Yasemın Aydinoğlu - Istanbul Noir

Ah, it’s the knife he sees coming. My assistant slashes downward, rips straight through his sweater. This time his skin bursts. The cut isn’t terribly deep. It might not even hurt. It will though, just you wait. I’ve lit a cigarette and I wave it under his nose. He doesn’t smoke, I know, but he recoils because he can feel the heat of the red cone. I like this bit.

He tries to move further away from me as I confront him with his betrayal. Don’t you know, I ask him, that you can never leave the brotherhood? And I stab the cigarette butt onto his chest, on the edge of his bare nipple.

His howl triggers my assistant. The tip of the dagger immediately on the stretched upper lip. Zekeriya closes his eyes.

Oh, come on, stay with it! Aren’t you listening? I plant the red-hot stab in his ear and I can see his eyes water. And look at those swollen veins on his throat. That’s a scream that wants to come out. Good boy, he’s not uttering a sound. Ooops. But he nods.

The glistening blade slides upwards on his lip; its cutting edge touches the cartilage between his nostrils. My young friend is clearly angry too, and I inform Zekeriya of this unfortunate fact.

My assistant nods to the rhythm of the loud jingle from the truck that sells propane tanks. It’s a rather funny sight. The amplified tune penetrates the room. I bet it always comes around the same time. Must be one of the rare neighborhoods that don’t have natural gas yet. I hear a voice call out to the street — the woman next door? I wonder if she hears anything going on in this living room. The thought excites me. Someone calls the elevator. Must be the truck driver’s boy. With a squeak it departs from the floor we’re on.

What’s that smell? Faintly metallic, familiar...

Ah. Blood. My assistant is getting carried away. It trickles all over Zekeriya’s front, onto the carpet. That stain will always be there for him to remember. Ah, blood on rugs. No way to get it out.

I tell Zekeriya I am thinking about letting my assistant cut off his nose for setting such a bad example in the eyes of the community, especially the youngsters. I love the way his eyes widen. Suddenly I think of my father. I shudder. I want to shake off his image.

Zekeriya gags. He can’t stand blood either. I lift my hand, and my assistant takes the knife away. Zekeriya’s gaze turns to a picture on the end table. His parents. I strike. I hit him so hard he falls over onto his side, chair and all. Bang! That bloody, filthy little prick! He infuriates me! I remember going to his petty stationery shop to invite him over. I sweet-talked him, told him about making the world a better place. I sent customers to him, to prove that God’s brotherhood does good. And now that his business is going well he wants to back out, the selfish coward. He couldn’t stand to share his wealth? Didn’t want to help out the odd apprentice we sent him? Or, ah yes, I remember, he reminded us once that there is no force in Islam, only persuasion. Ha! I’ll teach him what persuasion is. I kick him in his stomach. He pulls up his legs. I kick his shin with the ball of my foot, a little trick I learned from my father. Maximum effect without shoes.

Zekeriya moans.

My assistant is quick to silence him, but... what’s that? I hear shuffling on the other side of the door. There’s a soft knock. We all look up. Is it the wife?

I open the door with a creak. Look at that. A boy, bringing a tray with tea. Thank you, and now get lost. Oh, you want a little peep? I allow him a glimpse before I shut the door. No harm in educating the young.

I tell my assistant to put Zekeriya upright again and give him his tea. I watch as he undoes the gag and pours the scalding liquid into the man’s mouth. Zekeriya squeaks. What a brilliant idea it was, that tea, whoever thought of it.

I ask him if he will continue depriving us of his contributions and company. He whispers something that I can’t understand. I slap him in the face. I notice his eyes go to the door, he must have heard something. With one jump I’m there, while he tries to shout, “No!” through the rag in his mouth.

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.