Contes du harem : La famille en vacanses

Marcel était un homme silencieux et modeste, un maigre avorton d'un homme, à la lunette noire épaise, aux cheveux noirs volés en chaque direction comme quelqu'un qui se fut réveillé juste alors. Il portait toujours le noir pantalon cérémonial, la chemise en blanc coton et la mince noire cravate. En bref, il était un petit drôle homme. Ainsi, il se crut pour être l'homme le plus heureux dans le monde quand la belle strip-teaseuse, Ghislaine, fut agréable à coucher avec lui. De plus, Ghislaine l'aimait beaucoup également: elle était intelligente aussi, ayant un QI de plus que 140. Ils pouvaient se parler, et ils se marièrent avec l'un l'autre sans cérémonie au Palais de Justice à Montréal lorsqu'elle se trouva d'être enceinte. Ils avaient les mêmes valeurs conservateures: quand un homme fait emprégner une femme, il devrait se marier avec elle. Aussi, Marcel était ingénieur qui faisait des piastres en masse, et la femme est comme l'oiseau femelle qui cherche le nid parfait pour ses jeunes. Après une décennie et demi de mariage, Marcel et Ghislaine avaient deux enfants, une fille, Chantal, et un fils, Yannick.

Un jour, il était évident que Marcel avait une crise de la cinquantaine, même s'il avait moins que cinquante ans. Il dit à sa jument : « Je veux aller à l'Afrique, je veux voyager dans le Tiers-monde. En particulier, je veux aller à l'Algérie. »

― Pourquoi l'Algérie ? demanda Ghislaine.

Marcel haussa les épaules en disant:

― Les montagnes au nord, les villages littoraux, le Sahel au sud du pays...

Ghislaine avait des grosses appréhensions, elle ne voulait pas passer du temps au-dessous d’une tente dans le Sahel. Mais elle était agréable pour un voyage à l'Algérie à la fin. Elle était compréhensive de son vieux vouloir explorer le monde.

Avec leurs deux enfants, Marcel et Ghislaine font un voyage à l'Afrique du nord. la température fait chaude ce temps de la l'année, et le siroco désert fait fort du sud. Dans un vieil hôtel du siècle seizième au milieu du Casbah de l'Alger, ils sont agréables pour une partie de jambes dans l'air. Quelle aventure de faire l'amour dans une vieille pièce d'hôtel sous le ventilateur de plafond qui grince ! Il n'y a pas de climatisation. La pièce est sombre et humide, et ils suent abondamment en faisant se fondre dans l'un l'autre. Et les enfants dans l'autre chambre à coucher, ils comprennent bien ce que leurs parents y font. Leur maman crie fort dans l'air en haute voix, tandis que leur père grogne en voix basse dans les cheveux ou dans l'épaule de leur mère. L'intensité de la jouissance de leur mère effraie le petit Yannick, qui n'a que six ans, et sa soeur Chantal, qui a quinze ans, doit le rassurer : « Sois tranquille. Maman est contente. Qu'est-ce qu'elle fait avec papa, c'est une bonne chose. C'est préférable à la violence qu'on voit sur la télé, dit-elle. Papa ne fait mal à elle pas du tout. »

―Quel bruit ! dit le petit Yannick avec dégout.

Alors, Yannick cesse parler pour écouter un peu. Puis il dit:

― Ecoute donc ! Maman y pleure...

Chantal écoute.

― C'est vrai, elle pleure. Ça signifie qu'elle est contente. Elle est joyeuse. Les femmes sont censée de pleurer, elles sont censées de crier. Ça signifie que la femme l'aime bien. Et les hommes, ils sont censés de grogner comme ils font mal à l'estomac. Ça signifie que l’homme l’aime bien.

― Et si papa grogne pas ? Si maman pleure pas ?

Chantal hausse ses épaules et dit :

― J’sais pas. Ça se peut, ça signifie qu'ils aiment pas faire le sexe. 

― J'aime mieux faire le hockey, dit Yannick. Si quelqu'un me frappe sur la tête avec la rondelle, je pleure. Si je marque un but, je suis heureux et je crie de hourra.

Alors, l'hôtel perd de l'électricité et les lampes et les ventilateurs de plafond s'éteignent. Et Chantal grogne de l’exaspération : « Ce lieu c'est comme l'aisselle du diable ! »

Jihad Jane

Jane was born and raised the daughter of Lutherans in surburban St. Louis. With blond hair and blue eyes, she was “the perfect Aryan,” of German descent like many people in that part of the country. Therefore, her family was stunned when she announced that she was marrying a student from Iraq, Hassan, and converting to Islam. What did she possibly see in the swarthy Iraqi, who was almost ten years younger than her? Her answer was that he was "good" to her and had been exceedingly polite when they first met; he treated her with respect.

Jane was now in her thirties, twice married and twice divorced, the mother of three children by three different fathers. She had battled drug addiction and seemed to have won. Not only was her drug counseling being financed by the state, as a condition of her probation for a drug offense, but the state was also paying for her college tuitition. Some members of her family groused that it was “a crock,” but at least she was no longer selling herself on the streets for crack cocaine. At least the state was no longer threatening to take her kids away, but that was because her mother had gotten custody of the kids while she was in jail.

Since her family didn’t approve of Hassan, who called himself “Sam,” Jane saw little of her family after the wedding. Jane and Sam moved to the part of town where Muslims from the Middle East lived and joined a mosque. She took to wearing the hijab and the long, flowing robes that observant Muslim women often wear. Except for some verses of the Qur’an, it really wasn’t necessary for Jane to learn Arabic, because there were many second-generation Muslims who spoke English among themselves rather than Arabic, but Jane started learning to read and write in Arabic at the mosque in a class led by the Iman’s wife.

The Iman was from somewhere in the Persian Gulf, like Qatar or the United Arab Emirates, but he spoke fluent English. He preached his sermons in English, since there were some people in the mosque, like Jane, who weren’t fluent in Arabic.

At first, the Imam preached about the need for the people in his congregation to be good Muslims. Women were admonished to “behave modestly” and not “reveal their nudity” towards men other than their husbands. Since all the women covered their hair with hijabs, and some even covered their faces with the niqab, Jane took it to mean that women should cover as much of their bodies as possible, to avoid the “prying eyes” of strange men.

However, the Iman’s sermons began to take on a more political tone. After the bombing of the World Trade Center, he began to condemn the way Muslims were being treated. There were rumors all across America of Muslims being beaten in the streets, and Muslim women having their shawls pulled off their heads and veils removed from their faces. While few, if any, of the women had actually experienced this behavior, all of them believed without question that these things were happening to Muslims all across the country, and even in Canada. Why would the Imam lie? Thus the Imam gave voice to their fears.

Once the United States was at war in Iraq, the Imam started condemning the US military for atrocities against Iraqi civilians. How he knew, once could only guess. Perhaps people from back home had told him. Maybe he heard it from Al-Jizeera. Then the world learned about how Iraqi prisoners had been treated at the prison in Abu Ghraib, and the Imam’s sermons assumed an even more strident tone.

You could say that the Imam went over the edge when he heard about a newspaper in Sweden that had printed a cartoon that was “offensive to Islam.” Not only had the cartoonist implied that the Prophet was a terrorist by concealing a bomb in his turban, but the cartoonist had even made an image of Him. What blasphemy! For it is understood among Muslims that no Muslim should ever made an image of Mohammed, since nobody today can even say what he looked like.

Then the Imam thundered, “This man must die! But who will kill him?”

Let it suffice to say that the Imam wasn’t the only person that day who went over the edge. Jane and Sam decided that they must kill the Swedish newspaper cartoonist. Over the Internet, “Jihad Jane” searched for like-minded Muslims who also wanted to silence this Swedish infidel once and for all.

In time, her web searches seemed to bear fruit. Somebody in Europe offered to purchase airplane tickets for her and her husband if they would fly to Europe and do the job. Together with this unknown person in Europe, Jane and Sam hatched up a plot to assassinate the cartoonist. They decided that Jane would make contact with the cartoonist and lure him through the promise of sex to a hotel, where Sam would stab him to death. Because Jane was blond-haired and blue-eyed, and American, nobody would ever suspect that she was a Muslim. She wouldn't be wearing the hijab.

Jane contacted the cartoonist online and told him in an e-mail how much she admired his work. After they send a few e-mails back and forth, she sent him a picture. Finally, the cartoonist said that he would like to meet her.

As Jane and Sam were about to board a connector flight to Frankfort, Germany, from where they would take another flight to Stockholm, they were arrested at the airport by the FBI. The person who had purchased the tickets for them was really an FBI agent, not a terrorist. What’s more, the cartoonist had been informed of the plot on his life and encouraged to play along with it, to lure Jane and Sam to the airport, where they were arrested.

Jane and Sam have spent months in a federal prison, waiting to be formally charged. The Imam and his wife were deported because they had let their visas lapse without having them renewed.

Contes du harem : La concubine française

C’était étrange, pensait Ghislaine, étrange de dormir dans une chambre à coucher d’un harem, particulièrent, d’un harem qui n’appartenait pas à son époux, Yannick, mais à quelqu’un autre. Mais elle était dans une énorme maison au milieu du Casbah d'Alger, un manoir magnifique, construit pendant le seizième siècle. Le quartier au-delà de ces murs était sale et misérable, plein de prostituées, mendiants et voleurs, mais la maison dedans ces murs était élégante, ayant vingt-cinq ou trente appartements spacieux. Les femmes de la maison dormaient en haut de l’escalier, en apart des hommes, qui dormaient en bas, mais chaque femme avait son propre appartement. Les filles et les petits enfants avaient leurs propres appartements aussi. Les appartements eux-mêmes étaient petits, ayant moins que 300 mètres carrés en aire, mais Ghislaine ne voulait pas se plaindre de son appartement. Elle était contente des meubles d'époque du Deuxième Empire de la France, avec le lit à cuivre jaune, l’armoire en acajou et le lustre qui se penchait en haut au-dessus du lit. Le haut plafond donnait à l'appartement l'aspect d'être également plus grand qu'il n’était.

Ghislaine se fout à poil. Alors, elle serre doucement ses seins conicaux, afin qu’elle vérifie s’il n’y ait pas de croîssances irregulières. Comme chaque femme de bon sens, Ghislaine a peur normalle de cancer du sein, mais son mari croit qu’il est sexy, comment elle serre ses seins, un par un. Ainsi, elle s’examine les seins devant lui, comme des préliminaires avant de faire l’amour. Elle est contente de leur vie sexuelle, pense-t-elle, eux, ayant fait un bon mariage depuis douze années, mais elle est toute seule dans cette énorme chambre à coucher. Son époux lui manque, pense-t-elle, et elle soupire.

