“Turkish Delight”

Kazia laughs at me.

“Tourist,” she says, “what makes you think you know anything about this city?”

I hurriedly assure her that I meant nothing by my throwaway comment about Istanbul being Europe's most populous city, a useless fact that I picked up from a guidebook after booking my flight. Why Turkey? I had asked myself, after the ticket was paid for, and the only answer I could offer myself was price. International travel is so easy and inexpensive these days, it doesn't really seem madness to hop on a plane every time you get a bit down and fancy a change of scenery.

The truth is, I know next to nothing about Turkey, and even less about this city in particular, except that Istanbul was once known, at different times, as Byzantium and Constantinople respectively. And it's a veritable Calcutta.

“You won't get to know anything if you go around reading books,” Kazia tells me, almost reading my mind, “seeing the sights and buying crap like half the other sheep who come here.”

“Really?” I lean in across the small table towards her, as if I'm fascinated to hear her words of wisdom. “And how exactly will I get to know things?”

“Stick with me,” she says, nodding sagely. She gestures to a waiter and two more tiny cups of potent Turkish coffee are placed in front of us. She takes hers back in one gulp, like its a shot of tequila or something. I try and down mine as quickly as I can bear, in bitter sips.

I met Kazia less than a day ago; just this morning, in fact. I'd left home in such a hurry, this whole trip being taken on impulse, that I'd forgotten to even tell anyone where I was going. So after checking into the hostel I found an Internet café to get in touch, and Kazia was using the computer next to mine. She made some joke about me surfing for porn, just the crude kind of thing that really makes me smile, and we got talking. The fact that she's on the right side of shaggable made chatting less of a chore.

“So what are we doing next?” I ask, having just mastered ordering coffee in a new language.

“I'm meeting up with some friends,” Kazia says, throwing some money down on the table and standing up, gesturing for me to do the same. “We're going dancing or drinking or something, why don't you come along.”

We head out onto the crowded street, and she links her arm around mine so we won't be separated by the masses of people. The physical contact is encouraging, and I veer to the left, using our crossed elbows to pull her in the same direction, closer to me.

“So,” I try to sound casual, but end up shouting to be heard over the noise of the street, “what kind of name is Kazia?”

She laughs again.

“What kind of name is Jake?”

“It's short for Jacob,” I say, “and what I mean is, you're not from around here, are you? Not with skin so light, and a name like Kazia.”

“There you go again! You're so English, assuming you know everything.” She pretends to be pissed off for a few seconds, then relents: “Well, you're right just this once. I'm from Poland, but I've lived here for years, a lifetime almost.”

I look at her – she can't be past her late twenties – and I think that she must mean a pretty short lifetime.

“How far are we going?” I ask.

“You need to stop asking questions!” She pulls me back to the right, and we both laugh as we clear the crowds and start walking down a quieter side street.

Kazia's friends turn out to be another woman and two men, all darker and less fluent in English than my new friend. The new girl, whose name I hear but don't dare try to pronounce, is nowhere near as pretty as Kazia but has a nice face all the same. The two men, Zeki and Altan, look me up and down upon our introduction, and their large frames are just short of intimidating. Kazia seems to be oblivious to their stern expressions and hugs them both like they are over-sized teddy bears. There's something about them that I don't like, but I go along with it. Nobody else is around, and it soon becomes clear that we won't be going to a conventional bar or club.

This party, or gathering, or whatever it is, takes place in an apartment building that looks like it should be on the condemned list. The walls are a dodgy yellow colour that I think has nothing to do with the choice of paint and everything to do with rot, and there is no glass in any of the windows. Random sounds make their way up from the street below, sometimes barely audible over the music that is being played in the room, but sometimes deafening, such as the police sirens that pass by every half hour or so.

Kazia never stops moving the whole night; she's either dancing or laughing or just drumming her fingertips against her knees, waist, or thin air, always to the beat of the music. She drinks a bit, as does the other girl, but Zeki and Altan don't. I help myself to the vodka, knowing that I'd have to drink a fair amount before getting drunk.

I've been here for a few hours, maybe a little bit longer. The noise from the street has died down somewhat; either that or I'm drunker than I realised and my hearing is impaired. Kazia brings in a small white cardboard box from another room, and places it on the small table in front of me.

“Whassin' there?” I ask. Oh, yes, I am definitely more than a bit drunk.

“Turkish Delight,” she tells me. “Full of Eastern promise.”

She laughs at me when I tell her that the only Turkish Delight I've ever had is the kind that comes covered in milk chocolate.

“Philistine!” She calls me. “This is the real deal. Try some.”

