Istanbul Noir - Mustafa Ziyalan [55]
I overheard them discussing the need to go back to their hotel to recharge their camera before that evening’s outing. Mr. Still-Half-Hard was complaining about the slovenly conditions of the dump they were forced to check into until their room at The Bentley was ready the following afternoon. “Yeah, the Palas is crusty, man,” the genius to the left muttered. They had to be referring to the Pera Palas. A faded yet glorious old whore who in her day had housed dignitaries, pop stars, and spies, but was now a dusty relic renowned for her ancient history and tainted splendor. Soon to be condemned to rehabilitation. I wasted no time inserting myself into their salacious conversation. I beamed an undetectably phony smile in their direction, wiped the sarcasm from my palate, and asked with as much sincerity as I could stomach if they were from the West Coast.
“Malibu,” the smart-ass offered.
“Miami,” I lied.
Gratuitous small talk follows. I pile it on. Feign interest in their himbo babble. “Must be great taking a year off before hitting film school at USC.” My stomach churns bile. I continue the charade, insisting they look me up if they ever make it down to South Beach. I scribble a fictitious e-mail address on a napkin. They give me theirs. I close in for the kill. Tell them I overheard their plans to go back to their hotel. Would they mind if I tagged along to charge my cell phone before facing the terminal nightmare of a slow train to the crowded plane back home? I must’ve forgotten to do so last night. Surely they could understand how impotent one feels when their lifeline to civilization short circuits. Naturally, they bought my lie. Exchanging a bemused smirk. I chortled to myself. I didn’t have a cell phone. Or an e-mail account. Or a post office box. Or a permanent address. I hated the thought of being tracked.
I suggested we order a couple of Tuborg tall boys to take back to their room. “Cold brew on a hot day,” Einstein mutters.
I’m growing murderous. Visions of duct tape and Thai tattoo tubes drown out the mundanity of their nonsensical dribbling. We round the corner and enter the lobby with only seconds to spare before my cool evaporates and I stab them both with the steak knife stolen from the café.
The Palas was perfect. Truly. Tarnished, tattered, down at the heels, and haunted. The ghosts of illicit romance, espionage, and dirty deeds painted the lobby in a milky film. The marble columns were cracked. The carpets were sticky. The lobby stunk of cigarettes, booze, overripe broads, and men old enough to overlook their own halitosis. Nobody batted an eye as three twenty-somethings (okay … I’m lying again) scaled the massive staircase up to the third floor.
Blond and Blonder opened their flimsy door to reveal a shitty room with a spectacular view. Two ratty queen-sized beds bookend the massive window overlooking the breath-taking Bosphorus, that magnificent river of mysterious origin that slices Istanbul in half. Her glistening shores flanked by glorious monuments erected centuries before in praise of egotistical kings who worshipped at the feet of false gods. The late-afternoon haze refracted heat and light, creating a gauzy mirage. The madness below was temporarily suspended, silenced. A frozen moment, postcard perfect. And rudely interrupted by the staccato pop of a beer can cracking open. Which reminded me why I was there. I needed to leech a little blood as purgation against my own incurable sickness. I winked and took the can.
I soon excused myself and entered the sprawling bathroom. Beautiful tiles