A Short Story from “Decadence Nights” of Hikmet Temel Akarsu...
WESTEND GIRLS
Hikmet Temel Akarsu
Translated by Emre Karacaoğlu
emrekaracaoglu@gmail.com
One of those bitter mornings in sad Britain where we wake up inhaling lead...The sound of cars passing by reminding you that you do have to get up even if you feel miserable...The merciless awakening of industrial society...
Depression is upon us. We ran away from one country in crisis and led ourselves into another in dire straits. Year 1986...Another year of Thatcherism where the English search the Old Street marketplace until late evening for second hand shoes...Neo-liberalism torments England. An early example of the monetarist crisis that would take place in Turkey twenty years later...Punks all around the streets...Squat gangs lurk from house to house. The country hit rock bottom with unemployment. Even the so-called “cold-blooded” English look helpless at the time.
Nobody smiles...
The merriness of pubs is long gone but folks do gather in local pubs nonetheless. Faces look dull, however. Smiles are little, songs melancholic. Cindy Lauper, Bonnie Tyler and Mike Oldfield can be heard frequently. Soft, sentimental lyrics drifting from the depths of pubs, especially “one day in your life...” put everyone into reverie. Listeners barely hold their first teardrops. Everyone looks woeful. A siege that looks as if it is going to last forever...The desperate feeling of being cornered and utter sorrow...The sad streets of London have been loaded with new loads of misery. The country seems to be buried under dead soil. Even the news of the discovery of rich oil fields in the Arctic cannot dissipate the foul mood. A very “cool,” extremely “rock n roll” kind of grief has left its mark on all expressions.
We had grown tired of the political chaos, economic crisis and governmental terror and, finally, fled our country. But as soon as we had gotten here, we understood that once we are in the game, it is the same everywhere. England is no different. Being an immigrant opened every door to all kinds of labor, kebab houses, doner houses, ironing jobs and bartending. But I refused all. I cannot bear to fall that low with a Technical Uuniversity diploma; I’d rather take the lowest. Therefore, I decided to be a porter loading huge bales of drapery onto lorries. At least, I still show some character, don’t I?
I spend a whole week carrying inhumane weights without a moment of opportunity to ponder for a second; thus, with no pain. I only eat fish and chips. Furthermore, the urban tales told in our country turn out to be pure fantasy: I am as horny and alone as ever. Not a single English girl comes and begs me for a shag...To be honest, I am a bit disappointed about that...Oh, the fairy tales we had heard back in our country...
Loneliness becomes a sticky, dense feeling. Loneliness, melancholy, hard work and the miserable feeling of being shoved away...I feel weak. I feel even worse than the English.
Late at night, I barely find the strength to take a hasty shower before a quick nap. After an hour or two, I throw myself onto the street in the direction of Islington’s pubs. It is late already. The disciplined English withdraw to their homes after 11 pm as if under command. However, I conform to the call of the underground: those bewitching, tempting melodies from strange places. The peculiar “underground” acts and looks of the eccentric youth seem childish while I crawl under the stone called “life.” They look primitive and, especially, phony. I return home with ears that feel like they have just been raped. Not a single girl turns back to look at this stranger. I feel so hurt. I am not your typical cheeky, pushy Turkish lad with all those loud talks and sticky hand moves. Not that I am against any of it...All my life I have witnessed with astonishment that women turn to such things, as opposed to all my beliefs and hopes. I could never do that. That is why I have been alone all along. And not a single soul has understood that so far...Not in my home country, not even in London...
There was only a single night I would stray away from my pathetic state. I would join the “weekend” crowds of the English and head straight to Westend. Piccadilly Circus and Westend...The plateau of fantasy...Counterfeit heaven...Lustral theme park...Musical dream...The most refined illusion of a kingdom of lies...Before getting there, I would drink to death in Covent Garden and make for the Square.
Those were the golden days of Disco: English girls with short, blond, curly hair and milk-white skin would hop around everywhere with giggles and that. Minis only down to their cunts would make my heart go full throttle. Even if you’ve been carrying bales as a porter for a whole week...
I used to queue with these frivolous, blond lower class girls in front of clubs like Empire and Hippodrome. Dire Straits, Samantha Fox, Madonna, Europe and some other proto-hair bands were in their prime back then. The notes of “Touch meeeeee!” would float out of the club to the streets. The queues would stir slightly and giggle...Only the jaded, crack Italian girls would drop me a smile now and then. Once inside, I would forget all about my fatigue and dance with them until sunrise. Towards morning, having seen the sentimental me, they would get together with some other Italian lad and head home.
I would feel so beat.
And then “Westend Girls” would come up. It was around that time the song started getting some radio coverage. Slick lower class girls would draw closer to the ironers for one last free pint and then off they would go, too. That would put me down even more...
When the morning would start lighting the Piccadilly Circus with its first reluctant rays, even the Night Buses would be gone a long time. I would sod off in the direction of Islington, but then, after a moment, would stop. I would turn back and embrace the call of Thames instead. I would sit down on a bench by the river and think that I should cry. But, I would not have the strength to do that, either.
I would sit frozen by the Thames every Sunday morning.
* * *
That wonderfully vital song of Pet Shop Boys: “Westend Girls”...That track never disappeared from the London scene ever after. For months, years, on radios, TVs, bars, pubs, discos and everywhere it fit, or didn’t fit, that song got played. It is a song that is both elegant and cheap, delicate but without depth, sophisticated but ridiculous, exciting but meaningless, fun but dispensable: just like Westend itself! I picture Piccadilly in my mind every time I hear it. While others feel like dancing with joy and happiness, I remember my desperate solitude and hopelessness every time “Westend Girls” can be audible somewhere.
