should he? he’s the sultan here. no one can challenge him. you should see the gangsters who hang out with him. they don’t even look him in the eye when they talk to him. he was offered a seat in parliament several times but he never wanted it.’
‘why?’
‘I’m in charge here, he says, why should I go and serve someone else?’
‘bright.’
‘like i said.’
‘so no one can challenge him?’
‘something would happen to anyone who did … he’d have them arrested for drugs, or shot, or he’d catch them with someone and create a scandal. he’s got eyes and ears everywhere. knows everything. can do whatever he wants.’
‘does he have ties to the police?’
‘have you seen the police chief’s mercedes?’
‘no.’
‘you will. he goes to crime scenes in it.’
‘doesn’t anyone complain?’
‘no one wants any trouble. what can they say? he’s the sultan of the land. you should be careful.’
‘we had a nice chat. no animosity.’
‘he doesn’t have any friends. too proud.’
‘he was polite enough to me.’
‘he knows how to be. he’s from a good family. his mother was quite the lady. then she got ill. she raised him well but he’s a black sheep. takes after his father.’
‘doesn’t sound like a man you’re really in love with.’
‘i love him despite everything i know. that’s the problem. i know he’s the last person i should be in love with. but i am. i’m pitiful. an idiot. are you bored of me?’
‘no.’
‘why not?’
‘i suppose because you’re beautiful.’
‘i’m not. he says that too but I don’t think I am.’
‘but you are.’
‘all right, let’s say that i am. is that enough?’
‘it is.’
‘really?’
‘really.’
‘how?’
I could sense the tone of her voice in that last word. She was getting bored with conversation and wanted to make love.
We would make love in words.
The internet is one of the strangest things invented by man.
There is a different kind of pleasure that comes with making love like this. In these flights, Zuhal spoke an entirely different language, using words she never used before, pushing away the idea of physical appearance. In her desire she stepped out of herself and became someone else. And without ever touching her I was electrified by her words.
But I wasn’t driven out of my mind. It was the idea that she was writing them. And it was more than just a jolt of joy. It was immense. And habit-forming. I was hooked. And so was she.
It soon became an addiction.
We had learned how to make love without carnal knowledge. We knew what we liked, we knew the words that stoked desire, and we knew the words to use as we came to a climax. We knew each other.
In that realm we knew each other well.
Perhaps better than anyone could know another.
There were no obstacles, no boundaries, no rules. We were not even there. We had vaulted above the constraints of our own bodies.
We were infinite.
Immersed in a terrifying freedom where everything was possible, a realm of ambiguity that cast everything in a brilliant light, a darkness that made everything brighter than it really was.
The sky above us had receded and the world was devoid of life.
It was only us.
The only two people alive in this universe.
All our secrets were revealed, out in the open space, and there was nothing left to contain them.
My instincts had served me well. I was on the right path. Giving voice to her secret, unspoken desires, pent up for so many years, Zuhal was able to let herself go in this seemingly infinite world. If we had physically made love, I doubt that she would have experienced such freedom.
Most people in this world make love, and they do it well. They reach an understanding, and they know joy, but some experience more: they seek dishes not on the common menu; they are curious about the specials; and when they meet others seeking to satisfy their passions with exotic fare, they leave the world behind, taking refuge in a shared intimacy, creating a new life for themselves in which they are Gods and Goddesses of a universe all their own, in which the map of lovemaking is redrawn to match their desires. Travelling to distant lands on an unparalleled adventure, they savour new delights.
Zuhal said we shared the same ‘pathologies’. Perhaps she got the idea from one of my old books. For reasons I cannot fully understand she derived a perverse pleasure from injecting words I had written in the past into my present life. Messaging with her, I also came to know pleasures I had never known before.
If we hadn’t met in that world, our shared pathologies would never have emerged; and they were ours, impossible to explain to anyone else. But we knew that anything was possible.
We never held back: we told each other everything, discovering our shared desires. We believed it was a miracle.
Knowing this brought us the kind of pleasure that others only know after having made love for a long time.
And that night, as on all the other nights, we drew long and hard on the wellspring of pleasure that came from our shared pathology.
I lost myself completely.
Everything could be forgotten.
But I knew so much.
I had learned so much.
In this unreal world we experienced a reality more freely than we could ever have in the real world.
If I had to make a choice between the virtual and the real I would choose the former, because it is that much more real.
IX
When I woke up the next morning Hamiyet was on the veranda, chattering with a bird as she prepared my breakfast. It seemed they were having a lively conversation.
Later I wandered down into town along narrow, stone-paved streets lined with jasmine, rose bushes and tangerine trees. I arrived at the coffeehouse and I sat down at my table under an enormous olive tree. Centipede brought me my coffee and the tables around me began to fill up.
I started reading my papers.
When I finished one someone came over and took it away.
Just across from me I noticed a man I had never seen there before. He was wearing a black shirt and black trousers, and he was intently reading through the horse racing pages. Though he seemed outwardly calm there was something about him, perhaps the way he was dressed, or his posture, or the way he glanced at the other customers from time to time, that gave me the impression he was trouble.
I looked him over and then went back to my paper. A little later one of those yellow minibuses that run to neighbouring villages pulled up in front of the coffeehouse and a short man stepped out onto the street. I looked around for Centipede, hoping to order another coffee. The short man calmly walked over to the man in the black shirt, pulled out a gun, pointed it at his eye and pulled the trigger. The man in the black shirt had just looked up