The dense heat slaps my head like a wet blanket soaked in urine. I disembark just in time to be serenaded by the haunting sickness of the midday call to prayer. My irritation returns twofold as I’m jostled by a gaggle of terminally old women scurrying like lizards, overloaded with wicker baskets full of rotting fruit. I scamper aimlessly ahead of them, no clue where I am, where I’m going, or what the hell I was thinking when I decided to just drop in for a few hours of exploration. In order to truly understand this freakish divide which both straddles and separates the East from the West, Asia from Europe, would take the most astute detective decades of investigation. Ripe with intrigue, filthy with an undercurrent of sexy repression, her sinister underbelly shrouded in aromatic blossoms whose fragrance can never fully disguise its festering malignancy. Istanbul is a beautiful bitch languishing on a hotbed of winding passageways steeped in sleazy mystery where crusty cousins with dirty fingernails wheel and deal anything that yields a price tag. The art of bartering, bad-gering, and hustling, if not invented in Constantinople, was long ago refined here and is now practiced by nearly all of its estimated fifteen million sweating bodies. If I hadn’t already, I was about to lose my fucking mind.
A petulant gang of six-year-old boys had been following me for blocks, barking with insistence that I purchase a pack of their ratty Kleenex. Their skinny arms and legs encouraged visions of tiny morsels of grilled meat slathered in chili sauce and served on a stainless steel skewer sharp enough to puncture tires. With blood pressure skyrocketing, blood sugar plummeting, I needed to eat before adding cannibalism to my lengthy resume of hate crimes.
I ventured up a dusty side street in search of libations. A scattering of mismatched tables offered miraculous refuge at a deserted café. Empty save for a litter of dirty tiger kittens frolicking after a cloud of iridescent horse flies at the feet of two outstanding specimens of hyper-sexed American stupidity. The twin towheads sporting sun-kissed cheeks, broad shoulders, and aviator shades intensified my hunger. Now it was more than food I craved. I slid into a grimy seat at the next table.
I summoned the waiter, placed my order, and sitting within earshot of their inane conversation felt my blood pressure hike itself up another notch even before the lamb chops arrived. I started getting itchy. My pinkie began to twitch. My eyelids burned. Spoiled shits with Mommy’s money pillaging through Eurasia stoned on hash and horny as hell flipping through incriminating photos on expensive cell phones while relaying a running commentary of their recent female conquests: “Anal in Varna,” “Organ Grinding in Odessa,” “69 Plus One in Sarajevo.” Sounded like a laundry list of bad alt-porno, further evidence of which I was sure could be found on the palm-fitting camcorder coyly snuggled against the blonder of the two’s semi-erection.
“Shit, she’s a gaper,” the bulging one sidelined, inching closer to the phone.
“I’ll give you that one, holmes, but Dirty Sanchez be damned! Two can ride for the price of one!”
“That’s right, cowboy!”
The bosom buddies knocked knuckles.
Although I didn’t feel a moral obligation to avenge my sex-starved sisters in absentia for the randy reminiscing of these gloating globe-trotting Lotharios, I couldn’t resist the festering urge to retaliate like a frontline crusader in the war where the battle of the sexes never ceases to rage. Hell, I didn’t need an excuse, I just wanted to blow off some steam. At their expense. Play them at their own game. And a perfectly executed act of meaningless cruelty does momentarily relieve the predator of built-up aggravation much the same way a good dose of gruesome pornography can temporarily abate the unpleasant urges of a weekend pervert. Fuck being quaint. I wanted to do some damage.
I overheard them discussing the need to go back to their hotel to recharge their camera before that evening’s outing. Mr. Still-Half-Hard was complaining about the slovenly conditions of the dump they were forced to check into until their room at The Bentley was ready the following afternoon. “Yeah, the Palas is crusty, man,” the genius to the left muttered. They had to be referring to the Pera Palas. A faded yet glorious old whore who in her day had housed dignitaries, pop stars, and spies, but was now a dusty relic renowned for her ancient history and tainted splendor. Soon to be condemned to rehabilitation. I wasted no time inserting myself into their salacious conversation. I beamed an undetectably phony smile in their direction, wiped the sarcasm from my palate, and asked with as much sincerity as I could stomach if they were from the West Coast.
“Malibu,” the smart-ass offered.
“Miami,” I lied.
