by Hakan Günday
After the first eight men, Derdâ began to confuse the faces and felt like none of it was real. Only in the darkness under her eyelids did she become aware of what she was doing. She wanted to die. She couldn’t close her eyes again but she couldn’t look at the faces dripping beads of sweat onto her face. So she looked directly into the camera held by the boy with the glasses, but he was moving all over the place. As best she could she kept her eyes fixed on the camera lens. After all, it was the only thing that wasn’t foaming at the mouth. She lifted her head like a professional porno star and followed the small, black circle of the lens, never losing eye contact. Of all the things in that room, the only one that couldn’t harm her was that lifeless object. So when the boy with the glasses discovered he was a natural porno director and disappeared out of Derdâ’s view to take close-ups, Derdâ shouted out to him, “Come over here, come back!” She was surrounded by fifty-two slabs of flesh, one inside her and the remaining fifty-one being made ready manually. No surprise she chose to look at the camera, because Bezir wasn’t there to stare at.
After the first twenty men, she started hitting the newcomers as they lowered themselves over her. She hit them on the face, on the shoulders, wherever she could. She didn’t even look to see where slaps and punches were landing. But her eyes still followed the camera. And she swore at the ghosts in Turkish.
“Fuck you all! Fuck you! You sons of bitches! What the hell are you doing now? Why don’t you come and do something? I’m here, where are you? Where are you?”
After the first forty men, she started crying and begging the camera with her eyes.
She cried, “Please save me! Please someone get me out of here! Help me …”
And after fifty-two, she lay unconscious on the linoleum mat, drenched in sweat and tears. She came to when Stanley shook her. Her eyelashes were glued together by her tears and with every breath little balloons formed in her nostrils. It was as if she’d been washed in glue. Fifty-two men had poured themselves into her. Who knows how many kilograms of their white, translucent cum were inside her. How much did it all weigh? Maybe that was why she couldn’t stand up. Because of the weight of the bodily fluid all over her face and inside her. She couldn’t move, so Stanley took her in his arms.
He went to the bathroom and set her in the bathtub as if laying her in her grave. First he adjusted the water temperature and then he bathed her. Derdâ thought of how Rahime had washed her. Rahime washed her like Stanley was washing her now. And she thought of Vezir, and the conversations that they had had in Rahime’s house. She thought of all those fantasies when she’d slip her hand down her şalvar, hiding between the yellow armchair and the wall. In her fantasies, she was often surrounded by naked men and Bezir was forced to watch. She thought of all her myriad fantasies. But only one of them had come true, the one that never should have become reality. She had dared to dream it because she was sure it would always remain a dream. Then her mind fell upon a question: Who’s the one to choose which dreams will come true? The one who dreams the dream or the one who makes you dream that dream?
She looked at Stanley as he dried her face with a big, white towel and she asked, “Did you know?”
Stanley remained silent and continued to dry her shoulders. She raised her voice.
“Did you know there would be so many men?”
“Yes,” Stanley answered her.
“Why didn’t you tell me?”
“What difference would it have made?”
No one was left in the living room apart from four already dressed students packing up the linoleum cover. Everyone else was already gone. There was something strange in the faces of the men still there, something that made them inarticulate. A heaviness akin to regret, a terrible weight that prevented them from lifting their heads. It was a weight a few thousand times heavier than the white and translucent heaviness that was all over Derdâ, and the color was much darker.
While Derdâ dressed she tried to look each one of them in the eye but she couldn’t. They shifted their eyes and escaped into themselves, pretending to be busy rolling up the linoleum cover.
Stanley took out a wad of money from his pocket and said laughingly, “Life starts now.” Derdâ stepped into the entrance hall, opened the door, and turned around to look at Stanley before going through the door.
“Fuck life!”
Three thousand pounds vanished in thirty-two days. They stayed at Mitch’s place and they turned the money into heroin like alchemists. For thirty-two days they stayed locked up at home listening to the same album over and over again. Off the Bone by The Cramps. They especially liked their song, “The Crusher.” One morning Derdâ took out the CD and tried to break it in two. She couldn’t break it so she opened the window and threw it out onto the street and waited for a car to drive over it. Finally, it was crushed by a Volvo and she sat back, relieved. There was a knock on the door. She went to open it.
It was Black T. Though these two kids had been wrenched out of Turkey and catapulted to London, they still spoke to each other in English. They didn’t even know the other spoke Turkish. They never got that far. They only talked about heroin. Quality, price, distribution, life on heroin, the fashion of heroin, death by heroin, and Black T’s school life, on his heroin sales in the nearby schools. But it seemed like Black T wanted to talk about more this time.
“Why do you shave your head?”
“I have to. Why do you always wear sweatpants?”
“So I can run if I have to.”
Black T was breaking marijuana he took out of his pocket into pieces and sprinkling it over the tobacco in the cigarette paper like it was some kind of spice. He stopped and laughed.
