Ordinary Whore

by Dieter Moitzi

  ANKARA/LONDON — Murat Zenkin was at the head of Zenkin International Ltd., a Turkish-British real estate company that owned several luxury hotels all over the world, including the Shangri La Hotel in Paris and Brown’s Hotel in Mayfair, London. Last month, the Turkish police launched an investigation into acts of fraud, corruption, and money laundering, and Zenkin was incarcerated in the Ankara F1 Prison. His lawyers, however, allege Zenkin was merely a collateral victim of Turkish Prime Minister Recep Tayyip Erdoğan’s attempts to silence political opponents. Zenkin, who had previously supported Erdoğan and his Justice and Development Party AKP, criticised the Turkish government’s lack of economic vision in an interview given to the Financial Times, advising investors to wait for signs of change in Turkish policies.

  According to an official statement issued this morning by the prison authorities, Zenkin was found dead in his cell last evening by a prison guard. In a way that remains as yet unknown he managed to get hold of a leather belt and hung himself from the cell bars. Despite several requests, the authorities have not provided any further comment. As Souleymane Sanyoglu, one of Zenkin’s lawyers, claimed, “We are fairly confident that our legal attempts to get Mr Zenkin liberated would have been successful. Mr Zenkin seemed optimistic the last time we were allowed to see him in prison. His supposed suicide comes as a huge surprise and is, by our reckoning, extremely suspect. My colleagues and I have immediately demanded his body be examined by independent forensic scientists.”

  Zenkin leaves behind a wife, Aslı Zenkin, daughter of the former mayor of Ankara, and his UK-born wife, and two sons aged twelve and sixteen. Mrs Zenkin, currently staying in Geneva, Switzerland, was unavailable for a statement.

  Forgeron daughter signs with Actes Sud

  (Livres Hebdo)

  Debut novel to be published in January. Will it be an autobiographical roman à clef about her life with her politician father and famous singer-mother Monie?

  The daughter of former Secretary of State for Foreign Trade Jean-Marc Forgeron, Angélique Forgeron, 29, has signed with Actes Sud, the Arles-based publisher announced yesterday. Her debut novel The House of Questions has been accepted by the editorial committee and will be released next January. Rumour has it that the contents might be an explosive mix of autobiography and novelised social critique, but little has been disclosed so far. Forgeron’s editor Madeleine Caños-Grosselin has simply declared that she was blown by the young authors urgent voice, her poetical yet exceedingly contemporary style, and her daring choice of themes and tropes. “This young writer,” said Madame Caños-Grosselin, “is pure talent combined with raw insights into the human soul.”

  Police raid targets International Prostitution ring

  Giancarlo Menuzzi (Corriere della Sera)

  Yesterday the Polizia di Stato and the Guardia di Finanza raided several apartments in Milan, Bologna, and Turin as well as Rome in a joint operation during a nationwide crackdown on aggravated procuration and organised crime. Twenty-five people were arrested, countless documents seized.

  MILAN — The Polizia di Stato and the Guardia di Finanza launched a widespread joint raid in Milan, Bologna, Turin, and Rome yesterday afternoon. Their targets were suspected of running a clandestine prostitution ring out of Milan. Twenty-five people, amongst which the supposed head, former TV presenter Alessandra di Forzone, were arrested.

  Milan police spokesman Giulio Virtuti explains that the police received several anonymous tip-offs hinting at the existence of the illegal organisation. Allegedly, di Forzone and her son had created a highly lucrative scheme: they brought together several members of the international jet set in a recently purchased hotel in Djerba, Tunisia. Each member paid an initial fee of €100,000 and several thousand euros per sojourn. In return, they were offered the services of hired prostitutes, both male and female, who constituted the bulk of the hotel staff.

  “Our investigation has only just begun,” stated Mr Virtuti. “We have secured personal computers and bags full of documents our experts are currently examining. But there are strong hints that organised crime is involved, with links to the Mafia and Camorra. Nobody can predict the extent of this criminal organisation, which seems to have been going on for several years.”