Gratuitous small talk follows. I pile it on. Feign interest in their himbo babble. “Must be great taking a year off before hitting film school at USC.” My stomach churns bile. I continue the charade, insisting they look me up if they ever make it down to South Beach. I scribble a fictitious e-mail address on a napkin. They give me theirs. I close in for the kill. Tell them I overheard their plans to go back to their hotel. Would they mind if I tagged along to charge my cell phone before facing the terminal nightmare of a slow train to the crowded plane back home? I must’ve forgotten to do so last night. Surely they could understand how impotent one feels when their lifeline to civilization short circuits. Naturally, they bought my lie. Exchanging a bemused smirk. I chortled to myself. I didn’t have a cell phone. Or an e-mail account. Or a post office box. Or a permanent address. I hated the thought of being tracked.
I suggested we order a couple of Tuborg tall boys to take back to their room. “Cold brew on a hot day,” Einstein mutters.
I’m growing murderous. Visions of duct tape and Thai tattoo tubes drown out the mundanity of their nonsensical dribbling. We round the corner and enter the lobby with only seconds to spare before my cool evaporates and I stab them both with the steak knife stolen from the café.
The Palas was perfect. Truly. Tarnished, tattered, down at the heels, and haunted. The ghosts of illicit romance, espionage, and dirty deeds painted the lobby in a milky film. The marble columns were cracked. The carpets were sticky. The lobby stunk of cigarettes, booze, overripe broads, and men old enough to overlook their own halitosis. Nobody batted an eye as three twenty-somethings (okay … I’m lying again) scaled the massive staircase up to the third floor.
Blond and Blonder opened their flimsy door to reveal a shitty room with a spectacular view. Two ratty queen-sized beds bookend the massive window overlooking the breath-taking Bosphorus, that magnificent river of mysterious origin that slices Istanbul in half. Her glistening shores flanked by glorious monuments erected centuries before in praise of egotistical kings who worshipped at the feet of false gods. The late-afternoon haze refracted heat and light, creating a gauzy mirage. The madness below was temporarily suspended, silenced. A frozen moment, postcard perfect. And rudely interrupted by the staccato pop of a beer can cracking open. Which reminded me why I was there. I needed to leech a little blood as purgation against my own incurable sickness. I winked and took the can.
I soon excused myself and entered the sprawling bathroom. Beautiful tiles of lapis blue, ivory, carnation pink, scuffed with soap scum. I set the beer on the edge of the tub. Opened my purse. Removed a small ornate brown bottle whose faded label promised Spirit of Philosophical Vitriol. I had to chortle. Such a poetic name for Algarot, a trichloride which induces vomiting and diarrhea. Purchased with half a dozen other outdated bottles of hazardous pharmaceuticals at a small flea market outside of Satu Mare. Now hidden in a locker at the train station. The key tossed down a sewer grate. Squeezed a couple of milliliters into the can’s mouth. Flushed the toilet. Washed my hands. Adjusted my lipstick while pinching myself, trying to ease my rictus grin into a sexy smile.
I joined the little party in the corner rolling hash joints. Probably game planning where to hide their camcorder. Let ’em wet dream all they wanted. I’d grab it on my way out. As well as their wallets, cell phones, credit cards, passports, and airline tickets. I passed the poisoned brew to the high baller on my left. Still didn’t k
now their names. Didn’t want to.
Suck guzzling half the can, the wonderfully hunky idiot burps proudly and raises the beer in a toast in my direction. I wink, blow a kiss, and purr, “Good little donkey … gobble gobble,” while the mark does as expected and finishes off the can. A witchy giggle tickles my throat. I get giddy when someone is about to shit their pants.
“Music!” asshole number two insists. “We need some tunage!”
“I’m on it, soldier,” his nutty buddy mutters, taking a deep drag on the soggy joint. “Bro, this shit is silk.”
Now I wanted to puke. Turkish tobacco mixed with a bullet of black hash which still stinks of the mule’s ass that smuggled it in. The moronic tub thumping of watered-down West Coast gangsta rap bleeding out of crappy portable speakers. The juvenile camaraderie. Their good looks. Perfect teeth. Their sense of entitlement so indicative of a generation bred to measure merit in net worth, success with fame, importance by how many like-minded dimwits have visited their shitty web page. Their fratboy sexuality and everything they stand for is about to fall. Another beautiful victim of gastrointestinal poisoning.
