Confessions of a Wannabe Writer

The other day, on ebay

noreply@blogger.com (Dieter Moitzi) — Mon, 10 Oct 2016 13:58:00 +0000

William S. Hart and Clara Williams
in The Bargain (1914)
(cropped screenshot)
https://commons.wikimedia.org

Real bargain for aficionados!

Male poet, semi-young, semi-bald

(product sheet says: “shaved”),

otherwise in good condition

(three teeth missing, though).

Barely used, fully equipped.

Good autonomy thanks to embedded power pack

(product life span 72+ years

according to the manufacturers).

Had his hour of glory back in 2012

with a sharp ten-liner about

ejaculation dysfunction

published in the online issue of the

“Ahnapee News”, Wisconsin.

Comes complete with

glasses, a pencil, a pencil sharpener,

a synonym thesaurus,

ten sheets of squared paper,

some quite efficient imagery

re. moon, springtime, unhappy love,

and a natural propensity

for moodiness…

Disintegration

noreply@blogger.com (Dieter Moitzi) — Fri, 19 Aug 2016 12:49:00 +0000

Disintegration

Oh Thom why do you sit there
on my only broken chair
why do you doubt my words
when I say I don’t love you
I don’t need you Thom you gaze
at the ebony mask I brought
all the way from the Ivory Coast
as if you tried to force it into
bewitching me you long to make me
feel those things I don’t feel Thom
I guess I'll simply turn my back on you
for I don’t want to see your sadboy face
your lips that start to quiver
the tears that start to quell
and still I sense them as your
silent grief is deafening
let me tell you Thom that I don’t owe you
an excuse it was all clear from the beginning
and so sad we were two atoms thrown
into the particle accelerator they call love
we hit each other then exploded
now we’re crippled unwhole fragments
meant to part and travel through the void
for ever ever ever disappearing
until nothing remains
but sweet
whiteness

Rooftop

noreply@blogger.com (Dieter Moitzi) — Thu, 31 Dec 2015 08:56:00 +0000

Paris, seen from MontmartreJoshua Veitch-Michael

Zinc and slate against my thighs,
a metal sky above me, low,
forbidden, lurking,
if I stretch my ungloved hands,
I reckon I could harvest
all the citrine gems, the golden beryls,
fire opals, amber stones
concealed behind these autumn clouds

The red brick chimney in my back
discharges central heating fumes,
and it feels almost friendly,
like a lukewarm handshake
from a perfect stranger

While I close my eyes, the world
keeps spinning round and round,
vague smells of car exhaust,
domestic fuel, spicy dishes drift up
from the busy avenue nearby
where cars are honking, children lauging,
stories lived

The mizzle wafting in the air
feels like so many tiny tears
but it’s just water falling down

Perhaps, when I get back to life,
today, tomorrow, sometime soon,
there will be snow, a blanket, white
and spotless, cloaking all the dreary details
of the city

But right now, I do not move,
a static gable rider high above
the vales of Paris, quite content
that all I have is bricks,
and zinc, and slate, and murky skies…

Screens. A collection of very short stories - 6

noreply@blogger.com (Dieter Moitzi) — Thu, 30 Apr 2015 15:44:00 +0000

“How do I look?” Ewa asked, self-consciously touching her blonde ponytail. She wasn’t actually apprehensive about the interview, she’d done that before; but if she didn’t show at least some last-minute panic, people might see how easy-peasy her job was.

“You look perfect,” Czesław answered, barely looking at her. He was checking his watch, then gazed out of the window where the usual morning traffic was jamming up the Wojska Polskiego Avenue. “You’ve still got half an hour to rehearse your answers anyway.”

“Has anyone prepared the photos they wanted for footage?”

“Yes, Ewa. Relax.” Czesław double-clicked on a folder, and a dozen of selfies appeared on the 24”-screen. They all showed the famous red-brick building with the tower in the middle, the double railway lines converging toward the entrance, with slightly inebriated young men standing in front it, grinning from ear to ear and giving a wobbly thumbs-up.

“Just tell me again—why do they want to talk to me about… that?”

Czesław shrugged. “Some sort of anniversary, I think. Who cares? It’ll be good publicity and boost our business. Things are always way too slow in January.”

When the Canadian TV-team arrived at last, Ewa had finished rehearsing her lines. She sat in the huge meeting room, the silver-and red agency-logo W Events clearly visible on the wall. It had cost over 8,000 złoty after all, so they’d better film it, too.

The interviewer was a chubby and jovial brunette who did her best to make things easy for Ewa. The dreaded question about Oświęcim was finally asked ten minutes into the interview. “So you organize boy bachelor parties in the camps—have I got that right?” the brunette wanted to know.

“Oh, yes, of course.”

“But why?”

Ewa smiled patronizingly. “That’s not hard to grasp. There’s a market, you know. We had to satisfy the increasing demand. Lately, it has become quite a fashionable place to party.”

“Wait—it’s fashionable to party? In the death-camps of Auschwitz?”

“Oh yeah. Why wouldn’t it be? Let me show you the photos. You’ll see for yourself.”

Screens. A collection of very short stories - 5

noreply@blogger.com (Dieter Moitzi) — Thu, 16 Apr 2015 12:49:00 +0000

Two-hundred-and-forty users were online when Tom connected. Forty had switched on their web-cams, the remaining two hundred preferring to remain faceless, bodyless nicknames. Chatroom promises such as hairy_hot20, str8boy, 18oz, nz-slut.

Of the forty who had switched on their cam, most offered zooms of their lower body parts. Tom discovered few faces, even fewer smiles. Adult chat via web-cam seemed to be a serious business.

He heard moaning. Saw men rubbing their members. Glistening skin, the rustling of body-hair. An uncut Australian. A shaved Indianapolis chest. Mexican fur. L.A. drooling. The written exchanges consisted of encouragements, come-ons, loud cheers when a peak was announced, reached, and displayed.

Tom watched the shows in silence, his web-cam directed at his face. He felt a strange kind of yearning well up inside. His right hand moved down to his crotch. He felt a binge of remorse, but only briefly.

That’s when someone chatted him up at last. A certain “fulloflove”, whose cam showed a handsome young Indian boy in his twenties lying on his bed, fully clothed. The boy looked straight at Tom, a shy smile twinkling around his lips.

They started to place their conversation in the public chatroom, amidst the expressions of desire and lust. Tom needed both hands now to type his sentences.

The boy had just moved from New Delhi to San Francisco and was living with his cousin. He didn’t have any local friends yet, the town was new to him, the country strange. Tom told anecdotes of with life with Brad. The boy grew sad, saying he was looking for his Prince Charming, too. “I wanna wake up with somebody,” he wrote.

They moved on to everyday items like walking the dog, exchanging advice about cooking and recipes.

Tom found their conversation rather comical. While everybody else was rubbing, watching, getting aroused, reaching a climax, here they were, chatting about curry and how to prepare a good meal.

“You guys talking potatoes?” an anonymous participant asked after a while. His nick was hairy hot.

“Potatoes and love”, Tom replied.