  Di Forzone is an intimate of several current ministers and is rumoured to be a personal friend of Prime Minister Silvio Berlusconi, for whose television channels she has worked in the 1980/90s. The police, while refusing to comment on the possible involvement of politicians, assures possible acts of collusion are investigated. “Our examination of the facts has only just begun”, Mr Virtuti said. “We will do our job without neglecting any lead or evidence.”

  Daughter of late PS Heavyweight jumps on UMP Bandwagon

  Arnaud Leconte (Libération)

  By-elections are dull? Think again. After Gaspard Lambert-Dupré’s unexpected resignation from all his posts for health reasons (see our article of 26 June), a new surprise yesterday: the UMP6 National Nomination Commission designated a fairly unknown outsider to run for the now vacant post of député.

  Throughout their lives, many voters of Calvados’s7 4th constituency have known one député: Gaspard Lambert-Dupré. Elected without interruption since 1981 he is an institution and pillar of the local as well as the national political centre. He initially entered the Assemblée nationale8 with the UDF ticket9 and joined the Nouveau Centre in 2007. Lambert-Dupré, close political companion of ex-President Jacques Chirac, was also said to share the same global political vision as current President Nicolas Sarkozy. Yet ever since Mr Sarkozy’s election, he didn’t shy away from criticising the government’s positions and policies regarding immigration and national cohesion. Last week Lambert-Dupré announced in a succinct press release that he was resigning from all his political posts, including that of député, supposedly for health reasons, effective immediately. It was rumoured, however, that Mr Sarkozy had put pressure on Lambert-Dupré to vacate his post. Most political observers predicted the nomination of Lambert-Dupré’s long-time deputy and close collaborator, Adeline Saindoux. But in yet another surprise move, the party’s National Nomination Commission announced yesterday afternoon that they designated Raphaëlle de Rochefont instead. Mrs de Rochefont is a complete outsider, until now a mere independent town councillor of Pont-l’Évêque10. Incidentally and rather ironically, she is also the eldest daughter of Jean-Marc Forgeron, one of the historical PS-heavyweights11, who died last April. Mrs de Rochefont’s husband is a well-known lobbyist for the Bolloré-group, which might explain her surprise nomination by the UMP commission. Even though Mrs de Rochefont is relatively unknown, a first telephone poll done this morning gives her and the UMP a large victory in the upcoming by-election.

  Two Missing after Yacht Capsizes off Greek island

  DP (AFP/Le Monde)

  Search efforts were continuing after a yacht capsized during a heavy thunderstorm off the coast of Cephalonia, Greece. The two missing persons are the French tourism consultant Marc Forgeron, son of the late French statesman Jean-Marc Forgeron, and a Turkish seaman.

  PATRAS — The luxury yacht Rose of Athens capsized this night at 10:00 p.m. local time during a heavy thunderstorm in the Ionian Sea. The ship had left the port of Piraeus, Athens, yesterday morning with a crew of five and four passengers on board and was heading for Cephalonia, largest of the Ionian Islands. When the storm warnings were issued around 8:00 p.m., the captain tried to reach the nearest port, Poros. Strong winds and a rough sea, however, capsized the boat some ten kilometres off the island coast. The captain managed to send a distress alert, and seven people were rescued by the Greek Coast Guards. Two men are however still missing, despite ongoing search efforts: a Turkish seaman as well as the French tourism consultant Marc Forgeron, whose father, former député and Secretary of State for Foreign Trade Jean-Marc Forgeron, died only a few months ago. Marc Forgeron was recently involved in a tax evasion scandal.

  For
geron’s mother, 60s pop singer Monique Forgeron—better known as Monie—expressed her grave concern in a press release this morning and is supposed to fly to Athens this afternoon. An official statement issued an hour ago by the local authorities leaves little hope as to finding the two men alive. “Sadly, we have to presume they’ve drowned. The sea was raging,” a spokesperson is quoted, “the gale so strong one could hardly go outside without being swept off one’s feet. Crew and captain of the Rose of Athens are seasoned professionals and not at fault. They did what they had to do, and thanks to their prompt reactions seven people are safe and sound. In truth, we haven’t seen such a violent storm for many years.”

