Authors: Bruce Sterling
“I believed that the
old
American One was good. But no, no! That old girl was weak, sick, a loser! I
love
this new Yankee girl! She’s big and tough, and as they say in America, she takes no shit from anyone! She’s like a cop!” Ozbey smiled in delight. “I love cops! A man can’t own too many of them.”
“I feel just the same way.”
“This will be an excellent pop tour. Now I’m sure of it. I have great confidence. I’ve decided to extend G-7’s Turkish program. More engagements for the girls. Bursa, Izmir, Konya, Trabzon—even Diyarbakir!”
“You think that’s wise? You don’t want to wear them out before their big Iran junket.”
“Yes, of course, Iran, but … why just Iran? There is also Azerbaijan. And Turkmenistan. Chechnya, Dagestan, Uzbekistan, Kyrgyzstan, Tatarstan, and the Chinese Uighur Republic.… A world! A world of Turkish-speaking peoples, entering history again, waking up to the global market.”
“I agree that they’re just waking up, but …”
Ozbey lowered his voice. His handsome eyes glittered with steely resolve. “Leggy, this is a war. A culture war. A war for the soul of the next century. My uncle the minister and I, we have invested very much in this. Day by day our tactics improve.”
“No kidding.”
“We used to bribe journalists. How useless that was! My uncle has a better approach. Now we buy the media! We own two new television stations now, financed from our chain of casinos. We are gaining extensive interests across the entertainment industry. You see? Political capital and banking capital. Very much cross-leveraged.”
“That’s very Rupert Murdoch of you. Very Vladimir Guzinsky.”
“The tactic works beautifully in Turkey! Once we control the channels
and
the content, then we can take the war inside the homes, and heads, and hearts, of the fundamentalists. The future of Islam is spangled brassieres—or dark little head-kerchiefs.” Ozbey looked up sharply. “Are you laughing?”
“Fuck, no, man! I totally concur with that analysis.”
“I knew you would agree. Istanbul has two futures after Y2K. She could be a Moslem Rome—or the next Teheran. A great world capital—or a fanatic’s dungeon. The playground of the East—or the West’s worst nightmare. I know the stakes. I know the trends. I know which side I’m on. And I know that I can win!”
Starlitz sucked air through his teeth. “I gotta hand it to you, Mehmetcik: that new pitch is great! The World Bank and the IMF would totally love you for that. I bet you could do with a drink now.”
But Ozbey was not to be derailed. He leaned forward intently, steepling his fingers like a talk-show pundit. “Victory centers on consumer goods and pop promotion. ‘Bread and circuses,’ in other words. If
that
is the battlefield, then I
know
that we can win. Can Kurdish separatists offer us platform shoes? Of course they can’t! Can mullahs make a pretty girl a star? They’d rather stone her
to death! But the ‘military-entertainment complex’! Oh, yes!” Ozbey banged the laminated bar. “Those things together, military force and entertainment: that’s the heart of modern Turkey, that works for me.”
Starlitz nodded through the sermon like a metronome. “I see. Yep. That’s it. I’m betting on the side with the most TVs. Every fuckin’ time. Definitely.”
“In a culture war you can’t ask if the weapon is good or bad. The weapon exists, and the weapon works, and that is obvious. The true question, Leggy—this is our part of this story—is: Who has the best use for this fine G-7 weapon? Is it you—or is it me? And, Leggy—given your personal performance in the last few days … these unexplained absences from the band’s important business …”
Starlitz held up one hand. “You don’t have to go on, Mehmetcik.”
For the first time Ozbey looked startled. “No?”
“No. Because I see where you’re going, and I’m already there. It’s true: I’ve let you down about the band. I didn’t want to disappoint you, but I have to do it. A family crisis has come up.” Starlitz drew a heavy breath. “It’s about my father.”
Ozbey gazed at him in limpid astonishment. “Your
father
?”
“Yeah. Father.”
“Not girlfriend? Not daughter?”
Starlitz scowled. “No, man, you heard me: my father.”
“When did this happen? I had no word of this.”
“Well, it’s like I told you earlier. I gave you a promise: ‘If I can’t handle the band, you’ll be the first to know.’ So now you’re the first to know: I can’t handle the damn band. I have to leave Cyprus right away. I have no choice in the matter. I understand this may be the last time I ever see my father.”
“The last time to see your father,” said Ozbey. “What sad news. I’m very sorry to hear that.” He seemed genuinely touched.
“I’m sorry, too, Mehmetcik. It means I have to leave the act entirely in your charge.”