A place full of nothing, but made to look full of something...A fake district made up on strange effects...Every time I think of Piccadilly, not only do I feel everything is empty and futile, I also think of those Westend girls and feel those passionate chases after women are pointless, too. After all, one ironer comes up and takes the whole cake. Ones like me, as always, goes away empty-handed...Empty-hearted...
Months later, when I woke from this senseless sleep and asked myself what on earth I was doing in this world of fantasy, the first thing I did was to book a flight back to Istanbul.
Without a doubt, I had chosen the cheapest ticket. In those years, to book a flight from a company in communist Romania, which was still in the Eastern Block, took a lot of guts. Tarom’s planes were known as the “flying hearses.” I remember feeling I was in the perfect vehicle for my story of complete defeat, when we took off inside this fossil plane -with propellers- that looked as if it had been constructed around the time of Noah. When it finally landed in the Bucharest Airport, the “cold-blooded” English started clapping and cheering...You see, we felt that unsafe. Me? I just didn’t care.
Later we learnt that this was just the beginning. We were to transfer to another plane to fly to Istanbul. However, there was no plane around. A moment or two later, one attendant announced that we had to wait for eight hours. After a little protest, eight or ten English tourists and I walked off to the airport cafeteria which was closed for Romanian citizens. Oh, those folks of the dying communist Romania...Man, they were a sight! Their eyes were full of awe and admiration. They were astonished with the westeners’ apparel, accessories, cool airs, freedom to travel, and, well, basically, everything. At that moment, one song could be heard from walkmen -they had just entered the market: “Westend Girls.”
While blond English girls were shaking their heads to the rhythm of “Westend Girls,” Romanians watched. It was 1986...Defeat and frustration, depression and jealousy were all that could be read from the Romanians’ faces. All dressed in uniforms, they glued their eyes to us inside the quiet, gloomy and lonely airport.
They would breathe the smell of Nescafé and contemplate every sip taken from pints of beer and glasses of whiskey. They looked as if they would go into a crying frenzy if one of them burst into tears any time. I felt I was in an Orwell novel. Where would I fit in the story, though? I was not one of the “free and refined” members of the Western Block, like the English were. I was actually only a lost adversary of a lost country, pretty much like Romania, with an uncertain future. There was no reason for me to share the triumph and pride of the English.
I pulled myself together. I told myself I had to stop looking airy...Through all the hours we sat in that cafeteria, the still silence of the airport were only broken with the notes of “Westend Girls” emitting from walkmen. And I only thought, “Westend or Bucharest...What’s the difference?” Isolation was my fate...The sun would not shine...Nowhere...Not in London, not in Bucharest, not in Istanbul...Because I was the passenger of a cursed fate...At least I felt that way.
* * *
We learnt that the London-Bucharest Tarom plane was a technological wonder! The connection plane was far worse. We were all petrified. The eight or nine English tourists and I got on the plane – which had fifteen or twenty seats and also propellers. It looked as if it had just survived a war. We hit the hood with our hands suspiciously to test. Paint would come off from every spot revealing the rust behind it.
The first time it tried to take off, it landed back with a huge “puff.” The damned thing just couldn’t fly. The Westend girl sitting beside me turned to me with terror. Her walkman was spurting the Pet Shop Boys song again. She thought I knew something due to my calm and careless state. On the contrary, I knew nothing just like she did. I only had one difference: I did not care if I lived or died. I fealt that defeated. That was all!
Meanwhile, the pilot gave two more tries, both ending in failure. All of the passengers’ faces had turned ashen. Obviously, they were all thinking “what if it had taken off?” How would we land?
The pilot drove the plane back to its original spot and two technicians began working on the problem. Not a voice could be heard among the passengers. We were desperate. The cost of getting off the plane was to stay all alone in Ceauşescu's communist Romania. Rather than an adventure with an uncertain ending, everyone decided on staying and waiting to fly somehow. But the plane was a mess.
I was the only one who did not care. Because I knew I was coming from one disaster and heading to another. I even was in one at that moment! It did not matter for me. Maybe a crash would be the best solution for me. I would say goodbye to this miserable life without having to move a finger. But the English girl sitting by my side did not feel the same way. She was trembling. As soon as I noticed, I turned to give a smile. She smiled back. But with fear and as if asking for help...She had turned up the volume to pass the moment...”Westend Girls” was on again. She was one of them: blond, curly hair, snow-white skin, mini skirt and high-heeled boots...
I wanted to kiss her but shoved the idea away quickly because of the current situation. I turned to face front. At that moment, the plane started speeding again. No one had dared getting off to catch another plane to Istanbul in Ceauşescu's Romania.
This time, the plane made it. It finally managed to find its balance and began ascending. Our condition wasn’t too bright. The only good thing was that the Westend girl was holding my arm tighter than ever. The tighter she clasped, the happier I grew. The plane was coughing, trembling, hiccupping, falling into airpockets and taking us up to a bleak voyage. The blondie shook like a little sparrow and never let go of my arm.
She was a Westend girl. She was so sweet. She was afraid. She had turned her walkman up all the way to “Westend Girls” and was squeezing my arm like crazy.
I was so happy.
I had never that much wanted my plane to crash.
Istanbul, Oct 10, 2005
Memories and misery... Passion and defeat...
Whatever,
It’s all so hollow!
* * *
Sweet, blond Westend girls...
Unfortunately;
This,too, is so hollow...