Two minutes and thirty seconds later an outrageously harmonic eruption of wet sulfuric gases explodes from the rear of the stoner to my right who’s frantically yanking on his belt buckle near the entrance to the bathroom. He clutches the door knob in one meaty fist but lacks the strength to pull it open. “Man, was that joint laced? I think I’m melting.” His legs give out. I laugh out loud. Another soul-shattering anal skronk. A wet greasy stain spreads across his backside. Shit. That was quick!
“Christ! Take it in the shitter, dude, you’re making me sick,” heckles his compassionate traveling companion. No sooner said and he’s also done in by a violent spasm which suddenly doubles him over in what appears to be a one-man football huddle. Hands on knees, head bent down. Choking, spitting, drooling. “What the fuck? I told you we shouldn’t drink the water …” He doesn’t get it but I’m cackling like a madman. His head thrashes from side to side. Explosions of yellow and green bile spraying from his mouth and nose, soaking the bedspread and mattress. A Jackson Pollock rendered in puke.
“Fat joint,” I snicker. “Never touch the shit myself, the smell alone makes me sick.”
He continues to retch.
I reach for the hidden camera which they had strategically placed on top of the old chifforobe angled in the corner. It’s petite red eye aglow. Unwavering. I zoom in for an extreme close-up of the beautiful wreck’s puckering maw, capturing every intoxicating minute of his award-winning regurgitation. I’m a bloodhound in heat, the camera my snout. I follow the chartreuse trail as it cascades over the side of the bed and mingles with the toxic brown effluvium of his ailing twin, who’s crawled out of his dirty drawers and into the sanctuary of the bathtub turned toilet. A shroud of steam haloes his gorgeous grimace. I tower above the ruined puppy, a psychotic paparazzo, focus trained on his heavy lids, parted lips, limp prick. He stinks. I zoom in.
I imagine the credits artfully rolling up from the mist announcing my latest contribution to the vast library of reality porn on that slagheap of American culture, the Internet. The Spirit of Philosophical Vitriol, a.k.a. Dirty Dicks and the Chicks That Love Them: Volume 6.
PART III
IN THE DARK RECESSES
ONE AMONG US
BY YASEMN AYDINOLU
Samalcılar
“I will flog the piss out of you, you hear me, you mother-fuckerrr!” he bellowed above me. I thought my ear-drums would burst. I was begging, dying, my knees trembling. The bones, the joints of my hands, had turned to putty.
“Brother, I swear to God, it wasn’t me. It wasn’t!”
They were yanking my head back by the hair on the scruff of my neck and dunking it into the bucket. I couldn’t count how many they were. Each time I held my breath as long as I could. I let it out bit by bit, but it was no use. I couldn’t take it anymore. I inhaled some water through my nose. The salt singed my nostrils, scorched my throat. My eyes burned. They were dunking my head into something, something heavier than water, oilier than water, saltier than water, but what was it? It was like seawater, like tears, what they were trying to drown me in. This time he pushed me hard, harder, into the water, by the back of my neck. I struggled, I cried. You could drown in a fucking spoonful of water. What the hell did I know? What the hell was I doing here?
A crackling sound exploded in my ear. Suddenly, I woke up. I was in the prison ward. The music broadcast had started. Orhan Gencebay buzzed through the speakers: “May I be damned if I’ve forgotten you, if I’ve found another lover.” A dream? It was all a fucking dream, goddamn it. I touched my face, felt the tears still there. My balls and my chin ached from the spasms, from the crying. I’d never been so happy to wake up in this ward. I headed straight for the toilet upstairs, cutting a path through the pungent scent of urine. I didn’t want to let on that I’d had a bad dream. Sixty of us all living together in the same room; sixty people under the constant surveillance of fifty-nine. Somebody’s bound to catch on to your soft spot. My biggest fear, ever since I was a kid, was for someone to be able to read my mind.
But then I really shouldn’t be surprised. I’ve got a penchant for finding myself in the craziest situations. I remember the day I arrived here, for example. They unloaded us from the van, I raised my head, and, Goddamn it, Ahmet! I say to myself. You just stepped in a pile of shit! Now lift your fucking foot. The walls of Samalcılar Prison lay before me. Surrounded by white houses, the place sticks out like a bruise on the skin of a pale lady. Shit had gotten real serious real fast. And to think that dude I jumped with a knife was only packing a hundred bucks. Asshole! Hardly compensation for the price I’d have to pay. Made an absolute fool out of me. And if things keep up like this, I’ll be a disgrace until the day I die. But there’s one thing I’ve learned in this life, and always failed to do: Never ever trust your feelings and the reasons behind them. ’Cause they change so damn quickly, leaving you with nothing to do but lick your wounds.