En se serrant les miches, Ghislaine se regarde dans l’énorme miroir sur l’armoire. Elle a presque quarante ans, trente-huit ans, être précise, mais elle aime bien son corps svelte et althétique, ayant des longs bras et des longues jambes. Elle a le corps de quelqu'une qui fait du jogging tous les jours, pense-t-elle. C'est vrai : elle fait du jogging près de sa maison sur l'Île des Soeurs à Montréal, elle a le corps souple d'une coureuse. Mais elle n'a jamais été sexy, pense-t-elle. Son corps est trop maigrichon, ses seins, trop maigres. Elle a des foufounes à peine, quoique ses jambes sont longues et elle sait danser très bien. Elle a le corps de danseuse. Elle dansait dans le club pour hommes dans la Rue-Papineau à Montréal lorsqu'elle fit la reconnaissance de son mari. Les hommes l'aimaient en raison d'elle être grande, statuesque, elle, ayant des cheveux couleur de maïs, des yeux bleu-clair. Elle est aux beaux cheveux blonds et aux yeux bleus qui étincelent, pense-t-elle. Elle a reconnu qu'elle était prête à faire des rapports sexuels pour l'argent, mais son mari tomba amoureux d'elle et voulu se marier avec elle finalement. Elle n'a jamais été amoureuse de son mari, mais elle l'aime. Il y a une différence entre d'aimer quelqu'un et d'être amoureuse de quelqu’un. D'ailleurs, son époux sait lui plaître en lit.

Ghislaine continue à se regarder fixement dans le miroir. « J'ai un joli visage, » dit-elle à elle-même.

Alors, elle ferme ses yeux en embrassant sa réflexion. En ouvrant ses yeux de nouveau, elle se sourit malicieusement. Alors, elle dit à sa réflexion :

―Je t’aime. T'es belle, t'es sexy, et je t'aime...

Elle embrasse sa réflexion de nouveau.

Alors, elle se plie les mains sur son coeur, ses hanches à un côté, vers le gauche, et elle chuchote les mots :

―Je t'aime, toi...

Son mari a toujours cru qu'elle était la nombriliste, mais il a toujours aimé ce « narcissisme extrême », dit-il. La façon d'elle serrer les seins devant le miroir, comment elle embrasse sa réflexion... C'est trop sexy ! pense-t-il. Et quand elle se frotte... Son mari est franchement bizarre, pense-t-elle, original. Elle sait qu'il pense d'elle comme une pétonne, mais elle était toujours l'artiste. C'est la raison pourquoi elle n'est jamais été gênée en scène dans le club pour hommes.

Avec un soupir, Ghislaine éteint la lampe à côté de la table de nuit et se couche en lit. Pendant une demi-heure, peut-être une heure, elle essaie de dormir mais elle n'y peut pas. Elle a le démon. Finalement, elle suce son doigt midi et l'insère dans son sexe. Quand son sexe est mouillé, elle se frotte les mamelons avec le bout du doigt, puis elle le réinsère dans son sexe. Lorsqu'elle retire son doigt de nouveau, elle se frotte le nombril. Finalement, elle caresse sa praline du doigt jusqu'à ce qu'elle prend son pied. La jouissance est très intense et elle est capable finalement de s'endormir.

Mais quelques heures plus tard, elle se réveille en se faisant sursauter quand elle entend quelqu'un dans la chambre à coucher. « Qu'est-ce que c'est? » crie-t-elle de peur.

―Chut ! chuchute un homme devant le lit. C’est moi.

À son grand soulagement, Ghislaine s'aperçoit qu'il est Mohammed Ghamoudi seulement, le propriétaire de cette maison, l'hôte. Aux cheveux roux sur la tête, à la barbe rousse, ses caractéristiques sont très voyants, particulièrement pour un Arabe. Elle se fut impressionnée beaucoup avec son aspect d'abord, mais elle est furieuse à l'intrusion nocturne pendant qu'elle était endormie présentement.

―Qu’est-ce que ça veut dire ? demande Ghislaine en colère. C’est après minuit !J’étais après dormir !

―Sois tranquille, dit Mohammed avec assurance.

Ghislaine croit que Mohammed est sur le point de partir de sa chambre à coucher, mais ce n'est pas son intent, pas du tout. Plutôt, il enlève son djellaba et il est complètement à poil avant elle. De plus, sa pine est déjà tout dressé. Elle s'en revient pas ! Choquée, elle se met à s'écrier, mais il met la main à travers sa bouche, en chuchotant de « chut ». Alors, il l'embrasse fort sur la bouche.

C'est un cas de viol, pur et simple, n'est-ce pas ? Bien oui. Toutefois, Ghislaine se rend à lui peu à peu, jusqu'à ce que tout ce qu'elle veut, c'est de prendre son pied. Quel autre peut-elle faire ? Il sent horriblement, comme il n'a pas pris un bain depuis plusieures semaines, ou plusieures années. Son corps est gras, visqueux, comme il s'enduit le corps de l'huile d'olive ou quelque chose autre tous les jours. Et son haleine ? Son haleine sent horriblement aussi, comme il ne se brosse jamais les dents. Mais d'une façon étrange, elle aime le goût de sa langue, de ses patins, quand il l'embrasse. Et elle le lèche même derrière les dents, une bonne fois.

Alors, il grogne comme un animal, pendant qu'elle lui gratte fort le dos des ongles. Mais avant qu'il s'explose dedans elle, il retire le pénis pour éjaculer sur son ventre. Ghislaine pousse un cris en haut vers le plafond, frottant la semence sur le ventre et sur les seins. Et elle se gratte les seins.

Silencieusement, l'Arabe de la barbe rousse part de sa chambre à coucher, tandis qu'elle assied, toute seule, sur le lit en haletant. Elle peut le sentir toujours, elle peut le goûter. Elle sent toujours la viscosité de la semence sur son corps. Elle veut prendre un bain ou une douche présentement, mais elle n'y peut pas, parce que les bains ne seront pas ouverts jusqu'à la bonne heure du matin, quand les femmes doivent se laver avant de se présenter à Dieu pendant qu'ils disent leurs prières matinales. Par conséquent, elle devra se baigner avec les autres femmes.

Elle sait qu'il reviendra. Il revient. Elle sait qu'il ne l'aime pas, qu'elle ne l'aime pas non plus, mais elle ne veut pas l'aimer. Il est souvent brutal, mais elle s’en fout : elle veut qu'il soit brutal. Il lui fait mal souvent, mais la douleur rend l’acte plus passionnante. Parfois, quand il la saisi en lèvrette, la douleur est si intense qu'elle doit crier dans son oreiller quand elle prend son pied. Mais elle prend son pied toujours. Au moment où il ejacule, il retire son pénis pour ejaculer sur quelque part de son corps. Seulement quand il la sodomise, il se garde dedans elle quand il jouit. Et elle fait le plombier à son membre viril quand il y veut. Quel autre peut-elle faire ? C'est part de son humiliation, mais il la passionne, même s'il pousse fort son pénis en arrière de sa bouche, vers la gorge. Il n'y a pas de tendresse entr'eux.

Mais Ghislaine a peur de grossesse : que dirait-elle à Yannick, son mari ? Par conséquent, elle veut faire rendez-vous avec Yannick frénétiquement, aussi souvent du possible, dans sa chambre à coucher, dans le jardin, n'importe où. Le sexe est toujours passionnant. Mais son mari doit passer furtivement la mère de Mohammed en haut de l'escalier quand il veut faire le rendez-vous avec elle pendant la nuit. Il est plus facile de le faire dans la cour, mais elle doit être respectueuse à la mère de Mohammed. Chaque matin et chaque nuit, elle doit embrasser la main droite de la mère deux fois, sur la paume et sur le revers. La mère exige de l'obéissance complète d'elle.

Elle voit les autres femmes de la maison tous les jours. Elles font partie de sa vie présentement. L'une, Sakinée, est l'épouse de Mohammed Ghamoudi. Une autre, Djamilée, est sa mère. Alors, il y a des tantes et des cousines, des soeurs et des nièces. Mohammed a trois filles, qui sont celibataires. Il y a des tout-petits aussi, tous deux garçons et filles. Aucune femme, sauf Sakinée, n'est mariée. Toutes les autres sont ou veuves ou divorcées. Ce n'est pas grande chose que les femmes arabes soient divorcées. Il arrive toujours.

Les autres femmes aiment la toucher. Elles sont très affectueuses. Même la vieille mère est affectueuse. Elles lui donnent étreintes et baisers en masse. Mais Ghislaine s'aperçoit que les autres femmes sont sexuellement frustrées : c'est la raison pourquoi elles touchent une autre autant. Elles aiment s'étreindre. Elles aiment serrer des bébés à leurs seins. Alors, une entr'eux embrasse le zizi de son petit neveu et dit : « Que Dieu protège l'homme ! » Et les autres se rient.

Ghislaine prend en apart Soraya, la femme qui a embrassé le pénis de son petit neveu. Elle est passée le trentaine, bien en chair, aux cheveux roux, à la peau pâle comme son frère. Aux yeux bruns qui pénètrent à l'âme, aux nez aquilin comme celui de l'Arabe, Ghislaine comprend que Soraya soit à l'âme passionnante. Et elle a certaine allure.

Ghislaine dit à Soraya de faire rendez-vous avec son mari. Soraya reste bête. « Tu vieux que je fasse rendez-vous avec ton mari ? » dit Soraya, choquée.

Ghislaine hausse les épaules et dit :

―Pourqoui non ? Je le ferais moi-même, mais je n’y peux pas. Tu veux embrasser le zizi d'un tout-petit, ou le membre viril d'un homme ? Le choix est à toi...

Après minuit, Soraya descend furtivement l’escalier pour faire rendez-vous en nocturne dans le jardin avec Yannick, habillée dans le djeballa de Ghislaine. Lorsque Yannick voir asseoir sur le banc dans le jardin Soraya, il croit d’abord que Soraya est sa femme, mais il a tort. Il est choqué en décrouvrant que c’est la sœur de Mohammed, mais c’est trop tard: la rousse se jette les seins énormes vers lui en mettant la main au-dessous de son djeballa. « C’est ta journée, mon amour... » chuchote-elle séduisante.

Elle lui serre la quéquette jusqu’à il est tout dressé, puis elle tombe aux genoux pour lui faire le meilleur pompier de sa vie. Alors, elle tombe sur le dos, les jambes grandes ouvertes, et elle tire la figure de Yannick vers la source de sa feminitité. Yannick lui mange la chatte, il suce aux lèvres et au bouton d’amour jusqu’à ce qu’elle frémit sans contrainte. Puis Soraya demande à Yannick de l’enculer. Yannick ne sent rien que l’air dedans son cul, mais Soraya gémit de plaisir une bonne fois, deux bonnes fois, son doigt caressé sa praline le temps entier. C’est d’éviter la grossesse, dira-t-elle après. Elle prend son pied, elle, à quatre pattes, sa figure dans la terre pour étoufler ses cris d’amour. Puis elle retourne furtivement à sa chambre à coucher sans éveiller personne.

Pour Yannick, c'est comme il rêve en couleur...

Alors, Ghislaine approche l'épouse de Mohammed, Sakinée, pour demander pardons. Ghislaine se confesse de tout sans que Sakinée dise rien. Alors, Sakinée répond, en haussant les épaules : « Je le savais... »

Mais Ghislaine doit faire obéissance à Sakinée. Sakinée s'étend la main gauche, celle qu'elle utilise pour essuyer son cul. Ghislaine embrasse la main, tous deux la paume et le revers. Chaque jour, Ghislaine doit embrasser la main gauche de Sakinée, mais elle comprend : Sakinée est l'épouse de Mohammed Ghamoudi, tandis qu'elle n'est rien qu'une concubine.

La prochaine fois que Mohammed approche Ghislaine pour faire le sexe, Ghislaine demande à Mohammed de se marier avec elle. « On permet aux Musulmans d'avoir quatre épouses, n'est-ce pas ?»

