The Lamppost Diary

by Agop J. Hacikyan

  *

  Aram’s problem was altogether different. He had emptied his piggy bank some time ago to buy adult magazines in a second-hand bookshop next door to Uncle Jojo’s. After hours of brooding, he remembered his grandfather’s pocket watch, which the old man had dropped into the toilet only two days before. The watch was heavy and should still be there, in the toilet bowl; it couldn’t be flushed away that easily. He dashed to the bathroom to fish it out but ended up raking up only water and shit.

  But his disappointment was shortlived. He took off the christening medal that hung from his neck. The medal made him a Christian, and his visit to a brothel would turn him into a fully-fledged adult. Did he really need any further justification for selling it?

  Aram moved to the dresser and checked himself in the mirror. His black eyes were relatively calm, concentrated under a smooth brow. He didn’t look bad. He wondered if the women out there would like him.

  *

  Bebo didn’t hesitate. He took the ceramic money box and flung it violently to the floor. The crash panicked him but luckily his mother didn’t hear. From the broken box poured coins and bank notes. He went down on his knees and with trembling hands began counting the money that had scattered over the floor. The images of fat nude women in obscene positions kept getting mixed up with the images on the banknotes of the president of the republic, which was disturbing. But what really disturbed him was the family’s depleted finances. Bebo’s father, unable to pay the Wealth Tax, had been dispatched to a labour camp in eastern Anatolia. His mother had a hard time making ends meet. She slaved ten hours a day, six days a week, in a shirt factory near the Galata Bridge in the old city. And he was going to spend his savings on a woman who was not even a virgin? His first impulse was to snub the boys entirely. How could he, though? He would become a laughing stock – the sissy scholar, the fart of the gang! He had to go, to prove his unfailing loyalty.

  *

  Haig had no money worries. His father had managed to pay the tax by selling his textile factory and apartment building to two wealthy, educated Turkish brothers from Adana. They were most mindful of the government’s unjust treatment of minorities and had made an exceptionally fair offer. Haig’s main problem was inventing a credible excuse for returning home late on the day of their sojourn at Abanoz after becoming brothel-broken! He lived in Kadιköy, on the Asiatic side of the city, and the Armenian school was situated on the European shore. He commuted by steam ferry between the two continents. His daily shuttles between Asia and Europe used to impress his friends, but with time the trip had lost its mythical attraction. Anyway, compared to his friends’, his problem was the least worrying.

  Planning their sexual junket didn’t take long: Haig would be invited to Aram’s after school dismissal at noon on Saturday. Aram would be invited to Haig’s. Bebo would have lunch at Tomas’s to help him prepare for the upcoming maths exam. And as none of their parents phoned each other, their plan was as solid as the Rock of Gibraltar!

  *

  Abanoz. A narrow, crowded cobblestone street. Dirt, dust, mud and semen turned into black mulch when it rained. Old Greek-style stucco structures, blackened by decades of decay and pollution, stood pressed against one another in a procession to the north, towards the quarter of nightclubs and bars. To the east, the fashionable boutiques of the Grand’ rue de Péra marched in staid formation up into Taksim Square. The people who frequented the street regarded these buildings with total indifference, never imagining that these houses had histories, memories that would soon vanish completely, along with the women who raised cocks to make a living. The houses had double-hinged iron doors, the colour of which had been obscured by decades of rust. The doors were always shut, but in every door there was a peephole, a little larger than a hand, which was always left open so people could peer in at the women inside.

  Saturday, 1.15 PM. The gang of four arrived. Aram lit up. Tomas was distracted and anxious; Bebo looked pale and mortified; Haig was completely mixed up; Aram was restless, puffing incessantly on his cigarette. If they went as a group, as if on a school trip to a museum, they had less chance of being allowed in than if they approached the brothel individually. Going together was naturally preferable but they realized they didn’t have much choice. They decided to break up and meet in two hours in front of the corner tobacco shop.