  This is the second time this summer that a ship accident off the Greek coasts ends in a tragedy.

  Part Eleven | Postscript

  —1—

  Flames have a way of licking over the logs, caressing them without touching them, that has always mesmerised me. There’s that hazy, blurry, heat-white hesitation enclosing the chunks of wood with a halo, the fire dancing around and above them, hiding one moment, then revealing its different, flickering hues again—the yellows, the orange flares, the light red flashes, the greenish tinges here and there. It’s a symphony of rustling and crinkling, with crackles and snaps, the sound growing hungrier every second. Some dry branches pop, some lush pine needles burst aflame with a hiss.

  I’m so drawn in by the changing yet reassuringly familiar sight that I don’t hear Sarah enter the living room and walk over to where I’m crouching before the fireplace. I only realise she is standing behind me when she says, “There you are, Ingalls. I’ve been looking for you in the shed.”

  Without turning around, I say, “I thought I’d bring in more logs, just in case. And when I noticed how cold it was in here, I made a fire.”

  Moaning, Sarah leans down and places a kiss on my hair. “Great idea. I’m chilled to the bones.”

  I look up, but from my angle I only see her huge belly. With a sigh, I get to my feet.

  Sarah smiles wearily. Apparently, she has been pushing herself too hard again.

  I guide her over to the armchair in front of the huge bay window and gently press her down. Then I sit on the armrest and drape my arm over her shoulder. “What you been doing, hon?”

  “Helped Wyatt clean the Frazers’ cabin and change the sheets and stuff.”

  “Oh hon! Why didn’t you ask me to do it? June told you to take it easy, and I agree with her. In your current state…”

  She snorts. “Could you two stop treating me like I was fragile or something? Please? I know you’d love to see me sitting in an armchair all day twiddling my thumbs. But I can’t do that.”

  “Why don’t you knit? We could all do with more caps and winter socks.”

  Sarah glowers at me, but there’s an amused crinkle around her eyes. “Knit? God, Ingalls, who told you I’d like to effing knit, of all things? I’m pregnant, not a doddery old granny!”

  I pat her arm. “I know, hon, I know. It’s just that June is so worried about you. We all are.”

  “Don’t be. I’m perfectly fine. Just a bit breathless after all that work, but that’s normal. And for the record, women in my stage often feel a strange urge to do physical stuff. There are girls, they say, who’ve given their house a complete make-over two days before their delivery.”

  I chuckle. “Please no make-over, hon. I like our home the way it is.” Our home. After all this time, the word still sounds weird in my ears.

  She leans against me. “I know. Didn’t plan to change a thing. June would kill me.”

  We stay like that for a moment, gazing into the fireplace.

  Then, Sarah turns her head to look up. “Hey, question: did you check the snowmobiles? When I was walking back from the cabin, I thought I smelled snow in the air.”

  “I did, as a matter of fact. Phoenix asked me to have a look at them, so…”

  The door opens, and Kay peeks in. “Oh, great, you’re both here,” she says, drying off her hands with a dishcloth. “Don’t you look bonny and snug!” Her broad, wrinkled face beams at us. “Just wanted to pop in and tell you dinner’s in the oven. I’ve cleaned up the kitchen, too. Now I’m off. Wyatt’s waiting in the car, and it’s Justin’s birthday today—I promised his mother I’d be back before dark…”

  “Right! Justin’s birthday! How old is he now? Thirteen?” I enquire.

  Kay grins. “Jesus Christ, don’t let him hear that. He’s fourteen, and as proud as if he’d won a price. Well, off I go then.”

  Sarah holds up a finger. “Please wait a sec, Kay.” She nudges me in the side and whispers, “Ingalls!”

  “What?” I look down at her.

  “The gift!” she hisses.

  Darn. I’m glad she has such a good memory because I would have forgotten. I shoot up and scratch my head, a bit lost. “Uhm, where did you put it?”

  Sarah points at the bookcase. “The Austens.”

  All right, I can see it stick out between Northanger Abbey and Pride and Prejudice. I dash over, pick up the envelope, walk back to Kay, and say, “This is for Justin. Give him a kiss from us, too.”