Ophelia

noreply@blogger.com (Dieter Moitzi) — Wed, 08 Apr 2015 14:49:00 +0000

water lilies interwoven with
your mahogany hair,
white in skin and dress and crown
you lie, a watery last smile
on periwinkle-shaded lips,
your left hand clutching poppies
and your right a branch of willow
from the tree aslant the brook

no mortal coil will trouble
from now on your sleep,
sweet maiden nevermore…
for sleep it is – a definite
and dreamless rest
from madness, men and child –
that you have chosen,
bidding farewell, desperate
and hurting and with rues

so tired of soliloquies,
of murder and deceptive acts,
of others telling you
what you should be and who,
unwilling to find shelter
in a convent and unable
to escape a man’s embrace
unsullied, you became aware
your only say was to say no

your love, although a woman’s,
turned out less brief than
your existence

some are weeping now, some
scattering sweet roses to the sweet,
and some continue vengeful killings;
but the only one who knows is you,
your secret cancelled by a graceful herb
you chewed before you joined
the icy brook, your final bed…

Screens. A collection of very short stories - 4

noreply@blogger.com (Dieter Moitzi) — Sun, 01 Mar 2015 09:59:00 +0000

After her working day, Barbara was in no mood for a chat. Still, she answered the phone when she saw it was her mother calling. Stifling a sigh, she said, “Hey mom. How are you?”
“Hello, dear. I’m fine. Just wanted to let you know I’m back home.”
Barbara poured herself a glass of Chardonnay and settled on the cherry-coloured Bespoke sofa in the living room. She listened dutifully to her mother talking about her stay in London: the concert in the Royal Albert Hall, the stroll through St. James’s Park with subsequent tea and scones in the “Inn The Park” café, the crowd, the noise, and Selina’s cats were fine, it seemed.
“I hope you pulled out the key when you left, mom!” Barbara finally interrupted her mother’s detailed account.
“Dear me, yes! I checked twice before heading for the train station!”
“Good. We don’t want Selina to come back from Berlin and discover someone has emptied her flat thanks to her gran, do we?”
Her mother gasped with horror at the mere thought. Barbara had a minute’s respite to sip her wine. Then, her mother started to prattle about all the kitchen items Selina had apparently purchased. “Selina’s become a neat and clean young lady, let me tell you, Barbara! And so nitty-gritty! If I didn’t know it, I wouldn’t believe she’s your daughter.”
“Nitty-gritty? Selina?” Barbara laughed despite herself. “How’s that?”
“Well, for instance, she’s put that modern cutting board right next to her bread bin in the kitchen. Very handy, I daresay, when one wants to prepare a sandwich—”
After five minutes, Barbara decided she’d invent a stew she needed to stir, kissed her mother good-bye and finally leant back, closing her eyes and enjoying her Chardonnay.
The wine was chilled just to perfection.
Selina called the next morning. “Hi mom! Back from Berlin!” she panted. “We landed at 3 a.m., and now I’m on my way to work… Running as we speak, in fact. ‘Roll on bedtime’ is all I can say.”
“Nice of you to call, however. Enjoyed Berlin?”
“Awesome, mom! Will send you snapshots from my iPhone when I’m in the tube, okay?”
“Alright, darling. Everything’s okay with your flat?”
“Yes. Granny’s been a darling! Even emptied the dish-washer before leaving. Oddly enough, however, she left plenty of bread crumbs on my iPad in the kitchen…”

Screens. A collection of very short stories - 3

noreply@blogger.com (Dieter Moitzi) — Mon, 09 Feb 2015 14:32:00 +0000

Screens. A collection of very short stories - 2

noreply@blogger.com (Dieter Moitzi) — Mon, 02 Feb 2015 11:12:00 +0000

It happened during the “Beneful”-ad. Without a warning Donna announced, “Look how cute they are! I wanna have a dog, hun!”

Leeroy was just pitching into the family-sized pack of “Lays Jalapeño Kettle Chips” on his lap. A noisy business so he wasn’t sure he’d heard her right. He craned his porky neck to glance sideways at his wife.

Donna, munching Oreos, was still staring at the screen, mesmerized.

Leeroy relaxed, scooping another handful of chips into his mouth and concentrating on the commercials again. The puppies disappeared, a beautiful blonde woman began to slow-mo-toss her shiny mane from side to side, close to ecstasy. Lordie, gal, I’d luvta give ya reel ecstasy! Leeroy thought and stuck his hand in the pack again.

Donna turned to look at him. There was chocolate on her chin. “Leeroy— why dontcha get me a dog?” she asked with that whiny-shrill overtone Leeroy loathed more than Saturday shopping. Her double chin was quivering with indignation.

“What for?” he asked back.

“Why, coz they’re cute!”

“Never heardcha say that ‘bout the Lannister pooch down the road, D.”

“Aw Leeee-roy! Coz the Lannister pooch is plain yukky!”

Leeroy scratched his balding head, daubing it with fat and salt and jalapeño powder in the process. “If I getcha that dog, D—who’s gonna walk it every day, huh? Coz I won’t do it, missus, no way!”

It took Donna a whole two minutes, podgy forefinger pressed to her lip, before she came to a conclusion. At last she conceded, “Ya right, hun. A dog's a whole lotta work. Let’s get a hamster instead!”

Screens. A collection of very short stories - 1

noreply@blogger.com (Dieter Moitzi) — Tue, 27 Jan 2015 12:51:00 +0000

To anyone standing on the threshold of the living room, Mildred would have looked peaceful. Maybe because the worn-out brown corduroy couch on which she was lying stood in the far corner. Maybe because all the shutters of her small house were closed, and only the TV and the 15.6” Toshiba laptop gave off some sallow light.

That’s the advantage of a remote position and dim lighting. Sordid details remain hidden. Like the greasy stains on Mildred’s faded pink tracksuit, for instance, or the crumbs littering the couch as well as the floor around the coffee table, or the half-eaten take-out pizza next to the 20 oz. Coca Cola tumbler. Distance and dim lighting make any reality seem swell.

But to Sergeant O’Leary, Mildred didn’t look peaceful at all. When he bent over to take her pulse—not that he needed any proof, but he had to follow the procedure—, he noticed that she rather wore a shocked expression. There was surprise, of course, and anguish. With a hint of indignation and disappointment, maybe.

Sergeant O’Leary didn’t know—and wouldn’t have cared anyway—that Mildred looked as disgusted as she had in 2004, when her whole life had suddenly lost its purpose on May 6. He didn’t know that she had barely budged from that very same couch ever since.

After the coroner had finished his exam and the undertakers zipped up Mildred’s body in black plastic, the sergeant set about to switch off her laptop. He realized she’d been visiting the Facebook-page of “Friends”. The window of the last post she’d published was still open.

“My chest hurts I’m dying”, she had typed.

Gleaning 261 Likes.

Charlotte sometimes

noreply@blogger.com (Dieter Moitzi) — Thu, 15 Jan 2015 08:57:00 +0000

and sometimes, Charlotte, sometimes
I dream of Zanzibar,
and my pillow smells of cloves,
of nutmeg, cinnamon, black pepper,
around me rooms, large and bare,
and raffia rugs tickle my feet

my dream, Charlotte, feels like
your pink silk dressing gown
and wears your fragrance
even when I dream that I taste salt
on your white face,
the salt of tidy breezes
and your enslaving tears

and then, Charlotte, you’re gone,
and I am wandering, alone,
through narrow, empty streets,
a ghost in a deserted Stone Town,
I pass before withered houses,
their blue paint peeling off the walls,
I pass before the House of Wonders,
half-crumbling now, like our hopes

and sometimes, Charlotte, sometimes
I long for those monsoon afternoons
when we had tea and watched
brave butterflies rise up
from our sandy beach
into the heavy rain, the black clouds,
they looked like white and yellow,
golden, green and red dots
of a tale we still had to invent

Je suis Charlie

noreply@blogger.com (Dieter Moitzi) — Thu, 08 Jan 2015 07:38:00 +0000

This is not a religion.

Their arsenal of mass destruction:
pencils, crayons, watercolours.

They aimed them at politicians
and priests who know it all,
at rabbis, imams, vicars,
at puffed-up, loaded businessmen,
narcissistic mayfly starlets,
prophets and messiahs.

Their job was to mock those
who want to prevent us from using our brains.
Against the narrowminded
they brandished satire, wit, freedom of speech.
Words.
Paper bullets.
How many killed,
how many injured by their deeds?

“I’d rather die standing
than live on my knees”,
one of them said.

His lethal error was to blank out
that you can’t vanquish humourlessness
with humour.
With drawings you can fight
ignorance
but not someone
pulling the trigger of his
Kalachnikov.

"Should we fight for our ideas;
or should we fight with our ideas?"
Voltaire (1694 - 1778)

Paris 2015-01-07
For the journalists of the satirical weekly "Charlie Hebdo"
killed today by two terrorists. RIP.

My best wishes…

noreply@blogger.com (Dieter Moitzi) — Wed, 31 Dec 2014 07:54:00 +0000

2014-12-31: Wishing all of you a nice last day, see you next year :-)

31. 12. 2014: Wünsche euch allen einen schönen letzten Tag, bis nächstes Jahr :-)

31/12/2014 : À vous tous, une belle dernière journée, et à l'année prochaine :-)

Bodies (15)

noreply@blogger.com (Dieter Moitzi) — Tue, 16 Dec 2014 15:06:00 +0000

Standing at the railing, side by side, with the sea spread out around us like a sparkling, moving carpet, we watch the rising sun bathe the fresh morning in unreal hues.