  *

  Friends in higher grades, seasoned in adult entertainment, had recommended Navsika, a Greek woman at No. 13. ‘She fucks twice for the price of one with boys under the age of sixteen!’ they said. ‘She calls it her children’s menu.’ The idea of a woman who tried to please youngsters emboldened Tomas a little.

  Navsika’s parents, unable to take care of their eight children, had decided to send her and her sister Diona to a convent near Salonika. Three years at the nunnery turned Diona into a saintly young woman, and she finally professed her vows as a nun. With Navsika, on the other hand, it was not long before she started taking shortcuts, disengaging herself from what God asked of her. She found fasting extremely hard and totally unnecessary, but spent long hours praying that she would find her true vocation. Before her second spring at the nunnery, when an elderly nun was strangled in the course of an overnight robbery, Navsika fled, without even warning her sister.

  Now, in exchange for sacrificing two years of her life to monastic rules, she hoped for a bit of worldly pleasure, dreaming that she might be destined for great things; instead she ended up as a scullery maid at the Greek Patriarchate in Istanbul. The Church was unable to give her any more responsibility. Even polishing silver in the dining room would have been better than peeling onions and potatoes for a few clerics and the patriarch, who was on a strict fat- and sugar-free diet and ate next to nothing. Her multiple requests for a teaching position in a Greek community school were turned down as she didn’t possess the required certificates.

  One evening, while getting undressed for bed, she caught sight of herself in the mirror and was enchanted by her delectable figure. She stood staring at herself like a female Narcissus: a comely face, full sexy breasts, pointed nipples, white silky skin, a luscious figure. ‘I’m wasting the gifts the good Lord has given me,’ she said to herself and kissed her reflection affectionately. She needed neither certificate nor pedagogy to make use of her God-given beauty.

  Ever since that evening she spread her legs with the utmost contentment. And over the years, as she grew ever more adept at her calling, she specialized in pediatrics.

  Tomas spotted the house from afar. It was at the end of the street. No. 13 was painted in white on an oval enamelled red plate attached to the iron door.

  He stepped carefully, to keep his brown shoes from getting soiled. The feeling that he was doing something wrong darkened his mind but he quickly dismissed it. He had bought a pair of condoms and rehearsed with one several times the night before. The second one was in his pocket; he would use it for the real thing. The older boys had said that one should always use a condom. They had mentioned diseases with names that were so convoluted they would frighten anyone. According to them, Navsika was a little chubby but had a comely face and a sexy body. Thoughts of her had excited him so much the night before that he ejaculated twice.

  Navsika in unlucky 13. He stood still. His heart clamoured against his chest. He heard the same obscure notes of music that had filtered up to his room from Anya’s apartment the other day. He watched the swarthy, mustachioed faces that lined up as if to receive communion. It was human nature, he supposed, to inspect the merchandise before purchasing. He would walk right in without looking, regardless of the consequences.

  He rang the bell discreetly. A stout middle-aged woman with a voluminous bosom spilling from her green dress answered the door. She must be the madam, Tomas thought, and stepped in without uttering a word. The woman blocked him by thrusting out her sizeable breasts. Her intent gaze and swollen figure intimidated Tomas.

  ‘You can’t come in here.’

  ‘Why not?’


  ‘Off with you, boy! Go home!’

  The bell rang. She opened the door and found herself face-to-face with a man who looked like he was in his late sixties, an old-timer with a bald head, thick eyebrows and hair sticking out of his ears, putting one in mind of miniature spider’s webs.

  ‘Good afternoon, Ipek.’

  ‘Good afternoon, Dursun Bey.’

  ‘Is Meryem free?’

  ‘Of course, come right in.’

  ‘What’s this little chap doing here?’

  ‘He wants to come in,’ the woman explained with a sneer.

  Turning to Tomas, the man asked, ‘So you want to go in? At your age, you’re better off at home.’

  ‘That’s what I’ve been telling him,’ the woman said.

  ‘Suppose we let him in,’ said the man. ‘At his age I was having it off with the mouhtar’s wife.’

  ‘If you say so.’ The madam turned to Tomas. ‘Be grateful to the gentleman.’

