I look at Inna with genuine surprise. ‘What does he mean?’
She rolls her eyes.
Her day-after sickness has severe symptoms. No wonder – she hasn’t been sober for over two days. She talks quietly and slowly, as if the words are stinging her. ‘Many girls have been deported for illegal prostitution or working without a permit. To come back, they arrange sham marriages and get new passports with their new surnames. The problem is that these bitches get so wasted during the trip …’ Inna’s tone is surprisingly judgmental – she obviously doesn’t consider herself to be one of them! – ‘… and often can’t remember their new surnames when the authorities call them out for their turn. It usually turns ugly: they are deported again without even getting off the ship, and it delays the other passengers as well.’
She looks at me and frowns, most likely because of her headache. ‘Let’s go and pack, Jul. We don’t have much time.’
33
The morning after we arrive, Inna receives a phone call from one of her clients. Because we sleep in one bed in the small and scruffy studio she rents on a regular basis, the ringing wakes us both up.
I open my eyes and close them again. I am worn out. I barely slept last night. Passport control and customs went quickly and smoothly, but we still only got to Inna’s place at 2 a.m. and were in bed by about 3 a.m.
I was so tired when we left the port that I struggled to keep my eyes open in the taxi, but the moment my head hit the pillow my anxious thoughts started to crawl back, wiping my sleepiness away completely. At about 5 a.m. I finally fell asleep, but was kicked awake right away by a man’s very weird singing over loudspeakers somewhere close by, out on the street. I jumped out of bed, thinking it was a bomb or fire alarm, but then spotted, through our window, the mosque: its two minarets had freaking speakers on them. I remembered Natalia telling me about it. It was Namaz, the call to prayer, performed five times a day through the squawk boxes of every mosque.
As soon as Inna finishes her short conversation on the phone she energetically jumps out of bed.
‘Time to get up, Jul. I’ve got some work for us this afternoon, but we still have to do shopping and get ready for it.’
I frown and moan theatrically. I am tired and don’t want to get up.
She sticks her head out of the bathroom. With the toothbrush in her mouth and white foam on her lips, she mumbles, ‘Come on, princess! Time to make some money. The guy is a freak but at least he pays well.’
We do a quick shop for some toiletries and food, then stop at the pharmacy, where we buy some regular tampons, Pharmatex sponges16, some laxative pills – two of which Inna takes straight away – and a lot of ultra thin condoms. As my new roommate casually explains, Turkish men hate to use a rubber, so this is her compromise. Then we go back home, eat some brunch and start getting ready for work.
‘Taxim please,’ orders Inna, when we climb into the cab.
I light a cigarette and take a deep and comforting drag. ‘This morning you said this guy is a freak. Are you planning on telling me anything about what we’re gonna have to do?’ I do not even try to hide the irritation in my voice.
Inna lights a cigarette herself and coolly explains, ‘What you will have to do is hold the camera. The freak likes to film his sessions. I will do the rest. Easy money, Jul, isn’t it?’
I sigh with relief. I hope it’s as she says. Then it will be easy money for real and I can relax and stop worrying.
When we walk into the hotel lobby, Inna confidently heads to the front desk. ‘Mr Emir is waiting for us in room number …’ she hesitates, looks again at her text messages, ‘... room number … 539.’
The receptionist is a young man. He gives us a look that screams, ‘I know you are whores. If it were up to me I would have you thrown out of this place!’ but picks up the phone and dials to contact the room. After a quick pause, he puts a submissive look back on his face and murmurs, ‘Mr Emir, you have visitors.’ Then he nods, puts the receiver down and waves to us that we can go.
‘Wow, what was that all about?’ I ask Inna, who is already in the elevator.
‘Bloody morons! You see, the problem is that there are too many of us handy Eastern European women, well-known for our beauty, screwing all over Istanbul and making money. These men are Muslim. Most of them hate us because of their inner conflict.’ Inna pauses, searching for the right words. ‘To them, we are depraved. They have to feel pure aversion for us, and they do – until they see us. But because we are so gorgeous and sexy,’ she smirks, giving herself an approving look in the elevator’s mirror, ‘as soon as they do see us, their aversion fades and all they can think about is how great it would be if they could climb on top of us themselves. In other words, we make them want to betray their religion, their beliefs, and their usually fat and useless-in-bed wives.’