“We’ll soon be there,” Hazim says. A new shade of sadness seems to have crept over him.

“Uh-hu,” I answer.

“I’ve prepared working clothes for you. So that you can disembark unnoticed. It’s a small harbour, but still.”

“Won’t it look odd anyway? I mean, a Turkish boat landing in Cyprus?”

“Not if the captain is Cyprian. And Costas is.”

“Oh. But I heard you talk to him…”

“Well, I speak Greek.”

“Really? I didn’t know that.”

“There are many things you don’t know.” Hazim shivers. He looks exhausted. “One of my men will come to pick you up and drive you to the airport. He has your money, by the way.”

“My money?”

“Well, Murat was told not to pay you. But he asked me to pay you nonetheless. In cash.”

“Oh, I didn’t worry. Not about the money, that is.”

We remain silent for a moment, and Hazim’s dejection becomes almost palpable. I try to hold my tongue, but can’t. “You know… I’d love to ask you to come with me. But I won’t.”

Hazim turns to stare at me, surprised. “Why?”

“Because I know you will refuse. I understand your reasons. At least, I think I do. But…” I have to clear my throat. “… but I don’t want to be turned down by you.” I can’t look at him. “I’m not sure any of this makes sense,” I murmur.

He sighs. After a minute, he asks, “What’s your Big Dream, Marc? You know, with capital B and capital D? The one thing in life you really want to do?”

“I don’t know. Nothing, I guess. I don’t dream. I’m too busy coping with real life.”

He snorts. “That’s what you really believe, I reckon.”

“And you? What’s your Big Dream?”

He thinks for a second. “Nothing fancy. Find myself a family. No matter how that family turns out to be. Maybe open a little restaurant somewhere. Just live a normal life.”

“Define ‘normal’,” I can’t refrain from saying.

He shrugs. “I don’t care about definitions. They’re just little drawers for stupid people.”

I lay an arm on his shoulder. First he stiffens, but then he relaxes. We listen to the splashing sound of the waves and the morning call of the seagulls. I’d like this moment to last forever. Knowing that, like all those wanton moments allowing you to be yourself, it will pass in a flurry.

The young woman behind the Lufthansa Business Class counter flashes me a broad smile while she’s checking my air ticket. “Guten Tag, Herr Brehmer,” she says, opens the passport, barely looks at it, then closes it again and pushes it back toward me. “Haben Sie Gepäck?” She starts to press some keys on her keyboard.

“Nein, nur mein Handgepäck,” I answer. For once, I’m glad that all those ghastly years in various Swiss boarding schools have left a positive trace. I speak fluent and accent-free German, which is priceless. Only those forced by birth or happenstance volunteer to learn that difficult language.

“Kein Problem, Herr Brehmer.” She sticks a tag on my brown briefcase: “Hand luggage”, then draws a circle around the boarding time and gate. “Boarding ist um 17 Uhr 20, Ausgang B14. Wir wünschen Ihnen einen angenehmen Flug.”

“Besten Dank,” I reply, picking up the fake German passport and the boarding pass. I’ve got ten minutes left; just enough time to pass the security check and proceed to the gate. I catch a glimpse of my reflection in a Duty-Free-Shop-window and have to stifle a laugh. My hair has been cut and parted on the left, I’m close-shaven, wearing old-fashioned glasses, a cheap, beige business suit and really ugly loafers. I’ve never looked more hideous.

The security check turns out as superficial as Hazim promised. The guy x-raying my hand luggage avoids looking at the screen when my briefcase filled with euro bills passes. I sigh with relief. I’m back to normal, things run smoothly again. The last few hours of anguish will soon be an unpleasant memory, nothing more.

Just before I get on the plane, I switch on my mobile.

The text message I discover is clear and precise. Will I ever find smoothness and normality again?

this time, you escaped.
but we will get you.
soon.

END OF CHAPTER

The chapter "Bodies" is part of the novel I'm currently writing…

Bodies (14)

noreply@blogger.com (Dieter Moitzi) — Wed, 10 Dec 2014 10:02:00 +0000

An hour later, Hazim climbs upstairs. He talks to the sailor, then comes back with two bottles of water. He hands me one. “Drink. The trip will last some time,” he says and takes a swig. He’s still standing, clutching his bottle in one hand, holding on to the hull with the other to steady himself.

I glare at him.

His face remains in the dark, but I think I see him glare back.

I gobble down some water. Then, I pat the mattress and say, “If there’s a long trip ahead, better be confortable.”

He just sends me a wary look before sitting down across from me again. “If I appear cranky, I’m sorry. I suppose the situation must be tough for you, too,” he mumbles.

I didn’t expect kindness, I wasn’t prepared for pity. There’s a sudden lump in my throat. “Thanks,” I manage to say. “I’m cranky too. And tired.”

A soft smile creeps up on Hazim’s face. “Try to rest, okay?”

“I can’t. Whenever I close my eyes, I… I see the face of that guy again, you know, the guy from the bar… He seemed so hostile, so determined to hurt me…”

“Once we’ve reached Cyprus, you’ll be okay.”

“Will I?” I think for a moment. “It’s strange. Here I am, sitting in this cabin, unable to do anything. And yet. I still get the impression that I’m running. Running away from I don’t know what, running I don’t know where. But running… running for my life.”

“You don’t know what it really means to run for your life.” Hazim’s voice gets a shade darker. “I’ve been running my whole life,” he murmurs.

“Why do you say that?”

“I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Well, maybe you should? Some things are easier to bear when you share them with someone.”

“You really think that?” He shakes his head. “Not me.”

“But…”

“Drop it. Please?” Hazim changes position, his flashy boardshort tickles my bare calf.

“Uh, okay, sorry.” I say. “Sooo. Tell me: how old are Murat’s sons?”

“One’s twelve, the other fourteen. Why?”

“Just like that. Wanted to know why we’re dressed up in kiddie clothes.”

“What?” He seems to be caught on the hop.

“Well… you look ridiculous—you know that?” I can’t help but snicker. “Those garish colours! And that T-shirt! It’s several sizes too small for you!”

“You think you look better?” Despite himself, Hazim giggles, too.

“I know! I’m horrible, thanks to you and Murat. Can’t he buy his kids decent clothes?”

“Frankly—you’re such a snob!”

“You call me a snob?” I box him on the shoulder.

“Don’t you punch me!” he growls. I’m not sure whether he’s serious or just playing.

“Why not?” I box him again, a bit harder this time.

All the sudden, he pounces on me and tosses me on my back. He seizes my hands, blocks my legs, pins me to the floor. I try to get free, wiggling and rolling from side to side, but his hard body lies on mine. I can’t move, I’m barely able to breathe. “I said, ‘Don’t!’” he hisses in my ear.

From this close, his melancholy eyes look like huge, black wounds. I smell his perfume, his personal scent, feel his pulse, his skin, his body all over mine. I stand no chance against him; that’s why I pretend to give up and go limp. “Okay,” I whisper. “You win.”

Hazim lets go of my hands but doesn’t move off me.

I expected this to happen, somehow. I never expected this to happen, too. Everything seems very clear now. Things fall into place with an astounding coherence, every piece and detail makes sense.

Despite myself, I touch his hair, the corners of his eyes, his chin. My lips brush against his, then insist ever so softly.

“Don’t!” he whispers. But he opens his mouth and allows my tongue to slip in. My hands glide down, inside his T-shirt, move upwards. His chest hair makes my fingertips prickle. A wave of desire rushes over me, which I try to fight as hard as I can. I must stay in control, that’s what I always do. Control my body, control other bodies. It’s my job to act that way.

“Don’t!” Hazim whispers again. He doesn’t mean my fingers, however, he doesn’t mean my lips, he doesn’t mean my body. No, he reads me like an open book, and he wants me to let go.

These two words open a hidden door I didn’t even know existed inside me. I don’t pretend anymore. Kiss him harder. Moan. Truly give up.

Bodies (13)

noreply@blogger.com (Dieter Moitzi) — Sun, 07 Dec 2014 10:39:00 +0000

Downstairs, I discover a windowless cabin reeking of fish and diesel fuel. A narrow space with empty shelves, an old, stained mattress on the floor, a small lamp dangling from the low ceiling. The putting and chugging noise of the boat’s engine seems to leave no place for anything else.