Mohammed se caresse la barbe rousse avant de dire finalement :

―C'est bien dispendieux. Les femmes ne sont pas à bon marché, tu sais…

En colère, Ghislaine lance un oreiller vers lui. Mais Mohammed comprend que sa grosse légume n'est pas suffisante présentement : il doit la charmer. Peut-être il devra apporter des cadeaux à l'avenir. Peut-être, il devra lui montrer même du respect. « Je t'aime, ma chienne, murmure-t-il, en faisant amour à elle. Je t'aime. C'est toi qui j'aime ... »

Peu à peu, Ghislaine se rend à lui, mais à l'avenir, il devra négocier avec elle. Ce soir, pourtant, elle est sa chienne...

Copyright © 2010

La Garçonette

Julienne était une adolescente qui aimait s’habiller comme un garçon. Les vêtiments de garçon étaient plus confortables, croyait-elle, s’ils n’étaient pas trop serrées. Elle n’amait pas les bodices de femmes, en croyant qu’elles étaient trop gênées dans ses mouvements. Ainsi, elle s’habillait en vêtiments de garçon. Tout le monde dans son village croyait qu’elle était originale, mais elle ressemblait à un garçon, aux cheveux blonds coupés courts, à la ligne très mince, presque comme celle de garçon. Les garçons ne l’aimaient pas très bien, mais il lui était égal. Son père parlait sur elle avec disapprobition de son comportement, de sa mode de vêtiment, mais sa mère comprenait qu’elle était une garçonette. « Peut-être, disait sa mère d’un soupire, elle changera en tombant amoureuse de quelqu’un d’autre. »

Julienne aimait errer dans les bois près des montaignes Jura pas loin de la Suisse. C’était tard pendant le mars, presque le début du printemps. Il y avait de la neige sur la terre, mais on pouvait déjà voir la petite fleur blanche que les Allemands appellent le « edelweiss » où il n’y avait pas de neige sur le sol. À ce qui était presque son unique admission de sa femininité, elle en cueillait une. Elle aimait les fleurs, en particulier, le petite blanc edelweiss.

Le soleil en haut dans le ciel toujours, Julienne errait peu de kilomètres en bas de la montaigne à un petit village de près. À la périphérie du village, il y a une petite ferme, entourée par un mur fait en pierre. La porte du mur est faite en fer peint en noir. Au loin dans les montagnes, cette ferme est splendide, magicale. En voyant cette ferme, Julienne décide de l’approcher. En arrivant à la ferme, elle voit une femme dans le cour. Elle est belle, pense Julienne, grande et mince mais feminine en apparence. Julienne peut voir distinctivement la ligne de son corps: les seins et les fesses, la taille et les cuisses et les hanches.

La femme voit Julienne le moment où Julienne est près de la maison, qui est conduite aussi en pierre. Timide, Julienne dit de bonjour. Alors, elle dit à la femme qu’elle a faim.

En croyant que Julienne n’est rien qu’un adolescent garçon gêné, la femme sourit de Julienne en l’invitant en dedans pour manger quelque chose. « On n’a rien, dit la femme, sauf de la soupe sur la poêle. » Mais Julienne est reconnaissante également pour un bol de soupe. C’est l’occasion de faire reconnaissance de la femme.

En parlant à la femme, Julienne découvre qu’elle est épousée, la mère de trois fils. Son époux opère la scierie sur la rivière, dit-elle. Mais la femme ne manque pas d’allure, même si elle soit épousée, même si elle ait envers trente ans.

Ensuite, après de manger de la soupe, Julienne se lève pour dire au revoir. La soupe est délicieuse, dit-elle, mais elle doit s’en aller. La femme est visiblement déçue, mais Julienne lui donne la petite fleur, l’edelweiss, qu’elle a dans le revers de son manteau. La femme prend la fleur, puis elle embrasse tendrement sur la bouche, sans connaissance de Julienne être une femme aussi, il paraît.

Confuse, Julienne ne sait pas ce qu’elle devrait faire, mais elle désire la femme beaucoup. La femme la prende de la main et la mène dans la chambre à coucher. C’est la première fois de sa vie que Julienne n’a jamais fait amour avec une autre femme. La femme se fout à poil en révélant ses amples seins, les contours de son corps. En extase, Julienne l’embrasse la femme sur la bouche. Elle laisse en chemin de baisers, un chemin de patins en haut et en bas de son corps. Alors, elle mange la chatte d’une autre femme la première fois de sa vie. Le goût de cette femme est forte, amère, l’odeur, âcre. Mais Julienne s’en fout.

Le moment où Julienne se fout à poil aussi, en révélant ses petites miches, son corps mince comme celui de garçon, la femme est choquée. « Qu’est-ce que c’est? crie la femme. T’es une fille? »

Mais Julienne dit, souriant avec ruse:

―On pourrait être amantes, et ton épouse est à la scierie…

Les deux femmes se font amour avant de Julienne quitter la femme. Pendant le printemps et pendant l’été, elles se font amours presque tous les jours pendant que l’épouse de la femme est à la scierie. Mais hélas, il sera impossible qu’elle se revoient après la première chute de neige.

Let A Thousand Flowers Bloom

You could say that Chang Xiqai and Sung Mayli met over a test tube, since they were biochemists working in a research lab in China. The chemistry was such that they fell in love and got married. It used to be that, if you gave a young couple one year to eighteen months of privacy, they usually ended up with a little bundle of joy. However, Chang Xiqai and Sung Mayli wanted to wait until the time was right. Ten years passed before Sung Mayli finally got pregnant. Then, when Mayli went in for her first ultrasound, the doctor told them that the unborn child was a girl. “You can still have the abortion,” the doctor told them gravely, understanding that they probably wanted a son, “but it's more complicated the longer you wait.”

Mayli realized that her husband, Chang, wanted a son, but she didn’t want to have an abortion. Any woman who has had an abortion, or who has friends who have had abortions, knows that an abortion is painful. One of Mayli’s friends said that it was like having someone pull your lip over your head. “You might as well have the baby,” the friend said.

First, they give you a drug that induces labour. Then they have to go in there and clean up. A DNC, done in the first trimester, isn’t very complicated: just a little bit of suction, and the vacuum cleaner cleans it all up. An ETC, which they do in the second trimester, is more complicated; they could miss a little hand or a little foot, if they don’t do it right. An XTC―what certain people in the United States call a “partial birth abortion”― is really complicated. Most of these are done when the unborn child is already dead. Most women who have had partial birth abortions aren’t worried about what childbirth would do to their figures, unless they are topless dancers.

You might say that China is a great place to go if you want to have an abortion. Even if you’re nine months pregnant, you can find someone who will inject a saline solution into the unborn child’s head. They say that the state has been known to force women who have violated China’s one-child law to have abortions even when they were about to deliver. However, Mayli didn’t want to have an abortion. It wasn’t all her fault that the unborn child was a girl, and why should she have to go through the pain of childbirth just to abort it? Besides, there are loopholes even in China’s one-child law. If you marry somebody who isn’t Chinese, like a Tibetan or a Uighur, you can have as many children as you want. As well, those born in Hong Kong before that fair island changed from a British Crown Colony to a Chinese territory, could be British Subjects, if they can provide the proof to somebody at a British consulate. And if you just happen to have a baby while you’re on vacation in some exotic place, like Bali or Thailand… The reason why people hire lawyers is to explore all their options, right?

What options did Chang Xiqai and Sung Mayli have? One is that they were both working in a research lab when they met: that bomb that we call “love” exploded in both of their faces at the same time. That’s to say, they were both educated, and they had the option of world travel that a peasant in the province of Szechuan probably wouldn’t have had. What’s more, the lab that hired them was one of those multinational firms that set up an office in China to take advantage of the cheap labour. Why pay somebody in San Francisco hundreds of thousands of dollars a year to find a cure for AIDS when you can pay somebody cents to the dollar in China to do the same thing?

For Chang Xiqai and Sung Mayli, it all came down to two countries: the U.S and Canada. In both countries, most people speak English, and if you can get the right visas, you can work in one country and live in the other. Thousands of Canadians cross the border to work in the U.S every day. Americans would also work in Canada, if Immigration Canada wasn’t paranoid about U.S citizens taking jobs away from Canadians, but that’s another pair of sleeves. Immigration Canada expected Chang and Mayli to be able to work and live in Canada at the same time: Immigration Canada didn’t want them commuting across the Ambassador Bridge in Windsor or the Bluewater Bridge in Sarnia and tying up customs.

Let’s be fair about this. Originally, Chang and Mayli wanted their daughter to be born in the U.S, because that would have been simpler. Their firm had an opening in Seattle, so Mayli took it while she was in the second trimester of her pregnancy. The problem was, the company did some downsizing almost as soon as she arrived in Seattle. They closed their laboratory in Seattle in a manner not very different from the way Boeing suddenly grounded all its staff in Washington State and moved to Chicago. Some people at the lab in Seattle lost their jobs, but Mayli was offered a position in Omaha, Nebraska. However, Mayli was committed to a thirty-year mortgage for a house on Bainbridge Island that she had just bought; she didn’t want to give up the house, even though people were walking away from mortgages all over the U.S to find work in other cities.

Another biochemical research company from the U.S opened up a laboratory in Victoria, British Columbia, just across Puget Sound from Seattle. Nobody knew for sure why, but maybe it was to take advantage of a perceived bias in favour of Asian immigrants in Canada. That is, people thought that Asians were "smarter" than Caucasians in the U.S and Canada. Canada was receiving lots of Indian immigrants with degrees, in part, because both Canada and India have a common history of being part of the British Empire. Canada was also accepting people from China, like Mayli. However, there was one problem: Mayli was living in the U.S. Immigration Canada was unwilling to give her a work visa because she didn’t have a resident visa. As well, she was clearly showing.

Maybe it all depends on who you talk to, but the person that handled Mayli’s case voiced some concerns about Mayli wanting to work in Canada only so she could have her baby there and become a Canadian citizen that way. She also had to have a sponsor, and Mayli didn’t know anybody in Canada. What’s more, there was some problem of her husband, Chang, coming over from China to live in Canada when he could belong to some opium triad, for all they knew. But if Mayli could get a sponsor, all her paperwork would be in order and her husband could join her in Canada.

Language was never a problem, except for those who spoke English and had to talk to Mayli. While Mayli was a student at the University of Beijing, she and her classmates often spent the entire afternoon at a cafe in Tiananman Square conversing in English. Mayli could answer most questions put to her in English, once she understood the question. The problem was that immigration officials who spoke with her often didn't understand what she was saying. That’s because the retroflexive liquid, or the “r-sound,” doesn’t exist in Han Chinese; the Chinese only have the lateral liquid, or the “l-sound.” Therefore, not many people in the U.S or Canada have heard of Balak Obama, even if Obama was the "plesident" of the United States.

The United States and Canada have the longest undefended border of any two countries in the world. Even in the world after the bombing of the World Trade Center in New York, most people can pass the border between the two countries with just three pieces of identification. Every now and then, customs officials will take you aside and question you. They might even strip search you. However, few people are pulled aside, and even fewer people get strip searched. Most people pass through customs without any problems.

