The Turk

by Dylan Brie Ducey


I was broke, so I went to the American Church to look at the ads. One said  “Secretary needed, evening hours.” I thought that was odd, the part about the evening, but I was broke so I called the number. A man answered. He had a heavy accent that I did not recognize. He asked “Do you smoke?” and I said no. I took down his address, which was on the Champs Elysées. To my surprise, it turned out to be an apartment building.
 
He was a short, balding man, at least sixty years old. I was twenty one. I sat on the couch in his messy living room and tried to ignore the blaring television. He told me that he had a business, with offices in Paris, Geneva, and London. I would be required to accompany him when he visited the other offices. Did I know how to type? Yes, I said. He also needed someone to clean up his kitchen from time to time, he said. Of course, I nodded. Was I in school, he asked. If not, it would be his pleasure to send me to the Sorbonne. I stared.
 
His last secretary, he said with some emotion, had been with him for seven years and left recently to go back to the United States.
 
I understood now that the Turk was lonely.
 
He asked if I had any nice clothing, things I could wear out to dinner.  No, I said. Then I will take you out, he said, and buy you a new wardrobe. You will keep your own apartment, he added, and you will be free to have a boyfriend. 
 
I thought of my American boyfriend who would arrive on a flight from Bangkok in just two weeks. How would he feel about being usurped by this old man?
 
The Turk continued talking but I did not pay attention. I smiled, trying to conceal my increasing panic. Should I get up and leave? That would be rude, though I was sure the man would be unable to stop me. I waited until the right moment presented itself – the end of the interview. The Turk said he would call me tomorrow, and that he would take me out to dinner. He looked pleased. He showed me to the door. “À demain,” he said. See you tomorrow. After I heard the door close I broke into a run. I ran to the elevator and I ran down the Champs Elysées all the way to the métro, and I ran onto the first train that arrived at the platform.
 
That night in my room in the 2nd arrondissement I lay in bed, wondering what it would be like to be a kept woman. Would the Turk buy me furs? Diamonds? Couture? My own flat, big enough to conceal my boyfriend? Would I wear couture to my classes at the Sorbonne? Would I wait at the curb in my furs, for the Turk’s limousine?
 
When the telephone rang the next day I asked my roommate, Ulla, to answer it. She was a painter from Denmark. “Allô?” she said. I sat in a chair, my heart pounding, my hands under my thighs. “Désolé, Monsieur,” said Ulla, shaking her head. “Elle n’est pas là.” Then she gave me a devilish look and she told the Turk that I’d moved out. Actually, she confided to him in a whisper, I’d disappeared during the night. Monsieur, she said sorrowfully, one never knows with these American girls. She hung up the phone and I sighed with relief and guilt. No furs for me, no limousine.
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