“How do you feel about it, Uncle?”
He pressed his lips together in thought. “I do not approve of corruption for any purpose. Deserving families may be denied the privilege of adoption because they cannot pay the bribe. As for the religion, as long as they are brought up to believe in God, then it’s good. This is why I worry about you, my little imp of Satan.”
“Uncle! I have little to do with God or Satan. They leave me alone; I leave them alone. You mustn’t worry about me. We agreed, once.”
“I struggle every day with the thought that good people who do not believe in Allah may nonetheless receive his blessing. It goes against Islam and the beliefs that my parents and the Koran taught me. Ah, but the world is changing so. Perhaps you’ll find God in your heart one day. I pray for it.”
After breakfast I returned to my room to work at my computer. I brought my files for the case up to date, including a tabulation of everything about Beck I’d learned since my arrival in Istanbul. That Beck the doctor of divinity and Fatboy the rapist were the same person seemed highly probable, though I had to admit that the evidence was circumstantial. It hung from the threads of Ashley’s observations made while she was terrified and blindfolded. Making matters even more tenuous was the fact that Ashley’s recollections were pried from her under hypnosis.
I was acquainted with the recent history of repressed memories, one of the topics of the Psychology of Memory class that I took at UCLA in my senior year. After first hearing Ashley’s story I dug out of my school files some notes on the subject that the professor had handed out to the class. I wanted to refresh my own memory. They began with the chronicles of Bridey Murphy:
Bridey Murphy was a middle-aged Irish woman who “remembered” previous lives while hypnotized. She had been undergoing repressed-memory therapy through “age regression.” The therapist led her backward through time, stopping her at various ages to describe the images and feelings of her youth. This information would be used to help treat her current mental problems.
Bridey’s therapist did something unusual and experimental. He regressed her past age zero. To his surprise she became a different person, living in a previous era, and capable of describing scenes from the past. Over the months he regressed this predecessor-Bridey through zero and discovered yet a different, more ancient being.
These “memories” were remarkable because they contained details that could be known only to the persons who Bridey was. Her recollections had information about the distant past that a 1950s middle-aged, middle-class Irish woman couldn’t possibly know.
Medical personnel and representatives from the media witnessed the hypnotic sessions. They attested that she spoke spontaneously without suggestion or prompting. She took on different speech characteristics as she regressed through the various personas that were she in an earlier time.
Historians, antiquarians, sociologists and linguists were asked to authenticate Bridey’s remembrances. Through her precursory avatars she revealed social customs of the past long since unused, forgotten and unknowable to the layman. She had access to petty political information that was important in its time, but no longer regarded. She knew expressions from the obscure dialects spoken by her pre-Bridey incarnations that only a linguist might be aware of.
The tabloids in both Britain and America had a field day. Not a week went by without a feature article that further validated Bridey’s pre-birth experiences. Amateur hypnotists regressed their friends relentlessly through bygone millennia. All had led previous lives in Ancient Greece, Troy, Rome or the Isle of Atlantis. Not a one had the misfortune of having been a wretched Greenlander or half-starved Russian serf. It was said that if everyone who claimed to be a princess from Atlantis in a previous life truly was, the island would surely have sunk under the sheer weight of royalty.
The competition for attention to one’s previous lives was fierce. Faded movie stars tried to make comebacks through their pre-birth personas. Religious leaders on the fringe found themselves to be rebirths of religious leaders who were central in yesteryears. Purveyors of séances nimbly switched to channelers of previous embodiments. Bridey’s imitators were legion, and for years they strutted their hour upon the stage and then were heard no more. None was able to maintain the verisimilitude that Bridey managed.
When it was revealed that the Bridey Murphy chronicles were a carefully planned hoax, the concept of previous lives retreated to the seedy outposts of pseudoscience, where it dwells to this day.
