange insects and animals must be haunting the dark lands. I can’t see them, but I sense their presence. I feel their preying eyes. Eyes of beings that don’t care about me, don’t want to know who I am or what I’m doing, waiting for me to get the hell out of here, the faster, the better. This is not my place.

  And reality slips one stride further away.

  When we get closer to the settlement, the young guy switches off his torch. I hear other noises: a crackling campfire, people chatting, a David Bowie song echoing through the night like the thread of a dream.

  “Man is an obstacle, sad as the clown… Oh by jingo… so hold on to nothing, and he won’t let you down… Oh by jingo…”

  A melancholy and muted voice, a softly strumming guitar.

  All of a sudden, my chest feels heavy. It’s one of those moments where I would like to lie down on the ground, stretch out my limbs, and let myself fall up into the sky. One last, noiseless explosion, and my atoms could scatter and become invisible dust…

  We slow down, we turn left. On tiptoes around the settlement, in a large semicircle, careful now, don’t step on a dry branch, the cracking would give you away, move on, move on, there you are, that’s the forest. Inscrutable and opaque, inarticulate, but I welcome the complete darkness around us like a blanket.

  At last, we reach the beach. Inky waves come rolling in, gentle but mournful, attacking the shore with dogged determination.

  A dinghy lies on the pebbles. We take off our shoes and heave it into the water. The young Turk pulls out two oars from the bottom and starts to paddle around the high and glistening rock to our right.

  Fifteen minutes later, we approach a little fishing boat with a cabin at the bow. A thickset man is waiting for us at the stern. When the dinghy bumps against the broadside, he leans over to help me up.

  Kerem follows me. He exchanges a few mumbled words with the sailor, who disappears in the cabin to start the engine.

  “Kerem!” I whisper. “Where are you taking me?” I need to ask this question even if I know that I’ll get no answer. But I’m playing a role in this play, after all. Only as an extra, but even extras are given lines if they behave.

  “Let’s go down, first. We mustn’t be seen.” Kerem grabs my elbow and drags me into the cabin. I’d like to wave goodbye to our young Turkish friend, but when I turn back, I discover that he’s already far away, rowing back to the beach.

  The sailor nods at us and opens a hidden trapdoor next to the rudder.

  “Come on!” Kerem pushes me forward. “You go first.”

  —43—

  Downstairs, I discover a windowless cabin reeking of fish and diesel fuel. The space is narrow, holding empty shelves and an old, stained mattress on the floor. A small lamp is dangling from the low ceiling. The putting and chugging noise of the boat’s engine seems to leave no place for anything else.

  Holding my nose, I let myself fall down on the mattress and groan. My back is aching, my shoulder muscles are knotted and as strained as tightly wound guitar strings.

  Kerem settles on the edge of the mattress, leaning back against the inner hull of the ship. He gazes at me, a sad, thoughtful shadow on his face. Or maybe it’s just a trick of the light bulb which is swinging with the roll of the waves.

  “Where are you taking me?” I want to know when I have gathered the courage to ask again. My voice is trembling. “There’s an airport in Alanya, right? Or do we go up to Izmir?”

  “Neither, nor. You’re not safe in Turkey,” Kerem answers. “You’re booked on a flight from Larnaca to Paris, tomorrow.”

  Larnaca… It takes me a second before I realise. “Cyprus!” I gasp, unable to hide my surprise. “We’re going all the way to Cyprus?”

  “Yes.” With that, Kerem closes his eyes and starts to breathe in a steady rhythm.

  “You’re not going to fall asleep on me, are you?” I protest. “You owe me an explanation or two, don’t you think?”

  Kerem opens his eyes again. He looks weary and even sadder than before. “I owe you an explanation? Are you kidding me?”

  “Not at all! Why did you embark me on this extravagant flight? We should’ve stayed at the hotel; we should’ve called the police! I also scheduled a business meeting with Murat—what am I going to tell him now? That I ran away from… some ludicrous fantasies his bodyguard invented? Come on, I want facts!” I pound my fist on the mattress.

  “A business meeting with Murat? As if he cared about that right now! Anyway, he has left for Ankara,” Kerem says flatly. “You want facts? You sure you can handle them?”

  I don’t understand. Therefore, I simply nod.

