Young Turk (30 page)

Anyway, our beloved ...

There soon occurred a series of strange happenings; happenings not necessarily puzzling in themselves but, given the adamantine bonds that held our dormitory together, quite unexpected and inexplicable.

For instance: a dark cloud, after a particular weekend, on the shoulders of Kâzιm, the Azeri, which left him staring disconsolately into space for days on end; whereas normally he would have had us roaring with laughter as he recounted the exasperation his outlandish capers induced in his parents, brothers, sisters and tribe. Or the fanatical refusal of Cengiz, the rock-like Tatar, to sacrifice a weekend leave and partake in a do-or-die football match with a rival dormitory, when at any other time he would have considered such an abandonment sheer betrayal. Or Laz İsmail’s sudden reluctance to allow us to re-examine his single testicle for any signs of change and to discuss yet again whether it was the missing testicle’s length that had been added on to his penis to make it hang, even in detumescence, like that of a horse. Or the tribulations of Eşber, the gentle gargantuan Turk, who, hopeless with words but determined to shower his paramour with poems, terrorized our bard, Zeki, the Jew – acclaimed as a poet of promise by no less an authority than Âşιk Ahmet – to act as his Cyrano.

And then it was my turn.

It was one of those April weekends when crotchety forty-eight-hour drizzles chase away the balmy spring days. The air was palpable with the frustration of people who scanned the hills for a hint of strawberry shoots.

Like most Pomaks, I am an amphibian myself and, by that winter’s end, I was impatient to join the dolphins in their games. Consequently, as I came out of school, I decided to ignore the rain and walk along the promenade. My friends, not so motivated, hurried off to Bebek to pick up buses, trams or the collective taxis,
dolmuş.

I had stopped to gaze at a Chris-Craft, attached to a buoy some twenty metres out. This was a boat I had been coveting for months; the boat, I had promised myself, I would one day own. (Don’t ask me how I would have achieved that when, in pursuit of the idealism inculcated in us by Âşιk Ahmet, I had decided to take up teaching as a career.)

Then I heard her calling.

‘Young man!’

She was driving her Studebaker and had stopped by the kerb. She might have sounded brusque, but so alluring was she that I stared, bewildered.

‘Yes?’

‘Are you deaf?’

‘Sorry ...?’

‘I’ve been calling you ...’

‘Oh ... Forgive me ... I – was day-dreaming ...’

She smiled. ‘About mermaids?’

‘No ...’

‘Make sure they have legs. Those with fins aren’t much fun ...’

‘What ...? Oh ...’

She laughed heartily at my discomfort. She sounded like one of those society ladies who consider themselves more equal than men. ‘Bebek – how far is Bebek?’

I pointed at the village, barely half a kilometre away. ‘Just there.’

She consulted a piece of paper. ‘I’m looking for a street – Yeni Sokak. It’s where I live. Can you help me find it?’

‘There’s a newsagent at the corner. He would know.’

She opened the passenger door. ‘Get in.’ Seeing me hesitate, she beckoned me over. ‘Come on, come on. I need help. I’ve only just moved here.’

I got in like an automaton. I wanted to say how surprised I was that she couldn’t find her home. After all, Bebek was a tiny village; not even a blind person could get lost in it. But I was tongue-tied.

She sped off like a racing driver. I looked at her with a mixture of admiration and apprehension. And I registered her clothes: black shoes, black stockings, black skirt, black sweater, black scarf and black leather jacket. It suddenly struck me. Here was an existentialist. A Juliette Gréco; an icon of my generation. A symbol of turpitude to the Establishment and our parents. Here was rebellion incarnate.

She prodded me. ‘Newsagent, you said. Where?’

I pointed at the shop.

And almost at the same time, I caught a glimpse of Dimitri and İsmail, standing on either side of the road, watching me. I waved at them; they didn’t wave back.

Then a moment later, I saw Cengiz, then Eşber, then Agop and Kâzιm, all within a small radius of the newsagent. They were drenched, yet were hanging around for no apparent reason. I waved at them too. They didn’t return my greeting either.

As we came up to the newsagent, she pointed at a road on the right. ‘That looks familiar. Shall I give it a try?’

I read the street-sign: Yeni Sokak. ‘That’s it!’

She turned into it, cooing happily. ‘I must have the makings of an explorer! Mrs Magellan! Sounds good, don’t you think?’

I smiled and made a faint acknowledging sound.

‘We need number thirty-eight.’

I had been staring at her hair: a dark shade of auburn, as I mentioned, but loose and billowing in the wind like a weeping willow. Definitely an existentialist. But she was about my mother’s age. Were there existentialists as old as that?

She caught my stare. ‘Something wrong?’

‘No. No ... I’m looking for number thirty-eight.’

‘Good boy.’

Number thirty-eight turned out to be half-way down the street. And it proved to be one of those beautiful wooden buildings that are relics of Ottoman Istanbul. ‘There!’

She stopped the car outside the house, switched off the engine and sighed with relief. ‘Made it!’

I managed to nod.

She patted my shoulder. ‘Thank you. You’ve been wonderful. I’d never have found it without you.’

I smiled shyly. Then, feeling that I might be imposing on her, I clambered out of the car.

She got out, too, and started rummaging in her handbag for her house keys.

I started walking away. ‘Bye ...’

She found her keys. ‘Don’t just go like that! You’ve been so nice! Come in and have a drink! Show me how you young braves imbibe raki!’

‘What’s there to show?’

‘All the mystique.’

I stared at her, puzzled.

‘Do you water it down or just use ice? And what do you chase it with?’

I nodded lamely. ‘Oh, I see what you mean ...’ I tried to sound worldly. ‘Whatever you prefer?’

