I think I can write that off now.
—49—
I go through the next motions like an automaton. Take a cold shower, check my mobile. There are no new messages, which I take for a good sign. I watch the news on BBC. Apparently, the French IMF director has been caught forcing a cleaning lady to give him a blowjob in a hotel in New York. Or so they say. The man is in prison now.
I switch off the TV, disgusted. We’re governed by nitwits. Because, apparently, we don’t deserve better.
I get dressed, black and Armani; I apply cologne. Then I order dinner to be brought to my room. I eat on the balcony, surrounded by the balmy, still night. Minutes drip by like solitary blobs of treacle, sticky and thick, while I’m floating down boredom alley again.
At half past nine, I decide it’s time to do something. To leave this lonesome place, go out and see people.
I walk through the empty hotel park, heading for the swimming pool area. The pool bar, dozing under the sallow light of a dozen little lamps, exhales an atmosphere of melancholy. I slip out through the little door and follow the narrow lane in the other direction. The beach must be even lonelier at this time. Piercing eyes seem to follow my every step. But each time I turn around and gaze back, there’s no one. Nothing but walls, with flowers and leaves dangling from the tops, moving gently in the breeze, drawing shadows that have no meaning.
When I reach the main street, I feel as though entering a different world. Cars drive by, and people saunter along, lazy and satisfied. I turn left and stroll down the street. There are even quite a lot of tourists; I wonder where they’re hiding during the day. They are standing before the shops, choosing postcards and souvenirs, haggling prices, chatting. Most of the night strollers are locals, though; they seem to have finished their work and are looking for entertainment before going to bed.
I walk past restaurants and bars, all looking classy but empty. Piano tunes trickle out open bay windows, drifting through the night like muted sobs. After a few hundred metres, the main street makes a sharp turn to the right. I discover more restaurants, more bars, more souvenir shops ahead. Nothing that offers genuine distraction.
On the other side of the street, I make out a narrow alley leading towards a low, long-stretched building. A neon sign blinks on its roof: The Blue Moon Lounge. Even from where I’m standing, I can hear the blaring bass and the percussions of a soulless Eurodance song. I step down from the pavement to cross the road, glad to have found a place where I might be able to drown the blues in my head, if only by the sheer force of decibels, and…
—rrrrrRRRROOOOAAARR—
…fucking hell!
A car. Out of nowhere. Shooting down the road like a bullet!
My heart misses a beat then starts to race. I jump back and almost tumble over my own feet.
The driver never ever slows down, just turns left with screeching tires and disappears in the driveway of a hotel.
A couple of Belgian tourists have witnessed the scene. They stop in their tracks, mouths agape.
An old man steps closer and stutters in a broad Walloon accent, “Tout va bien, Monsieur? Are you all right, sir?”
Politely, I brush him off. “Yes, thank you, I’m okay. No need to worry.” I breathe hard and touch my chest.
“Are they mad? They could’ve killed you, Monsieur!”
I only nod.
The rest of the groups stands around me now, the women commenting on the event with excited, high-pitched voices, the men grumbling and swearing, one should inform the police, this is outright scandalous, surely some youngsters, maybe drunk, maybe not, have you seen the driver’s face, no, it all went so fast, one isn’t safe anymore, even in this chic tourist resort, the world is a sinking place, where have all our values gone to, oh my God, oh my God…
“Thank you,” I say in a firm tone when their noise starts to gnaw off what remains of my nerves. “Thank you. But don’t worry. I’m okay.”
With that, I look left, look right, and run across the street, away from the crowd, away from their opinions, away from their concern.
—48—
The Blue Moon Lounge is packed, but I seem to be the only tourist. When I step inside, it’s like entering a forbidden cave. A couple of heads swivel around and gaze at me. The dim, reddish light and the thick cigarette smoke make it impossible to be sure, but I think I detect curiosity, even hostility on some faces.
It can’t be helped. They’ll get over my unexpected presence. Eventually.
I walk over to the main bar and sit down on a stool. “A gin and tonic, please,” I tell the barman.
