Ordinary Whore

by Dieter Moitzi

  “How would you know?”

  “When they left, I ran over to the windows and watched them walk down the street.”

  “And they didn’t say anything in the corridor?”

  “Not a word. They simply broke your door open, walked in, and stayed for half an hour. I guess they would have stayed longer, but your janitor showed up suddenly. He had a small parcel in his hands, probably a delivery for you. I saw him ring your doorbell. Then he waited. No one answered the door, so he turned around and started to walk away. That’s when everything went very fast. The guys threw open your door and clubbed your janitor over the head. He dropped to the floor, they picked him up and hurried away towards the stairs.”

  I shiver. “Jesus. Now I understand. Tomas. That’s the janitor’s name. They must have pushed him down the stairs to cover up their attack. He’s in hospital now, in a coma. They could’ve killed him…”

  “I’m really sorry.” Kerem stares at his hands.

  I’m so overwhelmed by a sensation of doom that I cling to silly details. “How did you know where I live?”

  He shrugs again. “That was easy to find out.”

  “Was it? And why are you really here?”

  He looks at me at last. “I told you. I wanted to make sure you were safe.”

  I let that pass. What choice do I have? “And why did you creep into my apartment?”

  He has that sheepish look again. “I… I panicked. I didn’t see you leave, so I thought you were there. I thought they had… hurt you. Or even…” He whispers now. “… killed you.” He swallows, his Adam’s apple pops up and down.

  “And why were you waiting for me in this kitchen, gun in hand?”

  “I told myself maybe the guys would come back. So, I came here and waited for them.”

  “What would you’ve done if they had come back?” I whisper.

  “I would’ve killed them.”

  That’s more than I can take. I get up from my chair, my voice icy. “Please leave now, Kerem.”

  “But…”

  “Go back to where you’ve come from. Go back to Turkey. Go wherever you want and take your violence with you.” I look straight into his eyes and see the deepest dejection. But I cannot allow myself to be moved. What Kerem has told me scares me to death.

  Even Kerem scares me.

  “I only wanted to help you,” he says, getting up too.

  “Maybe. Whatever. Right now, I can’t think straight. I really want you to leave.”

  He moves to the kitchen door without saying a word, but his melancholy hovers in the air like a heavy scent.

  Before he leaves, he says, “You should check if they’ve taken anything. And please lock your door when I’m gone. All the locks, and the safety latch.”

  I nod.

  “Another thing. Your apartment was bugged, Marc. I’ve retrieved more than twenty listening devices. State-of-the-art, so small you need to know where to search and what to look for if you want to find them.”

  “Oh, that’s what those cell button batteries were then.”

  “Yep.”

  “Well, I suppose I should thank you for getting rid of them.”

  He waits for a second as if hoping that I would ask him to stay.

  I don’t.

  “There’s someone who wants to talk to you,” he finally says. “She’ll be here this evening at five. I’ll tell her to ring in this pattern…” He raps on the kitchen door, short, short, pause, long, short.

  “I don’t want to see anyone.”

  “Perhaps. But she’ll come anyway. I just wanted you to know.”

  I hear him walk into the living room, probably to pick up his gun and baubles. A minute later, there’s the sound of the safety latch, followed by my front door being unlocked, and the soft click of it being closed again.

  I wait five long minutes before I dare to leave the kitchen on tiptoes, almost dreamwalking into the anteroom.

  Whatever I believe—and I don’t know what I should believe anymore—Kerem is right about one thing.

  I had better make sure I’m safe in my own home.

  —11—

  Once I’m safely locked in, my first impulse is to run around the apartment like a headless chicken. I take a deep breath before I walk down the corridor. Panic won’t change anything. Better to clean up the kitchen. That’ll allow me to think about the Kerem situation. About the whole situation, in fact.

  What is Kerem really doing here? Can I believe him? Can I trust him?

  Who is the mysterious woman whose visit he announced? That’s really puzzling me. Can it be Alessandra? For what reason would she show up here? Or is it one of my sisters? Mother? Jane? I even think of Gloria for a brief moment. I cannot exclude anybody or anything.