Holding my nose, I let myself fall down on the mattress and groan. My back is aching, my shoulder muscles are knotted and as strained as tightly wound guitar strings.

Across from me, Hazim settles on the edge of the mattress, leaning back against the inner hull of the ship. He gazes at me, a sad, thoughtful shadow on his face. Or maybe it’s just a trick of the light bulb swinging to and fro with the roll of the waves.

“Where are you taking me?” I want to know when I have gathered the courage to ask again. My voice is trembling. “There’s an airport in Alanya, isn’t it? Or do we go up to Izmir?”

“Neither, nor. You’re not safe in Turkey,” Hazim answers. “You’re booked on a flight from Larnaca to Paris, tomorrow.”

Larnaca, Larnaca… that rings a bell. But it takes a second before I realize… “Cyprus!” I cry out, unable to hide my surprise. “We’re going all the way to Cyprus?”

“Yes.” With that, Hazim closes his eyes and starts to breathe in a steady rhythm.

“You’re not going to fall asleep on me, are you?” I protest. “You owe me an explanation or two, don’t you think?”

Hazim opens his eyes again. He looks weary and even sadder than before. “I owe you an explanation? Are you kidding me?”

“Not at all! Why did you embark me on this extravagant flight? We should’ve stayed at the hotel, we should’ve called the police! Plus, I scheduled a business meeting with Murat—what am I going to tell him now? That I ran away from… some ludicrous fantasies his bodyguard invented? Come on, I want facts!” I pound my fist against the mattress.

“A business meeting with Murat… As if he cared about that right now! Anyway, he has left for Ankara,” Hazim says flatly. “You want facts? You sure you can handle them?”

I don’t understand. Therefore, I simply nod.

“Okay then. We both know why you’ve come to Turkey. Because Murat sent you a mail telling you he wanted to discuss your Tunisian project. But that was only a decoy. He knows all he needs to know about that luxury whorehouse. Why, he even met that Italian chick yesterday, in Antalya. Alessandra something. You know—your so-called friend.”

“Di Forzone,” I correct him. My voice is calm now, almost dreamy. “Her name is Alessandra di Forzone. She’s in Turkey?”

“Yeah, she is. Or rather, was. Whatever. The real reason Murat asked you to come is that he was forced to. Someone wanted to lure you out of the relative safety you seem to benefit from, in France.”

“And you know who…?”

“No. Murat wouldn’t tell me. For my own safety, he said. But it’s someone very powerful. They must be if they have the means to make Murat do their bidding.”

The boat sways and rocks. I follow the smooth movements, feeling my last certainties crumble away one by one. I’m caught up in Shostakovich’s famous Cello Concerto, that’s what I am. The image of someone on the run comes to mind. How fitting! The fatal and hopeless escape run of a man pursued by a hostile crowd, a whole nation, the whole world, all brandishing tools and weapons, eager to get him.

What is this nightmarish booby trap I have walked in, anyway? Could it be nothing more than the product of Hazim’s imagination? How am I to be sure of what to believe?

“How come you know all this?” I ask.

He shrugs. “It’s my job to be informed. Knowledge is the core weapon if you want to survive. Before taking his plane to Ankara, Murat has taken a great risk, too. He must be really fond of you, you know. He sent me a last-minute warning telling me there was trouble ahead. And charging me to get you safely out of the country.”

“Why would anyone want me to be in trouble? I’m so not important!”

Hazim shrugs. “I already told you: I don’t know. My guess is money. There are many reasons to pursue someone, but ultimately it’s always about money.”

“But I don’t have money!” I shout.

“More than most people, surely… But maybe you’re right. Maybe they’re not after your money. I really don’t have a clue.”

Neither do I. “How do I know you’re telling me the truth?” I ask.

“You don’t.”

He’s right. But do I have a choice? I’m trapped in the womb of this ship, barely in control of anything. “I guess I should trust you…” I state, exhausted.

“No,” Hazim replies. His voice carries an urgency I haven’t heard before. “I know you can trust me. Always. But you don’t. You mustn’t trust anyone! You hear me? Not anyone!”

His words strike me as odd. Why does he say I can always trust him? Why does he warn me at the same time? What’s his agenda? And why is it that everybody and everything in my life seems to result in me mulling over incomprehensible things?

I don’t know what to say. Therefore, I cross my arms and concentrate on the brownish stains on the mattress.

They could be anything. Red wine, rust, or blood.

Blanket

noreply@blogger.com (Dieter Moitzi) — Wed, 03 Dec 2014 07:30:00 +0000

Today feels like a blanket.
Someone has closed
rain curtains on reality.
Dripping bushes stretch their roots
up to a motley sky
and bury leafy heads
into fat brown soil.
Fickle winds whistle
like ripe kettles
through cross-eyed streets.
The central heating exhales
whiffs of burnt dust,
and drowsy minutes
end in Friday yawns.

This poem has been published in my second poetry collection "the solid and thoughtful cow", available for Kindle or in paperback format

Bodies (12)

noreply@blogger.com (Dieter Moitzi) — Sun, 30 Nov 2014 10:55:00 +0000

At one moment, we turn left and jolt down the bumpy trail that leads to the tree house settlement. After a few metres, the car’s headlamps shine on a pair of faded tracksuit pants, a naked, male chest, a familiar face. I recognize the lazy smile: it’s the young, Turkish guy who has welcomed us to his community of leftover hippies a few hours ago.

Hazim steps on the brakes, stops the engine and lets the car roll behind a bush.

When we get out, the young guy hasn’t moved.

“What are we doing here?” I whisper into the darkness.

“Sessiz tutun!” the guy whispers back. I discern his vague contours, the movements suggest he’s putting a finger on his lips.

Then he switches on a little torch and leads us downhill. I can hardly make out where I put my feet; more than once, I stumble. Yet I don’t complain. I feel beyond complaining, beyond anything. Once intangibility has swallowed you, there’s nothing left. Only blind obedience. I hope the guys around me know what they’re doing. Because I bloody don’t.

Slow steps crunch on dry earth and gravel. I hear odd whistling and rustling. Strange insects and animals must be haunting the dark lands. I can’t see them, but I sense their presence. I feel their preying eyes on me. Eyes of beings that don’t care about me, that don’t want to know who I am, what I am doing, who just wait for me to get the hell out of here, the faster, the better. This is not my place.

And reality slips one stride further.

When we get closer to the settlement, I hear other noises: a crackling campfire, people chatting, a David Bowie-song echoing through the night like the thread of a dream. “Man is an obstacle, sad as the clown—Oh by jingo—so hold on to nothing, and he won’t let you down—Oh by jingo…” A melancholy and muted voice, a softly strumming guitar.

All of a sudden, my chest feels heavy. It’s one of those moments where I’d like to lie down on the ground, stretch out my limbs and let myself fall up into the sky. One last, noiseless explosion, and my atoms could scatter and become invisible dust…

A dream. This must be a dream. A bad dream, a nightmare, whatever. All I have to do is follow the flow. Until I’ll wake up. One always does. Eventually.

We slow down, we turn left. On tiptoes around the settlement, in a large semi-circle, careful now, you must not step on a dry branch, the cracking would give you away, move on, move on, there you are, that’s the forest. Inscrutable and opaque, inarticulate, but I welcome the darkness like a blanket.

At last, we reach the beach. Inky waves come rolling in, gentle but mournful, attacking the shore with dogged determination.

A dinghy is lying on the pebbles. We take off our shoes and heave the dinghy into the water. The young Turk pulls out two oars from the bottom and starts to paddle around the high and glistening rock to our right. This is how it must be. Any other action, any other progression is impossible.

Fifteen minutes later, we approach a little fishing boat with a cabin at the bow, the broad silhouette of a man at the stern. When the dinghy bumps against the broadside, the silhouette leans over to help me up. Hazim follows me. He exchanges a few mumbled words with the sailor, who disappears in the cabin to start the engine.

“Hazim!” I whisper. “Where are you taking me?” I have to ask this question. There will be no answer, I know it. But I’m playing a role in this play, after all. Only as an extra, but even extras are given lines if they behave.

