Ordinary Whore

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Ordinary Whore Page 13

by Dieter Moitzi


  Half an hour ago, he knocked on my door as I was finishing my solitary breakfast on the balcony. I was rather surprised to see him when I opened. When I offered coffee and orange juice, he declined with a mute sign of his head. When I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth, he didn’t even want to sit down.

  And he hasn’t said much ever since. His face an unreadable mask of polite neutrality, he led me through the hotel park in silence, then across the parking lot. He opened the back door of a black Audi, but I ignored him, walked around the car and sat down on the passenger seat.

  “Where do you want to go?” was the only thing he muttered without looking at me when he started the engine.

  “Choose a place. I don’t care,” I answered.

  And that was it. End of our thrilling conversation.

  He switched on the car radio, however, and inserted a CD as soon as we left the hotel premises.

  And now this woman is singing a strange melody that all those florid Turkish vowels and consonants render almost surreal. She has got a rich and throaty voice, the voice of an old woman who has seen it all and then some. Yet I’m pretty sure she is no older than mid-twenties. Turkish female singers seem to have that rare quality of being able to put a whole lifetime of experiences, pleasant and unpleasant, into their voices. Even those singers who’ve barely entered adulthood.

  “Kerem! The singer—what’s her name?” I repeat, noticing that my voice is harsher than planned. I’m thrown off by his behaviour. It doesn’t feel hostile but wary, as if he doesn’t want an invisible barrier to disappear between us.

  Despite my irritated tone, he keeps staring at the road, blocking me out. I start to wonder—is he deaf? Or doesn’t he speak English?

  Finally, when I’ve given up hope to get an answer, Kerem clears his throat and says, “Burcu Güneş. Her name is Burcu Güneş.”

  “Oh, you do have a tongue, then.” I drum my fingers on the door.

  We listen to the song for a while. When I can’t stand it any longer, I say, “I don’t understand what’s going on. Are you, I don’t know, mad at me for something? I would’ve thought that having a day off would be nicer than walking through Antalya at your boss’s side. Even if it means you’re forced to spend the day with me.”

  Another silence. Then he replies, “It’s not that bad.” He shoots me an odd glance.

  “Then talk, for God’s sake!”

  “I have nothing to say.”

  “That may be so, but you barely answer my questions! I can’t stop you from sulking, but to be honest, if I’d known that I’d spend the day in broody silence, I would’ve stayed alone. I do have a driving licence, after all. I don’t need a chauffeur.”

  “I’m sorry. My English isn’t very good.”

  Now that’s an outright lie. I’m even surprised a bodyguard speaks English so well. Irritated, I say, “Cut it out—your English is good enough! I don’t ask you to explain the flavours of quarks, anyway; I merely ask for superficial small talk.”

  He mulls this over. Then he surprises me by saying, “You notice we both wear black clothes?” Which, indeed, has nothing to do with the flavours of quarks.

  I look at my black linen trousers, my black tank top. “Hey, I guess you’re right! What a coincidence!”

  “You always wear black clothes. I noticed it in Istanbul, last time I saw you. I only wear black clothes, too.”

  “Great. We have something in common then.”

  “You look good in black, sir.”

  “You do, too. And don’t ‘sir’ me, please. My name’s Marc.”

  The song is over, another one starts.

  “You want me to play the song again, um… Marc?” Kerem asks.

  “Oh. Yes, please. If you don’t mind.”

  The woman, Burcu Güneş, starts again. “Bülbülüm gel de dile…,” she sings.

  “What’s she singing about?” I want to know.

  “Difficult. I don’t know if I can translate.”

  “Give it a try, come on.”

  “She sings ‘My song bird, start talking… even sing with me… make your voice heard to strangers… Sorrow, oh my sorrow bird…’ It’s a traditional song called ‘Çile bülbülüm.’”

  “Beautiful.” I try out the sound of the song title. “Çile bülbülüm. My sorrow bird. Really beautiful.”

  We’re silent for an instant, listening to the song.

  Then Kerem says, “They come in six flavours: up, down, top, bottom, strange, and charm.”

  “Huh? What does?”