‘Wow! Interesting theory,’ I praise Inna as we walk out of the elevator.
She is not stupid, but all that alcohol she consumes doesn’t complement her intellect at all.
Some time after we knock, the door opens on a barefoot man pressing a folded white terry robe with a missing belt to his waist. He is not a bad-looking guy. He smiles, hugs Inna, and starts chattering something like ‘Come on in’ and ‘Glad to see you again’.
Turns out it is not a room but a suite. It’s spacious, beautifully furnished, with a reception area; the bedroom is separated by a TV stand. He offers us a drink. Before leaving to the bar, he hands Inna the money. ‘You know what I want you to do, right?’
She thanks him and drags me to the bathroom. As soon as the door closes behind us, she quickly counts the money in front of me. There are eight hundred-dollar bills; she puts five into her bag and gives three to me. Then she starts peeling her clothes off while giving me instructions. ‘He likes to be nude. All the time we spend here we also have to be naked. So hurry up and let’s go have a drink. I need a boost before we start,’ she frowns. Absolutely naked, she leaves the bathroom.
When I walk out, both of them are standing au naturel in the middle of the room and nonchalantly discussing the weather or some other bullshit that is a far cry from our current situation.
My eyes whip through the man’s figure: middle-aged, not too tall, not fat, but with a little beer-stomach, and not athletically built either. Then I stop my gaze at Inna. Her body is flawless. She is quite thin but with a nice ass and beautiful tits that make her look less bony and much sexier than me.
I join them and receive a glass of chilled champagne, which we clink and toast, ‘Şerefe!’17
I take a sip, while Inna drains the whole glass at once and hurriedly asks for another one. The man refills it and with a nervous smirk invites us to the bedroom.
He gives me a little camera and explains how to use it.
I hadn’t noticed when we came in, but see now that a big vinyl mat covers most of the bed. I switch the camera on and give a thumbs-up, indicating that I am ready to record.
He lies down on his back. His legs hang down without touching the floor. He closes his eyes and takes a deep breath: ‘I am ready too.’
Inna stands on the bed with her legs spread so he is caught between them. The moment she does this, I know what is about to happen. I smile to myself, recalling my own experience of peeing in the client’s mouth while Natalia worked him, down on her knees.
But the chain of my thoughts is interrupted. What I’m seeing now makes me want to vomit. I cover my mouth with one hand while trying to hold the camera still with the other.
No fucking way!
Inna squats, her pussy right in front of his chin. He stares at it as if his whole life depends on it and slowly touches his organ. After a short moment, the crap starts running out of Inna’s ass right onto his chest. It is not even normal, ‘healthy’ ca-ca, but a loose and extremely smelly one.
The two laxative pills Inna took that morning make sense to me now.
While she relieves herself, producing some generous farts at the same time, he
uses one hand to smear her stream all over his body, including his face and mouth, which he doesn’t even try to keep shut. With his other hand, he masturbates his pulsing, erect tool.
Oh my fuck! He is actually hard! What’s wrong with this man?
When Inna is done, she slowly stands up and carefully gets off the bed, leaving him alone in the mud of her crap. She walks out of the room and comes back in a second with some wet wipes and another full glass of champagne.
Unbelievable! What’s wrong with this woman?!
If I’ve understood everything correctly, her part of the job is done, but I still have to film the creepy movie.
He spreads Inna’s poop evenly over his body …
Oh, by the way, good job covering the bed with plastic.
Then, without standing up, he turns around so that his legs point towards the headboard. He slithers using his elbows until his flexed knees are touching the panel. Then he lifts his legs up into a fucking sarvangasana18, using his hands to support his lower back.