So I reach into the small rectangular box and pick out one of the gelatinous cubes, covering my fingers in fine white sugar in the process. I pop it into my mouth and as soon as my teeth sink into it, it feels as if my mouth has become glued closed.

“It's very sticky, I know,” Kazia says, “but delectable.”

I eventually chew my way through the gooey confectionery, and agree. She invites me to take another piece, and I do. It's delicious. I sit back on the aged sofa and it feels as if I'm sinking into the cushions. Kazia's friend comes and sits next to me, and says something I don't understand.

“What did she say?” I ask Kazia.

“She says she likes you,” she replies. “I like you too, come to think of it. Very much.”

I tell her that I like her as well, and that she can tell her friend I like her also. Kazia smiles and relates what I said, or something close, to the other girl.

I must have knocked back a lot more vodka than I first thought. The room is swaying a little, as if in time to the music, and I'm beginning to feel drowsy. Zeki and Altan mutter to each other in their language, but I've stopped caring about them. The drunker you get, the less intimidated you become by anybody. They could be sat there insulting me in Turkish for all I know, but it doesn't seem important at all.

I slouch down even further, sleepy as hell. Great, I think, what a good impression to make. You're an ignorant tourist who can't take his liquor. Kazia is saying something again, but I can't make out the words.

The girl whose name I can't wrap my tongue around, wraps her tongue around my ear and I moan a little. Zeki and Altan are nowhere to be seen in my increasingly blurry line of vision, but Kazia meets my eye, sat far away on the other side of the room. She smiles as she watches the girl slip her hands into my jean pockets, and then everything goes dark.

When I wake up, my head is pounding and my back is killing me. I soon discover that the latter is on account of being unconscious on the ground for some time. The sun is up now, and I'm lying on a narrow side-street. When I get up and stumble around to get my bearings, I realise I am close to the Internet cafe where I first met Kazia. Events from last night start coming back to me, but I can't make sense of it. There is a bitter taste in my mouth, and it dawns on me that I've been drugged. Most likely something in the powdery coating on the Turkish Delight. Full of Eastern promise, she'd said...

I wrap my arms around myself, unprotected as I am from the early morning chill – my jacket is gone, as well as everything else I had on me. My credit card, all my cash, even my passport. As I rub my hands up and down my arms, trying to warm myself up, I feel something crumple against my chest, and find a small piece of paper folded up in the breast pocket of my torn shirt. Unfurling it with shaky fingers, I read the note that Kazia left for me.

I really did like you. I talked them into letting you keep both of your kidneys.

In a sudden panic, I feel under my shirt, feeling with relief no cuts or wounds of any kind. Thank God for small favours, I suppose. I read the note again, then again. I could scream with impotent fury, but instead I tuck my shirt into my now filthy jeans and walk, as slowly and as calmly as I can muster, back to the Internet cafe. I ignore the tiny place across the street that is just opening, the place where Kazia and I sat drinking miniature cups of coffee so strong they could wake up a coma patient.

As I enter the Internet cafe, I remember I have no money, and am about to turn around and leave when the owner, Azim if I remember correctly, shouts over to me. He doesn't speak a word of English and I don't speak a word of whatever the hell his language is, but he manages to convey his basic message through manic gesturing. Somebody came in early this morning, the very moment he'd opened up, and left something behind the counter; a British passport with my name and picture on it, and a small amount of money, just enough to pay for an hour of Internet access. An hour being enough to contact people in England and hopefully sort out a way home.

I can't help but laugh. This is the place where Kazia first marked me as her victim, before leading me to her friends where I would be drugged and robbed. Now she's here with me again, giving back part of what she took, probably making it all better again in her mind.

I sit down in front of a computer screen and begin to try and get myself out of this situation. Kazia was right about one thing, for sure; I was so arrogant, so English, thinking that I knew everything, thinking that I was in control. Now I know better.

I wonder how many other gullible tourists have fallen for her welcome attention. I wonder if I wait at Azim's Internet Cafe for long enough, I'll see Kazia again, here to pick up a new traveller. And another thing that I can't help but think, a question that I can't not ask myself, is whether the girl with the unpronounceable name is always the one to seduce the tourist, or whether sometimes the victim is lucky enough to get a kiss from Kazia herself.

Author's Note: This is my third story to feature Jake as a character, the other two being “Mouthwash” and “A Rainy Day”. Each has been written on a whim, with no ongoing plot in mind, so I guess it doesn't really matter if you read them or not.

It wasn't until I had almost finished this story that I remembered the scene in "The Lion, The Witch and The Wardrobe" by C.S. Lewis where the witch tempts young Edmund into her service by using magical Turkish Delight... I suppose a part of me was subconsciously recreating that image.