“Let’s go down, first. We must not be seen.” Hazim grabs my elbow and drags me into the cabin. I’d like to wave goodbye to our young Turkish friend, but when I turn back, I discover that he’s already returning to the beach.

The sailor nods at us and opens a small trapdoor next to the rudder. A fishy smell drifts up to my nostrils. “Come on!” Hazim pushes me down. “You go first.”

Bodies (11)

noreply@blogger.com (Dieter Moitzi) — Thu, 27 Nov 2014 11:19:00 +0000

I’ve seen this road before, in broad daylight. Has it only been a couple of hours ago? I guess so. But it feels far away, like a childhood tale that comes back to torment you once you’re grown up and defenceless.
It’s a night for hunters, out there. Clouds have drifted in from the sea, enclosing the coastline in stale moistness. I’m searching for the moon, a lonesome star, the comforting sign of something immortal, but I only detect a twinkling light in the distance, probably an oil lamp someone has lit in a mountain hut. It flickers like a ghostly eye.
The fuzzy light cones of the car’s dipped headlamps move over the roadside, a flurry of pale white pine-trees and insubstantial shrub leaning into our scant field of view. Their branches, gnarled demons with branches like menacing arms, slap on the old Twingo’s metallic structure. The road goes on and on, curls and coils like a snake trying to bite its own tail.
I don’t know how fast we go. And I’ve lost all notion of time. Both clock and speedometer don’t work. But it must be late. And we’re going fast. Way too fast, given the conditions. The tires screech, the brakes squeak, we take the bends more or less by guesswork, my stomach is knotted, my muscles start to ache with the effort to remain on my seat.
It’s as if Hazim didn’t want us to reach our destination. Wherever that is, anyway.
A dark and desolate place, no doubt.
The present has become a twisted situation, a glided pitch. And there’s nothing to save me from the gliding feeling. Everything looks different and warped.
We look different, too, Hazim and I. When he came back to my room, he was wearing a set of ridiculous clothes, and he brought me a similar outfit. I had to undress, then disguise. And now, we resemble two retarded teenagers, clad in tight, flashy tees and boardshorts. I particularly resent the baseball cap he forced me to don. But I know better than to protest.
I can’t ask any questions either. Just my luck. Because for once, I’d have a lot of questions. And for once, I’d like to get answers to them.
But Hazim remains tight-lipped, withdrawn and uncommunicative. When we left Hiçbiryerde, he gave somebody a ring. They spoke in Turkish, all I understood was here a “Hayır”, there “Evet”, and “Teşekkürler! Hoşça kal!” at the end.
He hasn’t said a word ever since, ignoring me.
Where are we going? I’ve recognized this road, so I know we don’t head for the airport. But why? Why are we on this particular road again? If I’m in danger, as he said, why does Hazim prevent me from hopping into the first available plane and leave this country as fast as possible? What is the danger he’s been talking about, anyway? Why didn’t he allow me to take anything but my cash and my passport? Why didn’t he want me to look for my credit card? Why has he made me switch off my mobile? Why that ghastly scene in the hooker bar? Why did he think those guys were out to get me?
All my questions lead to the most tantalizing, the most worrying one, the Queen of questions: what the fuck is going on?
“Whose car is this?” I finally ask. It seems the most innocent question; the one that could help me break the ice and initialize some kind of dialogue. I’m feeling too lonely right now to bear with silence.
But I get no answer. All I get is the eerie night around us, with its spectral trees, the silhouettes of the mountains standing dark and unfriendly against the dark sky, the sea shimmering like a silver plate down below. And that ever-changing, yet ever-same, narrow piece of greyish asphalt rolling through the headlamps’ light and disappearing under the car.
Me asking questions, Hazim not answering… it’s all so déjà vu! I sigh and mumble, “There we go again…”
Which decides Hazim to finally talk. “It’s a car Murat’s wife uses when she wants to roam the region without anybody noticing,” he says. “And we’re wearing some spare clothes that belong to one of Murat’s sons. I didn’t want us to be recognized.”
“Oh. Murat has a wife. And sons,” I murmur.
“You didn’t know it?”
I shake my head.
“You do know who he is, at least? Murat, I mean…”
“Well, he’s that rich guy from Turkey. Do I have to know more?”
Incredulous, Hazim peers at me. Then he grips the wheel harder. “I don’t get it,” he says, his voice toneless. “Aren’t you interested in people at all? Even if it’s a basic security rule to know who you’re dealing with…?”
“I didn’t have to worry about my security until now,” I snap. “And don’t you go all judgemental on me again! Who gives you the right—!”
“Do me a favour and shut up! Just shut the fuck up, okay!” Hazim interrupts me. His voice is flat and devoid of anger.
I flinch and lean away from him. I find it easier to study the void darkness outside. Easier to remain in my lonesome exile.
I should’ve known. Others never give you answers. They only give you more questions.

Bodies (10)

noreply@blogger.com (Dieter Moitzi) — Mon, 24 Nov 2014 07:30:00 +0000

When we reach the landing in the first floor, I immediately spot the half-open door.

Hazim notices it, too. “Get behind me!” he hisses.

I obey.

To my surprise and horror, Hazim pulls out a small gun from under his belt, holding it before him as we cover the last metres on tiptoes. He slams the door open, makes a circular movement with his outstretched arms, just like they do in the movies.

Even in the dark, we can see that no one’s there. I sigh with relief.

Until I switch on the ceiling light and discover what’s left of my room. A gasp of despair escapes me. The cupboard doors are wide open, all my clothes lie on the floor. The sheets and blankets have been torn apart, the pillows and the mattress cut into pieces, fluffy white feathers cover everything. The TV set has been smashed in, the rest of the furniture chopped up with an axe.

“What the fuck…!” I whisper, leaning onto Hazim’s muscular frame for reassurance.

“Collect your things!” he whispers back, pushing me away. “Come on!”

“Huh? What? My things? But… we should call the reception! The police! Or Murat!” I try to remain level-headed, but panic makes my voice crack.

“You listen to me or what? Murat cannot help you anymore! You’re in danger!”

I don’t want to believe it. There must be an easy way out of this! An explanation. Something rational. I’m sure, I’m so sure, so fucking sure; because my certainty is the only thing that keeps me sane and whole. “That’s ridiculous. Why should I be in danger? And why shouldn’t Murat be able to help? He’s got money and power. That sorts out everything, in no matter which country!”

Hazim rolls his eyes. “Don’t be so stupid! You think this—“ he points his gun at the mess around us“—would be possible without Murat knowing?”

“What you’re talking about? Why would he know of this? I mean, a break-in can happen just about anywhere, right?”

“Anywhere. But not here. Not in Hiçbiryerde, even less in this hotel. Look around —this is not just a break-in, you idiot! If we had time to check, you would realize nothing is missing.” He shoves his gun back under his belt.

Stunned, I fix my clothes. Sure enough, I see one of Murat’s gifts, a massive, golden chain bracelet, peep out under one of my black shirts. A burglar wouldn’t have left without taking it. It’s worth a good amount of bucks.

So… if nothing has been stolen, why would anyone do this…?

“I need a drink,” I murmur and turn toward the small fridge in the corner.

“Don’t!” Hazim intercedes.

“Why not?”

“Because I think that…” He doesn’t finish his sentence, opens the fridge instead and takes out a can of soda and a little bottle of Whiskey. “Yes, just as I thought,” he says after inspecting them.

“What is it now?” I want to know, irritated.

“Look here.” He shows me the cap of the Whiskey bottle, then the can.

There’s a little hole in each. As if someone had introduced a syringe.

“My God… someone tries to poison me?” A nervous laugh escapes me. I notice how pathetic I sound.

“I guess they injected GHB into all the beverages,” Hazim states.

“The rape drug?” The seriousness of the situation sinks in at last. My legs get weak, I have to sit down.

Put Hazim jerks me up again. “We don’t have time. Take your passport, your ID card, your money, all the important stuff. And then let’s get out of here!”

“What about my clothes? Do I have time to pack?”

“No.” He pats me on the shoulder. “You have ten minutes until my return.”

I try to hold him back, but he has already left the room.