But something important remained. Having been bamboozled by swindlers, and being once bitten, twice shy, psychologists began to look askance at the verity of repressed memories. A book was published in the mid 1990s that showed that recollections revealed under hypnosis may be right, wrong in minor detail, wrong in major detail, or entirely fictional. Much depended on the personality of the patient, the methods of the analyst, hidden or even subconscious motives, and the synergism amongst them.
Rereading the notes planted questions in my own mind as to how reliable Ashley’s recovered memories were. I had to take them at face value when I took the case. I needed something solid on which to base the investigation. When Harry/Strong fit the picture I felt more sanguine about Ashley’s recollections. Even so, the identification was not rock solid in my mind and I eagerly awaited the results of the DNA test. While I wouldn’t wish that bastard to be anybody’s father, a positive result would ease many of my misgivings.
I spent the afternoon in my room brainstorming ways of obtaining a DNA sample from Fatboy. I wrote down every idea I thought of, irrespective of how outré it was. I managed to come up with a list of seventeen items. Some were clearly unacceptable, but it’s important to suspend judgment when brainstorming. One can cull later.
My ideas ranged from the sexual to the sublime. Any sample of his semen would suffice, however obtained. This I could contemplate but not do. On the sublime side, I might tell him that feet turned me on and offer to give him a pedicure. Of course I’d steal some clippings. That idea had the virtue of confirming his identification. A manicure would work, too, DNA-wise. Also on the list was running my hand through his hair when we got friendly, which I was sure we would, and extract one or two strands. The same result might be achieved by obtaining a skin scraping from his back by means of pretended passion, though kissing the man was at the outer limits of what I would do to achieve this goal.
An hour before I had to leave, I showered, put on a minimal amount of makeup, and donned my new outfit. I transferred a few essentials, including nail clippers, to the small, matching bag. I hadn’t brought my handgun to Turkey. The law forbids it and a conviction means jail time. I was missing it now. There’s nothing like a loaded automatic to give heft to the handbag and confidence to its bearer.
I opted to go on foot to the appointed meeting place. It was under half a mile from my hotel. The walk gave me time to calm myself and review my stratagems. I was glad I’d chosen more or less comfortable shoes. This wouldn’t have worked in spike heels.
The park in front of the Topkapi Palace, called the Court of the Janissaries, was full of families enjoying the mild autumn weather and celebrating the end of the Sabbath, for the sun had officially set a while ago. A few elegantly dressed men and women were making their way across the park toward the entrance to the palace. I assumed they were my fellow partygoers.
Beck was standing by the ticket booth talking to a tall, thin, bald man wearing wire-rimmed glasses and dressed, like Beck, in a tuxedo. As soon as Beck saw me he waved and, keeping one hand on his companion’s shoulder, reached out the other arm to sweep me in.
“There, didn’t I tell you this was my lucky night with the ladies?” he beamed.
“Thank you for inviting me, Dr. Beck,” I said shyly.
“You look utterly ravishing, Violet, and please call me Thompson. My congratulations on a successful shopping venture. Let me introduce you to Alan Beeman. He’s the president of IKX Corporation, the biggest importer of American m
achinery in Turkey. Alan, this is my friend Violet Williams.”
We shook hands. The men finished their conversation and Beeman excused himself, leaving us alone.
Beck stepped up to the window of the ticket booth, showed his ID and, after a conversation I couldn’t hear, appeared to hand over some American currency. In return he received two engraved invitations that would admit us. I was becoming an ever more costly date.
The palace proper begins with the Second Court, which we now entered through the awesome Gate of Greeting. On the left side of the courtyard stood several guards, their side arms purposefully conspicuous. Rooms containing precious artifacts, as well as the entrance to the Harem, bordered the Second Court on this side. Naturally, all were off-limits to the attendees. Light-fingeredness is a character flaw shared by rich and poor alike.
The Gate of Felicity admitted us to the Third Court, the locus of the party and formerly the sultan’s private domain. This courtyard was populated with partygoers, sprinkled among whom were palace guards dressed up to be inconspicuous, never mind that the .45 caliber bulge in their dinner jackets cried out “I’m a cop.” Along the wall on the right side was an eight- or nine-piece band. They played both Turkish and Western music, the musicians shifting effortlessly between the two modalities. Two belly dancers sat languidly in the corner waiting for a later hour to show their talent.