  Tomas smiled at the man and went in, ignoring the woman.

  The waiting room was brightly lit. It was warm and moist. It smelled of wet towels, which were hung to dry on a clothesline above the black salamander stove. There wasn’t much furniture: a couple of shabby couches and three hard chairs with tall uncomfortable backs lined the walls. There was also a fairly small table cluttered with limp-looking magazines, and at one end of it there was a big green glass ashtray full of cigarette butts. The whitewashed walls were dingy with tobacco smoke and the smoke from the stove. The madam took the money and called Meryem down for the old man. Tomas sat uncomfortably in one of the chairs. He still wasn’t sure if he should stay or get the hell out of there. Sitting on the couch were two skeletal women, their chests as flat as a prairie highway. They sat in such a way that they covered the entire couch. They were chatting and smoking, ignoring the two clients in the room. The only appealing sight was a relatively young, half-naked black woman who had just walked in from behind a red curtain that hid the staircase to the upper floor. She postured on the other couch and exposed herself provocatively, arousing the horny crowd that peered through the peephole. She had huge nipples, like a pair of rubber dummies. Tomas was captivated. He inspected her discreetly. The madam’s voice brought him back to his senses.

  ‘You, Casanova, how can I help you?’

  Tomas couldn’t understand her; it was as though she was speaking without consonants.

  ‘What can I do for you, boy?’

  The word ‘boy’ struck an offensive note. He didn’t reply.

  ‘It’s your first time, I know. Don’t be shy,’ she said, ‘Of course, you want what everybody wants. I’ve got a gorgeous girl for you; she’ll fit you like a glove.’

  The madam had years of experience. She had herself hopped from one bed to another, then working at Madame Atina’s, the most acclaimed, lavish maison de rendez-vous in Istanbul, catering to a choice clientele of both sexes. But her beauty had eroded over the years and she finally ended up in the municipal brothels. Now she went through weekly medicals, like all her girls, and furnished Meryems to Dursun, Mahsun and Tosun Beys.

  Tomas scrutinized the black girl. She smiled at him. Should he or should he not? That was the fucking question. Faced with such a shoddy sight, even the great bard would have had a hard time finding words to express his desire.

  ‘I’ve come for Navsika,’ he uttered shyly.

  ‘She’s busy. Why don’t you have this delicious piece of chocolate? She seems to be in love with you.’

  The black woman smiled at him again.

  ‘I’d like to see Navsika,’ Tomas insisted. He had been assured that Navsika wouldn’t make fun of him because it was his first time. She wouldn’t mind that his penis wasn’t yet fully developed either. ‘I don’t mind waiting for her.’ The room felt boiling hot. Tomas was sweating. He removed his jacket.

  ‘Wait until you’re upstairs before you get undressed, big man.’ The madam threw an indignant look at him. ‘As if there were no other women in this house! Navsika, Navsika, Navsika! Everybody asks for Navsika ... She’ll be running a day-care centre up there soon.’

  Tomas ignored her remark. The women chuckled.

  Twenty minutes passed and Navsika came down.

  ‘Navsika, you’ve got a new client. It sounds like he’s in love with you.’

  Navsika’s face brightened. ‘Come with me, handsome. I think I may fall in love with you too.’

  She asked him his name.

  ‘Tomas.’

  She realized he was a Christian. ‘Come with me, pedimou, come, my child.’

  Tomas was happy. She was nice. She was beautiful. She wasn’t chubby. She was sexy. She had been created to make his dreams come true. There was no comparison between her and those remnants of women in the waiting room. Navsika must have been a peroxide blonde; she had brown eyes ... It was easy to understand her when she wasn’t speaking Greek.

  They went up the stairs to her room.

  It didn’t take her long to realize that it was Tomas’s first time. Her face lit up like a thousand-lamp crystal chandelier. ‘I love it when boys come to me to be broken in.’

  Tomas blushed.

  ‘Don’t look at me like that, boy. You’re not here for surgery. Smile.’

  Tomas pulled back his lips as if allowing the dentist to examine his teeth.