Ozbey stroked his chin. “I see.”
“I hope you’re up for that responsibility. You’ve been terrific on the publicity and money angle: I give you every credit there. But with all this butch talk about ‘warfare’ that you just handed me, I’m a little concerned. They may be pop stars, but they’re still young, vulnerable girls, under all those wigs and the WonderBras.”
Ozbey watched him warily.
“Sure,” said Starlitz reasonably, “they have big expense accounts, and they sleep with anything in pants, and they can barely dance. Or sing. But you know something? I spent three long years with this act. We toured every hellhole in Eurasia. I recruited and fired nineteen different women, out of seven different nationalities. And let me tell you something crucial.
Not a single one of them has died.
”
Ozbey considered this. The prospect was new to him. “Not even one?”
“That’s right, man. There’s been drug addiction, bankruptcy, jet lag, sex scandals. There was pregnancy, herpes, motorcycle spills, punch-ups in nightclubs, wigs ripped off, fan stampedes, hotel thefts, you name it. But
no dead ones
. Because
every single one of them makes it to
Y2K
alive
. That is a central part of the G-7 magic.”
Ozbey frowned thoughtfully. “Did you say, ‘
through
Y2K alive’?”
“No, no, I said
to
Y2K alive.”
“I see.”
“Because, see, that’s when we wrap it all up and put it away. Once we’re past Y2K, well, who gives a shit? It’s all yesterday then, it’s not my problem. But
up
to Y2K, yes, that
is
my problem. And that means, now, that it’s
your
problem.”
“Was this really part of the arrangement?”
“Absolutely. From before the start of the band.
No dead ones
. Can you promise me that? No dead ones?”
Ozbey wasn’t having it. “We’re pop promoters. We’re not God. We can’t guarantee people’s fates.”
“All right, Mehmetcik, then I’ll put it another way.
The ‘military-entertainment complex.’ I get your pitch there, I’m with the program. Of course, you can be a soldier, and also be a great entertainer. That’s why armies have military bands. That’s why the Mafia’s in show business. But if you’re a professional,
you don’t kill the talent
. You get me? That is my point, that’s how it works. Kill the enemy, sure. Kill the audience, even.
You don’t kill the talent.
”
Ozbey was uneasy now. It was clear that this new factor was disrupting his analysis. Finally, he offered a diplomatic smile. “Why so upset? They’re seven young girls with no talent.”
“They’re still our performers. They make the act what it is.”
“They know nothing about reality. They dance, they sing, they sell clothes. The culture war does not concern them. Because to them it is totally a secret war.”
“Ignorance is bliss, huh?”
Ozbey nodded somberly. “It is for women.”
“All right,” said Starlitz. “I won’t kick about that part. I just want you to promise me one thing, before I go. I want you to give me your word that you’ll look after these seven foreign women”—he pointed at Gonca—“in just the same way that you look after
her.
”
“But Gonca Utz is my second wife! A great artist! And the G-7 girls are nothing but pretense! You admitted that to me.”
“Of course I admit that. I know it, and you know it. But a girl is a girl, Mehmetcik. You know, democracy, human rights, Helsinki Convention, all that crap. Get with the story line here.”
Ozbey was stubbornly silent.
“I’m sentimental about this,” Starlitz insisted. “I worry, otherwise.”
“You’re trying to trap me,” Ozbey said at last. “You want me to tie the future of your silly girls to the great golden future of Gonca Utz. But your girls are nothing, a trick to sell shoes. Gonca is a great artist, the soul of the people.”
“So you’re admitting you’re not up to the job, then,” Starlitz said.
Ozbey glowered. “I did not say that.”
“Two minutes ago you were bragging about this great, sophisticated weapon you had. And now what do I hear from you? Instead of field-stripping the weapon properly, and learning the professional drill, you’re going to rust it out and break it, and leave it on the road, like some kind of cheap Kurdish mountain bandit.”
Ozbey smiled tautly. “You’re trying to make me lose my temper.”
“What am I asking of you here? Nothing that
I
wouldn’t do! They didn’t come to any harm while
I
was managing them. If you put Gonca into my care, you wouldn’t have to fret about Gonca.”
“You could not touch Gonca Utz. Not her sandal. Not the hem of her skirt.”
“You talk a pretty good game for a beginner, Ozbey. But I think you need to decide who you are.” Starlitz sighed. “Are you smart and suave and slick, like you think that you are—or are you just secret, cheap, and dirty?”
Zeta reappeared, skidding across the airport’s dusty floor.
