Lola Smirnova - Twisted

‘I want to change it to Victoria.’

Alexandra takes her time to check something in her black leather notepad, then agrees while putting on the same fake expression again. ‘No problem, I don’t have anybody else with this name.’

We exchange numbers and she stands up to go.

‘Don’t worry. You are going to be fine. All Turkish men love skinny blonde girls, so I guarantee you a busy working schedule. Trust me, Victoria.’ She winks at me, kisses the air twice – once at me and once at Inna – and hurriedly leaves.

‘Why can’t we work for ourselves?’ I ask Inna, with a hint of despair after Alexandra disappears behind the door, knowing the answer to my question already.

‘We could, Jul, but where would we find clients?’

I should probably have kept quiet and not have rubbed it in, because she sounds very irritated: ‘One of the options is to go to a few nightclubs in Laleli or Aksaray. These are places where working girls and clients look for each other. The only problem is that this can be extremely dangerous: your clients are strangers who take you to their own places. No guarantees that one of them is not a maniac or some psychopath. What’s more, the police raid those areas regularly. If you are caught, you go home, leaving all your belongings and money here, with a red “Deported” stamp in your passport.’

‘And you called it a free-rider’s paradise… no shit!’ I pull a grave face and wave to the waitress for the bill.

As Inna and I enter our apartment, my phone starts ringing.

‘Hi Victoria. It’s Alexandra. Didn’t expect me to call you so soon?’ Her voice is much softer on the phone. I guess it is her professional strategy – to sound sexy and welcoming to her clients.

‘I have some work for you this evening. It’s only for one hour, but if the client likes you he might keep you for the night. It’s in Beşiktaş. Start getting ready. I will send you all the details via SMS.’ She hangs up.

I slowly put my cellphone on the kitchen counter, mumble to Inna, who is looking curiously at me, ‘It was our mama – I have a job to do tonight,’ and turn towards the bathroom.

Inna is surprised.

‘Really? She must have liked you a lot, Jul.’ She shouts so I can hear her through the water splashing in the shower.

I peel my clothes off and step under the hot stream. The phone call made me so nervous that my hands are shaking and my heart is racing. Why do I feel this way? I went through a lot in Luxembourg, but have never felt this panicky before. I guess hooking up with a potential client in a cabaret, having a few words with him, and having a chance to make my own judgement of him before agreeing to go out with him is completely different from having to walk into some hotel room or apartment and put my safety into the hands of a complete stranger I have never seen or even spoken to before.

Yes, of course I could have made an error of judgement back then too, and got myself into trouble, but for the whole six months that I worked there I hadn’t been raped or drugged – except for that naphthalene bastard, (with whom, by the way, it was not my instinct that failed, it screamed at me not to go, but my greed that treacherously exposed me) and Ruslan, but that is a different story that could have happened to anyone. I shiver and put my face into the hot water, trying to wash the unpleasant memories out of my mind.

On the other hand, the fact that I work through Alexandra may guarantee my protection – although in a very flimsy way. Most of her clients are people she knows, or the friends of those people, or the friends of those friends… which means that our mama has some useful contacts for finding a girl if she gets into trouble. So there is some sort of security. Unless, of course, the client happens to lose his mind and stops worrying about the consequences of his aggression… or Alexandra’s rescue action is too slow; or… Crap, what am I thinking!

I leave the bathroom full of steam, wrapped in a towel and my not-very-optimistic thoughts. I carefully browse through my wardrobe looking for the right dress to wear: sexy enough to make me look desirable, but not too revealing, so I don’t feel uneasy. Then I grab my vanity case, sit on the bed and start doing my make-up. The phone buzzes, texting me the address, time, cellphone number and name of my rendezvous. I look at my watch, trying to ignore my anxious heartbeat, thinking about how a shot or two of tequila or a little joint would definitely calm me down.

‘Do you want me to call you a cab?’ Inna asks, removing her headset. She is sitting on her side of the bed and watching a movie on her computer. I nod, without taking my eyes off the little mirror, applying another coat of mascara to my already heavily made up eyelashes.

I finish my make-up, put on the black dress I’ve chosen (not too short, but still quite sexy) and my summer high heels that are graced with multi-coloured stones, and stuff my little black purse with condoms, cigarettes, money for the cab, and a few tampons, just in case . I almost forget the photocopy of my passport (the front page and the page with the visa) that we made earlier today on the way home. As Inna explained with an I-am-so-smart expression on her face as she handed my passport to the guy in the copy shop, ‘Trust me, Jul, you really do not want to lose your passport, but you still have to carry ID. So this is my compromise number two.’

I frown, remembering her compromise number one – the ultra thin condoms – kiss her on the cheek, say ‘Wish me luck!’ and head outside, where the taxi is already waiting for me.

The cab pulls up at the apartment building. According to the driver, who looks very suspicious (I guess all of them, with their dark hair, and even darker eyes, a couple of days’ bristle on their faces, finished with a set and severe stare, look suspicious to me) , it’s the right place. I dial the number that Alexandra sent me earlier.

‘Hello… Murat? It’s Ju– it’s Victoria. I am here.’ I exhale.

The man on the other end of the line okays and tells me that he is coming down to let me in.

I ask the cab driver to wait until my ‘date’ shows up. Two minutes later, a man steps out of the entrance and waves towards the car. As I climb out of the back seat, making sure that my skirt is in the right place, Murat approaches the car, asks the driver how much I owe him, and pays.

Hmmm… that is a pleasant start to the evening…

We walk up the stairs to the third floor and enter the apartment. Only after the door is closed, Murat smiles, extends his hand to me and with a heavy accent ( at least he speaks English ), introduces himself: ‘Nice to meet you… come on in… Victoria, right?’

He is a tall, young chap with friendly eyes and a charming smile. I shake his hand, also smile and follow him along a short passage into a spacious living room. It’s fitted out with big, heavy couches and a huge fretted coffee table; two cabinets stuffed with a display of plates, glasses, and white and blue crockery stand between big potted plants. The interior looks rich, but it’s old-fashioned, and doesn’t match Murat’s youth and his trendy clothes.

I bet it’s his parents’ place. They are probably away, so he can finally enjoy his temporary manhood and independence. In his late twenties and still living with his parents? Loser!

The coffee table catches my attention: glass of whisky on the rocks, ashtray full of cigarette butts, large dark ceramic plate, used as a tray, with two tidy white-powder lines and a tiny but very promising white mountain.

Murat shows me to the couch, and notices my stare. ‘I hope you don’t mind…’ he says.