  Whoever the surprise visitor turns out to be, I think I’ll decide whether to let her in or not when she’s standing before the door.

  Somehow, I suppose I’m going to ask her in. Because she represents two possibilities: either she sets some things straight for me. Or she just muddles them up some more.

  Either way, I’ve reached a point where I know I have nothing to lose.

  When I start to mull over the rest of my current state of affairs, I come back to the essential question. What the fuck is going on in my life? What have I done to make everything go so horribly wrong?

  That’s when I stop pondering, because down that road there’s only bitterness, insanity, and despair.

  Half an hour later, the kitchen looks pristine again. And I’ve checked my stocks—flour, pasta, rice, olive oil, sugar, honey, jam, beverages, what little there is left in the fridge, you name it—to see if my spy visitors have done funny things to them. To my relief, there are no signs of any intervention; nothing has been injected into the bottles, everything tastes the way it should. I notice some things have changed place, however.

  Then I’m off to my bedroom. I go through my stuff with a keen eye, methodically. My intruders have been stealthy, and they have been thorough. If I didn’t know they had been here, I wouldn’t have detected it. But I do know, so I see that my underwear has been fondled, my T-shirts have been searched, my suits and trousers have been touched.

  Under the bed, there’s the brown briefcase Kerem gave me when our boat reached Cyprus. It is slightly dusty, and there are cleaner spots showing that someone has opened it recently.

  But nothing has been taken. The ugly suit, the ugly loafers, the garish teenager clothes Kerem stole from Murat’s sons’ wardrobe are still inside. I panic for a second when I don’t find the fake German passport until I remember I took it with me when I left for Belgium. What I do find, however, hidden under the rest, is the envelope with Murat’s money.

  I didn’t bother to check how much he gave me; I do it now.

  Fifty thousand euros.

  I whistle. That’s much more than he should have paid.

  I retrieve the money and put it in my trouser pocket.

  Off to the bathroom now. It is slightly damp, and the mixed fragrances of shower gel, toothpaste, and deodorant are hanging in the air. I pick up the towel Kerem has draped over the towel rail and sniff it. There’s the slightest trace of Kerem’s scent, and I cannot help breathing it in deeply.

  I still don’t know whether I should trust him or not. But God, does he smell good.

  Everything looks fine to me in here, so I proceed to the living room at last.

  That must have been the place the intruders have searched most carefully. Almost every piece of furniture and decoration trinket isn’t exactly where it should be. Not that I’m maniac about these things, but still, I notice when something has been moved.

  Oh. My father’s appointment books have vanished.

  All right. I’m not even surprised. At last now I know what they’re after. And I have a first inkling as to wh
o they might actually be and what they might expect me to do.

  I should have figured it out much earlier, of course.

  Where there’s money involved, ugly things are bound to happen.

  Especially if it’s dirty money. Money unduly gained.

  Some people, I gather, must be very annoyed that they paid ten million euros for intel they could have easily found by buying Le Canard enchaîné5 each week.

  For one euro twenty per issue.

  —10—

  At 5:00 p.m. sharp the doorbell rings. Short, short. Pause. Long. Short.

  I walk into the anteroom with my heart racing. Do I really trust Kerem? What if I find a hitman standing outside, gun in hand, eager to neutralise me once and for all? What if he is already pointing the barrel at the peephole, waiting for the shutter to be moved aside and an eye to be pressed against its fisheye lens?

  On the other hand, what if it’s only one of the women whose names I’ve been listing in my mind? I don’t want to see any of them right now, but at least they don’t strike me as dangerous.

  In the end I don’t bother with the peephole. I undo the safety latch, unlock the three locks, and pull the door open.

  Oh.