  “Okay then. We both know why you’ve come to Turkey. Because Murat sent you a mail telling you he wanted to discuss your Tu
nisian project. But that was only a decoy. He knows all he needs to know about that luxury whorehouse. Why, he even met that Italian woman yesterday, in Antalya. Alessandra something. You know—your so-called friend.”

  “Di Forzone,” I correct him. My voice is calm now, almost dreamy. “Her name is Alessandra di Forzone. She’s in Turkey?”

  “Yeah, she is. Or rather, was. Whatever. The real reason Murat asked you to come is that he was forced to. Someone wanted to lure you out of the relative safety you seem to benefit from, in France.”

  “And you know who?”

  “No. Murat wouldn’t tell me. For my own safety, he said. But it’s someone powerful. They must be if they have the means to make Murat do their bidding.”

  The boat sways and rocks. I follow the smooth movements, feeling my last certainties crumble away one by one.

  What is this nightmarish booby trap I have walked into? Could it only be a figment of Kerem’s imagination? How am I to be sure of what to believe?

  “How come you know all this?” I ask.

  He shrugs. “It’s my job to be informed. Knowledge is the core weapon if you want to survive. Before flying back to Ankara, Murat took a great risk, too. He must be really fond of you, you know. He sent me a last-minute warning to tell me there was trouble ahead. And to ask me to get you safely out of the country if necessary.”

  “Why would anyone want me to be in trouble? I’m so not important!”

  Kerem shrugs. “I already told you: I don’t know. My guess is money. There are many reasons to pursue someone, but ultimately it’s always about money.”

  “But I don’t have money!” I shout.

  “More than most people, surely. But maybe you’re right. Maybe they’re not after your money. I really don’t have a clue.”

  Neither do I. “How do I know you’re telling me the truth?” I ask.

  “You don’t.” He says this with a sigh.

  He’s right. But do I have a choice? I’m trapped in the womb of this ship, barely in control of anything. “I guess I should trust you,” I state, exhausted.

  “No,” Kerem replies. His voice carries an urgency I haven’t heard before. “I know you can trust me. Always. But you don’t. You mustn’t trust anyone! You hear me? Not anyone!”

  His words strike me as odd. Why would he say I could always trust him? Why would he warn me at the same time? What’s his agenda? And why is it that lately everybody and everything seems to result in my mulling over incomprehensible things?

  I don’t know what to say. I simply cross my arms and concentrate on the brownish stains on the mattress.

  They could be anything. Red wine, rust, or blood.

  —42—

  An hour later, Kerem climbs upstairs to talk to the sailor. He comes back with two bottles of water and hands me one. “Drink. The trip will last some time,” he says, taking a swig of his own bottle. He’s still standing, holding on to the hull to steady himself.

  I glare at him.

  His face remains in the dark, but I think I see him glare back.

  I gobble down some water. Then, I pat the mattress and say, “If there’s a long trip ahead, better be comfortable.”

  He just sends me a wary look before sitting down across from me. “I’m sorry I’m so cranky. I suppose the situation must be tough for you, too,” he mumbles.

  I didn’t expect kindness nor pity. There’s a sudden lump in my throat. “Thanks,” I manage to say. “I’m cranky too. And tired.”

  A soft smile creeps up on Kerem’s face. “Try to rest, okay?”

  “I can’t. Whenever I close my eyes, I… I see the face of that guy again, you know, the guy from the bar… He seemed so hostile, so determined to hurt me…”

  “Once we’ve reached Cyprus, you’ll be okay.”

  “Will I?” I think for a moment. “It’s strange. Here I am, sitting in this cabin, unable to do anything. And yet. I still get the impression that I’m running. Running away from I don’t know what, running I don’t know where. But running… running for my life.”

  “You don’t know what it really means to run for your life.” Kerem’s voice gets a shade darker. “I’ve been running my whole life,” he murmurs.

  “Why do you say that?”

  “I don’t want to talk about it.”

  “Well, maybe you should? Some things are easier to bear when you share them with someone.”

  “You really think that?” He shakes his head. “I don’t.”

  “But…”

  “Drop it. Please?” Kerem changes position, his flashy boardshorts tickling my bare calf.

  “Uh, okay, sorry.” I say. “Sooo. Tell me: how old are Murat’s sons?”

  “One’s twelve, the other sixteen. Why?”

