Istanbul Noir - Mustafa Ziyalan [22]
He’d taken up position behind the trash can again, in that same sheath of darkness across from the hotel. He put his numb hands to his mouth and blew warm air into them. Then he slipped his hands back in his pockets and ran his fingers over the switchblade. It was even colder than his fingers.
He came to when he heard a woman scream: “Give me my money, damn it!” His hand went to the switchblade in his pocket and he pressed his back against the wall to conceal himself further.
“Where you goin’, you bastard!”
He stuck his head out a little, still shielded by the trash can, and saw a tall, young woman with golden-blond hair thrashing about on the ground at the corner opposite the hotel. Then he saw the man who was kicking her. He took out his switchblade and darted toward the woman.
“What money, cunt? What fucking money?” the man screamed back at the woman.
“You think you get to fuck for free, bastard? Go fuck your wife for free, asshole.”
The woman was dressed much too lightly for this cold weather; it was beyond the young man’s comprehension. Her long, thin legs gleamed from the ground where she lay, and her black panties and ass were visible beneath her skirt, which was now up around her waist. He was shocked at the woman’s determination, as she fought the man’s legs by kicking right back at him. As if she were asking to be killed.
“You asshole, leave her alone!” he screamed.
Both the woman and the man looked over at him, stunned. The man turned away from the woman and furiously stomped toward him.
“What, you her fucking pimp or something? What’s it to you anyway, fucking scumbag!”
With a showy press of the button the switchblade opened—chaak. He liked that sound. The sparkle of the blade, there beneath the streetlamps as he moved it around in his hand, dazzled even him. By the time the man had begun to make his silent escape, the young woman was already on her feet.
“Thank you sooo much. You came just in time.”
The young man looked at the woman with a stunned expression as she said these words. She had a very deep voice. In fact, it wasn’t like a woman’s voice at all. Moreover, she was at least half a foot taller than he was. She put on quite the show as she coyly straightened out her skirt and hair. There was almost nothing left of the woman who’d just had her ass kicked moments before.
“Allah must have sent you to me. My hero. So tell me, where are you from?”
Now he was sure. The protrusion on her throat, her Adam’s apple, moved up and down as she talked.
“Goddamn you!”
His eyes were wide with disgust and he was looking for a hole, any hole, to crawl into. As he ran back toward the hotel, he saw his stepfather walk out and step into a taxi, which then disappeared down the street.
“Hey, where you goin’? Wait a minute!”
The woman man, the woman-like man, that blond-haired faggot in the miniskirt, just wouldn’t shut up. He, or she, chased after him, adjusting her clothing along the way. The young man ran after the taxi, cursing his bad luck, cursing his fate. He’d missed his prey. He had hoped that he wouldn’t have to wait another day, that he wouldn’t have to spend another night out on the cold stone pavement, that he would take care of this matter that evening, but now, because of some faggot’s ass-fucking money, his prey had gotten away.
Undaunted, the transvestite continued to chase after him. “Where are you running off to, sweets? You some kind of idiot or what? I won’t take any money from you. C’mon,” she said, her feminine wiles back in full gear.
He stopped and turned around; he glared at the transvestite, furious. But the look the transvestite was giving him was that of a smitten schoolgirl; she smiled bashfully.
She tottered backwards a step or two when the fist hit her chin. The amorous sparkle in her eyes was quickly replaced by something else entirely. “Are you crazy, man? Why are you hitting me?” she screamed. She glared at him, not like someone who’d just taken a punch to the chin, but like a disappointed lover. “I just thought I