Free Bitter Remedy by Conor Fitzgerald

help from anyone. On the contrary, the bouncers were especially to be avoided, because they could listen in to conversations and report back. Although she hated the language and the people and the food, Nadia began to learn Turkish. English she found a shapeless language, basically a set of informal phrases run together, one after the other, without any criterion. It was spoken by tourists in short trousers who had sneaked away from their wives or groups of businessmen who liked to behave as if they were fun-loving and boisterous when drinking together, but turned vicious and demanding when alone. She knew the English she heard was spoken mostly by non-native speakers, but that simply confirmed her feeling that it was a simplified language for the stupid and dishonest.
    And then there were the Arabs. Though they were no worse behaved, Nadia’s whole spirit continued to rebel against them. She had been brought up to despise them, along with Negros and Gypsies, and now look at her.
     
    In the clubs and bars, they were all referred to as ‘Natasha’, regardless of their real names. Nadia, a variant of Natasha, had a name that her keepers found easy to remember, but she responded quicker to Natasha. She preferred it, because Natasha wasn’t her.
    Once an Arab client, overhearing the pimp call her Nadia, told her in faltering English that her name in Arabic meant wet and tender. It was the one time she refused to service a man, for which she received a beating. Three days later, one of her molars simply cracked in half and fell out, leaving a gaping hole that filled with puss. Her face swelled up so much it squeezed her eyes shut. She was surprised to be taken to the dentist, who referred her to a doctor, who prescribed antibiotics. For three weeks she did not have to do anything, and though she knew this was just their investing in an asset that gave good returns, she could not help but feel grateful.
    Eventually, she and Alina were separated. There was no wrenching scene of parting. One day, Alina was led up to a man in a leather jacket, which must have made him unbearably hot. It was certainly making him smelly and bad tempered. His name was Fyodor. He pulled her onto his knee and continued his conversation, which had something to do with car imports from Italy. Then, instead of going with her into the windowless room at the back, he led her out of the club and into a compact Mercedes A class. He drove up and down several slip roads and ramps to traverse the large highway that ran through the district before crossing the Golden Horn and heading north. Alina understood that Fyodor, who was very young – only a few years older than her – was her new pimp.
    Fyodor, when not wearing his leather jacket, seemed to have a great sense of humour, and appeared to listen to what the girls said, even if he did not listen very hard or for very long being more interested in his over-sized phone. But he liked to try to make them laugh, which he did by telling jokes in a mixture of Russian, Turkish, Romanian, and English, sometimes with a few Italian curse words thrown in. The punchline tended to get lost in translation, but you could always tell when he had reached it because he would peel back his thick lips to reveal gold-tipped teeth and slap the table in helpless mirth. One day, Alina thought she might even have understood the punchline, which had to do with Stalin advising Putin to paint the Kremlin blue.
    Fyodor personally administered fewer beatings but he allowed the customers to be rough with the girls, so things were not much better. One day the barman put an icy beaker of vodka on a steel tray and seeing as Alina was standing there doing nothing, told her to carry it over to Fyodor. She did as she was told, and Fyodor ordered her to sit down.
    He stroked his phone and then her, and started a joke about the Pope. By now she knew it in three different languages, and still didn’t get it. Suddenly, turning serious, he told her