My right hand is tired; I shift the camera into my left hand without taking my eyes off the scene even for a second. The sickest, weirdest, weirdo-yogi ever is so flexible that when he lowers his hips to his head, his penis reaches his mouth. The rest takes him a few minutes – he sucks his own dick and ejaculates into his mouth.
Unfuckingbelievable! What on earth made him even come up with the idea of blowing himself?
Fifteen minutes later we are in a cab on the way home. We both light a cigarette and stay quiet for some time. I can’t believe that what I saw happened for real. I try to think positively and delete the images from my head. I switch to the $300 that I made in one hour just by being naked and holding a camera. I even start to think that I could get used to the creepy man and do it all again. Inna breaks the silence and pulls me out of my thoughts.
‘Yeah, he is totally fucked up, but he’s also the only one who pays this kind of money, Julia, so don’t shoot for the sky.’
I remain quiet and just sigh; in that one moment she’s made me forget about the yogi and dragged me back to my troubled thoughts about this trip. Just a week ago she was telling me what a moneymaking paradise this is, and now she’s saying ‘don’t shoot for the sky’ …
Aargh! I know this run is going to be a fuck-up … Please, please, please let Natalia be wrong … at least this once …
‘Jul, what do you say we stop at Migros19 to get some beers? I have a few Russian movies we could watch.’ I nod ‘Sure.’ Inna continues, ‘Trust me, there is no way we are going to be able to eat anything today anyway.’
I close my eyes and my body shudders with disgust.
34
For the first time in a few weeks I actually have a good night’s sleep; even the 5 a.m. call to prayer doesn’t wake me up. We get up at about ten, make some coffee, and both engage in finishing unpacking and organising all our stuff so it can fit into the small apartment.
Then we eat a quick lunch and head to a meeting with Inna’s present and my future employer – our pimp.
‘I have a few direct clients,’ Inna explains as we walk through the many narrow, busy streets, mostly paved with stones, towards the ferry station. Our whoremaster resides on the Asian side of the city, so we have to cross the Bosphorus Strait to see her.
‘I mean, I work for these clients without Alexandra’s mediation, like yesterday’s one. Please make sure you don’t mention this to her.’
I nod, taking a deep breath. The streets are filled with the smells of fried fish and freshly baked foods, wrapped up in the strong scent of the sea.
‘She is a normal mama, also from Ukraine, but I do hate her deep inside of me.’ Inna keeps a good pace; her words start to come out broken as her breathing gets puffy. ‘I hate her especially when she gets me some fucker who cannot come for hours …’ She pauses to look for cars before crossing the street. ‘I get fucked until my poor pussy falls off and then I have to share my hard-earned money with her.’ Inna interrupts her discourse as we stop to buy tokens for the ferry. We go through the turnstile and Inna heads straight for the deck. ‘Let’s sit outside so we can smoke.’ We settle on the right side of the ship, on a long bench that curves through the full length of the boat.
‘So yes,’ continues Inna, lighting a cigarette and passing me the lighter, ‘my cracked-up vagina versus a few damn phone calls does not sound fair to me at all, especially when she takes 50 per cent.’
I keep nodding while staring at the view. It is incredibly beautiful: the Bosphorus glowing in the sun, the blue sky with soaring seagulls, the shore, moving away now, tightly stuffed with thousands of featureless buildings, and the mirrored skyscrapers, mosques, and ancient palaces and towers scattered here and there between them. The breathtaking view has such a strong effect on me …
‘Of course, I understand that somebody has to do her job,’ Inna starts again, ‘and I know she finds us more clients so we can make more money, but I cannot help it, Jul, and still hate the bitch.’ We both giggle and light another cigarette.
Alexandra is about 30 years old, a good-looking blonde with a petite body like mine. It’s obvious that this woman looks after herself. Her smile shows me a mouth full of perfect teeth as she checks me out from head to toe as if I were a sale item somewhere on the free market.
‘The demands are simple. You always have to be at your phone, and you need to learn to get ready as quickly as possible.’ I assume that her starting to explain the rules of the business means that I am a suitable item with a good chance of getting sold. ‘Most of the time, the client calls one or two hours before he would like his order to be delivered. Considering Istanbul’s traffic, there is usually very little time for long showers and complicated make-up. Although I hope I don’t need to mention that you always have to look your best.’