  “Oh, you shouldn’t have…”

  I hand her the envelope. “It’s nothing. Just an Amazon gift card from the four of us. The last time we had a chance to go to Whitehorse was two months ago, so it was pretty tough to find a better gift.”

  “I’m sure he’ll be thrilled,” Kay says and pockets the envelope. She pecks my cheek. “Well, thanks a bunch, kids. Say thanks to Phoenix and June, too, would you? Now I really gotta go. See you the day after tomorrow.”

  “Be safe on the road,” I say.

  “Will do. The track should be half-frozen by now.” Kay winks at us. “I guess we’ll have snow before the end of the week.”

  —2—

  When Phoenix and June come back from the airport, we have dinner in the spacious kitchen. I started a fire in there, too, so it’s cosy and warm. Tonight we have one of Kay’s delicious cottage pies with a green salad as a side dish, and Phoenix opens a bottle of Californian Cabernet Sauvignon.

  It’s nice to be alone for once, the four of us, that is. We had the Frazers for a week, and the week before, when the Brandons from Wisconsin and the Joigneaux from Montréal were still here, the kitchen was constantly crowded. None of us minds having people here—that’s what the Clifford Creek Ecolodge is all about, after all—but it’s always relaxing when we’re allowed to be ourselves for a while.

  Even the way we’re sitting around the huge oak table shows how much more comfortable we feel. No need to pair up the way our marriage certificates suggest. June is sitting on the bench with Sarah, Phoenix and I on the other side on two chairs. We don’t hold hands, but anybody could see that this is the way things should be.

  “Did everything go as planned?” Sarah asks.

  “More or less.” Phoenix helps himself to more pie.

  If he continues like that, I think, he’ll grow a paunch before long. Not that I’d care. He’d still be dashing. I take in my man’s tanned, weathered face, ruggedly handsome beneath the long, well-groomed, black beard. The shaved head gleams in the bright kitchen. There are crow’s feet at the corner of his eyes from squinting into the sun and from laughing. That’s a good sign.

  Unconsciously Phoenix seems to feel my gaze and starts scratching his chest, hidden under a red lumberjack shirt. “The plane was half an hour late, as usual,” he says, glancing at me with a half smile that hides his embarrassment. He still doesn’t like to be stared at. “But Burt and Janice didn’t even notice. I think if they could’ve stayed another week, they would’ve gladly done so.”

  “Especially now that they’ve predicted snow,” June adds. She smooths her rebellious short hair, which stands out every which way. Whatever she does to it, she always looks like a hedgehog. “Janice didn’t wanna leave, either.
”

  “Anyway, they’ll be back next year. All but booked their next stay already,” Phoenix announces. He points his knife at the food. “Good, this. Anyone want some more?”

  While he serves us, June asks, “Sooo—what have you two been up to in the meantime?”

  We chat a bit about our chores, and then we chat a bit about the weather and the impending snow. Because of her condition Sarah only drinks water, but the bottle of wine is no match for the rest of us. Afterwards, June makes cocoa, and we have some cookies and schmooze and relax in the warm kitchen.

  At ten o’clock, the dishes are done, too. It’s pitch-dark outside. We hear an owl hoot in the distance when I open the window to close the wooden shutters.

  June helps Sarah get up and says, “I think it’s beddy-bye time.”

  Phoenix yawns and stretches. “Yep. For me, too. I’m dead on my feet.”

  We switch off the lights, check the fire in the living room, then head upstairs. June and Sarah disappear in their room with a last good night-wave.

  Phoenix takes my hand, kisses me on the lips, and leads me to our bedroom.

  It’s freezing in there, so we quickly brush our teeth in the adjoining bathroom, undress, and slip under the thick blanket.

  Phoenix turns to me, undoes my bun, and fingerbrushes my long, dense, wavy hair. He pulls my head closer and kisses me again.

  Then we make love, slowly but passionately.

  And that really feels like home.

  It has been difficult to unlearn the emotionless fucking. Difficult to accept that making love is a healing experience. Little by little, I think I’m getting there, however.

  It’s been three years now, but we make love each and every night, no matter how late it is, no matter how tired we are.