Bodies (9)

noreply@blogger.com (Dieter Moitzi) — Fri, 21 Nov 2014 08:29:00 +0000

Once we’ve reached the relative safety of the hotel compound and the wan lights of the pool bar, I need to sit down on a deckchair. My heart is racing, my head spinning, my breath comes in raspy pants. The filtering system of the pool gurgles, the turquoise water sloshes against the edges, the night air whispers of serenity.

Hazim stops, too; he walks back to where I’m trying to recover and stares down on me, his face expressionless.

“Thank you,” I gasp.

He shrugs. Then he asks, “What were you doing in that bar?”

“Make an educated guess,” I reply tartly.

He continues to stare at me.

“I just wanted to have a drink,” I say after a minute.

He sighs. “Why that bar?” he asks. “It’s a place with prostitutes. A bar that attracts dangerous men.”

“You don’t say!” I answer. “Anyway, how could I know it was a hooker bar?”

“The thick curtains before the windows? The dim, red light? The people in there?” He starts to loose patience.

“I didn’t pay attention, to be honest…”

“You never do, I think. That’s one of your main defects.”

Now it’s my turn to get edgy. “Did I ask you to sit in judgment of me, huh? Did I? I think not! I’m grateful that you rescued me, but don’t overstep the mark, okay? And tell me: what were you doing in that bar? Have you been following me?”

“Yes.”

“And what for?”

“Murat asked me to watch over you.”

I can’t believe it. “Did he? Why so, pray tell?”

“He thought things might get out of control. As they did.”

“Oh, that…” I shake my head. “Just some hot-headed bullies. Shit happens, you know.”

“Hot-headed bullies, you say?” Hazim leans down and hisses, “I can tell you one thing: those weren’t mere bullies. Nor pimps. Those were hit men. Everybody knows them in the region!”

“Oh come on!” I try to laugh, but don’t succeed. An icy shiver crawls up my spine.

“Believe me,” Hazim says flatly. “Or don’t. Doesn’t make a damn difference. They were out to get you.”

“Please—why would they?” Is he pulling my leg, or is he serious? He looks serious enough, for sure.

“Intimidation? A warning? Maybe they were paid to hurt you. I don’t know exactly.”

“But—who are they? Who hired them?”

“How should I know?” Hazim’s voice gets steelier every minute. “It’s your business, not mine. So you should tell me who and why!”

“I don’t know. Honestly. I have no idea.”

Hazim doesn’t reply. His attitude shows what he’s thinking, though. That this is another of my defects.

Abruptly, I stand up and walk away. But after a few steps, I hear him behind me. Spinning around, I snap, “Leave me alone, you tight-assed jerk!”

My words hit him like a slap. When he regains his composure, he only says, “I will bring you to your room, sir. That’s what I’m paid for.” His voice is weary and sad.

Bodies (8)

noreply@blogger.com (Dieter Moitzi) — Tue, 18 Nov 2014 08:53:00 +0000

After that, it’s a smooth afternoon of waves lapping the beach, pebbles rolling with a mineral sort of click-clack against each other, and chitchat. Nothing personal, just an exchange of banalities, in fact. And we don’t look too much at each other, alright. But still. It’s better than having to deal with unexplained grumpiness.

The ride back to the hotel is just as smooth. Our frequent silences seem to connect us more than they separate us.

I can’t explain why I feel so glad about it. I guess it has to do with my tendency to want people to love me. A penchant I’m unable to overcome. It’s as if I wanted others to prove me that my vision of myself is wrong, perhaps. Whatever. That is a slippery line of thought; one I’m not eager to pursue.

Therefore, I pick up the first unrelated thing that comes to mind. “Tell me, Hazim,” I say. “I’ve been wondering…”

Hazim shoots me a sideways glance. “About what?”

“Don’t take it wrong, please. But we both know that… Murat simply can’t resist the temptation of a handsome young lad.”

He nods, tensing up again.

“Listen, forget it,” I say. “I don’t want to spoil everything with my stupid questioning.”

“No, it’s alright. Go on. What is it you want to know?”

“Well, I find it odd that he’s never tried to… bed you.”

Hazim turns off the car engine and just sits there, still and unreadable. Then he replies in a low voice, “There’s nothing odd to it.”

“So he really never tried to…?”

“No. Never”.

“Well, uh… okay. I just wonder why.”

He turns to look at me. “If you must know it: because he’s my uncle. Sort of.”

“Oh. Your… uncle. Oops. I didn’t mean to…”

“It’s okay.”

I was hoping that he’d have dinner with me. Maybe even show me the nightlife of Hiçbiryerde or something. Just to stop me from being lonely.

I think I can forget that now.

I go through the next motions like an automat. Take a cold shower, check my mobile. There are no new messages, which I take for a good sign. I watch the news on BBC. Apparently, the French IMF-director has been caught forcing a cleaning lady to give him a blowjob in a hotel in New York. Or so they say. The man’s in prison now.

That story is so pathetic that I switch off the TV, disgusted. We are governed by dicks, I’m thinking. Because, apparently, we don’t deserve better.

I get dressed, black and Armani; I apply perfume. Then I order dinner to be brought to my room. I eat it on the balcony, surrounded by the balmy, still night. Minutes drip by like solitary blobs of treacle, sticky and thick, while I’m floating down boredom alley again.

At half past nine, I decide it’s time to do something. To leave this lonely place, go out and see people.

I walk through the empty hotel park, heading for to the swimming pool area. The pool bar, bathed in a sallow, apathetic light, is dozing. Unnoticed, I slip out through the little door and follow the narrow lane.

When I reach the main street, I’m surprised. The hotel area was so empty that I’d thought the whole little town would be, too. But no. Cars drive by, people stroll around, looking purposeful and satisfied. I make out a few tourists near the souvenir shops, but most of the night walkers are locals who have finished their work and are looking for entertainment before going to bed.

I choose the loudest bar, a few steps down the road. Blaring music will drown the blues in my head.

The bar is rather crowded, but I seem to be the only tourist. Everybody turns and stares at me as I enter. Well, they’ll get over my unexpected presence. Eventually. I walk over to the main bar and sit down on a stool. “Gin-Tonic, please”, I tell the barman.

Then I look around. The crowd is mostly male, with a few young women in alluring clothes who seem to be very friendly with the customers. Four scantily dressed chicks wiggle it on the dance-floor. The girls, faking to ignore the hungry look they provoke, are professionals; the way they gyrate their hips, strike lascivious poses, lick their lips leaves no doubt. Three are blonde, with high cheek-bones, false smiles, cold and calculating stares.

The fourth rather stands out. She keeps to one of the concrete columns, around which she evolves, holding on to it with one hand. It’s supposed to be some sort of pole dance, I reckon. She has dark, wavy hair, the short, black dress looks far too large for her bony body, she seems to have a hard time remaining on her feet, wavering and stumbling along with the music. Her eyes are wide and all black pupils. I don’t know what she has gobbled or injected, but it must’ve been strong stuff.

Despite her out-of-it condition, she notices me watching her. Trade radar, I guess. She puckers up her lips in a broad, silly grin and winks at me, almost loosing her balance.

A big, square guy with a beasty face steps closer to her and prevents her from falling. He clutches her shoulders and says something. She nods like an obedient doll and answers, her head wobbling vaguely in my direction.

The guy leers at me before strolling over just as I’m served my drink. Close up, his face looks even fouler, his sneer so dirty and suggestive that he makes me want to slap it off his face. He leans forward, enfolding me in his cheap, strong cologne, and shouts in my ear, “American?”

I shake my head, sensing trouble ahead.

“Deutsch? Du deutsch?”

“I’m French,” I shout back between gritted teeth. Then I take a sip.

“Ah—Français! French! Good, good,” he shouts. Then he points out his drugged-up tart. “You wanna company? You pay my lady a drink?”

I shake my head again. “No, thanks, I’d rather be alone.”

“She good woman! You pay me, you can fuck her.”

The situation is so ridiculous that I’m about to laugh out loud. I don’t pay for sex, that’s what I’d like to tell that ugly lad; I usually get paid for it. Yet I doubt he has a great sense of humour so I swallow my answer, preferring to shake my head a third time.

The barman glances at us, then quickly looks away.

“What, you no want my girl?” the ugly dude shouts, moving closer still. He isn’t smiling anymore; if anything, his face is contorted in a threatening, brutal way.