  It’s neither Alessandra nor one of my sisters nor Mother nor Jane nor Gloria nor anyone I know. The woman looking coolly up from her little Hermès handbag must be in her late forties. Petite, pretty in a stern way, brunette with dark eyes. Her face looks oddly familiar. Her hair is cut stylishly short, and she is wearing expensive-looking clothes: a steel grey blazer, a white blouse, dark blue slacks, Louboutin shoes. Pearl earrings, a pearl necklace.

  We gape at each other for a couple of seconds. She steps closer and asks in English, “May I come in? I don’t feel comfortable standing in this corridor.” Her voice sounds throaty, a light accent gives her British pronunciation a slight exotic flair.

  I hesitate for a second. What should I do?

  “Of course,” I say at last and beckon her in, inviting her to proceed to the living room to my right with a weary wave of my hand.

  As she walks past me, the heels of her shoes clack-clack-clacking over the parquet, I catch the smell of an unknown perfume. Musky, almost masculine, and expensive.

  I lock the front door before I follow her.

  The woman has stopped in the middle of the living room, looking around appreciatively. “Very nice apartment”, she says politely, but I’m not sure she means it.

  “Thank you. Please, do sit down.” I point at the couch. “I thought you might like some coffee.” My best china is standing on the low table: a coffeepot, two cups and saucers, a jug of milk, sugar, and a plate with biscuits I bought in Châlons.

  She sits down elegantly. “Thank you. That would be nice, indeed.”

  I settle on the armchair across from her and pour us coffee. “Milk? Sugar?”

  “Black with two sugars, please.”

  When I’ve finished serving us, I take my cup, lean back, and wait.

  She stares at me, not in an unfriendly way, but still very coolly, as if she were assessing the value of a painting in an art gallery. Finally, she nods, still unsmiling. “Now I understand. You’re really very handsome.”

  That’s not what I expected. “Oh. Er, thank you. I don’t want to sound impolite, but—who are you?”

  She flicks a non-existent mite of dust off her blazer. “My name is Aslı.” The last vowel sounds odd, halfway between an “I” and an “A”, almost swallowed backwards. Again, I’m reminded of something… a place, a scent, a sensation…

  “Zenkin,” she adds.

  I immediately know the sound of the vowel. It’s one of those letters that only exist in Turkish.

  “Aslı Zenkin. I trust you know my husband. Murat.”

  —9—

  All right. Of all people… Murat’s wife! For crying out loud!

  I must be gawping like a cretin because Aslı cracks a half smile that doesn’t reach her eyes. “Don’t worry. I guess you’re afraid that I’ve come to make a scene. Well, I haven’t.”

  “Er…”

  “Not very talkative, are you?” She takes a sip of her coffee and looks at me, surprised. “Oh—excellent. Where have you bought this coffee?”

  My education and my frequent dealings with self-respecting socialites kick in. “Er… there’s that coffee roaster in the 16th arrondissement”, I reply politely. “They have a pretty amazing offer with hand-picked brands from all over the world. I can give you their address if you want.”

  “Yes, please. I’d appreciate it. These days it has become quite hard to find artisan shops where they still roast coffee by traditional methods, don’t you think?” She sips again. “But those methods make all the difference.”

  The conversation feels surreal. “Er… Do we really have to talk about coffee?” I manage to say, forgetting about politeness. I sound stiff and churlish.

  “Oh, sorry.” Aslı sets down her cup. “In my culture, we tend to indulge in small talk before tackling the more serious issues. But maybe you’re right. I shouldn’t stay too long, so we don’t have much time. You see, my son told me about all that happened here.” She makes a vague gesture. “In your apartment. And he told me about the janitor.”

  “Your… son?” I try to make sense of her words but fail miserably. Her sons are twelve and sixteen, for God’s sake. There’s no way one of them knows about the recent events in this building.

  “Yes. My son. I think you know him, too.” She looks at me as if expecting me to offer her a name. Which, of course, I can’t. I’ve never met her sons; I didn’t even know that they existed—or that she existed, for that matter—until my last visit to Turkey.

  “Kerem”, she says and makes it sound like a posher version of “Duh.” “My son Kerem.”

