Twisted (15 page)

By the time I drag my two suitcases out of the cab and straight into the port’s only shabby bar, which is packed with passengers and oversized checked polypropylene bags that are a signature item of the shuttle traders all over the post-Soviet space, my former schoolmate is already pretty hammered. She sticks persistently to the good-looking barman with confidence on her drunken phiz and refuses to notice his I-am-not-interested-in-you-soaker-why-don’tyou-just-shut-up expression.

When she sees me, she starts an uncoordinated waving while holding on to the bar. Her body language screams that if it wasn’t for the old, dark-wood counter, she would be on the floor already.

‘Oh my … Inna! You are loaded, my friend. It’s a good thing we have to board in a few minutes, so you can get some sleep.’ I talk softly, as if she is a five-year-old.

She rolls her eyes and throws a discharge of loud laughter into the air. ‘Did you just say minutes? Not so fast, my friend! These bastards are going to marinate us overnight like some fucking chicken drumsticks!’ She bursts into more laughter. Then suddenly her face darkens, her body sways and she starts to fall off the bar stool.

‘Here we are!’ I catch Inna under the arms. Her eyes mist in drowsiness and her head drops heavily to the side. I help her to relocate to one of the soft chairs that a young man is using; he courteously vacates it for us. Without coming back to the world, she sprawls in a not-so-elegant position with her legs spread wide, passed out. I bring a glass of water and put it on the table next to her. Then I go back to the bar, notice the disgust on the barman’s face, mumble to myself, ‘I must put “get drunk as a pig” on my not-to-do list … it’s really ugly,’ and order a double vodka with orange juice.

I sip my drink, look at my watch and scowl – we were supposed to board at least twenty minutes ago. The barman notes the concern on my face and snoops, ‘Is it your first time?’

I raise my eyebrows and look at him, searching for some kind of sarcasm or a taunt, but am surprised to see a friendly smile on his attractive face.

Oh dear! He looks like a normal guy. I wonder how much Inna tormented and annoyed him to put him in the twitching state he was in half an hour ago?

I smile and nod.

‘Don’t expect to board anytime soon. Sometimes it takes the whole day and night. They are still busy loading the cargo. And until they finish, they will keep you guys waiting here,’ he explains with ease.

My eyes widen, and ‘Fuck!’ flies out of my mouth before I even think about it.

The barman smiles at that and goes to serve another client.

Seven hours, three screwdrivers, four cups of coffee and a full pack of cigarettes later, at three o’clock in the morning, one of the crew comes up and announces that all passengers can proceed to the passport control section.

Half asleep, irritated folk begin to rumble, get off their seats and pull their trunks out onto the street. I wake Inna and we follow the crowd. We quickly pass through passport control and customs. And as soon as we step on board the Victoria, we receive keys to our cabin. One of the sailors helps us to get our luggage up through a few companionways, dropping it at a door numbered 8, which is the number on our key’s tag.

The cabin is a small room with a tiny cupboard and washbasin on the left, a bunk bed on the right, and a little table with one chair between them, right under the porthole. We are so wiped out that the moment we walk inside, Inna wearily drops, ‘I am sleeping at the bottom ... I get seasick,’ and crawls, still dressed, under the blanket. I murmur, ‘No wonder … drinking so much,’ and climb onto the top bunk, without even brushing my teeth or washing my make-up off. Two minutes later we zonk out into a deep sleep.

The next day I wake up and for a few seconds I can’t work out where I am. I close my eyes again and drown in thoughts about my life and where it is taking me this time. A light rush of adrenalin shivers through my body when I think of what kind of crap I could get myself into on this trip. No place to stay, no friends or people in whom I can have at least an illusion of trust and reliance, no working contract, no working permit.

In other words, a total fuck-up if something goes wrong.

I spend most of the trip on my own. Part of me is grateful that Inna has such an urge to get wasted and fuck some sailors, whose names I bet she can’t even remember the next day. Her drunken brawls give me some quiet time to myself. I try to catch up on some sleeping and tan on the deck with a book and a chilled beer.

When we approach the Bosphorus Strait it is night-time. At first it is impossible to distinguish the shoreline, because of how it merges with the dark sea and sky. Then, some lights start to appear, showing us the coast on both sides of the ship. The deeper we get into the strait, the more alive the land looks. When finally we reach Istanbul, I can’t believe my eyes. It is the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen! The view is breathtaking …

We ride the waves between the two headlands that rise uphill, covered by millions and millions of lights. We pass under the two huge bridges that connect the Asian and European parts of the metropolis and remind me of a graceful Christmas-light garland. The city glows. The mosques, whose minarets are adorned with floodlights of different colours, add to the city’s mood. Istanbul is alive and captivating; immense and powerful. It treacherously expands the space inside me for disturbing thoughts, bringing forth my fears and relentlessly emphasizing my vulnerability.

After making our way through the Bosphorus for about two hours, the Victoria berths at Istanbul’s Karaköy Port. I am still standing on deck, gazing around, absorbed, as my thoughts about my slippery tomorrow deepen.

The loud voice of the same person who announced the boarding in Kherson pulls me out of myself and into reality. He is walking around, warning passengers – with a smirk – to get ready for passport control. ‘Dear friends! Please go to your cabins and pack your stuff. The Turkish authorities will be on board in an hour or so. And ladies, I know it has been a long and tiring journey for some of you ...’ He stops his eyes on Inna for a second, filled with satisfied lust –
Oh gosh, she slept with him too! Although ‘sleeping’ is probably not the right word for what they were doing …
– then continues, ‘Please make sure you remember your surnames, the ones that are in your passports!’

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.’

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 sponges
¹⁶
, 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.