  He almost grins. “Quarks.’

  “Huh!” I chuckle before looking at him. “Thank you.”

  “What for?”

  “For the translation. For enlightening me about quarks. And for, you know, making an effort.”

  He gazes back and seems about to answer. Yet he doesn’t. Just closes his invisible shutters again and drives on.

  I wonder what I’ve said that makes him brood so much.

  —53—

  Some minutes later, Kerem leaves the main road and heads down to the sparkling sea below. It’s a bumpy ride on a narrow, winding path that cuts through the lush vegetation. Low branches scratch over the car. Dust and sand are billowing around us, drifting in through the open windows, making my eyes burn. I switch off the music, and the whizzing song of the cicadas and the scrunching of tires on dry earth are the only sounds I hear. Even though Kerem drives carefully, trying to avoid the deepest potholes, my shoulder collides with his more than once. Each time, he flinches as if I were contagious.

  I’m glad when our rough drive comes to an end. We reach a valley with a settlement of sorts hidden in the midst of nowhere and scrub. There’s an empty parking space and some little wooden huts. In the trees all around, I see a couple of quaint tree houses. As we get out of the car, stretching our stiff extremities, I have to admit that I’m surprised. I expected Kerem to show me a typical mountain village, or another nondescript ritzy tourist resort, or at least an archaeological site.

  But no. He brought me here. To this odd, flower-powery kind of place. What bewilders me most is the feeling of peace and carelessness I can sense. This doesn’t look like Turkey, it doesn’t reek of mass tourism, it doesn’t even feel to be of this world, to be honest.

  Kerem talks rapidly to a young Turkish guy who has stopped to greet us. He is wearing nothing but faded tracksuit trousers, his upper body wiry and deeply tanned. The guy lays a hand on Kerem’s shoulder, smiles a lazy smile at me, and leads us to one of the tree houses.

  I ogle the young people who stroll around without any discernible purpose, chatting amiably with each other. There are suntanned Australian girls with dreadlocks, and chubby, red-faced English boys carrying packs of bottled water to one of the huts, and chummy girls from the US in ample dresses, and blond, bare-chested Scandinavian boys with unnaturally white teeth. It’s already quite hot, the cicadas fill the deep blue day with their chants. Green vegetation and brown, dry earth surround us, the endless sky above smells of summer and freedom.

  The tree house is round, with a high wooden ceiling, and only holds a low table and a round bench covered with dusty carpets. The young Turk seats Kerem and me side by side on the bench, then disappears, still smiling to himself. A minute later, a girl in a bikini top and a sarong brings Efes beer and köfte and bread.

  We start to eat and drink in silence.

  When we’ve finished, Kerem reaches into the breast pocket of his black shirt and takes out cigarettes and a small plastic bag with weed. Without saying a word, he rolls a joint, lights it, takes a puff, hands it over, closes his eyes.

  I don’t smoke but decide to make an exception. I take a drag and look around. The landscape I see through the door of the tree house is bleached by the heat, whitewashed. The present becomes blurry at the edges, and reality a wish, a possibility.
>
  All of a sudden, from somewhere behind the tree house where I guess the kitchens are. comes the sound of music, loud and clear. At first, it’s just a bass booming seven monotonous notes, then an eighth, one note higher. The hollow bass notes are repeated, then joined by discreet percussion. I recognise Massive Attack. “Angels.” Unnatural, sublime, falling out of nowhere, coating the trees and flowers and houses and the dirt and the sand and the sky with sadness and regret.

  Then the male singer starts to sing in a nasal, high-pitched voice that he somehow manages to keep calm, longing, and loving. “Yooooooouuuuuuuuuuu…,” he sings. “Are my aaaaangel… Come from way above… To bring me love…” The bass shifts slowly from hollow to sharp.

  I take another drag and hand the joint back to Kerem, who opened his eyes when the music started. He sinks his gaze into mine and smokes, a tiny, sad smile creeping up on his face. Then the first climax is reached with the anguishing and vague “I love you love you love you love you….” The electric guitar chimes in, and I feel the hairs on my arms stand up.