Most people. Mayli was pulled aside the first time she tried to cross the border at Vancouver. This was because she was showing and her citizenship was Chinese. All her papers were in order, and the customs officials understood that she was a probably biochemical researcher, not a textile worker who was paid under the table while working illegally. However, the experience was very disconcerting. Mayli wondered if she wasn’t entering a totalitarian police state like China.

Mayli was about to be turned back when she heard a voice from behind her say, “Don’t worry. I’ll take care of her.”

When Mayli turned around, she saw a young man in his early twenties who looked Chinese. He was bamboo shoot thin, about five-foot-seven, with black hair creeping down his neck, wearing a long sleeved white cotton shirt and black corduroys. She wondered if he wasn’t a hoodlum. However, the customs official seemed to know him. “What if she goes into labour?” the official asked.

“I know they don’t pay you to think,” the man replied, “but if she went into labour now, she would probably have a miscarriage, eh? She obviously isn’t far enough along yet.”

When the customs official was still hesitant, the young man said, “It’s all right. I’ll show her the sights and send her home. She only wants to visit, right?”

The man looked hard at Mayli, who quickly nodded her head and said to the customs official, “Yes, I only want to visit…”

When they were alone, the man introduced himself. His name was Robert Lee and his family was from China, but the Chinese language was as incomprehensible to him as it was to other Canadians his age; he couldn’t speak a word of it. “It’s amusing that people think I’m a genius because I’m Chinese,” he said. “I helped a white woman change a flat tyre once. When I was finished, she shook my hand, thanked me and said, ‘You people are so brilliant!’ All I did was change a flat tyre.”

Mayli told Robert about herself and her husband’s visa problems. “Chinese government not want him come to United States because I not have U.S citizenship,” she said.

“But you would rather live in Canada, right?”

“No,” Mayli replied. “I want work in Canada. I want live in United States because of my house.”

Mayli explained about her house on Bainbridge Island and the impending transfer to Omaha. The housing market was very bad and didn’t want to let the house go into foreclosure if she couldn’t sell it. “A pharmaceutical company in Victoria wants to hire me,” she said, “but I can’t get work visa because I am pregnant. I don’t know what to do.”

“Maybe you should let the house go into foreclosure,” Robert suggested.

“No!” Mayli replied with unexpected vehemence. “That is intolerable. It is crazy!”

Robert and Mayli spent all day seeing the sights. Vancouver lived up to its reputation as one of the most liveable cities in North America. Because it was early spring, Robert was able to show Mayli the Japanese cherry trees in bloom. “The Japanese sent annual gifts of these trees to the city all through the 1930s,” he said, “and then they started World War II. I don’t get it.”

By the end of the day, they were in love. Robert took Mayli back to his place, where they had sex for the first time. Even though Mayli was pregnant, sexual intercourse was not out of the question; Robert just couldn’t penetrate her as deeply as he normally would have. The next morning, Robert made her breakfast, and then he showed her Victoria, just across the Vancouver Sound from Vancouver on Vancouver Island. He showed her some of the sights, such as the stone lion that guards the gate to Chinatown, and the totem pole at Inner Harbour. While eating lunch at the fishermen’s wharf, she asked, “What do you for a living?”

“I’m a landscaper,” he replied vaguely. “I cut grass, trim shrubs, and put in gravel for people’s gardens. There may not be a lot of money in it, but I like the work. I’ve been to college, but I didn’t like it.”

Robert sensed that his choice of career might be a problem for her, because she had a doctorate. But Mayli said, “The problem is my husband. He may never be allowed to leave China, but if he leaves China, there could be a problem.”

“Do you love him?” Robert asked.

With eyes cast down, she muttered, “I don’t know. I not see him in long time.”

As Mayli’s pregnancy went through its natural progression, Robert continued to see her. Robert liked Maili because he thought she was shy and demure while Mayli considered Robert brash and outspoken. The truth, however, was that Robert considered himself socially awkward while Mayli considered herself to be too blunt. Most of the time, particularly after it got late in her pregnancy, they met at her place on Bainbridge Island. After Robert spent a longer time than usual passing through U.S customs, Robert cursed when he arrived at Mayli’s: “Borders suck!"

But Mayli only replied, “It’s time. The baby is coming…”

Robert had to drive her to the hospital, where she gave birth to a daughter. “She looks just like you,” the white nurse said to Robert after the baby was born.

After six months, Robert and Mayli decided to get married. By now, Robert was sponsoring Mayli as a landed alien of Canada while Mayli was working in Victoria. She still kept her house on Bainbridge Island, though it had lost value even after the collapse of the real estate market. Mayli wrote a letter to her husband, Chang, telling him that she was divorcing him. She didn’t have to tell him why; he already knew. Chang wrote back, telling her that he had also met somebody. While waiting for his application for a passport and visa to be accepted, he had fallen for another female research assistant and wanted to marry her. Mayli didn't doubt that her husband was telling the truth rather than saying it to be spiteful.

Robert and Mayli were married in a little United Church of Canada chapel in Vancouver. Robert was only twenty five years old while Mayli was nearly forty.

A Town in Europe

A group of people gathered in the town square to protest. They were Muslims, carrying signs in English saying, “Islam will prevail,” and “Stop atrocities against Muslims.” There were counter-demonstrators carrying signs, also in English, that said, “Muslims go home.”

The two groups clashed, according to witnesses, and the cobblestone streets of this medieval town were soon spattered with blood; some people were injured. Each group said that the other group started it. Men from both groups said, “We’re tired of them flirting with our women.” Women said, “We’re tired of them showing disrespect towards women.”

The Muslim women wore black niqabs or chadors, but most them said that their style of dress reflected their religious beliefs, not a political position. There were also European women in punk regalia, but few said that their clothes reflected their politics, and many said that they were just watching the demonstration.

A woman with spiked green hair and several piercings in each lobe said, “The problem is that they don’t want to be assimilated.”

A woman in a chador said, “This is my country, too.”

There were extremists in both camps. Men with jackboots and shaved heads shouted "Heil Hitler," waving Nazi flags and showing swastika tattoos on bare skin, even though the protest took place in November. There were men in white skull caps and white pyjamas with full beards; their clothing did little to protect them from the autumn chill.

The police said that they were caught in the middle but prevented both groups from clashing. The police ended up turning a water cannon on a group of demonstrators. Police blamed the Muslims for the violence, but both groups claimed that the police did little to prevent the violence and aided and abetted the other side.

A man who was born in this town but had lived abroad for many years said, “There was a time when the foreigners dressed like us, but they couldn’t speak the language. Now we all speak the same language, but they don’t dress like us. They have never had the same religion.”

He traced the violence to the 1960s, when the immigrants first came to work the wine presses in the vineyards and pick up garbage from the curb. "We didn't want them," he said, "but we needed them."

The people of this town have never liked the immigrants, yet they seem surprised when they hear that the immigrants don’t like them either. “They should be grateful that we let them stay,” an older man grumbled.

The immigrants have the right of citizenship, but one immigrant, an older man, said, “It isn’t enough. We want the same rights as anybody else born in this country. We want acceptance. We aren't foreigners anymore; we're here to stay.”

A young man, obviously working class, said, “They want the whole store. If you give them an inch, they’ll take a mile.” Then he spat, “We should just send them back where they came from.”

An aristocratic-looking woman who is a member of a wine growing family said, “We need to come together. Our whole existence is threatened because they plan to build a highway in this region. If they build it, runoff from the highway will get into the river, and it will affect the taste of the wine.”

Environmentalists agree with the grower. However, they are reluctant to link up with immigrants for fear of alienating the townspeople, even though most of the immigrants work in the vineyards. “The devil is always in the details,” sighed a member of an environmentalist group.

A businessman who designs software said, “We can’t live just off other people drinking our wine. We need new growth, and the highway will lead new people here.”

Another businessman, who is Muslim, agreed. “The only thing that has ever united the world,” he said, “is commerce.”

However, there is much that still divides the people of this town, and commerce has yet to united them. There has been a rumour of another demonstration.

Gymnopaedia

It all starts when an older girl finishes drinking her Orange Crush and throws her empty bottle against the fire hydrant in the middle of the circular drive. All the other kids like the sound of glass breaking against the fire hydrant so much that they hurl their bottles against the fire hydrant too. One by one, they hurl their bottles against the fire hydrant. Some don’t even finish drinking their soda but throw their bottles with the orange fluid still inside with glee. Who would think that breaking glass could be so much fun? Not these little tykes. One by one, in an orderly procession, they smash their bottles against the fire hydrant. Though the first child is the ringleader, she doesn't have to ssue any commands. She towers over them like a drill sergeant, overseeing the recruits running through the obstacle course, watching with approval as the other children smash their bottles in a suburban rite of conformity. All that the girl lacks is the dark green Smokey the Bear hat on her head. Then an adult emerges from the backyard of the house where somebody is having a barbecue. Some of the kids, including the ringleader, scatter like shrapnel from an improvised explosive device. Those that stay clean up this mess. What can they do? How will they get home if their parents don’t take them home? They pick up all the glass around the fire hydrant, chastened and embarrassed. None of them will ever mention this incident again after they pick up all the glass.

Death on Easy Street

"In all but love, woman is a mediocre player." Nietzsche.

Every woman has her own beauty, and Tamara was no exception. She "had the dog." She was tall and black, eighteen years old, and not lacking in attractiveness, not only among people of colour but among whites as well. By the time she was sixteen, Tamara was already dancing in topless bars, because life in the ghetto had made her look older than her years. With long and straight black hair past her shoulders and skin black as the night, more than her fair share of men wanted to sleep with her, because her body was both curvy and athletic, both soft and hard at the same time. But there was already a hardened look in her deep brown eyes from having grown up in the inner city, where there were drugs en masse and prostitutes on every corner, where girls walking past abandoned buildings to or from school risked being raped. Tamara was sexually assaulted a few times, though she was able to fend off her attacker each time, because girls like her are not easy to overpower.

Tamara did not know what she wanted from life but lived from day to day. She had graduated from high school with honours, but when people in her family told her how proud they were of her, she merely shrugged. What could she do with a high school diploma? Everybody her age understood that you had to go to college and beyond to get anywhere in life, but Tamara was at a fork in the road. She thought of enrolling at a junior college, but she wasn’t sure what course of study to take. Did she want to be a nurse? Did she want to be a teacher? Maybe she could go into business administration, but she wasn’t sure if she had a head for business. She was never strong in mathematics or science, though she could read and write better than the average. She had even won a prize for an essay that she wrote in sixth grade. However, she didn’t know what she wanted to do in life, so she continued dancing topless in bars.

The part of the city where she grew up, the West Side, was newer than the East Side. The East Side streets had French names from the seventeenth century like Beaubien Street and St. Aubin Street, while the West Side streets seemed to hearken to the Jazz Age, with names like Green Dolphin Street and Easy Street. The homes on the West Side were primarily two- or three-bedroom, single-storey houses with aluminium siding and sandstone brick façades, while the tenements on the East Side were built primarily of red brick with wrought iron fire escapes that lead to the alleys in back. However, both sections of the city were crumbling. Only the neighbourhoods by the waterfront downtown had been well-maintained.