  “Just like that. I wanted to know why we’re dressed in these horrible clothes.”

  “What?” He seems to be caught on the hop.

  “Well… you look ridiculous.” I can’t help but snicker. “Those garish colours! And that T-shirt! It’s several sizes too small for you!”

  “You think you look better?” Despite himself, Kerem giggles, too.

  “I know! I’m horrible, thanks to you and Murat. Can’t he buy his kids decent clothes?”

  “Frankly—you’re such a snob!”

  “You call me a snob?” I box him on the shoulder.

  “Don’t you punch me!” he growls. I’m not sure whether he’s serious or just playing.

  “Why not?” I box him again, a bit harder this time.

  All of a sudden, he pounces on me and tosses me on my back. He seizes my hands, blocks my legs, pins me to the floor. I try to get free, wiggling and rolling from side to side, but his hard body lies on mine. I can’t move, I’m barely able to breathe.

  “I said, ‘Don’t!’” he hisses in my ear.

  From this close, his melancholy eyes look like huge, black wounds. I smell his cologne, his musky body scent, feel his pulse, his skin, his limbs all over mine. I stand no chance against him; that’s why I go limp.

  “Okay,” I whisper. “You win.”

  Kerem lets go of my hands but doesn’t move off me.

  Oh. All right. Somehow, I expected this to happen. I never expected this to happen, too. One of those odd situations where both sides of an argument, although contradictory, are true.

  Everything seems very clear now. Things fall into place with an astounding coherence, every piece and detail makes sense.

  Almost despite myself, I touch his hair, the corners of his eyes, his chin. My lips brush against his, then insist ever so softly.

  “Don’t!” he whispers. But he opens his mouth and allows my tongue to slip in. My hands glide down, get under his T-shirt, move upwards. His chest hair makes my fingertips prickle. A wave of desire rushes over me; I try to fight it as hard as I can. I must stay in control, that’s what I always do. Control my body, control other bodies. That’s my job.

  “Don’t!” Kerem whispers again. He doesn’t mean my fingers, however, he doesn’t mean my lips, he doesn’t mean my body. No, he reads me like an open book, and he wants me to let go.

  These two words open a hidden door I didn’t even know existed inside me. I don’t pretend anymore. Kiss him harder and mean it. Touch him and relish it. Moan.

  Truly give up.

  —41—

  Standing at the railing side by side, with the sea spread out around us like a sparkling, moving carpet, we watch the rising sun dress the fresh morning in unreal hues.

  “We’ll soon be there,” Kerem says. A new shade of sadness seems to have crept over him.

  “Uh-huh,” I answer.

  “I’ve prepared working clothes for you. You’ll be able to disembark unnoticed. It’s a small harbour, but still.”

  “Won’t it look odd anyway? I mean, a Turkish boat lan
ding in Cyprus?”

  “Not if the captain is Cyprian. And Costas is.”

  “Oh. But I heard you talk to him…”

  “Well, I speak Greek.”

  “Really? I didn’t know that.”

  “There are many things you don’t know.” Kerem shivers. He looks exhausted. “One of my men will come to pick you up and drive you to the airport. He has your money, by the way.”

  “My money?”

  “Well, Murat was told not to pay you. But he asked me to pay you, nonetheless. In cash.”

  “Oh, I didn’t worry. Not about the money, that is.”

  We remain silent for a moment, and Kerem’s dejection becomes almost palpable.

  I try to hold my tongue but can’t. “You know… I’d love to ask you to come with me. But I won’t.”

  Kerem turns to stare at me, surprised. “Why?”

  “Because I know you’ll refuse. I understand your reasons. At least, I think I do. But…” I have to clear my throat. “… but I don’t want to be turned down by you.” I can’t look at him. “I’m not sure any of this makes sense.”

  He sighs. “It doesn’t, and at the same time, it does.” He remains silent for a minute. Then he states, “You’re sad.”

  “Right now? Yes, I admit.”

  He turns to stare at me. “Not only right now. In general. You’re sad.”

  “I am?” I look at him, raising an eyebrow.

  “You are.” He shrugs. “Another thing we have in common.”

  I shake my head. “I don’t think I’m…”

  “Believe me. If they could make sadness in pills, the two of us could provide the whole industry with raw material for years and years.”

  We remain silent for a bit, watching the sea again.