  “This is…” I whisper.

  “… happiness at last” is what I want to say but don’t.

  Kerem lifts a finger to his lips and closes his eyes again.

  All right. He prefers to suffer my presence in silence.

  And yet. I’m not sure anymore that he is suffering. He seems quite content.

  Yes, I’m positive—he is smiling. And his bare arm touches mine. It feels hot and sweaty and alive. I can even guess Kerem’s pulse.

  —52—

  I’m a bit high when we leave the tree house. We enter the thick forest on the other side of the settlement. Careful not to stumble on the narrow path, I follow my broad-shouldered guide. My feet tread on moist earth while I look out for treacherous holes and roots, lifting my head from time to time to enjoy the change of sunlight and shadows. Here and there, I sight the ruins of mystical sarcophagi, most of them fallen into decay and overgrown with grass and weed and bushes. A low breeze whispers through the ancient trees. Hidden in the lush vegetation, a rivulet gurgles; birds chirp and flutter when they take off, disturbed by our approach.

  At last, we step out of the forest. A wide bay opens before us. The pebble beach is empty but for a small group of people far away. To our right rises a sharp, high, and scrubby rock. The odd pine tree stands out, askew, like an untamed flick of hair. On top of the rock stand the massive remains of an ancient stronghold made of blackened, mossy stones. It reminds me of the Middle Ages: bold knights, crusades, battles against the Saracens, the Genoese, the Venetians.

  “I hope you’re wearing bathing trunks beneath your clothes,” Kerem says, shaking me out of my cotton daydreams.

  “Um, in fact, no, I’m not,” I reply. “I didn’t know you’d take me to the beach.”

  “Sorry.” Kerem looks at his feet, a sheepish expression on his face. “Do you want to go somewhere else?”

  “Not at all.” I slip out of my loafers, take off my tank top, and reach down to unzip my trousers. “I reckon in this country nudism is frowned upon on public beaches…”

  Kerem steps back, aghast. “You can’t…!”

  I giggle. “Don’t worry, I won’t.” The linen slides down to my ankles. “I’m wearing boxer briefs, see?”

  He glimpses at my underwear. His face turns crimson. “Uh, okay.”

  “Get out of this,” I say and tug at his shirt.

  He makes a hasty movement to fight off my hand. Then he unbuttons his shirt and undresses, turning his back to me. I watch his muscles work, stare at the firm buttocks under the synthetic fabric of his black bathing slip.

  Sensing my gaze, Kerem spins around and glares at me. “Stop that! I’m not… I’m not like that!” His voice trembles.

  I roll my eyes. “Sweet Jesus! Whatever. I think I’ll take a dip.”

  —51—

  After a long swim, I’m back on the beach. Kerem is still splashing around; I guess he dreads being by my side. It’s a pity, really, since we seemed to get along quite nicely in the tree house.

  Ah, the heck with it! I won’t apologise for being who I am. Right now, I would like to remove my wet boxer briefs. They cling to my skin, which is not a pleasant sensation. But I know better than to take them off. The current situation is complicated enough.

  Kerem joins me a minute later, looking at anything but me. His hard nipples stand out from a bush of black chest hair that narrows to a thin line on his ripped abs. His legs are muscular and hairy, too. He looks good in clothes, but he is outright stunning without.

  He sits down at my side, but keeps a careful distance between us, still not looking at me. His legs jiggle nervously.

  That’s the only thing that bothers me with him—his uneasiness around me. For God’s sake, will he ever be able to relax?

  It’s time to clear the air. This is 2011, and we’re adults, after all.

  “Do you think I want to seduce you, Kerem?” I ask, closing my eyes to signal how innocuous I am. “Is that what you’re afraid of? That I lay my dirty faggot’s fingers on your precious, straight body and spoil it?”

  He doesn’t look at me, just mumbles, “Don’t speak like that, sir.”

  “I’ve told you not to call me sir! How… uptight can you get, huh? My name is Marc, and I ask you for the last time to call me Marc. Anyway,” I shrug, “I thought Turkish boys had same-sex experiences in their teenage years. Like everybody else.”