“Actually, you know what? One day I’m going to open a restaurant—a cool place. They’ll be white tablecloths and everything. It’ll be one of those places where the waiters are all old. My customers will be from the royal family. But it’ll only be a front, because there’ll be heroin in the salt and pepper shakers, or heroin in the salt shaker and cocaine in the pepper shaker, something like that. Some of the customers will know and they’ll ask the waiter, “Do you have any salt?” even though there’s already a shaker on the table. And the waiter will bring the real salt shaker. And when they ask for the bill, it’ll be something like this. Duck a l’orange—forty pounds, wine—a hundred pounds, salt shaker—a thousand pounds. Everything will be out in the open, you know, nobody will be tricking anybody, you get me? I’ll expand my business and cook at the same time. You know, I’ll go to a culinary school. I think it’s a great idea. I love to cook.”
He lit his joint and took a deep drag.
“Want to work for me?”
Derdâ took the joint from Black T.
“I hate cooking,” she said, inhaling.
Black T laughed.
“I’m not talking about that, idiot! You’ll sell stuff for me. I mean, you’ll carry it. I mean, if you go on like this, you will either end up a whore or you’ll just die here. This’ll be a real job and you’ll get your share as payment. What do you say?”
“Stanley …”
“Fuck that goth fag. The guy came into this world to kill himself. He doesn’t care about anything. Anyway, where are you from?”
“I don’t know,” said Derdâ.
“What do you mean ‘I don’t know’? How do you not know? Where were you born?”
“In an apartment building.”
“Where?”
“In Finsbury Park. Twelfth floor.”
“You know where I’m from. I’m Turkish. Do you know what that means? It means that no matter who gets in my way, I’ll fuck him!”
“Great,” said Derdâ. “I’m sure of that.”
“You don’t believe me?”
He took a flashy mobile phone out of his pocket and dangled it in front of Derdâ’s nose.
“I’ll dial a number with this and in half an hour this place will be burned to the ground! You understand? No one messes with the Turks! We’ll fu
ck them all up! Anyway, what do you say? Will you work for me?”
“Any payment up front?”
“I don’t want you to go all zombie on me before the job’s done. Today’s a trial day for you. Let’s see if you can make ‘employee of the month.’ You’ll get your pay in the evening.”
“I know a little bit about Turkey,” Derdâ said. “Which part are you from?”
Black T laughed.
“How in the world would you know? We’re not talking about a holiday resort. I’m from Yatırca! Ring any bells? Yeah, right!”
Derdâ couldn’t even laugh.
“When did you come here?”
“I had a sister. She died. I was nine years old. That’s when we moved here. Actually, almost all Yatırca’s here. I have lots of relatives here. Have you heard about the Fighting Wolves? They were on the news last week. For beating up a Kurdish kid in a tube station. But he was one who started it! They hate us, you know? You say that you’re from Yatırca, so you’re a Turk, and they go after you right away. You’re a Kurd, they say. Anyway, that whole gang’s related to me. You know, my mother’s a Kurd—I think, or something like that. What the hell do I know? It’s complicated. If you ask me, I’d rather be Jamaican. But don’t say that to anyone. Don’t you think they’re cool? Right now they have a festival on in Notting Hill. I think they’re great guys, always chilled out, but they fight good when they have to. Yeah, that’s it, I should’ve been born Jamaican. Fuck! I wish Yatırca was in Jamaica. If only.”
Derdâ was only interested in some of what Black T was going on about.
“Was your sister sick?”
“No, there was this fucking accident. She fell off a bed the day she started school. Off the top bunk. At least that’s what they told me. I don’t remember very much, though. All I know is that she fell down and cracked her head open in that fucked up school! Sons of bitches! They couldn’t even keep a little girl safe! Do you know how old she was?”
Derdâ answered through numb lips: “Six …”
“How did you know?”
“Just a guess …”
“Sons of bitches!”
Derdâ still held herself responsible for that little girl’s death. It was like Black T had been sent as some kind of retribution. Whoever it was who decided which of her dreams would come true, now he’d brought her the brother of the girl she’d killed. She could confess everything. She could stand up and shout, “I made your sister get in that bed! She died because of me!” But she didn’t. Because whoever it was who brought Black T to her, he was a little late. Thirty-two days late. Because revenge for all the crimes she’d committed in all her life and all those crimes she was going to commit, had already been taken. Fifty-two naked men had taken revenge for everything. There was no revenge left to take. So she remained silent. Like a convict on a galley ship whose sentence had already been decreed. A Cosette as silent as Jean Valjean.
Stanley had been passed out right inside the front door for some time. Black T had to jump over him to get in the house.
He opened his eyes and mumbled, “I’m not goth. I’m just a fag!”
In the afternoon, Black T came back with a sports bag.
“Take this,” he said.
He handed Derdâ a piece of paper.
“Here’s the address. They’re going to give you an envelope. Don’t open it. Have a look on the other side of that.”
He waited for Derdâ to look.
“You’re going to take that envelope to this address. That’s it. That clear?”
It was clear. Black T pulled out some cash and gave it to Derdâ.
“Take a taxi.”
Then he leaned over and whispered into Derdâ’s ear. He pointed to Stanley.
“Tell him to forget all that stuff I said about being Jamaican. OK? And that goes for you, too.”
