Istanbul Noir - Mustafa Ziyalan [24]
He was both in pain from the beating he’d taken the previous night and in agony over finding himself in bed with a person who had a cock. He could have killed that transvestite right then and there. But first he had to find his switchblade. Where was it? Where were his clothes? His pants, his military underwear and undershirt … He began searching the room like a madman. The transvestite quickly pulled herself together; she drew the red bed sheet over her body and tried to explain. She said she’d found him near dawn, close to the hotel, in a pool of blood and urine, on the verge of freezing, delirious and mumbling. Of course she recognized him right away. She picked him up and carried him straight home. She figured since he’d been wandering around that hotel with a switchblade in his hand for days, he must have an enemy, a score to settle, someone he was after. And so that’s why she didn’t take him to the cops or the hospital. So … what? Had she done something wrong? Could he just calm down a little?
But there was no calming him down. “Where are they?” he screamed, spewing a muddled list of demands. Where were his pants? His shirt? His jacket?
“I washed them. They haven’t dried yet.”
He’d lost his virginity. Inside he was still raw, pure, naïve. And he was yelling at the transvestite like a rabid animal. But the transvestite, for whom every day was virtually an act of suicide, didn’t seem at all frightened by this comely young man; on the contrary, he brought a flutter to her heart. She was only too willing to play the role cut out for her in this performance, or so it seemed. She immediately brought him his damp clothes.
First he put on his pants, then he realized he’d forgotten to put on his underwear, so he took off his pants again. This time he put them on in the appropriate order. Then his T-shirt, his shirt, his jacket … He ripped his switchblade out of the transvestite’s hand.
He was walking out the door when the transvestite yelled after him, like a desperate mother to her stubborn child, “Don’t leave like that! You’ll catch cold!”
His past was a fog, his future a dead end. The gaping hole within him continued to grow. While his mind was busy thinking about how to take care of one dirty mess, his body had been sullied by another. Now no matter how much he scrubbed the damp clothes that clung to his body there in the winter cold, the dirt would never wash off.
And now, in that bone-chilling cold, his head spinning with hunger, in the face of a browbeating storm, and still without anyone to fend for him, he was walking amongst the crowd on Mercan Hill, going forth, unable to protect his feet from the melting snow, his ears from the boisterous salesmen, his shoulders from the blows of passersby, his eyes from the umbrellas.
And you can’t be a hero when you don’t have a dime to your name. It was a moment when he wished to die. But he couldn’t. He could not possibly pass from this world without first killing. He owed it to his mother. If he didn’t do it, what would he say on the other side? How could he possibly look his mother in the face?
“You still want to pay back your debt?” he asked when the transvestite opened the door. With his weakness he betrayed his masculinity, with his tongue he betrayed his soul. His body was full of defects, his self was full of the transvestite, and his tongue was vapid.
“I thought I did,” the transvestite responded flirtatiously. She stepped aside, inviting him in.
When, chilled by the morning frost, he entered the living room, a wave of cigarette smoke and incense sent his head spinning. Why had he missed the transvestite? Why did he want her? Because she stirred his juices? Because she was the only person in his life who had ever reached out to him? Because her home, her bed, her