The crack houses on the West Side more or less operated openly, without fear of interference from the law. The police, it seemed, considered them to be impregnable fortresses, because SWAT teams rarely, if ever, tried to storm one. What’s more, there was a lot of paperwork involved. Before attempting to seize a suspected drug den, the police had to go through the proper channels in order to get permission to mount what amounted to a small military operation. If, for some reason, they had to cancel the operation on or before the day that it was planned, the police would have to go through channels all over again. Because of the bureaucracy, it might take weeks to pull off an operation. On one occasion, the police raided a suspected drug dealer, only to find that the only one home was an eighteen-year-old girl with a baby. The police had wanted to arrest her boyfriend, but he wasn’t home, so they arrested the girl instead, since they managed to find some of the drugs that they were looking for. Nobody could argue, however, that this was a real crack house; the raid was too easy. It would have taken a well-trained Mossad unit from Israel, armed with Uzi submachine guns, to successfully raid a real crack house with the element of surprise necessary in this town.

Though Tamara wasn’t an addict yet, she had taken a liking to crack cocaine. There was a crack dealer on Easy Street named Dennis, who was able to meet her wants. Because of her beauty, she merely had to pay for it with her body, if she wanted it. Tamara only wanted to have a good time, since she wasn’t addicted yet. She wanted to dance; she wanted to party. She was sleeping with the crack dealer for the sex as well as the drugs. The crack was just to help put them both in the mood. Even though the euphoria from all forms of cocaine is only brief, usually only a few minutes, it’s sometimes enough. With a little bit of alcohol, weed and crack cocaine, you can have yourself a party. However, the addict can get caught up in the cycle of dependence by trying to recapture the newness of that first buzz. It can never be as good as it was the first time, if it was ever good at all. Tamara said to herself that she only wanted to have fun. She usually saw Dennis only on her days off, since she couldn’t see herself spending the rest of her life with him.

Dennis had himself convinced that Tamara wasn’t the typical “ho” or “bitch” in the “hood.” That is, she didn’t prattle about nothing but seemed to see conversation as equal parts talking and listening, an exchange of information. What’s more, she didn’t get jealous of other ho's or bitches. She could flirt with the best of them, but she also knew how to be direct. When she wanted to get high, she said so. When she wanted to have sex, she let him know in no uncertain terms. That was why Dennis liked her. However, crack dealers aren’t the type to think ten years or more down the line. Dennis saw himself as living pretty much the same as he lived now, if he was still alive. When he was thirty years old, he saw himself having his friends over for all-night parties with ho's and bitches, beer and weed, and crack cocaine. They might watch football or basketball, or play spades in the kitchen. He was sure that Tamara would be long gone by the time he was thirty years old.

They never quarrelled. However, Dennis made the mistake of saying to Tamara, “You ain’t like all the other crack ho's...” Dennis meant it as a compliment, but it was a mistake because Tamara didn’t consider herself a crack whore. She now wanted revenge for this show of disrespect.

Drug users prefer the dealer who gets high, and Tamara was no exception. If Dennis had been paying attention, he might have noticed that Tamara cased out the place every time she came over. After a few months, Tamara was sure that she knew the layout of his crib. The only room that she hadn’t checked was the basement, because Denis never went down there in her presence, and she wasn't sure if she wanted to know what was down there.

It was a Friday night, and Tamara made over a thousand dollars that night. After tipping the bartender, the bouncer and the DJ, she still made well over five hundred dollars. Dancers make their money by sitting with customers and dancing on tables, as well as dancing topless or nude on stage. Sometimes, they go into a back room and do “lap dances” or “couch dances” with a customer, since the city had passed an ordinance against that type of dancing. Though prostitution isn’t unknown in these places, the bar where Tamara worked didn’t allow it. People in the neighbourhood were already complaining about this bar (and others like it), and the owners didn’t want trouble with the police. Besides, dancers could make more than two or three hundred dollars just by sitting with people at their tables. Tamara and a couple of other dancers had been fortunate enough to sit with a large party that night. That was why she had made so much money.

Tamara arrives at Dennis’ with three other men that he hasn’t seen before. They're just some friends of hers, she assures him, and she introduces them as Cedrick, Darrell and Percy. The party is the same as any other, with enough drugs and alcohol for everybody. With six or seven other people, everybody parties until the small hours of the morning. One by one, everybody falls asleep, until Tamara and Denis are all alone in his bedroom upstairs. Tamara and Dennis have sex on his king-sized bed like they always do. There’s no reason for this night to be any different from all the others, right? After they're done, Tamara stands up to get dressed, with her back turned to him.

“Leavin’ so soon, baby?” Dennis asks.

With her back still turned, Tamara replies, “I got things to do.”

“Like what?” Dennis asks, sceptically.

“That’s my business,” Tamara replies curtly.

When she’s finished dressing, Tamara casually picks up her purse, opens it, and reaches inside it. “I can’t find my lighter,” she says, apparently still searching for her lighter. “Got a light?”

As Dennis reaches over and searches his night table for a lighter, Tamara says blithely, “Forget it. I don’t need it.”

Tamara calmly turns around, points a 22 Derrigner at Dennis, and shoots him twice in the chest, killing him instantly. When Cedrick, Darrell and Percy hear the gun’s report, they stand up, pull guns from their coat pockets, and fire indisrimminantly at everybody in the living room. There's blood everywhere, on the walls and on the furniture. The victims are lying in pools of their own blood. In the time that it takes to finish off the six or seven other people in the room, Tamara opens the top drawer of Dennis’ dresser and takes all his money. She doesn’t have time to count it, but she finds later that Dennis had more than ten thousand dollars in the top drawer of his dresser. He either didn’t believe in banks or he never got around to depositing the money in a savings account. Either way, his money sat at home in a dresser drawer without collecting interest and making more money in a bank.

One person survives the massacre. A fourteen-year-old boy had gone down into the basement to crash on a couch during the party. Everybody had forgotten about him, and Cedrick, Darrell and Percy hadn’t thought of going downstairs to see if anybody was down there. It's the one part of the house that Tamara has never seen; she never thought of checking the basement either.

The boy is able to positively identify Tamara as one of the assassins after hearing her speak to the other three before leaving the house. The police pick her up on suspicion of murder. They find the 22 Derringer in her purse, and the ballistics tests match the gun to the two bullet wounds in Dennis’ body; she confesses to the murders and fingers her three friends. There are still powder burns on her right hand from having fired the murder weapon. A couple days later, the police arrest Cedrick, Darrell and Percy, and they all confess as well.

Tamara, Cedrick, Darrell and Percy are tried for first-degree murder and sentenced to life imprisonment without parole.

Proverbs from Hell

What was law for the child is oppression for the adolescent. For the adult, it can be a perverse form of revenge.

If adolescents survive junior high, it’s usually because somebody hasn’t killed them. If they survive high school, it’s because they haven’t killed themselves.

There’s nothing like an impudent child to turn a parent to thoughts of homicide.

Teachers and animal trainers are more alike than different, save that lion tamers have guns.

Puberty is that phase in life where (many) children are as ugly on the outside as they are in the inside.

Childhood is that time where we most resemble angels; puberty, the time when we are most hellish in appearance if not in character.

Corporal punishment doesn't work with the devil, so how can it to work with children for very long?

Discipline is only possible when the child feels outnumbered.

Guns were banned from school to protect children from teachers as well as from each other. This, teacher know better than anyone else.

The fantasy life of a child is poetic while "real life" for the adult is prosaic. The inner life of the adolescent turns nihilistic when they find that fantasies can never be real and real life is too prosaic.

Be careful how you treat a child; it could be your own.

The Strange Story of Mustafa al-Hamzi

Libya is a country where the people live in constant fear. A careless word can land one in prison because there are spies everywhere, and Muammar al-Qadafi's regime allows no dissent, no other ideology but Qadafi's. What's more, because most of Libya's people live near two population centres, Benghazi and Tripoli, it is easy for the secret police to spy on the people. People must go to market every day to buy the necessities, so the souks are full of informants. However, the stalls are often nearly empty of goods because of a tight system of rationing. This is because Libya, like totatalitarian governments everywhere, is on a constant war footing, afraid of enemies both domestic and foreign.

Mustafa al-Hamzi lived in the city of Tripoli, in one of the poorer neighbourhoods of the city. The year was 1974, and he was twenty-three years old at the time. People considered him odd; even his family considered him odd. He had trouble remembering names and faces, it seemed, so he would invariably reply, "I don't remember you, but I love you." This remark was inoffensive, if strange, but his family concluded that he would never attract a suitable mate and gave up trying to find a bride for him. At the age of twenty-three, he was still a virgin.

A few times, he got into trouble with authorities for the things he said. For instance, he once remarked that he didn't like the colour green. Since Libya's flag was nothing but green, in honour of Qadafi's "Green Revolution," he was arrested. Fortunately, his brother, Abd al-Hamzi, was able to explain away his remark to the police. "He wasn't talking about the flag," Abd said. "He was merely stating a personal preference."

The police decided to release Mustafa, but the constable warned sternly, "He had better watch what he says. Or maybe you had better keep an eye on him. He might unknowing give aid and comfort to our enemies."

After that incident, the family decided to get him out of the country. Fortunately, Mustafa had an uncle who lived in Italy. This uncle promised that he could find a job for Mustafa. It would only be menial labour, the uncle cautioned, but Mustafa's family didn't care. Since everybody considered Mustafa an imbecile, nobody ever expected him to amount to much anyway.

Mustafa's family bought him an airplane ticket and put him on an Air Libya DC-10 from Tripoli to Rome. Then, while the plane was en route to Rome, Mustafa pulled out a pistol, put it to the flight attendant's head, and demanded to see the pilot. The flight attendant was in no mood to argue; she took him to the pilot and co-pilot. Because airport security was very lax in those days, even in Libya, Mustafa was easily able to smuggle a weapon on board the aeroplane.

Then Mustafa asked the astonished pilot, "Does this plane have enough fuel to make it to Tel Aviv?"

"Of course," the pilot replied. "We always carry more than enough fuel, in case of emergencies."

"Then radio the air traffic controllers in Tel Aviv and tell them that you have to make an emergency landing," Mustafa ordered.

The pilot made the call. Then Mustafa seized the radio speaker from the pilot and asked the person on the other end in Arabic, "Is this Tel Aviv?"

"Yes," replied a woman's voice, also in Arabic.

"How is it that you are able to speak Arabic?" Mustafa asked suspiciously. "Israel is not an Arab country, except for the Palestinians living there. How do I know that this isn't Egypt?"

"We have to be able to speak Arabic because we sometimes get flights from Arab countries that have to make emergency landings," the woman replied.

"Can you say something in Hebrew?" Mustafa asked.

"Shalom aleichem," the woman replied.

Mustafa ordered her to recite something from the Hebrew bible. When she started to recite the 22nd Psalm in Hebrew, he stopped her when he was satisfied that she was Israeli.

"What do you want?" the woman asked.

"This is a hijacking," Mustafa replied calmly. "Do as I say and no one will get hurt."

The woman told him stay on line and transferred him to an Israeli Defence Force officer.

The officer identified himself as Colonel Avner Wolf Leumi and asked him to name his conditions. Mustafa named them. Then an astonished Captain Leumi asked, "Who are you?"

"You will know when the pilot lands this plane," Mustafa replied. Then he broke off communication.

About twenty minutes later, as the airliner approached Israeli air space, the other passengers were able to look out their windows and see two Israeli F-1 Phantom jet fighters on each side of the plane. Once the squadron leader verified that it was merely a Libyan airliner approaching Israeli air space, the F-1 Phantoms escorted the DC-10 to David Ben-Gurion International Airport.