  ‘Wait until you’re in me. You’ll feel like you’re in heaven. Better than masturbation, more precious than liberation ... absolute salvation ...’ She burst into a long, loud peal of laughter.

  Before entering her room Tomas had put his hand in his pocket. Much to his dismay he had discovered that his knob had almost vanished. How could he show it to Navsika?

  ‘Come on, kid; have you changed your mind?’

  The small room was furnished with Spartan plainness – a double bed with a green satin bed cover, pillows of different shapes and colours, a wooden folding chair and a vintage leather armchair. The floor had never enjoyed the warmth of a carpet, for the wear and tear on the hardwood was evenly spread. The only extravagant item in the room was a new chest of drawers and on it, next to a glass vase, a tiny book: the selected poems of Constantino Kavaf is in Turkish. Tomas smiled. What he liked best was the colourless space between him and the book, space which seemed to make it possible for him to run away or to cry.

  While Tomas was busy inspecting his surroundings, Navsika removed her dressing gown. Her nakedness scared him at first; then he remembered Aunt Elise. The same ivory, acquiescent flesh ...

  Tomas put his hand in his pocket again; his spirits rose with his rising penis. It was there, more auspicious than before. With some reluctance he stepped out of his trousers and stood there in his underpants, feeling silly.

  ‘Take those off, boy, and come to bed.’

  He hated her calling him boy.

  He got completely undressed. ‘You’re not a Christian!’ she shouted.

  ‘I am too! I’m Armenian,’ Tomas replied.

  ‘No, you can’t be. You’ve been chopped.’

  ‘Because I had to, to go to Yerznga.’

  ‘Go where?’

  ‘No, it’s a joke. I was circumcised on the advice of a doctor.’

  She asked no more questions. By now Tomas had discovered that he no longer had anything to be ashamed of; he was endowed with almost an adult-sized penis, perfectly shaped. Navsika was lying on her back, her breasts swaying lazily like masses of jelly, her legs spread wide. First he touched her breasts; he craved to kiss her nipples, one pinker than the other, but he didn’t dare. His hands moved down. He stuck his finger into her belly button. Navsika shrieked and thrust him off the bed onto the floor. Tomas was petrified.

  ‘Never do that to me, boy. I’m so ticklish, I could crush your balls into chickpeas.’ She let out another loud peal of laughter. ‘Come on. I like young boys, but I can’t spend all afternoon with you.’

  Tomas remembered he had to put on the condom he had in his trouser pocket. Navsika held him down to keep
him from moving.

  ‘I have it here,’ she said, and tore the cellophane off the condom in her hand. Despite his desperate efforts to visualize two-hundred-year-old twisted, disfigured witches – double, double toil and trouble – Tomas ejaculated like a miniature Niagara, all over her face. Panic and humiliation. He didn’t know what to say. He tried to wipe her face with his hand.

  ‘Bravo,’ she exclaimed, semen dripping down her chin. ‘Don’t worry. I’ll blow it up again.’

  Tomas flushed crimson – his cheeks were two pieces of burning coal.

  She pushed his hand away, grabbed his penis and placed it in her mouth. The pleasure was so great that blood pumped voraciously through his veins. He thought his heart had fallen out of its cage. She was biting. It hurt.

  ‘Let’s put on another condom,’ she said.

  Two shots for the price of one, he remembered. She told him to lie on his back and got on top of him. She was fully shaved. She moved, she rocked, she stuffed her nipple into his mouth. He felt like he might choke. She kept gyrating, right and left, back and forth, up and down ... A born contortionist!

  His blood pumped into a new heart. He shut his eyes. It was like gliding into her with his entire body, lengthwise, widthwise, depthwise, from head to toe ... a lingering cyclic motion ... above him Navsika, above her the stars, and beneath him a lousy mattress. She pulled him abruptly to her breasts, then immediately pushed him back, without letting him suck them. He had already come, but she kept breaking him in: bit by bit, drop by drop, blush by blush, each blush redder than the one before. The whole performance took no longer than five minutes. For Tomas it felt like an eternity.