The music stopped all of a sudden. They announced Sinan’s name. The same Sinan I’d just killed in my dream, and then got all choked up about swearing to my interrogators that it wasn’t me. He’s trying to get transferred out of here, but he keeps turning up empty-handed. You can’t just go wherever you want whenever you damn well feel like it, now, can you? As soon as he heard his name announced, Sinan made a dash for the hallway. With a noisy rattle of the keys the door opened, and out Sinan went. Then Orhan Abi picked up where he’d left off, crooning away.
I waited for him to return to the cell. I was sure he’d get rejected. The aftershocks of my dream slowly wore off. I’d never been so frightened by a dream since I was a kid. It’d been on my mind for a long time. I had asked, but Sinan’s lips were sealed.
“You think killing someone’s gonna earn you stripes or something?” he had said to me once. He talked with a whistle through his broken front tooth.
I said nothing.
“Don’t ask me then, go ask your master,” he said.
“The master’s situation’s different,” I said.
“What about it? Self-defense or not, you deal with the consequences.”
The man he called my “master” was a prisoner we worked with in the carpentry shop. Sinan didn’t like him, not at all. He was respected by the other men, like he was some kind of ward aa or something. Two plainclothes flatfoots tried to rape his wife one night when they were coming back from Kumkapı, and he butchered the guys right on the spot. He got a king’s reception when he arrived at the prison.
Sinan was back before he’d even left. He walked into the courtyard without a word, paced a line all morning. He took it real hard every time his transfer petition got rejected. And this time, too, just like when any little thing happened to him, he felt his whole world was crumbling around him.
I went and sat next to him at lunch. I scrunched up and started eating.
“Use a fork,” he said.
“I’m gonna eat with my hands,” I said.
“Use a fork. You can’t eat like that, you’ll upset your stomach,” he said.
He always told me what to do. Whenever I spoke, he interrupted me and corrected my accent. He told me who I could and couldn’t speak to. And he rubbed my peasant roots in my face every chance he got. As if he were carving out his own little kingdom there between those walls. I continued eating. You shovel in rotten, raw meat with your bare hands, and then you savor every damn morsel, don’t you? So why use a fork just ’cause it’s cooked? I was about to say. But I didn’t.
“Don’t tell me what to do. Gets on my nerves,” was all I said.
“You a hood now, are you?” he said. “Since when?”
To him, I could fall right into the class of degenerates and scum at any given moment. I looked him in the face. I should hate him. He had a china chin, delicate as a woman’s. The veins on his forehead grew even bluer when he was sad. Tore me up inside. I kept doing my damnedest to be his equal. I started eating with a fork. It wasn’t difficult, I simply didn’t enjoy it.
“They’re going to kill me if I stay here,” he said.
“Nobody’s gonna do shit to anybody,” I said.
“Müfit’s got men in here. I gotta scat, and quick.”
“No bird flies out of here without the ward aa knowin’ about it,” I said.
The ward aa was a man in his thirties who’d been catapulted to his superior rank as soon as he set foot in here, because he’d killed seven men in a parking lot brawl. He was the man who kept tabs on comers and goers. Next to him, the guards were mere escorts.
The “Müfit! Müfit!” he whined about was the son of the man he’d killed. From what he told me, all hell had broken loose over some broad. Sinan’s childhood sweetheart. He had no idea how he slayed that man, the fat sixty-some-year-old daddy who planted himself in their way the night they tried to elope. Both men were certain of their love for Funda. I can’t imagine Sinan slapping a punching bag, he’s so damn puny. And this Müfit guy told the apartment-building doorman to let Funda know he was on Sinan’s ass. Is there really a doorman at the apartment building where Funda lives? Who knows? Hard to separate the bull from the shit when it comes to these stories. Regardless, Sinan thought he was now in the lion’s mouth. And he’d started acting extra strange the past few weeks. He couldn’t sleep at night, even started praying. He started speaking real fast, like he was mumbling prayers or something. He couldn’t sit still. And when he got like that, he’d get more annoyed with me than ever. Yet for years I’d been closer to him than anybody, Funda even.
Istanbul Noir Page 13