When the plane land in Tel Aviv, Mustafa surrendered to the Israeli authorities without a struggle. Of course, Colonel Leumi was dying to confront a Libyan hijacker in Israel. "Why would you hijack a plane to Israel, of all places?" Leumi asked, astonished.

"I want to show the world that not all Arabs want to destroy Israel," Mustafa replied.

"He's nuts!" another Israeli officer muttered.

Nearly everybody in Israel thought that Mustafa al-Hamzi was mentally ill once this story hit the newspapers.

Death Comes to Susurluk

The town of Susurluk is located in western Turkey, somewhere on a pipeline from the Persian Gulf. This story is based on real events that occurred in 1994, except for the assassination of the journalist. Tansu Ciller and Recip Erdoğan are historical figures, since both have served as Turkey’s prime minister, but the other characters are fictitious.

Simge was twenty-five years old and still living at home, but that wasn’t unusual for a woman her age living in modern Turkey. Like all of her friends, she was sleeping with her boyfriend, but her family hadn’t met him yet. Oh, there were signs that Simge had a man in her life. Though she only worked at a delicatessen as a cashier, she had expensive jewelry in the top drawer of her vanity chest, and fine clothes hanging in her closet. Nothing fancy, but a working-class girl in İstanbul normally couldn’t afford to buy all that stuff selling baklava and şiş kebap in a deli. When she came back from a beach on the Black Sea where she said that she was vacationing with some friends, her mother noticed that there weren’t any tan lines on her body where there should have been tan lines. Her mother thought that she knew why: Simge had been to a nude beach. Her mother suspected then that there was a man in her life, but she didn’t say anything about it. Must be, there are some things that mothers don’t talk about with their daughters once they have reached the age of majority, which is twenty-one in Turkey. Soon, her mother thought, a man would approach her husband, Simge’s father, to ask permission to marry his daughter.

However, there were a few reasons why Simge’s boyfriend would never ask her father for her hand in marriage. Number one, Simge’s boyfriend was married, his wife, ensconced in a villa somewhere on the Black Sea west of the Bosporus, like she was the mistress. Second, Simge’s boyfriend was a gangster who might have thought that he didn’t have to ask anybody’s permission to marry anybody, regardless of the custom in Turkey.

Known as Mehmet Baba, or “Big Daddy Mohammed,” Simge’s boyfriend had both legitimate and illegal enterprises. On his business card, it said that he owned a construction company. The Walther PPK that he kept in a holster under his left arm, however, said it all; he wasn’t somebody to mess with. With his massive frame, European-style coiffure and wraparound sunglasses, he looked the part of the Euro-gangster who smuggled hashish and opium from the Golden Triangle in Asia, and Afghan and Iraqi refugees into the Balkans, from where they tried to find work as “guest workers” in the rest of Europe without the required work papers. Psychologists might have classified Mehmet Baba as a sociopath because his outlook on life was decidedly fatalistic; the possibilities of a violent death or a long term in prison were just occupational hazards. If he had any trouble sleeping at night, it wasn’t because he had a bad conscience.

They met completely by chance at the deli where Simge worked. Mehmet Baba walked in to buy a sandwich or a şiş kebap, but when the girl behind the counter smiled at him, he asked for her telephone number and got it. You could say it was what the Muslims call kismet, or “fate.” Mehmet Baba was a firm believer in kismet.

A gangster usually doesn’t talk much about his business with his “moll,” but Simge once overheard Mehmet talking with one of his associates on his cell phone. It went like this, at least on Mehmet’s end: “If you don’t have enough sand for the foundation, just add more water. Don’t worry about the inspectors. I’ll take care of them.”

After Mehmet hung up, Simge said to him, “I wouldn’t want to live in one of your buildings, darling.”

“Maybe you already live in one of my buildings,” he replied.

Simge ignored his comeback and continued, “One of your buildings could collapse. If you adhere to the building code at least somewhat, you could save yourself some legal trouble in the future.”

Simge’s advice soon proved prophetic. When an earthquake struck İstanbul, resulting in the deaths of thousands, many of Mehmet’s buildings survived the tremblers because he was more scrupulous in following the building code than many of his competitors. For some time after the earthquake, contractors like Mehmet Baba were the most hated men in Turkey. With the introduction of stricter building codes, however, some of Mehmet’s buildings had to be demolished because they weren’t up to the new standards, and they had been weakened by the earthquake and its aftershocks. But such is life.

As usual, Mehmet picked up Simge a few blocks from where she lived after she got off work. He had told her to pack up enough clothes for a weekend getaway, giving her a week’s time in advance to arrange for the time off with her boss. Since Simge lived somewhere south of the posh suburb of Örtaköy on the Asian side of İstanbul, Mehmet wouldn’t have to deal with the traffic on any of the four bridges that crossed the Bosporus. It was more convenient for Mehmet to see his mistress rather than his wife and children, who lived on the European side, whereas Mehmet still lived all alone in a villa in Örtaköy.

Simge got into the car and offered her cheeks to Mehmet, who kissed them both. “Where are we going, darling?” she asked, curious.

Mehmet was deliberately vague in his response. “We’re meeting some general,” he said. “The fate of the country could hang in the balance...”

Simge knew better than to ask more questions. The wise gangster knows not to mix business with pleasure; there are only so many things that he tells his wife or his girlfriend. One of the desirable qualities in a gangster’s moll is silence. That way, if the police ever come around asking questions, she can tell them that she doesn’t know. While Simge’s advice had saved Mehmet thousands of Turkish lire in lawsuits after the earthquake in İstanbul, Mehmet made sure that Simge didn’t overhear too many things on his cell phone that could compromise him in the future. Besides, Simge had reasons of her own for not wanting to talk the police: she sometimes did jobs for Mehmet Baba; she knew how to use a gun too.

But let’s back to our sheep: Mehmet drove Simge down the long and winding roads south of İstanbul along the Aegean coast in his Jaguar XL. Simge thought that Mehmet took the turns a little too fast and urged him to slow down a few times. However, Mehmet knew that his British-made sports car, with its hardy suspension, was built precisely for taking at high speeds the sharp turns that existed in southwestern Turkey. The topography of the Aegean coast of Turkey is similar to that of England’s, with low-lying hills, meandering streams, and little tree cover. However, you have to be able to stop on a dime for the occasional flock of goats or sheep crossing the road. Sometimes, other vehicles go too slow or stall in the middle of the road and you have to pass them.

Life is old in Turkey. Turkey has long been the crossroads where East meets West. Archaeologists have found evidence of as many as nine civilizations in some of the tells or strata that they have uncovered in Asia Minor. Therefore, one should not be surprised to see a farmer riding a donkey in the countryside only a few miles from a major population centre, like İstanbul or Ankara. Animals are a much older mode of transportation here than cars.

After a couple hours of having the country highways to themselves, Mehmet and Simge stopped for the night at a little hotel on the Aegean Sea with white stucco walls and orange clay tiles for the roof. “We meet this guy here in town around ten-thirty in the morning,” Mehmet told Simge. “Then we drive out to a town on the Lebanese border.”

“Who is this general that we’re supposed to meet?” Simge asked.

“Ah, him!” Mehmet replied. “Like I said, he’s a general. I’ve done some work for him in the past. Military service is mandatory for all able-bodied men in Turkey, but my father did some construction work for free to get me out of doing military service. The general simply arranged for me to flunk the physical. God is great.”

“So you’re just going to meet this general. Why, to flunk another physical?” Simge asked. Then she kissed him on the cheek.

Mehmet knew that it was only playful bantering on Simge’s part, but his expression was suitably grave. He looked at Simge and replied, “I have arranged a meeting between the general and a representative of the Kurdish People’s Party. Must be, both sides want to end the war. The PPK isn’t strong enough to expel the Turkish army from Kurdistan, but the government has finally realized that the war will continue as long as even one Kurdish insurgent opposes it. As well, our prime minister, may God give her wisdom, wants Turkey to join the European Union, but the British, the French, and everybody else in the EU are, shall we say, uncomfortable with Turkey’s human rights record. Turkey still has the death penalty, you know, and the police torture people routinely. Nothing serious, just some beatings and fingernails pulled out. The Europeans, on the other hand, don’t execute anybody these days; they’re soft on crime, the poofs. Then there’s the Armenian Question. The Kurds know all about the massacre of thousands of Armenians during the Great War, having participated in it themselves, but most of the Turks still deny it.”

Simge put her arms around Mehmet from behind and kissed him on the cheek. “Come to bed, darling,” she murmured with a pout. “I’m lonely...”

Mehmet brushed back her black hair streaked with brown highlights with his hand and gazed into her light brown, almond-shaped eyes. Then he laughed to himself and kissed her hard on the mouth. She wasn’t exactly beautiful, he thought, even if she was a former beauty queen in İstanbul. Maybe she was a little too skinny and a little too petite with her aquiline nose and olive skin. He preferred the paler Turkish girls with blond hair and blue eyes that looked European rather than those with olive skin who looked Middle Eastern like Simge. But he liked her mysterious smile and her almond-shaped eyes. A smile revealed much about a person’s character, he thought, and the eyes: they revealed everything else. The eyes, they say, are the light to the soul.

Simge sometimes compared Mehmet with other lovers, too. He knew how to please her, but there was once a little Frenchman that knew how to make her scream. The Frenchman would shrug his shoulders afterwards and say, “A man should be able to make a woman come at least three times: with his mouth, with his hands, and with his pine...”

The relationship that existed between Simge and Mehmet had no real future but existed only in the context of an Eternal Now. Because Mehmet Baba was involved in organized crime, he could be snuffed out by his enemies, who were legion, at any moment. Therefore, marriage held little attraction for either of them. Simge was beginning to understand that Mehmet's reach extended far beyond his little construction business in İstanbul towards both the Turkish military and the Kurdish separatists. Whether Turkey maintained its grip on Kurdistan or the Kurds successfully broke away, it hardly mattered even to most Turks, except as a matter of national pride. Mehmet Baba was merely thinking like a business man, he said to himself, trying to prepare for the uncertainties of the future. He was only trying to “look at The Big Picture.”

Then Mehmet did something with his mouth that he had never done before, and Simge gasped, “Oh, yes! Right there! Ô là-là...”

That phrase, ô là-là, was something that she had learned from her Frenchman.

Maybe Mehmet could make her come three times, too, like her French lover, if he had the time and the inclination...

*****

Early the next morning, Mehmet showed Simge a 9-mm Beretta PX4 Storm subcompact pistol. “I want you to take care of some business,” he said. “I would do it myself, but I have a meeting with the general.”

He handed her the pistol and she scanned its length with her eyes as she held it in her right hand. Then she sighted it. Once she verified that there was no clip or round in the chamber, she aimed at her reflection in the mirror and pulled the trigger. There was very little resistance in the trigger mechanism, she thought; she should have no trouble getting off a shot at her victim. Simge handed the pistol back to Mehmet, and Mehmet inserted the clip.

“I’m supposed to meet him at the bazaar this afternoon,” Mehmet said, “but I’m meeting the general today. You walk up to him, say hello, and shoot. I chose this gun because it’s small and I want you to get close to him. You push the gun up to his stomach and tilt it at an angle where the bullet will enter his heart and exit from his back into the ceiling. One shot should prove fatal, if it’s done right.”

