gleaming concho belt.
Starlitz rose from his bench and trailed her.
The Yankee tourist opened a small gate and walked up the steps of a whitewashed suburban home. A plaque at the door read BARBARLIK MUZESI. She read a framed, typed announcement on the wall, and pulled a change purse out of her bellows thigh pocket. She carefully counted the zeros on a slender stash of Turkish lira. Then she scuffed her lug-soled boots on the welcome mat, yanked the iron-grilled door, and stepped inside.
An aged museum guard silently accepted her money. Starlitz pulled a fat money clip from his pocket and paid up as well.
Lefkosa’s Museum of Barbarity had once been a private home. A famous Cypriot atrocity had taken place inside it. The place had been consecrated to the murders. It had become a neat and dainty little atrocity exhibition.
The walls were hung with pedantic care, with many period photos showcasing a stark variety of Greek inhumanities to Turks. There were many burnt and bulldozed homes, schools, mosques, and shops. There were profaned flags, smashed windows, and vile graffiti. There were dead people dug out of pits, with filthy improvised clothesline still binding their mummified wrists. Even Turkish statues had been shot in the head.
Starlitz edged a little closer to his target.
The woman spoke first. “I sure ain’t with this! Why didn’t we cluster-bomb these sons of bitches? How hard could that be?”
Starlitz proffered his bakery bag. “Chocolate croissant?”
“Yeah!” She dived her hand into the bag, removed a flaking pastry, and munched with gusto. Then she jabbed at a ghastly photograph with a tooth-severed croissant horn. “Look at them dead kids! Where was CNN whenthat was goin’ down? fuckin’ media creeps are never around when you need one!”
“Been in-country long?” said Starlitz.
“Nope! Just cruisin’ by to see the local sights.”
“Where you from?”
She shrugged. “All over! I’m an army brat.”
“What do your friends call you?”
She stared at him. “My
friends
call me Betsy. But
you
can call me ‘Mrs. Ross,’ fella.”
“My name’s Lech Starlitz, Mrs. Ross.” Starlitz dug into his pocket and removed a hundred-dollar bill. He smoothed it between two fingers and handed it over.
“What’s this about?” she said warily.
“It’s for listening to me for a minute.”
“Okay.” She tucked the bill in her pocket. “Talk.”
“You ever heard of a girl group named ‘G-7’?”
“Heck, yeah, I heard of G-7! I’m down with all that shit, NATO, UNPROFOR, Gulf Coalition, you can name it!” She scowled. “You’re not dressed well enough to be a pimp, mister. You look like you slept in those clothes.”
“I have a business proposal for an American female expatriate. Somebody just like you.”
“So what’s the deal with you, you some kind of intel puke?”
“I’m a pop-music producer, Mrs. Ross. I manage a touring act.”
Mrs. Ross blinked in surprise. “Huh.”
“I need you to be a performer. You get gophers, a makeover, hair extensions, and a total new wardrobe. Plus limos, big hotels, free food, free travel, and big screaming audiences of teenage girls. The works. I wanna make you a star.”
“Ooh-rah,” she said slowly. She looked him up and down. “What’s your real problem, exactly? You’re insane, right? You’re mental.”
“Nope. No bullshit. It’s a serious offer.”
“Well,” she admitted slowly, staring at the photo-studded wall, “I gotta admit it, that would be me all over.That is my
vida loca
, right up and down. Me, the overnight sensation.”
“Here,” Starlitz said persuasively. He handed her another hundred dollars.
“You mean it,” she realized.
“That’s right. And there’s lots more where that came from.”
She narrowed her eyes warily. “Well, what’s the mission assignment, then? You better make it well defined, bubba.”
“You have to sing and dance. In public.”
“Well, I can dance. I dance great.
Starlitz rose from his bench and trailed her.
The Yankee tourist opened a small gate and walked up the steps of a whitewashed suburban home. A plaque at the door read BARBARLIK MUZESI. She read a framed, typed announcement on the wall, and pulled a change purse out of her bellows thigh pocket. She carefully counted the zeros on a slender stash of Turkish lira. Then she scuffed her lug-soled boots on the welcome mat, yanked the iron-grilled door, and stepped inside.
An aged museum guard silently accepted her money. Starlitz pulled a fat money clip from his pocket and paid up as well.
Lefkosa’s Museum of Barbarity had once been a private home. A famous Cypriot atrocity had taken place inside it. The place had been consecrated to the murders. It had become a neat and dainty little atrocity exhibition.
The walls were hung with pedantic care, with many period photos showcasing a stark variety of Greek inhumanities to Turks. There were many burnt and bulldozed homes, schools, mosques, and shops. There were profaned flags, smashed windows, and vile graffiti. There were dead people dug out of pits, with filthy improvised clothesline still binding their mummified wrists. Even Turkish statues had been shot in the head.
Starlitz edged a little closer to his target.
The woman spoke first. “I sure ain’t with this! Why didn’t we cluster-bomb these sons of bitches? How hard could that be?”
Starlitz proffered his bakery bag. “Chocolate croissant?”
“Yeah!” She dived her hand into the bag, removed a flaking pastry, and munched with gusto. Then she jabbed at a ghastly photograph with a tooth-severed croissant horn. “Look at them dead kids! Where was CNN whenthat was goin’ down? fuckin’ media creeps are never around when you need one!”
“Been in-country long?” said Starlitz.
“Nope! Just cruisin’ by to see the local sights.”
“Where you from?”
She shrugged. “All over! I’m an army brat.”
“What do your friends call you?”
She stared at him. “My
friends
call me Betsy. But
you
can call me ‘Mrs. Ross,’ fella.”
“My name’s Lech Starlitz, Mrs. Ross.” Starlitz dug into his pocket and removed a hundred-dollar bill. He smoothed it between two fingers and handed it over.
“What’s this about?” she said warily.
“It’s for listening to me for a minute.”
“Okay.” She tucked the bill in her pocket. “Talk.”
“You ever heard of a girl group named ‘G-7’?”
“Heck, yeah, I heard of G-7! I’m down with all that shit, NATO, UNPROFOR, Gulf Coalition, you can name it!” She scowled. “You’re not dressed well enough to be a pimp, mister. You look like you slept in those clothes.”
“I have a business proposal for an American female expatriate. Somebody just like you.”
“So what’s the deal with you, you some kind of intel puke?”
“I’m a pop-music producer, Mrs. Ross. I manage a touring act.”
Mrs. Ross blinked in surprise. “Huh.”
“I need you to be a performer. You get gophers, a makeover, hair extensions, and a total new wardrobe. Plus limos, big hotels, free food, free travel, and big screaming audiences of teenage girls. The works. I wanna make you a star.”
“Ooh-rah,” she said slowly. She looked him up and down. “What’s your real problem, exactly? You’re insane, right? You’re mental.”
“Nope. No bullshit. It’s a serious offer.”
“Well,” she admitted slowly, staring at the photo-studded wall, “I gotta admit it, that would be me all over.That is my
vida loca
, right up and down. Me, the overnight sensation.”
“Here,” Starlitz said persuasively. He handed her another hundred dollars.
“You mean it,” she realized.
“That’s right. And there’s lots more where that came from.”
She narrowed her eyes warily. “Well, what’s the mission assignment, then? You better make it well defined, bubba.”
“You have to sing and dance. In public.”
“Well, I can dance. I dance great.
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