“Listen—,” I lay a hand on his broad chest to keep him from invading my private space any further, “—I’ve just come here to enjoy some music and a drink. So please leave me alone!”

He whips my hand away, his eyes dangerous slits, and shouts, “You a sissy boy? You not want my girl, you a sissy boy?”

My God, why are they all so obsessed with gays, today?

From the corner of my eye, I notice three other guys stare at us, ready to come and help their comrade. One of them stands up and lifts his chin as if to challenge me. I decide that a prudent retreat will be the best idea. “No,” I say loudly, “no, I’m not gay. I just usually don’t pay for sex, okay?” While talking, I get up from the bar stool and move backwards toward the exit.

But the guy follows me. “You not a sissyboy, you pay my girl a drink!” he hollers, his face red with anger. His three friends are moving toward me, too.

I’m not a coward—at least, I think I’m not—, but the violence hanging in the damp air right now almost makes me sick. The situation leaves no room for discussion or negotiations. I have to get out of here, the faster the better! It seems to be a question not only of physical integrity but of life and death.

My back collides with something—the wall, I guess, or one of those darn columns—, and I know I’m trapped. The guy comes closer, his hands clenched into fists, there’s no escape…

That’s when someone snatches me by the collar, slams several dollar bills on the table at my side, then drags me outside, almost suffocating me.

“What the fuck…?” I croak and tear at the strong hand holding my collar from behind.

“Shut the fuck up, and follow me! Quick!”

I recognize Hazim’s voice. Relief floods through me. As soon as he releases the collar, I turn around, see him running ahead of me, and chase after him.

There are loud voices and angry screams in my back.

I don’t care to look what it is all about. I just leg it.

Bodies (7)

noreply@blogger.com (Dieter Moitzi) — Fri, 14 Nov 2014 12:55:00 +0000

I’m a bit high when we leave the tree house. We enter the thick forest on the other side of the settlement. Careful not to stumble on the narrow path, I follow my broad-shouldered guide. My feet tread on moist earth while I look out for treacherous holes and roots, lifting my head from time to time to enjoy the change of sunlight and shadows. Here and there, I sight the ruins of mystical sarcophagi, most of them fallen into decay and overgrown with grass and weed and bushes.

A low breeze whispers through the ancient trees. Hidden in the lush vegetation, a rivulet gurgles; birds chirp and flutter when they take off, disturbed by our approach.

At last, we step out of the forest. A wide bay opens up before us. The pebble beach is empty but for a small group far away. To our right rises a sharp, high and scrubby rock. The odd pine tree stands out, askew, like an untamed flick of hair. On top of the rock, I discover the massive remains of an ancient stronghold made of blackened, mossy stones. I’m thinking Middle Ages, bold knights, crusades, battles against the Saracens, the Genoese, the Venetians. How the owners of the castle must have thought they had found paradise here!

“I hope you put on your bathing trunks,” Hazim says.

His speaking shakes me out of my cotton daydreams. “Um, in fact, no, I haven’t”, I reply. “I didn’t know you would take me to the beach.”

“Sorry.” Hazim looks at his feet, a sheepish expression on his face. “Do you want to go somewhere else?”

“Not at all.” I slip out of my loafers, take off my tank top and reach down to open the zip of my trousers. “I reckon in this country nudism is frowned upon on public beaches, but…”

Hazim steps back, aghast. “You won’t…!”

I can’t help but giggle. “No, don’t worry, I won’t.” The linen slides down to my ankles. “I’m wearing boxer shorts, see?”

He glimpses at my underwear, his face turns crimson. “Uh, okay.”

“Get out of this,” I say and tug at his shirt.

He makes a hasty movement to fight off my hand. Then he unbuttons his shirt and undresses, turning his back on me. I watch his muscles work, stare at the firm buttocks under the synthetic fabric of his black bathing slip.

Sensing my gaze, Hazim spins around and glares at me. “Stop that! I’m not… I’m not like that!” His voice trembles.

I roll my eyes before replying, “Oh Jesus! Whatever. I think I’ll take a dip.”

After a long swim, I’m back on the beach. Hazim is still splashing around; I guess he dreads being with me. It’s a pity, really, since we seemed to get along quite nicely in the tree house.

Ah, the heck with it! I won’t apologize for being who I am. Right now, I’d like to remove my wet boxer shorts. They cling to my skin, and it’s not a pleasant sensation. But I know better than to act upon that immediate desire. The situation’s complicated enough as it is.

Hazim joins me a minute later, looking at anything but me. His hard nipples stand out from a bush of black chest hair that narrows to a thin line on his ripped abs. His legs are muscular and hairy, too. He looks good in clothes, but he’s outright stunning without, I have to admit.

He sits down at my side, keeping a careful distance between us, still not looking at me. His legs jiggle nervously. That’s the only thing that bothers me with him: his uneasiness around me. For God’s sake, will he ever be able to relax? I decide to clear the air. This is 2011, and we’re adults, after all. “Do you think I want to seduce you, Hazim?” I ask, closing my eyes to signal how innocuous I am. “Is that what you’re afraid of? That I lay my dirty faggot’s fingers on your precious, straight body and spoil it?”

He doesn’t look at me, just mumbles, “Don’t speak like that, sir.”

“I’ve told you not to call me sir! How… uptight can you get, huh? My name is Marc, and I ask you for the last time to call me Marc. Anyway,” I shrug, “I thought Turkish boys always had same-sex experiences in their teenage years. Like everybody else.”

Again, he turns crimson. “I don’t want to talk about… that.”

I clap in my hands. “Alright. Let me just inform you, in the most polite words I can find, that I have no intention whatsoever to force you into any… sexual act. I’m here to enjoy the day. To enjoy this.” I make a gesture that encompasses the beach, the flat Mediterranean, the rock, the castle. “I’m not very keen on gay sex, anyway.”

He glances at me, then stares at the sea again. “You come to Turkey to see Murat. And always for the same reason.”

“Yes I do. And you know what the reason is? He pays me, okay? I earn money with… sex. Sex with women, sex with men. You think you can get over it one day? Or will I have to bear your… prudish behaviour for the rest of my stay?” How tired I am of explaining myself over and over and over! The persons I’m talking to change, the sceneries change, but in the end, it all turns out so predictably similar.

“It’s just that…”

“Well, I can understand how my… way of living might hurt your beliefs, your moral system, whatever. I guess you bash up gay boys on a daily basis, just to prove what a man’s man you are. But you’ll have to accept one day that some people are different, whether you like it or not. Anyway, I’m not one of them. The gay men, I mean. I sell my body to those who can afford to pay. That’s all.”

He shakes his head. “I do not… bash up… homosexuals.” He leaves it at that.

“Okay,” I say. “Do you think you can forget about my job for the rest of the day? Treat me like, I don’t know, one of your friends? Or, if that’s too much to ask, like just some guy you happen to drive around because your boss asked you to.”

“Okay.” His voice is croaky. “I have one question, … Marc.”

“Shoot.”

“If you are not a… a homosexual man, then why do you… look at me like that?”

“How do I look at you?”

“Like you want… you know.”

I shrug. “I guess I’ve learned to appreciate nice-looking… things when I see them. You have a handsome face. A good body. I find it more pleasant to look at you than to look at some ugly dude. That’s all. No hidden agenda. Just, well, a strong aesthetical sense.”

“Ah. Okay.” He doesn’t seem to understand.

“Any other guy would’ve said ‘Thank you’. That was a compliment, after all,” I inform him in a light tone.

“Oh. Thank you.” Now he looks even more bewildered than before.

“Okay, let’s change the subject.” I lay back, the warm pebbles poking into my skin. “Tell me about Istanbul.”

