by Bill McCord
(7/25/01)
The taxi drove swiftly through rain and darkness, along streets busy in daylight but abandoned at night. A woman rode in the back seat behind the driver, bending forward, straining to see through the wet smear on the windshield. Every once in a while, her eyes caught his in the mirror.
"This is bad night. Too dark. Too wet." His words played with the English language. "No one should walk this neighborhood at night. It is good you take cab," he said, turning and speaking to the woman. "The prison. You
said the prison. It comes soon, up ahead a few blocks."
"Keep driving. I'll tell you what to do," the woman said, almost too quietly for the driver to hear. She straightened the hem on her blue dress and readjusted the pocketbook on her lap as sadness took control of her voice. "My man's in there. He's there for a long time."
"You mean, he's in the prison?"
"Yes. He's there forever. What you call a lifer."
"My God," said the cabby. "Do they let you see him?"
"No. It's not like that. In America it might have been possible but not here. They won't let me in. I can't visit or even talk to him. He's the only man in my life, everything to me. I don't know how to live without him." She rubbed her forehead as if soothing a headache. "Oh, why am I telling you this?" She cried, head in her hands.
"Lady. I don't know who he is or what he wronged, but he's lucky guy to have woman like you, a pretty woman who cares."
As he talked, he looked in the rear view mirror, gesturing with his free hand and trying to make her feel better. But now, he drove in silence. Watching her in the mirror, he saw the tears tremble down her cheeks and that beautiful, sad face. Red hair fell onto bare shoulders and, if he stretched, he could see the deep cleavage at her breast. It was unlike him not to have taken a good look when she got in the cab, but he was writing his last trip ticket and paying no attention. From what little the mirror showed, she was truly beautiful.
As he watched, her expression changed slowly from sorrow to one of deep concentration. Then he lost sight of her as she slumped down in the corner. Only the top of her hair showed. No matter how he stretched, he couldn't find her face in the rear view mirror.
At a stoplight, just before the prison wall began, he turned to look. She was leaning against the window, her hand up under her dress, staring with tear-filled eyes high up on the prison wall. Her face was softer, but there was a frown on her forehead. Embarrassed, he quickly looked back at the road ahead. The light turned green, but he didn't drive on. Casually, he adjusted the mirror, as he couldn't keep from looking at her. For a moment, their eyes met before she looked back up at the dark, stone prison wall just above them.
"What do you want me to do?" he said, feeling uncomfortable with this strange English woman and what was happening.
Rain pounded the top of the cab. The light changed again but he didn't move. There were no other cars so he decided not to interrupt her, not to bother her. She was a woman in trouble. He'd seen lots of them since coming to Ankara but nothing like this. Lightning struck somewhere nearby, lighting up her perspiring face. Thunder rolled and pounded in the blackness that followed.
"Oh, God. I don't know," she moaned. "I'm so miserable. I need him. I need him so much."
The cab driver stared forward and gripped the wheel tightly with both hands. "I don't know what to do, Lady. Maybe, I pull over, like over there by the wall?"
"Yes. I don't care. Fine. Pull over."
He drove forward slowly. High overhead, dozens of dark, little windows broke the somber lines of the prison wall.
"Stop the cab under that window, the one that's right over the street light," she said, pointing with her free hand. "That one up there."
Stretching his head forward, the cab driver looked up and drove forward at a crawl until the window over the street lamp was right next to them.
"It is above us. Why do we wait here? Is this what you want?"
She leaned closer, her arms resting on the back of the cab driver's seat. He expected her to say something but she was silent, her breath touching his hair. Staring straight ahead, he felt her warmth on the back of
his neck. She slipped a finger into a black curl that fell down to his shoulders.
"You have gorgeous hair. A lot like his, at least as well as I remember." Her hand moved through his thick hair and massaged his neck and taut shoulders. "You're so tense, like you have a cramp in your neck. Do you mind
if I rub it?"
He didn't know what to do or say. Nothing like this had ever happened to him before. In the country, in his village, something like this wasn't even dreamed of. As she massaged, he rolled his head side to side and made no
comment.
"I could rub it even better if you came back here. Is it against regulations for us to stop here for a while and for you to come in the back seat with me?"
His mouth went dry. His mind was in turmoil. She was his passenger. The dispatcher had said he was to go wherever the passenger wanted. But he had said nothing about the back seat. As if in a dream, he opened his door, closed it, felt the rain on his shoulders, opened the back door, pulled it shut and sat next to her.
She took his face in her hands and kissed his mouth softly once then furiously, her lips open, tongue forcing deep into his awkward acceptance. Running her wet lips and tongue over his half open mouth, into his mustache and around his cheeks, she grabbed his shoulders and pushed him onto his back. Her hands tore at his belt, fell on his zipper and pulled his pants down below his knees. He stared up at her, paralyzed by need and uncertainty. Straddling him with her knees, she reached down and pulled her dress up over her hips then lowered her bare body onto him and touched his cock between her legs. Slowly, she pressed down, her hands on his shoulders, pinning him like a wrestler. His cock passed her other lips and entered into the depth of her.
As they rocked in the back seat of the ancient cab, he looked up at her, past her flailing breasts to the beautiful face that was thrown back and staring up at the dim light that had just come on in the prison window above them.
Her mouth opened and she cried out, "Nathan, I love you."
"But my name's not..."
And he understood. His heart went out to her, and he used everything he had ever learned to make her happy. His mouth and lips ate at her breasts, his hands pulled at her buttocks until he thought she might scream; his aching, throbbing cock dug and ground and drove into every slippery crevice. He pounded up against her then, arching his back against the strong hands pinning him down, he came in violent spurts inside her lovely body.
When they were done, he leaned against the door and watched as she straightened her skirt and ran those delicious, long fingers through the wild, red hair that he had torn at with his peasant hands. Standing outside the cab, he zipped his pants, buckled his belt and got back into the driver's seat.
"What now? Where to?" he asked, his breath still coming in little pants he found impossible to stop.
"Straight ahead. I'll tell you when to turn." She lit a cigarette, ignoring the "No Smoking" sign beneath the yellowed name card attached to the back of the front seat. The photograph of a stern, mustached face stared at her over the name -- Niko Papadorius, Permit #35675.
"How about next Saturday at about seven?" she said, softly. "Can you come for me then, Mr. Papadorius? I like to visit my man at least once a week."