The hair beneath her snappy, glitter-shedding hat brim exploded with a rainbow set of G-7 plastic-fanged hair grips and fabric scrunchies. She wore the G-7 pink and rhinestone plastic shades, the shapeless extra-large “Turkey Tour” pullover. On one narrow wrist she swung a yellow net G-7 poolside bag, which was stuffed to bursting with G-7 lip balm, hair gel, and foot spray. Beneath the other arm she clutched the much-coveted G-7 Tour Bus Set, with its seven dolls, its driver figurine, and its working gas pump. She sported three different versions of the dainty Taiwanese G-7 “sports watch,” wore the popper-bead candy necklace, and toted the squeeze-canteen blob-sack of benzoate-yellow G-7 “energy drink.”
Ozbey stared down at her.
“You are right,” he said crisply, glancing up at Starlitz. “They are guests, and I am their host. It’s a matter of
honor. I value their life, I promise: just as I value Gonca’s life.”
“That’s all I wanted,” said Starlitz. “Now you’re talking like a man.”
He offered his hand. Ozbey shook it reluctantly.
“When can we expect you back?” said Ozbey.
“Don’t expect me.”
Ozbey brightened. “You’re not coming back?”
Starlitz sighed. “No, it’s just that it’s never any use expecting me.” He put his hand on Zeta’s shoulder and walked her away.
Zeta was quiet as they retreated. “He’s scary,” she said at last.
Starlitz grunted. He stared through a sheet of dusty glass onto the drought-stricken tarmac. The Turkish Air flight was just getting up speed, carrying three years of hard work. He watched it climb into the sky, on dark twin rails of jet spew.
“He’s scary, Dad. He’s not real, and he looked right through me. He doesn’t know what I am.” Zeta was pensive. “I hope you’re not mad.”
“It’s okay, Zeta. You’re fine. You just gotta take it a little easy. Try not to scare the straights.”
“I bet Turkey would really be fun if it wasn’t for all the scary guys.”
Starlitz turned from the window. “Forget about Turkey, babe. Real soon now, you and me, we’re flying to Mexico.”
Zeta’s clear brow clouded thoughtfully. “
They’re
not real, either, are they, Dad? I mean, the G-7 girls. You made them up, right? They’re not real.”
Starlitz said nothing.
“It’s okay, Dad. I don’t care. Mom One and Mom Two really hate G-7, but I knew all along that they were just pretend. I
like
G-7. I like video games, they’re not real. I like cartoons, they’re not real. I like John Webster’s revenge plays, even though they’re just make-believe.”
Starlitz stood flatfooted. “You like John Webster’s revenge plays?”
“Yeah,
Duchess of Malfi, White Devil
, those are my favorites!”
“I keep forgetting you were schooled at home,” Starlitz said.
Zeta stared across the echoing hall. She had suddenly noticed Gonca Utz. “Who is
she
?”
“Well, that happens to be a real one.”
“A
real
one! Wow! How did
she
get in here?”
“She’s a star,” said Starlitz. “She is a true rising star, and the world doesn’t know it yet.”
“Wow, she is
so beautiful
!” Zeta looked at her, goggle eyed behind her cheap plastic shades. “What should I do, Dad? Because she’s a star.”
“Go ask her for her autograph.”
“Oh, I can’t.” Zeta was attacked by shyness.
“Go ahead! It’s what stars live for.”
Starlitz watched from a careful distance as his daughter approached Gonca Utz. Zeta bravely traipsed around the perimeter of Ozbey’s thick-necked bodyguards, and intruded herself on the actress’s attention. Miss Utz put down her clipboard, plucked out her Walkman earplugs, removed her Milanese sunglasses. She offered Zeta a radiant, unguarded smile that would have killed and cooked any male human being.
Zeta returned, skipping. “Look, she signed on my arm with a pen!”
“Wow.”
“She was super nice to me! She wrote, like, a whole secret message on me.” Zeta stared at the long Turkish script. “I wonder what it says.”
“Let’s go wash that off before we leave,” said Starlitz.
STARLITZ AND ZETA WOKE ANOTHER CABDRIVER AS HE slumbered in the sun outside the terminal. They returned to the Meridien. Dragged from its dogmatic snooze, the hotel was suddenly booming. A new set of international flagpoles had gone up, and every banner in developed Europe snapped in the offshore sea breeze. The ancient
neon had been uprooted and cast aside, while a new digital display board, four times its size, lay in the grass to await its moment. A new television logo was being painted across the hotel’s top floors, while the roof sprouted a high-tech forest of spanking-new microwave horns.