Bodies (6)

noreply@blogger.com (Dieter Moitzi) — Mon, 10 Nov 2014 10:47:00 +0000

After some miles, Hazim leaves the main road and drives toward the still and sparkling sea below. It’s a bumpy ride down a narrow path that cuts through the lush vegetation. Low branches glide over the car’s metal. Dust and sand are billowing around us, drifting in through the open windows, making my eyes burn. I switch off the music, and for a while, the whizzing song of the cicadas and the scrunching of tires on dry earth are the only sounds I hear.
Even though Hazim drives carefully, trying to avoid the deepest potholes, my shoulder collides with his more than once. Each time, he flinches as if I was contagious or something.
I’m glad when our rough excursion comes to an end. We reach a valley with a settlement of some sort, hidden in the midst of nowhere and scrub. An empty parking space, little wooden huts, and quaint houses nestled in the trees. As we get out of the car, stretching our stiff members, I have to admit that I’m surprised. I expected Hazim would show me a typical mountain village, or another non-descript and ritzy tourist resort, or at least an archaeological site.
But no. He brought me here. To this odd flower-powery kind of place. What bewilders me most is the sense of peace and carelessness it gives off. It doesn’t feel like Turkey, it doesn’t reek of mass tourism, it doesn’t even feel to be of this world, to be honest.
Hazim talks rapidly to a young, Turkish guy who has come to greet us and who is wearing nothing but faded tracksuit pants. The guy lays a hand on Hazim’s shoulder, smiles a lazy smile at me, and leads us to one of the tree houses.
I ogle the young people who stroll around without any discernible purpose and listen to their joyful chitchat. There are suntanned Australian girls with dreadlocks, and chubby, red-faced English boys carrying packs of bottled water to one of the huts, and chummy girls from Chicago in ample dresses, and blonde, bare-chested Swedish boys with unnaturally white teeth. It’s already quite hot, the cicadas fill the deep blue day with their chants. Green vegetation and brown, dry earth surround us, the endless sky above smells of summer and freedom.
The tree house is round, with a high, wooden ceiling, and only holds a low table and a round bench covered with dusty carpets. The young, Turkish guy seats Hazim and me side by side on the bench, then disappears, still smiling to himself. A minute later, a girl in a bikini top and pareo brings Efes beer and köfte and bread.
We start to eat and drink in silence.
When we’ve finished, Hazim reaches into the breast pocket of his black shirt and takes out cigarettes and a small plastic bag with weed. Without saying a word, he rolls a joint, lights it, takes a puff, hands it over, closes his eyes.
I don’t smoke but decide to make an exception. I take a drag and look around. The landscape I see through the door of the tree house is bleached by the heat, whitewashed. The present becomes blurry at the edges. Reality a wish, a possibility.
And suddenly, from somewhere behind the tree house where I guess the kitchens are, comes the sound of music. At first it’s just a regular bass booming seven monotonous notes, then an eighth, one note higher. The hollow bass notes are repeated, joined by discreet percussion. I recognize Massive Attack. “Angels”. Unnatural, sublime, falling out of nowhere, coating the trees and flowers and houses and the dirt and the sand and the sky with sadness and regret.
Then the male singer starts to sing in his strange, high-pitched voice that he somehow manages to keep calm, longing, loving. “Yooooooouuuuuuuuuuu…,” he sings. “Are my angel… Come from way above… To bring me love…” The bass shifts slowly from hollow to sharp.
I take another drag and hand the joint back to Hazim, who has opened his eyes when the music has started. He sinks his gaze into mine, smokes, a tiny, sad smile creeping up on his face. Then the first climax is reached with the anguishingly vague “I love you love you love you love you…”. The electric guitar chimes in, and I feel the hairs on my arms stand up.
“This is…” I whisper. ‘… happiness at last’ is what I want to say.
Hazim lifts a finger to his lips and closes his eyes again.
Alright, he prefers to suffer my presence in silence.
And yet, I’m not so sure anymore that he suffers. He seems quite content. Yes, I’m positive: he is smiling. And his bare arm touches mine. It feels hot and sweaty and alive. I can even guess Hazim’s pulse.

Bodies (5)

noreply@blogger.com (Dieter Moitzi) — Thu, 06 Nov 2014 13:06:00 +0000

“Oh, that’s beautiful! Who sings this?” I ask, leaning forward to increase the volume of the music.

The narrow, dusty road is winding through the hinterland with its scrub, its holm oaks, strawberry trees, japes, junipers, buckthorns and pine trees. To our right, craggy peaks and rugged rocks cut into the light, transparent sky. To the left, the sea shimmers in silvery reflections, but far below us. I let my arm hang out through the open car window, trying to catch some of the cool mountain air with my fingers.

Murat has kept his promise, providing not only a car, but also someone to drive me around. I don’t know if it’s a random decision or if Murat has noticed his bodyguard’s timid smile, yesterday. A smile I might only have imagined, to be honest.

But whatever. My personal tourist guide today is the young, lean, melancholic Hazim.

Half an hour ago, he knocked on my door as I was finishing my solitary breakfast on the balcony. I was rather surprised to see him when I opened. When I offered coffee and orange juice, he declined with a mute sign of his head. When I went into the bathroom to brush my teeth, he didn’t even want to sit down.

And he hasn’t said much ever since. His face an unreadable mask of polite neutrality, he led me through the hotel park in silence, then across the parking lot. He opened the back door of a black Audi, but I ignored him, walked around the car and sat down on the passenger seat.

“Where you want to go?” was the only thing he muttered without looking at me when he started the engine.

“Choose a place. I don’t care,” I answered.

And that was it. End of our thrilling conversation.

He switched on the car audio system and inserted a CD as soon as we left the hotel premises, though.

And now there’s this woman singing. A strange melody that all those florid Turkish vowels and consonants render almost surreal. She’s got a rich and throaty voice, the voice of an old woman who’s seen it all. Yet I’m pretty sure she’s only in her twenties or thirties. Turkish female singers all seem to have a rare quality: to put a whole lifetime of experiences, pleasant and unpleasant, into their voices. Even those who’ve barely entered adulthood.

“Hazim! The singer—what’s her name?” I repeat, noticing that my voice is harsher than planned. But I’m thrown off by his behaviour. It doesn’t feel hostile, but wary, as if he didn’t want an invisible barrier to disappear between us.

Despite my irritated tone, he keeps staring at the road, blocking me out. I start to wonder—is he deaf? Or doesn’t he speak English?

Finally, when I’ve given up hope to get an answer, Hazim clears his voice and says, “Burcu Güneş. Her name is Burcu Güneş.”

“Oh, you do have a tongue, then,” I comment drily, drumming my fingers on the door.

We listen to the song for a while. When I can stand it no longer, I say, “I don’t understand what’s going on. Are you, I don’t know, mad at me for something? I would’ve thought that having a day off was nicer than walking through Antalya at your boss’s side. Even if it means you are forced to spend the day with me.”

Another silence. Then he replies, “It’s not that bad.” He shoots me an odd glance.

“Then talk, for God’s sake!”

“I have nothing to say.”

“That may be so, but you barely answer my questions! I can’t stop you from sulking, but to be honest, if I had known that I would spend the day in broody silence, I would’ve stayed all alone. I do have a driving licence, after all. I don’t need a chauffeur.”

“I’m sorry, my English is not good.”

“Cut it out, your English is good enough! I don’t ask you to explain the complexity of the universe, I merely ask for some superficial small talk.”

He mulls this over. Then he surprises me by saying, “You notice we both wear black clothes?” Which, indeed, has nothing to do with the complexity of the universe.

“Hey, I guess you’re right! What a coincidence!”, I coo in a mocking tone.

“You always wear black clothes. I have noticed, in Istanbul, last time I saw you. I only wear black clothes, too.”

“Great. We have something in common then.”

“You look good in black, sir.”

“You do, too. And don’t ‘sir’ me, please. My name’s Marc.”

The song is over, another one starts.

“You want me to play the song again, um… Marc?” Hazim asks.

“Oh. Yes, please. If you don’t mind.”

The woman, Burcu Güneş, starts again. “Bülbülüm gel de dile…”, she sings.

“What’s she singing about?” I want to know.

“Difficult. I don’t know if I can translate.”

“Give it a try, come on.”

“She sings ‘My song-bird, start talking… even sing with me… make your voice heard to strangers… Sorrow, oh my sorrow bird…’ It’s a traditional Turkish song called ‘Çile bülbülüm’.”

“Beautiful,” I say, trying out the sound of the song titel. “Çile bülbülüm. My sorrow bird. Really beautiful.” I look at Hazim. “Thank you.”

“What for?”

“For the translation. And for, you know, making an effort.”

He gazes back and seems about to answer something. Yet he doesn’t. Just closes down his invisible shutters and drives on.

I wonder what I’ve said that makes him brood again.