  Wait—Kerem is her son? Her fucking son? How did I not know that? Why did Murat never tell me? Does that mean he is Murat’s son as well? Why would Kerem have lied to me then?

  I shake my head, staring at her. I just don’t understand.

  Aslı must have read my mind because she says matter-of-factly, “Oh. I thought Kerem had told you. But judging by that look on your face, he didn’t. Well, Kerem is my son. My illegitimate son, even if I hate that word.” She shrugs. “But I cannot change words. They are what they are. Of course, I could say ‘born out of wedlock,’ or ‘born on the wrong side of the blanket.’ I’m sure you could come up with more even uglier words, too. I was told your English vocabulary was excellent.”

  “But… why… how…?” I stutter.

  “I had him before marrying Murat”, she states. “Who, of course, is not Kerem’s father.”

  “But your two other sons…”

  “Listen.” She looks me in the eyes. “Yes, Murat is gay. He hates that word, but let’s not beat around the bush. His… er…” She searches for the right word, then tries, “Proclivities?” She shakes her head. “No, his nature was never a secret. I’ve known about it since we married. We’ve always been honest with each other.”

  “Why did you marry then? Even though you knew he would never be able to… you know…” I trail off helplessly. She is Turkish, so I probably shouldn’t delve into Murat’s sexuality.

  To my surprise Aslı chuckles and seems to relax at last. She leans back and crosses her legs very elegantly. “Please, don’t be embarrassed. I know who you are, and I know what you’re doing, Marc.” She sounds eerily like the text messages I received, but her voice is so devoid of any threat, so business-like that I remain calm.

  “If that is the topic you want to discuss,” she continues, “you should know that I don’t blush at the mention of sex. My mother was English, my upbringing very Western. And for the record, my husband was quite able. We have two sons, after all. Women are just not his preferred partners in bed, as you should be bound to know.” She shrugs. “Whe
n we married, we had this understanding. I brought in my political connections in Turkey, he brought the money. I would also help cover up his true nature, and he would help me look like a respectable woman. He promised he would take care of Kerem, too. It’s as simple as that. A business deal. We do appreciate each other, that’s why we decided to have children.”

  “Why didn’t Kerem tell me about you?”

  “You have to ask him. I don’t know. My best guesses would be that either he didn’t trust you, or he didn’t want to burden you with his secret.” She leans forward and points a finger at me. “For this must remain secret—I hope you’re aware of that. Kerem’s safety depends on it, and if you put him in danger, I swear I’ll find you, wherever you are, and kill you.” She still sounds as if discussing the brand of my roast coffee, which makes her announcement all the more chilling.

  “I’ll keep that in mind”, I reply, trying to cover my racing heart behind a dry tone. “Even if I don’t understand what Kerem’s safety has to do with the fact that you’re his mother.”

  “Right.” Aslı sighs. “I was warned that you were oblivious to anything that didn’t match your naïve take on reality.”

  I’m ready to protest, but she cuts me off with a wave of her hand. “Let me explain some basic facts. First of all, I’m not the issue here. Murat is. Or rather, you are. My husband got involved with you, for obvious reasons—your looks, availability, harmlessness. I won’t go further into that. The important thing is, he shouldn’t have. Because you brought danger with you. Unwittingly, but you did. Murat helped you get out of Turkey the last time you were there, and now he’s in prison.” She spreads her hands to signal the logic of her words.

  They don’t sound logical at all. “What?” I gasp. “He’s in prison?”

  Again, she sighs. “Yes, Marc. Made-up charges, but in Turkey, nowadays, once you’re sitting in a prison cell, you’ll find it hard to get back out. And you see now how ignorant you are? You didn’t ask yourself for a second if your escape to Cyprus would have consequences for other people. Well, it had. My husband is in prison because of you. He likes you, and he felt pity for you when he discovered the scale of your problems. That’s why he helped you. You, of course, didn’t realise how serious the situation was, you didn’t try to grasp the dogged determination of the people who are after you.”