Turkish Night

It was only a dream… Or so I thought when I woke.

The song of cicadas outside and the distant clattering of breakfast dishes should have assured me that I was safe in a small Turkish holiday pansyon. But it didn’t.

I lay paralyzed between the starched sheets, unable to shake off the dream experience. In the space between sleep and wakefulness, the dream kept harassing my mind, replaying the scenes again and again:

I was dancing. My hips circled, rocked up and down, forwards and backwards. The ciftetelli rhythm ran in ripples through my body, vibrated in every limb. Banknotes stuck in the straps of my bra and on my sweat-glistening skin.

I was good tonight; better than ever before. Good enough, I felt sure, to secure the contract; the restaurant manager’s glances showed appreciation. I knew how to read the expression in the eyes of my audiences, how to sense the atmosphere. Tonight, I noticed not only erotic tension, but, above all, admiration.

The sweet fragrance of rosemary blended with the spicier notes of garlic, köfte and grilled fish. I heard laughter, scraps of conversation, but above all the fast paced tune and the velvety voice.

Another dancer came onto the stage, shorter and plumper than I was, in a shimmering costume. I had never seen her before. What a strange way of dancing! Surprised at first, then annoyed, I realized that she was drawing everyone’s attention. Oh, she was excellent, swaying her body in movements I had never seen before, in a slow and conscious way. Even with the fast rhythms she maintained dignity. Her whole appearance oozed sensuality...I saw the manager nodding; his expression told me that the contract was no longer mine.

In despair, I started dancing again, dancing like a demon. I approached the girl across the stage, succeeding only in provoking her to more spectacular heights. I had to stop her. I hated her. All my life I had waited for this chance and I could not allow this woman to steal it now. I looked into her eyes, recognized my own ambition and wild determination. She, too, wanted to be the best tonight. I would not let it happen...

I sank my knife into that white belly, withdrew it, stabbed again, and again. Her body sank forward, twisted. But its movements would not die down. Lying on its side, it still danced, twitching rhythmically.

Triumphantly, I gazed at her hips. Blood ran over her belly and stained her belt, dying the sequined brocade like a moist potpourri of rose petals.

I stared and stared, taking in the warmth of her sweat and blood in my nostrils, until triumph turned into fear.

Only gradually did I find my way back to reality, was able to move my limbs and extract myself from the dream’s claws. At the basin, I splashed cold water into my face, and tried to laugh. Trying to murder someone? Who, me?

It was only a dream, only a dream…

But I was glad to have the company of Mehmet, landlord of the pansyion, who joined me on the terrace for a breakfast of tomatoes, black olives and bread.

“You all right? Sleep well, Oky-doky?’’ Mehmet enquired, with Turkish curiosity and perception, and eager to apply phrases he had snatched up from other tourists.

I shook my head. “I had a nightmare. I almost murdered someone tonight.’’

The coffee tasted stronger and sweeter than ever before, and I drank it quickly, emptied it to the last drop, to prevent Mehmet from doing his trick, reading the future from the grounding.

He listened to my narration, then shrugged. “Of course you nervous. You big show tonight, at Caravansarai. Don’t worry, be happy. You are best dancer.’’

I had forgotten - and the reminder was not welcome. At the weekly welcome party put on by our tour operator, I had proudly displayed my belly dancing skills, much to the surprise of both Turks and tourists. Who had expected a nurse from Boarshurst Green, East Sussex, to be a master of this art! A Turkish restaurant manager had seen this, and invited me to bring my costume along and give a little performance as part of one of his regular Turkish Nights for tourists. I had been positively thrilled at the prospect - until now.

“It wasn’t really me in that dream,’’ I said more to myself then to Mehmet, nibbling a bitter olive. “I’m not a murderer, you know.’’

“Of course not,’’ my landlord replied cheerfully. “Girl live. No dead, no murder, just fall down with knife inside. Still twist and twitch you say... Lovely jovely.’’

