The Call of the East
I felt a bit like Humbert, or John Proctor,
an ageing vulture drawn to fresh young flesh.
She was a pretty, witty Turkish doctor
(so, not exactly plundering the creche!)
She seemed to like me, though we'd never met.
"Why don't you come to Turkey?" she'd implore.
(You've guessed by now I met her on the Net!)
My mind was moving that way, more and more.
Some hanker for one evening with Stan Getz,
Cafe A-Gogo, in the wee small hours.
My fantasy was always minarets
in Istanbul, those slender marble towers
(which seem too graceful for this ugly world)
and me, enthralled by shape and song and air,
as muezzin's warble hovered, wavered, curled,
calling the faithful to their morning prayer.
One Easter, I had four days with no work.
For once, the bank account was almost full.
"I'll go see Aysin," (thus was named my Turk),
"since Ankara must be close to Istanbul."
One word about the people of that land.
They're nosey. Answer questions, they'll ask more.
They meet an Arab, they can sell him sand.
They're merchants. Sent to Hell, they'd open a store.
Turks want to know two things: the area,
in meters squared, encompassed by your flat,
and please confirm that Greeks are hairier
and darker-skinned than them ("Greek girls are fat?")
Met at the airport by a courtesy car,
I'm gliding through the magic Eastern night,
fielding the driver's questions - "Is it far
from Maine to Malibu? Do I look white?"
But what of Aysin? She'd be here by three.
What seemed to me the perfect metaphor
(young Ankara was her, old "Stamboul", me)
was not an easy drive - five hours, and more!
It's midnight in my Turkish hotel room.
The good news is, the mosque across the square
is one of Sinan's - soaring through the gloom,
two graceful minarets piercing the air.
The bad news is the teenage Turkish boys,
all three of them, on duty as night porters.
Ingenious at thinking up new ploys,
they pound my door to offer sparkling water
so they can ask more questions. "Is it true
that Elvis is alive? What do you make
in salary? This trip, what will you do?"
"I've got a Turkish girlfriend". Big mistake.
Appalled and fascinated, they demand
to know how come a foreign guy like me
can "pull" a Turkish chick. How was it planned?
I say she'll be arriving here at three.
"What? You, and her - in HERE?" Dark eyes dilate.
"It hasn't been discussed. I just don't know."
"They do like this, the women in the States?"
It's nearly half-past two before they go.
I try to stay awake, but suddenly
there's banging on the door. I must have dozed.
"The Turkish girl is here. She's pretty. See!"
There's Aysin, wearing figure-hugging clothes.
We clinch and kiss. I kick the door to close it,
although this room (no aircon) is a sauna.
Young Aysin is a beauty, and she knows it -
as do three pairs of eyes, around the corner!
She has a brisk and breezy bedside manner.
We'll both sleep here. She's sure I wouldn't harm her.
Comes out of bathroom wearing, like a banner,
both bra and panties under her pyjamas.
But when I want to, I can be persuasive.
Some kisses, compliments... "Don't be afraid..."
Although at first her tactics are evasive,
by dawn, impressive progress has been made.
In some old film, Pacino says a thing
that I've found true. We don't recall the sex.
It's details which strike home. Some song she sings,
the angle of her chin, some light effect...
As things reached crisis-point, she grabbed my arm -
"You hear it?" It was starting! It was there!
The muezzin's song, just like some ancient charm,
was calling Stamboul's faithful to their prayer.
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