The first stop was Notting Hill. The taxi could only get so close. Every year the Trinidadians, Tobagonians, and Jamaicans organized a carnival in Notting Hill. It was in full swing. Roads in the area had been shut to traffic. Derdâ got out of the taxi and checked the address. Hundreds of people were moving down the street chugging beers. No one seemed likely to be able to stop and give directions. So Derdâ gave herself up to the crowd. As she moved closer to the carnival, the drums got louder. Ahead of her, she saw a group in the parade wearing red T-shirts, pounding furiously on drums. Derdâ made her way to the edge of the sidewalk and leaned against the police cordon, waiting for the drummers to pass. Then an open-air bus playing West Indian music out of massive speakers rigged on its top loomed into view. A group of topless girls gyrated to the music behind the bus. Derdâ smiled.
People on the back of the bus threw confetti into the crowd. Every so often the women would stop dancing to wildly shake their hips. They wore colorful bikini bottoms, and some had enormous feathers attached to their waists that made them look like peacocks. Spectators seemed less interested in the dance than in their bodies. Eyes were riveted on their quivering hips, their breasts, and the sweat glistening on their bodies. Most of them were men but not a few were lesbians. It was a feast for the eyes. Everyone was getting their fill.
Derdâ remembered she was there to do a job and began to feel restless. She forced herself through the crowd and turned down the first open street. Music was blaring there, too. A reggae band was performing on an open stage and a crowd was dancing to the music, marijuana smoke hovering above them like a low cloud. Derdâ stepped into the crowd and noticed a policeman and a policewoman absently surveying the scene. As if the only duty they might be willing to perform was helping someone find an address. Derdâ was no longer afraid. She held the address out to the woman, leaned toward her ear, and shouted, but the music was so loud that she could hardly hear her own voice. Body language was the only option. The policewoman pointed to the opposite street and shook two fingers for the second street on the left.
The street was relatively quiet. Two-story town houses with front stoops lined both sides. Derdâ could easily read the house numbers. The street seemed completely deserted. Then she noticed a group of people lined up in front of one of the houses up ahead. At least ten people all patiently waiting in the line. As she got closer, Derdâ realized it was the house she was looking for. No way they’re selling drugs like this, she thought. And she was right: these people weren’t lining up to buy cocaine or heroin.
Ignoring the people in line, Derdâ walked straight through the front door and held up the card with the house address to a Jamaican standing inside. He understood that she had something to deliver. “Come on in,” he said and he was pleased to tell Derdâ why all the people were queuing up outside.
“Dese people are just a waiting for the toilet. One person, one pound. Not too bad, eh? Not too bad … Dey drink like animals and den dey don’t have no place to go, man. Every year we take more money like dees dan we do selling fried chicken. And you know how? Wid a hole, man? We just renting to dem a hole!”
They went up a narrow staircase and into a room where three Jamaicans and a pit bull seemed fast asleep. But they were just listening to music, from time to time looking up at the ceiling, at each other, or just into empty space, as they bobbed their heads up and down to the rhythm of the music. Not too fast, not too slow. A record player in the middle of the room was playing Desmond Dekker. The king of ska. “Rude Boy Train” blasted out of speakers in all four corners of the room.
The Jamaican from the front door left to run his lucrative business downstairs. The Jamaicans in the room seemed uninterested in Derdâ, though the black pit bull raised his head to look at her momentarily before nodding off again.
Derdâ said, “Black T sent me. You have an envelope for me.”
And she dropped Black T’s bag on a low coffee table between two leather armchairs. The Jamaicans looked up lazily at the bald girl, their heads still moving to the rhythm of the music.
One of them said, “It been a long time since a skinhead visit us.”
Anoth
er one: “It been a long time since we beat a skinhead.”
The third: “You go on, Bob!”
As Derdâ jumped back to the door, the three men cracked up laughing and Bob started barking. One of them stood up, saying, “Don’t worry, we don’t have rabies like you people,” and he pulled the bag off the coffee table and unzipped it. Derdâ made a mental note. She had to figure out just what sort of shit these skinheads got themselves into. The Jamaican pulled three half-kilo bricks out of Black T’s bag. He looked at the others.
“Anyone wanna try?”
Only Bob answered. Towering over Derdâ, his dreads swaying down around his waist, the Jamaican said, “You wait for me here.” He picked up the three bricks and left the room. The other two went back to bobbing their heads. Derdâ wasn’t worried. She was sure the man would come back with the heroin. At least she hoped for so much.
Then a Jamaican looked up and said, “Who was dat man?”
“What man?” the other said.
“Dat man just sittin der. He just left. You know him?”
“No.”
“Den what was he doing here, man?”
“I don’t know, I thought he was your friend.”
“I don’t know him, man!”
“He seems irie, man.”
They looked up at Derdâ and one said, “Black T sent you, right? So give us the goods and let’s see how it is.”
Derdâ’s mind went cold.
“I just gave it to you. Your friend just left with it …”
“We don’t know dat guy. But you know him, right? Why else would you give the bag to him? You know him. No matter, now give us de stuff and we check it out.”
Derdâ’s heart went cold.
“What are you talking about? I just gave that guy the stuff and he asked if anyone here wanted to try it … You really don’t know him?”