  Again, he turns crimson. “I don’t want to talk about… that.”

  I clap my hands. “All right. Let me just inform you, in the politest words I can find, that I have no intention whatsoever to force you into any… sexual act. I’m here to enjoy the day. To enjoy this.” I make a gesture that encompasses the beach, the flat Mediterranean, the rock, the castle. “I’m not very keen on sex, anyway, whether with women or with men.”

  He glances at me, then stares at the sea again. “You come here to see Murat. Always for the same reason.”

  “Yes, I do. And you know what the reason is? He pays me, okay? I earn money with… sex. Sex with women, sex with men. You think you can get over it one day? Or will I have to bear your… prudish behaviour for the rest of my stay?”

  I’m so tired of explaining myself over and over again! People change, sceneries change, but in the end, things turn out so predictably similar.

  “It’s just that…”

  “Well, I can understand how my… way of living might hurt your beliefs, your moral system, whatever. I guess you bash up gay boys on a daily basis, just to prove what a man’s man you are. But you’ll have to accept one day that some people are different, whether you like it or not. Anyway, I’m not one of them. The gay men, I mean. I sell my body to those who can afford it. That’s all.”

  He shakes his head. “I do not… bash up… homosexuals.” He leaves it at that.

  “Okay,” I say. “Do you think you can forget about my job for the rest of the day? Treat me like, I don’t know, one of your friends? Or, if that’s too much to ask, like just some guy you happen to drive around because your boss asked you to?”

  “Okay.” His voice is croaky. “I have one question… Marc.”

  “Shoot.”

  “If you’re not a… a homosexual man, then why do you… look at me like that?”

  “How do I look at you?”

  “As if you wanted… you know…”

  I shrug. “I’ve learned to appreciate nice-looking… people when I see them. You’re handsome. You have a good body. I find it pleasant to look at you. That’s all. No hidden agenda. Just, well, a strong aesthetical sense.”

  “Ah. Okay.” He doesn’t seem to understand.

  “Any other guy would’ve said ‘Thank you.’ That was a compliment, after all,” I inform him in a light tone.

  “Oh. Thank you.” Now he looks even more bewild
ered than before.

  “Okay, let’s change the subject.” I lie back, the warm pebbles poking into my skin. “What’s the news in Istanbul?”

  —50—

  After that, it’s a smooth afternoon of waves lapping the beach, pebbles rolling with a mineral sort of click-clack against each other, and chitchat. Nothing personal, no discussion of quarks, just an exchange of banalities. We don’t look too much at each other, all right. But still. It’s better than having to deal with unexplained grumpiness.

  The ride back to the hotel is just as smooth. Our frequent silences seem to connect us more than they separate us.

  I can’t explain why I feel so glad about it. I guess it has to do with my tendency to want people to love me. A penchant I’m unable to overcome. It’s as if I wanted others to prove me that my vision of myself is wrong. Whatever. That is a slippery line of thought; one I’m not eager to pursue.

  Therefore, I pick up the first unrelated thing that comes to mind. “Tell me, Kerem,” I say. “I’ve been wondering…”

  Kerem shoots me a sideways glance. “About what?”

  “Don’t take it wrong, please. But we both know that… Murat can’t resist the temptation of a handsome young lad.”

  He nods, tensing up again.

  “Listen, forget it,” I say. “I don’t want to spoil everything with my stupid question.”

  “No, it’s all right. Go on. What is it you want to know?”

  “Well, I find it odd that he’s never tried to… bed you.”

  We’ve reached the hotel car park. Kerem lets the car roll onto an empty slot, turns off the car engine and just sits there, still and unreadable. Then he replies in a low voice, “There’s nothing odd to it.”

  “So, he really never tried to…?”

  “No. Never.”

  “Well, uh… okay. I just wonder why.”

  He turns to look at me. “If you must know it: because he’s my uncle. Sort of.”

  “Oh. Your… uncle. Oops. I didn’t mean to…”

  “It’s okay.”

  I was hoping that he would have dinner with me. Maybe even show me the nightlife of Hiçbiryerde or something. Just to stop me from being lonely.

 

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