The waitress comes around and all three of us order coffee.
‘We’re going to work a 50/50 split for the first three months, and then, if you are good, I may consider a 70/30 split, as I’m doing with Inna now.’ They grin at each other and I just do my nodding.
‘Because of the overloaded market, we have to keep our prices reasonable. One hour is $100. If he wants you for the night, then it’s $150. Tips and taxi fares are not obligatory for the clients, but you are welcome to ask for them, and most of the time they give some without a problem.’
An unvarying smile is glued to her face, somehow transforming it from pretty to seriously annoying.
This phoniness of hers is screaming at me: ‘Jul! This Istanbul run is going to be a fuck-up!’ Why can’t I just listen, pack my stuff and get the fuck out of here?
‘I guess this is it, Julia. Would you like to use your real name or change it?’
I shrug my shoulders and give Inna my what-should-I-do? look. She playfully shrugs her shoulders back to me, indicating that she can’t help me on this one and that I’ll have to decide for myself. I take a sip of my already cold coffee.
‘I want to change it to Victoria.’
Alexandra takes her time to check something in her black leather notepad, then agrees while putting on the same fake expression again. ‘No problem, I don’t have anybody else with this name.’
We exchange numbers and she stands up to go.
‘Don’t worry. You are going to be fine. All Turkish men love skinny blonde girls, so I guarantee you a busy working schedule. Trust me, Victoria.’ She winks at me, kisses the air twice – once at me and once at Inna – and hurriedly leaves.
‘Why can’t we work for ourselves?’ I ask Inna, with a hint of despair after Alexandra disappears behind the door, knowing the answer to my question already.
‘We could, Jul, but where would we find clients?’
I should probably have kept quiet and not have rubbed it in, because she sounds very irritated: ‘One of the options is to go to a few nightclubs in Laleli or Aksaray. These are places where working girls and clients look for each other. The only problem is that this can be extremely dang
erous: your clients are strangers who take you to their own places. No guarantees that one of them is not a maniac or some psychopath. What’s more, the police raid those areas regularly. If you are caught, you go home, leaving all your belongings and money here, with a red “Deported” stamp in your passport.’
‘And you called it a free-rider’s paradise … no shit!’ I pull a grave face and wave to the waitress for the bill.
35
As Inna and I enter our apartment, my phone starts ringing.
‘Hi Victoria. It’s Alexandra. Didn’t expect me to call you so soon?’ Her voice is much softer on the phone. I guess it is her professional strategy – to sound sexy and welcoming to her clients.
‘I have some work for you this evening. It’s only for one hour, but if the client likes you he might keep you for the night. It’s in Beşiktaş. Start getting ready. I will send you all the details via SMS.’ She hangs up.
I slowly put my cellphone on the kitchen counter, mumble to Inna, who is looking curiously at me, ‘It was our mama – I have a job to do tonight,’ and turn towards the bathroom.
Inna is surprised.
‘Really? She must have liked you a lot, Jul.’ She shouts so I can hear her through the water splashing in the shower.
I peel my clothes off and step under the hot stream. The phone call made me so nervous that my hands are shaking and my heart is racing. Why do I feel this way? I went through a lot in Luxembourg, but have never felt this panicky before. I guess hooking up with a potential client in a cabaret, having a few words with him, and having a chance to make my own judgement of him before agreeing to go out with him is completely different from having to walk into some hotel room or apartment and put my safety into the hands of a complete stranger I have never seen or even spoken to before.
Yes, of course I could have made an error of judgement back then too, and got myself into trouble, but for the whole six months that I worked there I hadn’t been raped or drugged – except for that naphthalene bastard, (with whom, by the way, it was not my instinct that failed, it screamed at me not to go, but my greed that treacherously exposed me) and Ruslan, but that is a different story that could have happened to anyone. I shiver and put my face into the hot water, trying to wash the unpleasant memories out of my mind.
Twisted Page 12