By now she had opened the front door. ‘Come on, show me! Ooooh! Nice and warm in here!’

I stood at the doorway, hesitant, yet honoured that such an old – mature – person should deign to invite me for a drink.

She pulled at my sleeve. ‘Come on, let’s get out of this rain!’

As I stood in the ornate hallway, I became aware of the perfume that permeated the house.
Her
perfume. It would linger in my nostrils for years.

She kicked off her shoes and pointed at the front room. ‘In there! The raki’s out. There’s ice and mineral water. Pour generously. Nothing like a long drink. I’ll be back in a second.’ And she soared up the stairs.

I hung my coat and satchel on the portmanteau. Then I took off my shoes and put on the guest slippers. They could have been magical slippers transporting me from reality into illusion.

The front room enhanced this feeling with its quiet opulence. I could have been in one of those Ottoman inner sanctums that I had read about, seen pictures of, but which, according to Âşιk Ahmet, had ceased to exist, except possibly in very conservative homes, because Western trends, in the wake of Atatürk’s reforms, had taken possession of the country. The room was crammed with low sofas, soft cushions, ivory-inlaid coffee tables, arrays of exquisite bibelots and ornamental İznik plates, yet it emanated a sense of spaciousness. The original bright colours of the furnishings, particularly of the antique carpet, permeated a genteel glow. I imagined, as I threaded my way to the cabinet where various bottles stood on a tray, that if I clapped my hands a bevy of odalisques would appear to do my bidding.

To my surprise, I felt aroused. Since, given my hostess’ age, I had not entertained any thoughts of sex with her – such thoughts occurred only in fantasies – I can only assume I had sensed what was to come. But then, as Âşιk Ahmet would say, the body is wiser than the mind.

I filled two glasses with ice-cubes and poured large measures of raki. Then I prepared two glasses of mineral water, also with ice, and arranged the dishes of nuts, dried fruits and sweets, as best I could, on one of the coffee tables.

When she returned, the ice in the raki glasses had melted. Throughout that time, I had fidgeted indecisively, thinking I ought just to shout goodbye and leave, yet wanting to stay, if only to keep inhaling her perfume, which had lingered in the room and was sustaining my arousal.

She came in bearing more fragrance. This time, musk soap. Which, while it literally arrested my breath, also announced that she had just bathed. The realization that she had actually undressed, walked about in the nude, washed and soaped her private parts when I was in the house, no more than a ceiling, a wall and a staircase away, so overcharged my imagination that my mind ceased functioning.

She had changed into a peignoir – black, like her clothes, and gleaming. She was barefoot, her toes unpainted. She had let her hair cascade down on to her shoulders. It was quite curly; splashed against her black dressing-gown, it emanated a dusky sheen. The rest of her hair, having fallen forward, framed a cleavage that struck me as incomparably generous even though she did not have large breasts. She was not wearing a bra.

I forgot her age instantly.

I offered her the raki.

She examined it as if it were an exotic brew. ‘You drink it with water, I see ...’

‘No. With ice. It’s melted. But only just. It’s all right to drink.’

She nodded. ‘And the mineral water? A chaser? Right?’

‘That’s how I like it.’

‘Which is good enough for me.’ She pointed at the titbits on the coffee table. ‘Help yourself.’ She indicated a sofa. ‘Sit down.’

Immensely aroused – and embarrassed as well as ashamed for being so – I slumped on to it. Then, in the hope that munching might prove a distraction, I grabbed a handful of nuts. My heart was running so fast I thought it would burst out of my mouth and stop only when it hit the Byzantine city walls.

She sat opposite me on a cushion on the floor. ‘What’s your name?’

Her peignoir had parted, revealing one of her thighs. Fleshy, but muscular.

My mouth dried up and my voice squeezed forth as a hoarse whisper. ‘Mustafa.’

She smiled. ‘Named after Atatürk. I approve.’

I could not move my eyes from her thigh. Desperately, I gulped down a few mouthfuls of my raki. I was aware that she was watching me gaping at her. I forced myself to speak, say anything. ‘I’m what they call a Pomak. We’re originally from Bulgaria.’

‘Circumcised?’

‘What?’

‘Pomaks are circumcised, aren’t they?’

‘Of course. We’re Muslims.’

She crossed her legs. ‘Better-looking – circumcised cocks. Aesthetically speaking. More elegant.’

My heartbeats became uncontrollable. As she had crossed her legs, her peignoir had parted even more; now both her thighs were exposed. And above them, I could see the curvature of one of her buttocks and also, unless I was dreaming, a glimpse of her vaginal divide.

‘Don’t you agree?’

‘What?’

‘Circumcision. Gives a refined mien. Foreskins look so ugly.’

I forced myself to gaze at my drink. ‘I – I wouldn’t know.’

‘Haven’t you seen uncircumcised boys? I thought you had just about every race in your school. Surely you had a look. In the dormitory. Or in the shower.’

‘Yes ... But ...’

This time, as she uncrossed her legs and exposed more of her thighs, I caught a perfect view of her crotch. Smooth. Shaven. Not a trace of hair. I then thought maybe she was not an existentialist, not another Juliette Gréco. After all, women who shave their pubic hair – and armpits – are supposed to be devout Muslims. Depilation is a sign of personal cleanliness. It reflects mental and moral health.

I erupted in cold sweat. I could feel my hands shaking. I looked at her. She smiled.

Again, I felt I had to say something. ‘What’s yours – name, I mean?’

She waved a dismissive hand. ‘Oh, ugliest name in the world. I never use it. I prefer the names my friends give me. What do you think I should be called?’