Tables of food backed by starched servers in white were arranged along the far end of the courtyard. All sorts of kebabs, stews, salads, vegetables, fruits, and the ubiquitous döner—spit-roasted leg-of-lamb—were freshly prepared and abundant. The dessert table was the only concession to Western cuisine. It was covered with French pastries.
On either side of the tables of food, in the far left and right corners of the courtyard, arranged under canopies so as to be not readily noticeable, were fully stocked bars with bartenders. It was toward one of these that we ambled. Beck stopped to talk with various people as we slowly made our way across the Third Court. He was polite and genteel, and introduced me with great courtesy to civic leaders, business executives and foreign dignitaries. I was surprised, though I tried to conceal it, when I heard him speak Turkish, albeit dreadfully accented, with some of his acquaintances.
When we reached the bar Beck said, “You must try our national drink. If you’re going to raise a Turkish child, you must be like a Turk.” He greeted the bartender in Turkish, inquired after his family, and accompanied by a wink asked him to make me a very strong raki.
“This is raki,” pronounced Beck, when the two glasses were set before us. “It has a licorice flavor but it’s smooth and not very strong. Let’s drink a toast, Violet, to the changes about to happen in your life.”
I sipped the milky liquid. It was a bomb.
“How do you find it?” asked Beck.
“It’s okay. I think I once drank some with my Turkish friends. It’s like ouzo, isn’t it?”
“Yes, my dear, only better, smoother. Isn’t that right, Hussein?” he said to a man who had just come up to the bar. Hussein agreed, and after ordering an American whisky took Beck by the arm to introduce him to his companions. As soon as Beck turned his back, I said to the bartender in Turkish that as sure as God was great and Muhammad his prophet he must serve me only the weakest possible drink. I shoved my glass toward him and he replaced it with one that contained just enough raki to make the milky white color.
Beck returned, urged me to down my drink so we could have another. I did so and he ordered two more from the bartender, who was true to his word. Another toast hinted at my successful adoption. We downed those drinks and I began to act slightly tipsy.
The band was playing American oldies. “I’m in the Mood for Love” inspired Beck to ask me to dance. As we held each other, I could feel the layers of blubber that were concealed under his clothing. He held me close and tight. I remained impassive. When his right hand slid down to my ass I moved it up. The same hand attempted to caress my breast. I removed it. I wanted neither to lead him on nor reject him outright so that he wouldn’t see me again.
I put my left hand behind his neck and felt the hair on the back of his head. It had been washed and was slicked down with some kind of a non-greasy styling gel. I stroked it and made subtle attempts to extract a strand but it didn’t work.
Beck responded to this mildly amorous act by squeezing me yet closer to his body. He thrust his hips forward and I could feel that he had an erection. His hand dropped once more to my ass.
“Thompson,” I giggled, “please stop that.”
He resisted my efforts to relocate his hand.
I was relieved when the music ended and the band switched to the Turkish mode, which is much less conducive to the cheek-to-cheek style of dance. Beck looked somewhat flushed. He still played the gentleman, complimenting me on my dancing. He suggested another round of drinks.
“Do you know there is a Fourth Court?” he said, when we had our fresh glasses of raki. “It’s behind the food tables. Let’s see if we can have a peek.”
With drinks in hand, he led us around the tables and through a corridor. I was sure we’d be stopped or I wouldn’t have followed him. We found ourselves in an open area.
“Down there,” continued Beck, “is the tulip garden. It’s quite lovely, though not as lovely as you. I’d like to show you it.”
He took my hand and led me down a short flight of stairs into a lowered terrace. The spring-flowering tulips were missing, but the garden was replete with other flowering plants. Beck rightly knew this would be a romantic spot. We walked across the garden toward a canopied area.