Then I look around. It’s mostly men I see, with a few young women in alluring clothes. Four scantily dressed chicks wiggle it on the dancefloor. The girls, faking to ignore the hungry looks they provoke, must be professionals; the way they gyrate their hips, strike lascivious poses, and lick their lips leaves no doubt. Three are blonde, with high cheekbones, false smiles, cold and calculating stares.
The fourth rather stands out. She keeps to one of the concrete columns, around which she revolves, holding on to it with one hand. It’s supposed to be some sort of pole dance, I reckon. She has dark, wavy hair, the short, black dress looks far too large for her bony body, and she seems to have a hard time remaining on her feet, wavering and stumbling along with the music. Her eyes are wide and all black pupils. I don’t know what she has gobbled or injected, but it must have been strong stuff.
Despite her out-of-it condition, she notices me watching her. Trade radar, I guess. She puckers her lips in a broad, silly grin and winks at me, almost losing her balance.
A big, square guy with a beasty face steps closer to her and prevents her from falling. He clutches her shoulders and says something. She nods like an obedient doll and answers, her head wobbling vaguely in my direction.
The guy leers at me before strolling over just as my drink is served. Close up, his face looks even fouler, his sneer so dirty and suggestive that he makes me want to slap it off his face.
He leans forward, enfolding me in his cheap, strong cologne, and shouts in my ear, “American?”
I shake my head, sensing trouble ahead.
“Deutsch? Du deutsch?”
“I’m French,” I shout back between gritted teeth. Then I take a sip.
“Ah—Français! French! Good, good,” he shouts. Then he points at his drugged-up girl. “You wanna company? You pay my lady a drink?”
I shake my head again. “No, thanks, I’d rather be alone.”
“She good woman! You pay me, you can fuck her.”
The situation is so ridiculous that I’m about to laugh out loud. I would like to tell this ugly lad that I don’t pay for sex; I usually get paid for it. Yet I doubt he has a great sense of humour, so I swallow my answer and just shake my head a third time.
The barman glances at us then quickly looks away.
“What, you no want my girl?” the ugly dude shouts, moving closer still. He isn’t smiling anymore; if anything, his face is contorted in a threatening, brutal way.
“Listen—,” I lay a hand on his broad chest to keep him from invading my private space, “—I’ve come here to enjoy some music and a drink. Please leave me alone!”
He whips my hand away, his eyes dangerous slits. “You a sissy boy? You not want my girl, you a sissy boy?”
My God, why are they all so obsessed with gays, today?
From the corner of my eye, I notice that three other guys stare at us, ready to come and help their comrade. One of them stands up and lifts his chin as if to challenge me.
I decide that a prudent retreat will be the best idea. “No,” I say loudly, “no, I’m not gay. I just usually don’t pay for sex, okay?” While talking, I get up from the bar stool and move backwards towards the exit.
But the guy follows me. “You not a sissy boy, you pay my girl a drink!�
� he hollers, his face red with anger. His three friends are moving towards me, too.
The rest of the guys in the bar just stare at us, emotionless, soulless, uninterested.
I’m not a coward—at least, I think I’m not, but the violence hanging in the damp air right now almost makes me sick. The situation leaves no room for discussion or negotiation. I have to get out of here, the faster the better! It seems to be a question not only of physical integrity but of life and death.
My back collides with something—the wall, I guess, or one of those darn columns, and I know I’m trapped. The guy comes closer, his hands clenched into fists, there’s no escape…
That’s when someone snatches me by the collar, slams several dollar bills on a table, then drags me outside, almost suffocating me.
“What the fuck…?” I croak and tear at the strong hand holding my collar from behind.
“Shut the fuck up and follow me! Quick!”
I recognise Kerem’s voice. Relief floods me. As soon as he releases the collar, I turn around, see him running ahead of me, and chase after him.
There are loud voices and angry screams at my back.
I don’t care what it’s all about. I just leg it.
