When I pull open the door a crack, I find opposite me the Mrs. of the house, holding the little brat by the ear.
My fingers fold around his other ear while I look her straight in the eye. Eavesdropping, was he? She doesn’t lower her gaze as she should. I’ll deal with her in a minute. For now, yes, of course we’d like some more tea.
When she walks away — I spot a little hesitation in her gait — I drag the boy to the bathroom, take the key from the inside, and push him in. Before I lock the door I tell him how quiet he has to be if he wants his father to live.
I think I might take a little look in the kitchen. She looks up from wiping off the table when I enter. A shadow darkens her face when she sees it’s me.
“Is my husband with you?” she asks. I think I see faint moisture appear on her upper lip. It makes me feel good. I tell her we’re discussing business of the brotherhood, but I know she must be wondering why her husband hasn’t come out of the room, why he isn’t here instead of me. It’s quite inappropriate for us to be together in the same room like this, and she should angrily send me away. But I can taste her fear now.
She’s turned her back to me, to close the window above the counter. Quite right. You don’t want anyone to hear what’s coming, my dear. Through the white nylon curtain I can see the next building near enough. I move forward and stand next to her. She blabbers something about her father-in-law who is asleep. The water boils. She pours it in the teapot. And lets out a cry when I grab her arm. The tea glasses clatter on the tray.
She tries to pull away, but my grip is like a vice. I can’t help but grin at her feeble attempt to break free and soft laughter escapes my throat. How satisfying.
“Where is Zekeriya?” Her question comes out as a whisper. Nothing will happen to him if you keep quiet, I say.
“What have you done to him? What have you done to my son?” She shrieks and scratches my face with her free hand, and she kicks my shin. I love it. I pull off her headscarf and grab her hair.
When I bring my face close to hers, she spits. I don’t care. I slowly wipe my face with my sleeve and hold her head at the base of her skull. Her eyes become big like saucers while I bring my lips to hers. They’re firm and warm. My tongue finds its way between them.
Ouch! The bitch, she bit me!
I slap her face. Anger burns in the pit of my stomach. I shake her head with her hair in my fist. And tell her my assistant is holding a knife to her husband’s throat. All he needs is a word from me.
That’s better. Her movements become kind of mechanical, but she follows my hand obediently when I pull her to the kitchen table. She doesn’t move when my hands disappear under her sweater. I feel her skin. Her soft, bouncy breasts. I can’t control my hands. They grab, they squeeze. Pull. Pinch.
I want to see them. I push her shirt up. Fill my mouth with flesh. Suck. Bite. Smell. For a moment I feel deeply happy. I sigh.
Then my mind switches on again. I tell her to get ready for me, and watch as she takes off her slippers, her tights, and her panties, and neatly folds them into a bundle. She leaves them on the floor by the armchair in the corner and comes back to me. I push her onto the table.
There is something sacred about this body that has never been touched by anyone but that misery-guts tied up in the living room. It makes me singe with excitement. I ride. I gallop. To a height I have never reached.
I can hardly stand on my legs anymore. My chest feels all relaxed. With my eyes closed I quickly say a prayer, although I know I should ablute myself first. Thank you God. Thank you.
Privileged, that’s what I am. I walk over to the living room, where my assistant is keeping an eye on Zekeriya. The door is wide open. Poor Zekeriya. He has more blood on his face and chest than when I left him. Actually, there’s quite a puddle around him. He doesn’t look too happy. In fact, I’m not sure he’s conscious. My assistant has found another rope in his bag to tie him to the chair, so he stays upright, but his head is hanging to one side. I sit down at a distance on the sofa. I feel good. Look, Zekeriya is coming to. His head jolts back and forth, and he opens his eyes. They’re swollen. Did my assistant punch them? Well, our friend asked for it. He’ll think twice about leaving us again. I’d be surprised if he doesn’t show up at our next meeting. I’ve raised his contribution a little too. That’ll teach him.
Oh look! I can’t believe it. Is my young assistant getting a hammer out of that bag of his? Yes, yes, look at him. He puts a nail on the middle of Zekeriya’s head. Right on the top. Zekeriya is not quite aware yet of what’s going to hit him. Ha ha, that’s a funny pun. One, two, three, bang! Now he knows. I think I’d better stop my assistant. The nail is for the next time. We must give him a chance to repent.
I sense reluctance, but my assistant puts his tools away. He’s a reliable fellow. Someday I’ll show him what else can be done with a hammer and nail. Amazingly effective tools, actually. My hand still hurts from that time my father nailed me to the doorpost, and how many years has it been? But I’ll keep that for later.
Before we shut the door behind us I hear blubbering from the bathroom. I tell my assistant to get the elevator. He presses the button. He likes that.
Author’s note: In the year 2000, the Turkish police carried out a major operation in Istanbul, raiding cells of an illegal organization and killing their leader at the end of a four-hour armed clash. The organization called itself Hezbollah, which means Party of God. Buried in safe houses scattered throughout the country, the police found nearly a hundred bodies of Hezbollah’s victims, including women. Most of them were small businessmen who had been supporting the organization, but had lost faith in its cause. All victims had been severely tortured.
Around here, somewhere
by Algan Sezgıntüredı
Şaşkınbakkal
By the time he reached the Marmara shore, his lungs were about to explode. He darted across all four lanes of the coastal road, its white stripes shining beneath the orange glow of towering streetlamps, the cars racing by as if speeding were some kind of prerequisite for driving in the wee hours of the night. He had neither the time nor the courage to look back. And rightly so, for just a few yards later he heard someone yell out, telling him to stop. He’d heard it the first time, as he began hightailing it down from Baghdad Avenue, and he knew well and good what the third time meant. Back in the day, he wouldn’t have had to run at all. But these guys were new to the job, they didn’t know how to grease their palms. Yet. Right? Or maybe they were just idealistic kids who refused. Once upon a time, I would’ve refused too. Once upon a time, money wasn’t everything. Once upon a time. But Teoman was no slacker, he had his boys’ backs. Right? Or maybe these guys aren’t idealists, just a little slicker than their predecessors? A little too greedy, pushing for five instead of three? Run. Run, goddamnit. Then again, what the hell if I get caught? I’ll just get roughed up, grin and bear a couple days of questioning, and be out before you know it. Nothing new to me. Besides, it’s not really me they’re after. They know who I am, the shit I’m up to. I’m a little fish. It’s only been two years since I started, though I’m no rookie. I’m not falling for it; I know exactly what those guys dish out, and how much. And those laws that are changing as Turkey tries to get its eager little foot in the door to the European Union, well, they’re in my favor. Their beef is really with Teoman, not me. And damned if they’ll ever catch him. None of you guys have ever even seen him, let alone know where he is! That man’s got your daddies on a leash!