“This is where the sultans took breakfast,” explained Beck. “And here,” he indicated an archway, “was the Circumcision Room. That room was used for the ritual that admits Muslim boys to manhood. The circumcision occurs when the boy is nine or ten years old. It’s the principal rite of passage of Muslim males.”
He spoke with a prurient tone as he related these facts to me, but I wasn’t sure if it was brought on by thinking of the boys or by thinking of me. Whatever it was, it made me shudder.
“Shall we have a peek?” said Beck. “There are some beautiful tiled walls.”
Before I could answer he pulled me inside. The room was the size of a large American bedroom, furnished with two divans, several chairs and a table. There was only one way in and out. It dawned on me that we hadn’t seen another soul in the garden and that we probably shouldn’t be there. The low level of lighting reinforced the impression that visitors were not expected. The first seep of adrenaline made me flush.
No sooner had we entered than Beck pulled me toward him and tried to kiss me. I resisted.
“It’s okay, Violet, no one will come. It’s private here. We have our little understanding, don’t we? I’ve been nice to you, so now you be nice to me. So come, just a little kiss to show you like me.”
“Really, Thompson, I don’t think we’re supposed to be here. Please take me back.”
“You know that I’ll work with the agencies for you. I can just about guarantee you an adoption. Just give me one small kiss.”
I shook my head. I wanted a piece of Beck’s body but not the piece he was offering.
“I really think we should leave. I hardly know you. I need some time to think about this.”
Beck had positioned himself between the door and me. He grabbed my injured wrist and squeezed hard.
I yelped and tried to free myself.
With one hand tight around the stitched lacerations, and the other on my neck, he began pushing me back in the room toward one of the divans.
“Let’s sit down and talk about it, then,” he said in a menacing tone.
I protested once more and this time both his hands slid up around my throat. He growled, “You can cooperate and we’ll be friends, or you can have your neck wrung like a chicken. The choice is yours, my dear.”
CHAPTER 19
When I didn’t answer him he began to squeeze harder. I was begi
nning to black out. I knew what I had to do, though it repulsed me.
“Okay, okay,” I gasped, sobbing. “Please don’t hurt me anymore. I’ll cooperate. Let’s at least do it right. I don’t want a zipless fuck. Get undressed.”
He shoved me in a corner so I couldn’t make a dash for it. He removed his cummerbund and trousers. My sobs had aroused him to a fever pitch. He was wide-eyed and flushed, and his licorice breath came in short, shallow spurts. His bulbous, hairy belly ballooned out from under the formal white shirt. His erection bulged through his underpants.
“Take off your shoes and socks. I’m not fucking a man with his shoes on.”
He looked annoyed and for a moment I thought he was going to come at me again, but he commanded me to get on the divan, then sat down and removed his footwear. I could just see by the dim light that his left foot lacked a second toe. That clinched it. I needed that confirmation.
I lay on my back and pulled my dress up over my hips. I slid my pantyhose and panties down around my ankles. Beck tore off his underpants and moved to lie down on top of me.
“Let me help you,” I said, and moved my hand down as if to assist him. Instead, I grabbed a handful of pubic hair in a tight grip and pulled with all my strength. There was a tearing sound and a terrible scream. He rose up, his face contorted in pain and rage. I slid out from under him, propped up on my elbows, and double-kicked him hard in the testicles. Too bad he hadn’t asked me to remove my shoes.
Beck gasped and emitted a dreadful moan. He doubled over in agony, both hands in his crotch. I hurriedly dressed, wiped the pubic hairs from my hand into my bag, and moved ass.
The Circumcision Room is thick-walled, and no one was near. Beck’s cries had gone unnoticed. I climbed out of the garden and through the passageway to the Third Court. My bartender friend noticed me and smiled. I mouthed in Turkish Allahu Akbar—“God is great”—and lit out across the court toward the Gate of Felicity, biting my lip to keep a normal pace. It would not be fitting to run.
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