—47—
When we’ve reached the relative safety of the hotel compound and the wan lights of the pool bar, I need to sit down on a deckchair.
My heart is racing, my head spinning, my breath comes in raspy pants.
The filtering system of the pool gurgles, the turquoise water sloshes against the edges, the night air whispers of serenity.
Kerem has walked on. He comes back to where I’m trying to recover and stares down at me, his face expressionless.
“Thank you,” I gasp.
He shrugs. Then he asks, “What were you doing in that bar?”
“Make an educated guess,” I reply tartly.
He continues to stare at me.
“I just wanted to have a drink,” I say after a minute.
He sighs. “Why there?” he asks. “It’s a hooker bar. A place that attracts dangerous men.”
“You don’t say!” I answer. “Anyway, how could I know it was a hooker bar?”
“The thick curtains on the windows? The dim, red light? The people in there?” He starts to lose patience.
“I didn’t pay attention, to be honest.”
“You never do, I think. That’s one of your main flaws.”
Now it’s my turn to get edgy. “Did I ask you to sit in judgment of me, huh? Did I? I think not! I’m grateful that you rescued me, but don’t overstep the mark, okay? What were you doing in that bar, by the way? In search of some pussy? Or have you been following me?”
“The latter.”
“And what for?”
“Murat asked me to watch over you.”
I don’t believe him. “Why would he do that?”
“Because he thought things might get out of control. As they did.”
“Oh, that…” I shake my head. “Just some hot-headed bullies. Shit happens, you know.”
“Hot-headed bullies, you say?” Kerem leans down and hisses, “I can tell you one thing: those weren’t bullies. Nor pimps. They were hit men. Everybody knows them in the region!”
“Oh, come on!” I try to laugh but don’t succeed. An icy shiver crawls up my spine.
“Believe me,” Kerem says flatly. “Or don’t. Doesn’t make a damn difference. They were out to get you.”
“Please—why would they?” Is he pulling my leg, or is he serious? He looks serious enough, for sure.
“Intimidation? A warning? Maybe they were paid to hurt you. I don’t know exactly.”
“But—who are they? Who hired them?”
“How should I know?” Kerem’s voice gets steelier with each word. “It’s your business, not mine. So, you should tell me who and why!”
“I don’t know. Honestly. I have no idea.”
Kerem doesn’t reply. His attitude shows what he is thinking, though. That this is another of my flaws.
Abruptly, I stand up and walk away. After a few steps, I hear him behind me. Spinning around, I snap, “Leave me alone, you tight-assed jerk!”
My words hit him like a slap. When he regains his composure, he only says, “I’ll bring you to your room, sir. That’s what I’m paid for.” His voice is weary and sad.
—46—
When we reach my door, I immediately spot that it’s half-open.
Kerem notices it, too. “Get behind me!” he hisses.
I obey.
To my surprise, he pulls out a gun from under his belt and holds it in front of him as we cover the last metres on tiptoes. He slams the door open and makes a circular movement with outstretched arms, just like they do in the movies.
Even in the dark, we can see that no one is there.
I sigh with relief.
Then I switch on the ceiling light and discover what’s left of my room. A gasp of despair escapes me. The cupboard doors are wide open, all my clothes lie on the floor. The sheets and blankets have been torn apart, the pillows and the mattress cut into pieces, fluffy white feathers cover everything. The TV set has been smashed, the rest of the furniture chopped up with an axe.
“What the fuck!” I whisper, leaning against Kerem’s muscular frame for reassurance.
“Collect your things!” he whispers back, pushing me away. “Come on!”
“Huh? What? My things? But… we should call the reception! The police! Or Murat!” Panic makes my voice crack.
“Are you listening to me? Murat can’t help you anymore! You’re in danger!”
I don’t want to believe it. There must be an easy way out of this! An explanation. Something rational. I’m sure, I’m so sure, so fucking sure; because my certainty is the only thing that keeps me sane and whole. “That’s ridiculous. Why should I be in danger? And why shouldn’t Murat be able to help? He’s got money and power. That sorts out everything, no matter the country!”
