Excerpts from the book.
- I want to dance tonight.
SEHNAZ, a tipsy and wonderful creature! Despite her, I was unable to stand
that cursed thing called dancing, I would stop this stupidity no matter what.
We were around that table once more. True, actually I was fond of her but
FERHAT has already locked on the target. I was dreaming while the guy was
working. To describe his manners, I should say he is a sincere believer of
his own sincerity show-offs. He really perceives himself as a perfect hero,
as a prince with a white horse. Although he lacks a white horse or a
prince's certificate, he knows how to make the others think he has them.
FERHAT and SEHNAZ managed to find seats next to each other, using every trick
possible. They accomplished this very easily: the moment we entered the ballroom,
FERHAT chose a chair and SEHNAZ chose another, right next to him.
(The term "Every trick" here, refers to my intelligently-developed-but-failed
plans to attain the very same purpose.) I would watch those who would be seated
first. After having pretended to sit somewhere else in order not to attract
suspicious looks, I would slide next to SEHNAZ the moment she would sit,
to make room for another friend. Darn!
SEHNAZ was indeed quick at smiling continuously at FERHAT's meaningless and
boring jokes. Something should be done to change the mood and I chanced my arm:
- Is one kilo of cotton harder or one kilo of iron?
- Ouf! You're terribly annoying RIZA!
This shot kicked back. I was hoping to influence her by some scientific subject
matters. (One more error. Not every woman is Madame Curie.)
FERHAT, the good guy, intervened:
- SEHNAZ don't say that for RIZA, he's joking. What did you say
RIZA? That you're ironing the cotton fabrics?
SEHNAZ gave a sexy laughter and the good guy beat the bad guy again.
Such a disgusting night!"
- You can have your tequila, my boy.
I swear to you, that way the waiter addressed me, made my mind up for FERHAT's
execution. It was no one but him who transformed me into a Turkish bath
catamite and the waiter was helping him. His self-confident glances which even
do not condescend to be contemptuous, his high spirit who helps a poor loser...
I would make him experience his favourite scene:
The heroic DEATH of a hero.
I jumped up screaming "Auww, my arm has been warped," and began a series of
disabled gestures. While the singer was braying the refrain "I shall thrust a
stick into fate's wheel," I was amplifying my lame movements. Twisting one arm
as lame, I was rotating on one foot, from left to right and from right to left,
as if drilling the floor. I then got bored of this, suddenly I squatted as if
shitting in a pan closet, while waving my arm back and forth. I had already
rolled up my pants rhythmically, with the other arm waving upwards and down,
I was mimicking the user of a reservoir.
The last figure was more authentic: while washing my ass with one hand, I was
blowing the other arm's wrist to imitate the sound of farting. Never losing
the rhythm of the song, I was continuing to dance by transforming my weight
from one foot to the other. Having realised that I started to attract some
hostile glances and that even my biological existence might be endangered, I
decided to retreat once more.
Only males seemed to appreciate this joke!
I was seated back again, grumbling.