Lola Smirnova - Twisted

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] A contraceptive sponge that women often use during menstruation to stop the bleeding during intercourse. 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] Turkish, ‘Cheers’

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.