Mehmet demonstrated how he wanted her to point the gun at her target.

“In the ensuing panic,” he continued, “you make your get away. You drop the gun and ditch the scarf. I want you dressed like a good Muslim girl, with the raincoat and the hecap. After that, you can go back to being a modern woman again.”

Then he looked at her hard and warned, "I want no innocent bystanders killed. I want a clean hit."

“Who were you supposed to meet?” Simge asked.

Mehmet showed Simge a photo of the man from his cell phone. He looked like a civil servant near retirement, well past the age of sixty. Simge guessed that he was either a politician or an academic figure, probably a leftist. Maybe he was a writer who had “insulted Turkishness” by suggesting that Armenians had been massacred by the Turkish army during World War I. He didn’t look at all dangerous, but she decided not to ask Mehmet why he wanted him dead.

Mehmet and Simge met with the Turkish general out under the terrace of the hotel restaurant. They greeted each other with the “wolf signal,” which looked like the Heavy Metal Salute. The general introduced himself as Mehmet Kerivan. The general’s countenance was very dour, not very inviting. With an army uniform, some ribbons, and some aviator sunglasses, he would have looked more like a general, but instead he looked like a tourist out on a weekend that he clearly didn’t look forward to, dressed in a white polo shirt and some beige slacks. One would have expected to see a wife in tow who equally hated their little holiday. Clearly, the general had not come here with pleasure in mind. That worried Mehmet Baba, because the general seemed out of place. Both had reason to fear the Turkish police, because this meeting was supposed to be clandestine. The general was a high-ranking official of the National Intelligence Service (MİT), Turkey’s military intelligence agency. Both Mehmet Baba and Kerivan had ties with the Grey Wolves, a right-wing terrorist group. Hence the wolf signal.

“How was your drive from Ankara, my general?” Mehmet Baba asked politely while shaking the general’s hand.

“The drive was pleasant enough,” Kerivan replied, frowning. “It’s preferable to be on the sea than in Ankara this time of year, with the summer well under way. The heat is unbearable in Ankara, and government bureaucrats are insufferable this time of year.”
“God is great,” Mehmet replied, noncommittally.
Like many of the top officers in the Turkish military, the general was openly hostile to the politicians, particularly the female prime minister, Tansu Ciller, though Ms. Ciller had given the military carte blanche to do whatever it felt necessary to cleanse Kurdistan of Kurdish insurgents. Perhaps Tansu Ciller could have passed for an “iron butterfly” in other countries with her unapologetic stance vis-à-vis the Kurds, but many Turks believed that she was merely a front for the military; it was the military that was really calling the shots, they said.
Mehmet Baba introduced Simge to the general, who smiled, kissed her hand, and complimented her for her beauty. Then they all sat down at table for lunch. Simge ate in silence while Mehmet Baba filled the general in on the Kurdish guerrilla leader that they were supposed to meet. “This guy is somewhere between a field commander and a member of the nomenclemature of the PPK in their chain of command,” Mehmet explained. “In other words, he’s like you. If the Kurds had a real army, he might be a general, too.”

“Who is this guy?” Kerivan asked brusquely.

“You know that I can’t tell you that, my general, at least not now. For security reasons, you understand...”

The general merely grumbled and picked at his food, like it was something to be conquered rather than savoured. He was eating lüfer, which is a flaky white fish found only in the Black Sea.

During the meal, Mehmet signaled with his eyes towards the restaurant door the moment when he wanted Simge to leave for the bazaar. Simge excused herself and went into the women’s room. She balled up her hair at the neck and put on the Muslim head scarf, the hecap. Then she removed a pale green raincoat from her hand bag, put that on as well, and put on some large round sunglasses. Since lots of young Muslim women in Turkey dressed as she was dressed now, it was an effective disguise, particularly in a small town on the Aegean Sea where the people were mostly observant Muslims.

Though it was just past noon, the bazaar was still teeming with people. Then, in the middle of a green space in the bazaar, she saw the man that she was supposed to kill. The man looked nervous, impatient, like he had been waiting all morning. He was tall and thin, with a homburg on his head and a beige raincoat over his right arm. He was wearing a brown suit and a thin red tie. With his grey, pencil-thin mustache and his pale blue eyes, he looked more like an Englishman than a Turk. He looked like a retired civil servant or professor, like he did in the photograph.

Simge pulled the Beretta from her hand bag and approached him with the barrel pointed to the ground. When the man saw her, Simge smiled at him and said pleasantly, “Merhaba! How are you?”

“Who are you?” the man asked warily. He hadn’t seen the gun yet, Simge realized, but he sensed that something was up. She concluded that he had to have been a journalist; maybe he was promised a scoop if he interviewed a gangster who was also a member of the Grey Wolves.

“I’m sorry,” Simge said, still smiling, “but Mehmet Baba couldn’t meet with you today. He sent me instead...”

Then Simge put the Beretta up to the man’s stomach with the barrel angled towards the heart. When she pulled the trigger, her victim crumpled to the ground as if he had been punched hard in the solar plexus. Though the crowd heard a loud blast, nobody could immediately ascertain where the shot had come from or who had been shot.

Simge made her getaway in the confusion. She calmly dropped the gun and walked away from the scene. When she saw a grey metal door marked BAYANLAR in capital letters, she walked towards the door and entered the room behind it; it was the women’s room. She immediately pulled off her sunglasses and her head scarf and put them in her hand bag. Then she took a moment to unball her hair, brush it out, and put on some make-up. Before she reemerged from the women’s room, she made sure that there was no blood on her raincoat. Then she turned it, since it had pockets both inside and outside; she was now wearing a brown raincoat. Nobody noticed when Simge walked out of the women’s room; everybody was too busy milling around the scene of the murder.

When Simge returned to the restaurant, Mehmet Baba and General Kerevan were still eating lunch. The general had hardly touched his lüfer. “Did you find what you wanted at the bazaar?” Mehmet asked as Simge sat down next to him.

Simge kissed him on the cheek and replied, “No, darling; just the usual raincoats and scarves.”

Mehmet understood then that she had successfully done the job and was satisfied that she hadn’t led the police to him.

*****

Mehmet Baba and General Kerevan ate the rest of their meal in silence before they continued in Mehmet Baba’s Jaguar towards their meeting with the Kurdish fighter. Again, Simge complained about the speed at which Mehmet Baba took the turns, but Mehmet wanted to reach their rendezvous point with the Kurdish guerrilla before too late. The longer that the Kurd had to wait, Mehmet knew, the more anxious that he would be. The Kurd had wanted to meet close to the Lebanese border so that he could easily escape into Lebanon, if the police decided to close in on him. He was wanted by the Turkish police and had even been sentenced to death by a military tribunal in absentia.

They arrived four hours later, towards dusk, at a little café in the hills near the Lebanese border. The man that they were supposed to meet was waiting for them, a short man who called himself Mustafa Walid Salah. He hardly looked like someone who had spent any time hiding in the mountains of Kurdistan, since he was more than a little pudgy. He tried to fit in with the native populace by dressing in Western clothes and trimming his mustache, rather than the turban, the flowing robe and the beard of Kurdish men in Kurdistan. In Turkey, facial hair is everything. The Islamic fundamentalists wear full beards, for instance, while Westernized liberals often wear no facial hair at all. The conservatives, those who follow the ideology of Kemal Atatürk, the founder of modern Republic of Turkey, merely wear mustaches. However, Salah’s Kurdish accent gave him away, though he spoke Turkish and Arabic as well as Kurdish.

When Simge knew that the men wanted to go out to a café, she took this as a cue to do some shopping. In Turkey, men go out to cafés and drink rakı while the women either stay home or go shopping, depending on the time of day. Sometimes, the men will then go out for a night on the town to watch female belly dancers, usually late at night. However, Simge was soon bored with shopping. There were no shopping malls in this town like the Grand Bazaar on Istiklal Boulevard in İstanbul, just a little depot that attracted buyers and merchants from both Turkey and across the border in Lebanon, as well as Syria and Iraq. Every day, trucks from several countries crossed back and forth across the border to deliver merchandise, some from as far away as Israel. You could buy everything from Turkish rugs to fake lava lamps, as well as compact disc players and iPods. Merchants even sold openly articles of Islamic clothing like hecaps, or head scarves, as well as turbans and burqas, which are illegal in modern Turkey (though women still wear them). However, this bazaar had nothing that Simge wanted. Besides, there was no room to stash a Turkish rug in Mehmet Baba’s Jaguar, and Simge wasn’t a religious Muslim to the extent that she was willing to wear a hecap, except, of course, when Mehmet sent her out on a job.

Meanwhile, the men smoked a narghile, or Turkish water pipe, at the café and drank copious amounts of rakı, which is an anise-flavoured alcoholic beverage like ouzo, except that the Turks don’t burn off the dregs before they sink to the bottom of the glass like the Greeks do. If you have a glass full of dregs at the end of the evening, it means that you have drunk a lot of rakı.

The men were at the café merely to have a good time rather than negotiate the fates of Turkey and Kurdistan. The belly dancers had a good night, too, making money like water in tips from their table. By the time Simge came to get them, the men were feeling good, though they might see things differently in the morning.

*****

The next morning, Mehmet Baba was the first to wake up, because he seldom slept more than a few hours at a time, even when inebriated. Seeing Simge lying in bed next time, still asleep, he felt amorous, so he put his arms around her from behind and started kissing her neck and shoulders while squeezing her breasts until she began to wake up. She looked different to him now, more beautiful than he had ever seen her, and he couldn’t remember feeling so alive. Simge still wanted to sleep, but she silently lifted her right leg and inserted his penis inside of her. Then she curled up in a fœtal position with her back to Mehmet Baba and massaged her clitoris until she came. After Mehmet ejaculated, they both went back to sleep, with Mehmet’s arms still around her.

When Mehmet and Simge woke up a couple of hours later, they showered, did their toiletries, and went down to the hotel restaurant for breakfast. Downstairs, first Kerivan and then Salah met them while they were still eating and joined them for breakfast. Both the Turkish general and the Kurdish insurgent were hungover from the night before, with their faces feeling numb and immobilized from all the rakı that they had drunk. After they finished eating, Mehmet Baba announced his intention to take Kerivan and Salah to yet another undisclosed location. As the general and the guerrilla fighter climbed into the back seat of the Jaguar, Simge whispered to Mehmet, “Are you all right to drive, darling?”

Though he was also feeling hungover, Mehmet merely nodded his head and climbed into the driver’s seat while Simge climbed into the passenger’s seat on the right side.

While racing down the narrow country roads of western Turkey, Mehmet got his Jaguar XL up to speeds of 150 km per hour. The reason that he drove so fast was because he didn’t want to be driving down these roads at night, when visibility was almost nil. However, Simge still wasn’t used to his driving and urged him several times to slow down. “Don’t worry, my dear,” Mehmet replied. “I’ve got this thing under control.”

He would slow down to mollify her, but he eventually had the needle of the speedometer well over to the right like it was before. His foot seemed to have a mind of its own.