Kerem rolls his eyes. “Don’t be so stupid! You think this—,” he waves his gun at the mess, “—would be possible without Murat knowing?”
“Why would he know of this? I mean, a break-in can happen just about anywhere, right?”
“Not here. Not in Hiçbiryerde, not in this hotel. He owns it, after all. Then, look around—this isn’t just a break-in, you idiot! If we had time to check, you’d realise nothing is missing.” He shoves his gun back under his belt.
Stunned, I fix the mess on the floor. Sure enough, under a black shirt I see one of Murat’s gifts, a massive, golden bracelet. A burglar wouldn’t have left it. It’s worth a good sum of money.
So… if nothing has been stolen, why would anyone do this?
“I need a drink,” I murmur and head towards the small fridge in the corner.
“Don’t!” Kerem holds me back.
“Why not?”
“Because I think…” He doesn’t finish his sentence, opens the fridge instead and takes out a can of soda and a little bottle of whiskey. “Just what I thought,” he says after inspecting them.
“What is it now?”
“Look here.” He shows me the cap of the whiskey bottle, then the can.
There’s a little hole in each. As if someone had introduced a syringe.
“My God… someone is trying to poison me?” A nervous laugh escapes me. I notice how pathetic I sound.
“I guess they injected GHB into all the beverages,” Kerem states.
“The rape drug?” The seriousness of the situation sinks in at last. My legs get weak, I have to sit down.
Kerem jerks me up again. “We don’t have time. Take your passport, your ID card, your money, all the important stuff. Then let’s get out of here!”
“What about my clothes? Do I have time to pack?”
/> “No. You have ten minutes before I return.”
I try to hold him back, but he has already left the room.
—45—
I’ve seen this road before, in broad daylight. Was it only a couple of hours ago? I guess so. But it feels far away, like a childhood tale that comes back to torment you once you’re grown up and defenceless.
It’s a night for hunters out there. Clouds have drifted in from the sea, enclosing the coastline in stale moistness. I’m searching for the moon, a lonesome star, the comforting sign of something immortal, but I only detect a twinkling light in the distance, probably an oil lamp someone has lit in a mountain hut. It flickers like a ghostly eye.
The fuzzy light cones of the car’s dipped headlamps move over the roadside, a flurry of pale white pine-trees and insubstantial shrubs leaning into our scant field of view, gnarled demons with branches like menacing arms. The road goes on and on, curls and coils like a snake trying to bite its own tail.
I don’t know how fast we go. And I’ve lost all notion of time. Both clock and speedometer don’t work. But it must be late. And we’re going fast. Way too fast, given the conditions. The tires screech, the brakes squeak, we take the bends more or less by guesswork, my stomach is knotted, and my muscles start to ache with the effort of remaining on my seat. It’s as if Kerem didn’t want us to reach our destination alive. Wherever that is, anyway.
A dark and desolate place, no doubt.
Kerem and I look ridiculous, by the way. When he came back to my room, he was wearing a tight, flashy T-shirt and boardshorts, and he brought me a similar outfit. I had to undress, then disguise. Now, we resemble two retarded teenagers. I particularly resent the baseball cap he forced me to don. But I know better than to protest.
I can’t ask any questions either. Just my luck. Because for once, I have a lot of questions. And for once, I would like to get answers to them. But Kerem remains tight-lipped, withdrawn and uncommunicative. When we left Hiçbiryerde, he called somebody. They spoke in Turkish, so I didn’t understand a word.
He has been ignoring me ever since.
Where are we going? I recognise this road and know this isn’t the direction of the airport. But why? Why are we on this particular road again? If I’m in danger as he said, why does Kerem prevent me from hopping onto the first available plane and leaving this country as fast as possible? What is the danger he was talking about, anyway? Why didn’t he allow me to take anything but my cash, my credit card, and my passport? Why has he made me switch off my mobile? Why that ghastly scene in the hooker bar? Why did he think those guys were out to get me?
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