I got up before he could pour me another coffee.

“Dream never true, no problem.’’ Then, when I was just about to leave, he shouted “You not do your sword dance show tonight! Promise...!’’

***

With brightly woven kilims on the old stone wall, alcoves and galleries all around, the caravansarai oozed history - the ideal setting for a Turkish Night.

Heavy oriental fragrances were in the air, together with smooth aftershaves and lemony cologne, blending with the spicier smells of pide and köfte and other Turkish delicacies.

Hidden behind the stage curtain, I observed the folk dance group, memorizing certain movements for future use, but hoped that my turn would come soon. Waiting always made me nervous, and nervousness sometimes made me behave foolishly.

There was a band of two: a Turkish singer cum pianist with a velvety voice and a drummer with a clay darabukka. I had never danced with live musicians before; it was a great honor honour. But it still wasn't my turn yet; another dancer came first. A tall, slender, dark-maned beauty, whose sharp profile was accentuated by a black headband.

Her asymmetrical costume was sexy and revealing, with billowing chiffon skirts. When she moved, the costume shimmered in black and blue like dangerous stormy waves.

She produced a lively dance with many hip lifts, playing the zills with great skill.

Then I received my signal from the waiter. For several moments, I hesitated behind the heavy, protective curtains. But my limbs were itching to dance - I lifted the curtain, and I danced.

I knew I was good. I was a peasant girl fetching water from the well, a princess welcoming her guests, a camel treading on the hot desert sands, an Indian cobra, swaying from a basket. I moved the cool silk veil sensuously over my skin, swirling it passionately.

My audience seemed surprised at my style - after all, they teach only Egyptian belly dance at the adult education center - but they liked it.

My body was wet, and so was the blouse which clung to my breasts. Damp strands of hair fell over my face. I feel the dampness between my legs, too, aroused by my audience’s attention and the power I had over them.

“You good,’’ whispered the young waiter who offered me a glass of water. I swallowed thirstily. “Boss say he give you contract.’’

I felt a sharp stab in my stomach. “Good money,’’ the boy added, misinterpreting my frown.

I gave him a smile. A contract? How flattering to be offered a job as a professional belly dancer! It would be something to tell my friends back home in Sussex.

The other dancer was on again, while I was still dancing, invading my dance space. Did she want to steal the show? I immediately turned to the most effective movements from my repertoire; vertical hip eights, shimmies, camel walk sidewards.

She smiled, performing a supple and gracious backbend. I had never been good at those. Whatever I did, she had something more spectacular to offer.

But her perfection only added to my excitement. I saw her body, the immaculate breasts, the expressive hands, the perfectly sculptured abdomen.

I took up the challenge; I had to be better, and I knew how to do it. Many dancers use exciting requisites to create a climax - not just zills and veils, but candelabra, daggers, fire, or living snakes. My favorite requisite is the sword.

Taking it from its scabbard, pushing it back in again, in a slow and deliberately erotic gesture, I enjoyed the “ah’s’’ and “oh’s’’ from the onlookers.

After a simulated sword fight, I went into hip eights, balancing the open blade on my head while shimmying with the whole body. I heard the wild applause.

We danced towards each other, the girl and I, while the audience clapped rhythmically. Triumphantly, I held the sword with both hands high above my head.

We were so close that I could see the glistening pearls on my opponent's skin. We both performed hip circles, large and wide and round. Our bodies almost touched.

I could see her belly, which had a slightly darker shade of tan than my own skin. I imagined our bellies touching, wet skin gliding, sisters in love, in a tender aggressive act. Her hands formed the Arabic welcome, then glided under her billowing skirt.

Her eyes still held the look of passion and wild determination I knew so well. We both wanted to be the best tonight, at any price. Suddenly, with horror, I understood - I must not let it happen.

But it was too late to bring my hands down in protection. Her dagger flashed, stabbed into my belly, once, twice....