15
T he Turk’s name was Jamael Hasakah. Lean man in his mid thirties, six feet tall, black hair, very thick eyebrows, facial features that were delicate, waxen, feminine. The white cotton pullover and drawstring pants he wore made his skin even darker, almost black. He had wide full lips, an Egyptian nose and remarkably long, thin fingers like splints of brown bamboo that he moved constantly, almost experimentally, as he talked. He might have been playing an imaginary accordion.
The Turk was talking now: “You gentlemen are truly interested in our new community? Our very special real estate opportunity? Then, by all means, come aboard. Come aboard my home! I am the only authorized representative in Cartagena. It is true!”
His home was an oceangoing motor-sailer over 150 feet long; had to displace 250 maybe 300 tons. Looked as if it might have been built to ship bananas during the days of United Fruit, back in the thirties. Or maybe dates and casks of olive oil through the Suez. The hull was a rust-streaked enamel-white hulk that was made to appear delicate and geometric by a labyrinth of hawser lines and rigging that angled skyward to towering masts. The deck area was massive, with elaborate skylights, an elevated wheelhouse and an open gallery astern: a big-time, old-time, sailing freighter that had seen better days, much better days.
On its rounded stem, I’d noted the name: MOON OF KIZ KULESI ISTANBUL
“Follow me, follow me!” The Turk continued to wave us along, apparently excited to have company. The deck was a maze of crates lashed as if for shipping. There were bicycles, motor scooters, potted plants, exercise equipment, a couple of sea kayaks. There was a whole row of waste-high bushes growing in plastic boxes. The leaves of the bushes were saw-edge, five-leafed.
Cannabis? Yes… no doubt about it. Right out there in the open, no big deal.
There were some chilies growing, too. Beefy-looking green chilies. Made me think of Tomlinson. He, Musashi and their toddler daughter were probably under sail right now, headed for the Dry Tortugas. If nothing else, maybe I could get some chili seed stock for him…
“You really must excuse the mess, gentlemen. I’ve acquired so many things. So many things since we arrived in Cartagena! I hired one of the fruit ladies to clean for me, but she didn’t come today.”
“Fruit lady?”
“You’re unfamiliar with Cartagena? It’s an absolutely delightful place. Every morning, the fruit ladies come carrying baskets on their heads while the merchants sweep the streets. Baskets of fruit, understand. These women, they scream like cats. ‘! Pinas!! Bananas!! Aguacates!’ ” The Turk was attempting to imitate them, shrieking out the words. I realized that he was very drunk or very stoned.
Five in the afternoon. Probably both.
We were still following him-down a ladder that was peeling varnish; ducked through the steel frame of a watertight hatch-as he said, “So I hired one of the fruit ladies to do my cleaning. She brings me breakfast, cleans all the cabins, absolutely anything I want her to do. If I haven’t had a woman for a day or two? She takes care of that, too. All for just a few pesos. In your money… American money, perhaps two, maybe three dollars.” The Turk seemed very pleased with the situation. He was smiling. Had a nervous laugh that was more like a twitch. He also had a very noisy case of the sniffles. “Have you gentlemen noticed? The poorer the city, the more passionately a man can live! I’ve been in Cartagena a year. I may stay another year!”
The poorer the city, the more passionately a man can live!
Undoubtedly, guessing from the Turk’s satisfied expression. Also judging from the vast number of men like the Turk whom I’d met around the world.
Now we were in a large salon area: dining booth, sectional couch and chairs, big-screen television, VCR, teakwood cabinets that held stereo gear, books, plastic controls for video games, a pinball machine in the far corner, a ship’s coffee table made from a massive porthole bolted to the deck in plush carpet at the center of the room. On the coffee table was an ornate jade water vase with small hoses dangling out the top. The hoses were tipped with gold. Smoke drifted out of a brass bowl near the bottom of the vase, little tendrils of steam. A Bedouin’s hookah.
The salon smelled of marijuana and diesel fuel, rotten fruit, electrical conduit and paint.
The Turk made a welcoming gesture. “Smoke if you like, gentlemen. We grow it ourselves. Viajera de Cartagena, we call it. In English, the ‘lady traveler of Cartagena.’ Because people will travel through time zones and risk much to find it. An absolutely wonderful product. If you’re interested, I have some I might be willing to sell you.”
Was the Turk really in the drug trade or simply offering to share? I was curious. “How much product do you have available?”
He paused for a second or two to think about it. “At the moment… a thousand… perhaps two thousand kilos, I believe. But I can get more if you are serious.”
Laughter… sniff!.. laughter.
Yes, he seemed to be in the business.
“I wouldn’t mind having me a quick smoke. Bought a whole roll of Copenhagen for this trip, but damn if I didn’t go off and leave her at the ranch. Where the hell’s my brain lately?” Tucker had one of the rubberized stems in his fingers, looking at it. “There’uz this bawdy house in Tampico, they bad them one of these here kind of pipes. Suck on her, she made bubbles. Coolest smoke I ever had.”
I took a step to warn him… then thought, hell with it. Let him think it was tobacco. Maybe he’d get high, pass out, go to sleep, leave me alone.
Tuck took a couple of puffs, then a couple more. Finally he smiled, blowing smoke out of this nose. Surprised me, saying, “Yep, same thing like in Mexico. First-rate shit you boys grow down here.”
The Turk explained that their development was so new they didn’t have their brochures printed yet. But what they did have was a superb Web page. They’d just got it up and running. This American, the CEO who put the whole syndicate together, was a real computer wizard. Probably could have done the whole thing himself, but he had the cash, so why not hire the best?
The Turk said the American paid some Taiwanese Internet specialists like twenty thousand U.S. to design the entire Web page. Made the thing interactive with audio and little videos and all kinds of rooms. “But some of those rooms” — his tone was telling us “naughty-naughty” — “some of those rooms, we have to restrict, because U.S. authorities will not allow certain things to be shown. Even to adults.”
I was thinking about Gail’s money. A project, any real estate project, arrives at a point where it requires fast cash.
She’d been right there with lots of it. Gail had almost certainly paid for the high-tech Web page he was describing, X-rated rooms and all. That and probably a lot more.
“They’re just plain tightass idiots,” Tucker said. He was referring to whoever it was who made them censor whatever it was in their Web page rooms. He visited often enough with Tomlinson to be more familiar with computer jargon than I, but his concern was manufactured. He had to concentrate to speak, enunciating very carefully. He’d been smoking right along, still carrying a beer from the bar. He seemed to know what he was doing with a hookah in his hands, I noticed.
The Turk was nodding, very eager to agree with him. “But here in Colombia, I can show you anything. Everything. We have freedom here! The entire program. Anything you want to know, it’s very simple, just point the arrow and click. But you’ll see. Our company is having the Web page, the whole layout, put on CD. This CD, we will send out to perspective buyers. Even the scenes certain people find so offensive.” That laugh again… sniff! Very nervous, slightly crazed, lots and lots of drugs. That’s what the laugh told me. He said, “But I don’t have the CDs yet, either. So you’ll have to look over my shoulder, I’m afraid.”