Then, as they passed through the little down of Susurluk, a Volvo delivery van pulled out the town’s only service centre. Since the Jaguar was still going about 80 km per hour, about 55 mph, the Jaguar had no room to brake. Mehmet veered to the shoulder of the road to avoid hitting the van, but he collided head on with a Mercedes Benz 300 SD coming from the opposite direction that had crossed the centre line to avoid hitting the van. The driver of the van escaped serious injury, but he recalled hearing a woman’s scream because Simge had her window rolled down.

The police found the wreckage of both cars by the side of the road. Only Mustafa Walid Salah survived the crash, and he suffered amnesia; he couldn’t remember anything, including his name. The press had a field day; the accident was on the front page of all the newspapers because of the people involved: a Turkish general, a Kurdish guerrilla leader, a gangster and the gangster’s girlfriend. In the scandal that followed, Prime Minister Tansu Ciller’s government collapsed in 1996. Turkey now has an Islamist prime minister, Recip Tayyib Erdoğan.

Simge’s parents knew the identity of her boyfriend only when the rest of the country did, because Simge had been discrete about her private life until the moment of her death. Then details began to emerge that she was a hired assassin. This was the biggest blow of all, because no one had suspected that Simge was a murderer.

Sous la lune en croissant

Ah, je veux vous dire que les femmes turques sont si belles, si séduisantes ! J’étais dans un bar à Istanboul lorsque je fis la reconnaissance d’une belle blonde turque. Elle étais grande et svelte, aux cheveux longs et blonds. Elle avait un tel beau sourire rusé, aux fossettes dans les joues. C’est les yeux, pourtant, qui va me hanter pour toujours. Elle était aux yeux d’or comme celles de chatte, presque aussi blonds que les cheveux. Je ne vais jamais oublier ses yeux.

J’asseyais au comptoir toute seule lorsqu’elle entra dans le bar. Elle s’assit auprès de moi pour se présenter. Elle s’appelait Merve, disait-elle. Je me présentai aussi, pour être amicale.

Or, je suis une femme, présumablement hétérosexuelle, mais je pensais que je pourrais marcher à voile et à vapeur pour une partie de jambes en l’air avec celle-là. J'avais le béguin pour elle tout de suite. C’était le coup de foudre. Ah, que j’aie une bitte ! pensais-je. Mais je n'avais rien qu'un minuscule bouton d'amour.

Assise à un tabouret de bar en parlant à elle, je me trouvais regarder fixement ses seins, qui étaient quelque peu petits mais parfaitement fermes. Elle avait des belles miches. Elle était si élégante! Elle portait une belle robe noire sans dos comme elle avait fait une tournée des grands-ducs avec quelques amies. Et on peut voir parfaitement les bouts de ses miches par le tissu de sa robe, qui étaient comme deux petits boutons.

Je suis plongée dans l’embarras lorsqu’elle me voit regarder ses miches. Je demande pardons abondamment mais elle se rit en disant : « Ça fait rien, Margo. J’y comprends. Ces sont des belles tours, n’est-ce pas ? »

Alors, elle se serre les miches ensemble comme une danseuse de burlesque. Je n’en reviens pas ! Elle se rit encore en voyant ma réaction. Puis elle me regarde dans les yeux en me disant au tout sérieux :

— Je porte le deuil. C’est la raison pourquoi je porte le noir. J’avais une petite amie mais elle s’en est allée. La faute c’était à moi. C’était la jalousie, j’étais capricieuse, cruelle…

Il parait qu’elle veut pleurer. J’y comprends: elle me dit qu’elle est de l’autre bord. Je la regarde fixement dans les yeux comme elle me regardait dans les miens. Puis je réponds en souriant à elle :

— Peut-être, j’suis pas du bâtiment comme toi, ma chérie, mais je pourrais être agréable pour rendre visite là-bas…

Elle me regarde fixement, puis elle me dit d’un sourire :

— Viens-toi voir la lune en croissant du Ramadan! C'est le Ramadan demain, tu sais. Sur mon balcon, on peut voir parfaitement les étoiles. On peut voir la planète Vénus même.

Puis elle ajoute avec ruse :

—La planète Vénus, c'est la planète d'amour...

Alors, elle s’incline la tête vers la mienne, les yeux fermés, pour m’emrasser sur les babines. Ayoille ! Le premier baiser saphien! Moi, je m’incline la tête pour l’embrasser de retour. Ça n’est pas du tout haīssible, mon premier baiser avec elle.

On quitte le bar ensemble. Subitement, je suis gênée. Je me mets à me capoter même. Oh, je veux le faire tant, mais je me sens gênée comme une pucelle. C'est la première fois pour moi, tandis qu'elle est probablement très éprouvée. Qui sait combien d'autres amantes qu'elle a eu dans le passé ?

Finalement, je lui dis :

— Mille fois pardons, Merve, mais j’suis nouvelle à l’affaire.

Mais elle sourit séduisante en répondant en voix basse :

— Sois tranquille, ma poupon! À mon avis, tu te sentira pas si gênée le lendemain matin…

Alors elle fait la bouche à bouche à moi en lançant la langue dans ma bouche. Ayoille ! Le premier patin d'une autre femme ! Puis elle me dit:

— Peut-être, on devrait marcher bras dessus bras dessous en bas de la rue. Comme ça, peut-être on va se sentir davantage comme deux saphiennes...

Ah, je me sens déjà comme une saphienne !

Bras dessus bras dessous, on marche en bas du boulevard de la Liberté, que l'on appelle « bulvari Istaklal » en turque. C’est effrayant. Ensemble, on lèche les fênetres des grands magasins. Puisque le Grand-Bazar est ouvert encore, on marche dans le Grand-Bazar, bras dessus bras dessous encore. Puis j’ai subitement le gout de lui serser la main. Je lui serre la main donc. La main dans la main, on marche dans le Grand-Bazar d’Istanboul à nuit. Je suis amoureuse d’elle. Je suis aux anges. Il m’est égal si ma Merve est une autre femme. Je m’en fous. À ce moment, son nom c'est une chanson dans mon oreils, le gazouiller d'oiseaux dans mon cœur. Le même nom de Merve c'est comme les lettres d'un panneau d'affichage devant moi. Je veux écrire son nom dans le ciel. Lorsque l'on arrête de temps en temps pour s’embrasser, c’est fantastic !

Alors, deux jeunes femmes en costume musulmane, aux foulards musulmans sur les têtes, elles nous voient marcher la main dans la main dedans le Grand-Bazar. Je vois sur leurs jeunes visages maigres et terreux des regards de haine, de la désapprobation violente. Elles ressemblent à deux Arabes, aux traits durs et féroces, leurs visages pleins de condamnation. Je suis plongée subitement dans l'embarras. J'ai honte, je suis gênée encore. Alors, j’ai peur de ma vie. Je me rends compte alors que la Turquie est un pays musulman, pas occidental mais oriental. Du monde ici est à la plupart musulman.

Alors, je me sens orgueilleuse. Je regarde les deux femmes d'un air guindé, puis j'embrasse fort Merve sur la bouche. Les deux femmes sont choquées. Je me tiens prête à les combattre s'il s'agit de le faire, mais elles s'enfuissent. Cependant, Merve a peur, elle me dit : « On devrait partir de ce lieu. Autrement, elles pourraient revenir avec leurs copains. »

Mais je suis fière de moi-même : j’ai fait face avec réussite une épreuve importante. Je me rends compte maintenant que je suis capable de force, de courage. Mais Merve a raison : il faut être discrète parfois. Deux femmes sont toujours vulnérables à Istanboul, à la Turquie.

Chez Merve, Merve me montre le balcon de son appartement, où on peut voir la petite lune en croissant aux cieux. « Le lendemain, dit-elle, avant de l’aube, on verra l’étoile matinale, qui est vraiment la planète Vénus. Demain c’est le début du Ramadan. »

Alors, elle sourit à moi en disant :

—Montre moi ton balcon !

Je souris en levant mon top pour un vite peek-a-boo. Puis on se fout à poil. D’abord, des préliminaires. Doucement, elle me mène par la main vers le salon, où elle me couche sur la petite table. D’abord, elle me pélote en me serrant des mains les miches en laissant un chemin de baisers et de patins en haut et en bas de mon torse et sur mes cuisses. Puis elle lèche légèrement, tentativement, les lèvres de mon con. Puis elle creuse plus profondément dans la mine de mon sexe.

Alors, sa langue vibre rapidement, comme sa langue a un moteur. Quand elle trouve le clit, c'est l'angoisse douce! Je peux à peine le supporter. Elle le lèche, elle le grignote. Elle le suce. Je crie fort. Que peux-je faire ? C'est une partie de jambes en l'air. Je prends mon pied à plusieurs reprises.

Alors, elle met un doigt dans mon con jusqu'à ce qu'elle trouve le point Gräffenberg. Ah, quelle impuissance douce pour moi! Elle frotte le point G jusqu'à ce que je viens fort. Puis elle met l'indice, puis le midi, puis chaque doit de la main dans un poing jusqu'à ce qu'elle est en train de faire le fisting. C'est insoutenable ! Je viens à maintes à maintes fois de plus.

Alors, les tribades. On se frotte contre l’une l’autre sur le sofa au point de jouissance mutuelle. Le con contre con, c’est fantastic ! Comme ça, on vient plusieurs fois. Ah, mais il y a plusieurs positions de tribades, plusieurs cents de positions.

Merveilleusement à dire, elle me baise. C’est vrai, elle me baise fort d’un harnas avec le strap-on. À la fin, il me faut demander une période de grâce. D’ailleurs, je dois rendre service à elle ce qu’elle m’a rendue de tout mon possible. Il faut le faire. La première de moi manger la chatte, c’est comme je me trouve au centre de la terre. Les jus de son sexe, ce sont comme l’éruption de volcan. Son volcan entre en éruption plusieurs fois.

Alors, Merve veut aller aux bains turques pour se laver pour le Ramadan avant du crier des muezzins. Il faut le faire, parce qu’elle est musulmane et c’est la plus sainte fête des Musulmans. Ainsi, on va aux bains turques, elle puis moi. On se lave parmi une coterie d’autres femmes. Mais oui, je vois des autres femmes différemment maintenant, comme des partenaires sexuels du possible. C'est ça, je suis lesbienne maintenant. Je fais seulement des rencards avec celles de mon propre genre maintenant.

Chez elle de retour, elle se penche, elle s'agenouille et s'abat pendant que chaque muezzin en ville récite la prière matinale. Ensuite, elle me dit : « J'suis pas très dévouée, mais moi je jeûne et prie pendant le Ramadan. »

Alors je lève les yeux de son balcon et vois la lune en croissant et l'étoile matinale. Pour moi, c’est la Turquie, sous la lune en croissant et l'étoile matinale au Ramadan. Être à Istanboul pendant que tous les muezzins lèvent en haut par une les prières à Dieu, c'est terrible, même si je ne sois pas musulmane.

Elle me permet à passer le reste de mes vacances chez elle. Je quitte mon hôtel donc pour passer le reste de ma pèriode à Istanboul dans son lit et dans ses bras. Tous les jours, on va écouter les cris des muezzins pendant le Ramadan. Puis on se baise. Deux femmes peuvent se baiser, tu sais. Oh, elle m'a montrée un peu d'Istanboul aussi.

Et la prochaine fois que je suis à Istanboul, c’est mon billet doux : « Ah, ma Merve, qu’est-que tu dirais à une partie de jambes en l’air! Bisous, Margot. »