It is a few hours after midnight. My eyes are hot and dry as I blink them open; I wonder fleetingly why I am awake, and then I hear it: EeerrrrzzZZm!
And now I feel it, too: that nasty, infuriating itch you get after a mosquito has dined on your blood.
Snapping the light on, my tired eyes do a quick circuit of the room as I try to find it. I spot a spider or two, the odd moth, and a few dead mosquitoes from previous late night mosquito safaris, but not the living culprit.
My husband sleeps on, blissfully unaware.
In Japan, mosquitoes weren't interested in my blood as long as I was with my husband. I could sleep straight through the night, waking up with only the odd bite. Mosquitoes were ravenous for my husband's blood; he would wake up scratching and swearing to find me unbitten and refreshed. At some point, however, they developed a taste for me. We bought mosquito nets and rigging them up every April became one of our family's rites of spring, just as taking them down towards the end of autumn got to be a preparing-for-winter ritual.
Before we left Japan, we gave those nets to neighbors. Wish we had them now.
I am forced to abandon my hunt; wherever she is, this mosquito isn't going to show herself. I flick the light off and settle back down, breathing deeply and hoping against hope that sleep may claim me again.
And then it starts: that horrible yeerRRRZZZZm buzzing near my ear. I flick the light back on and I see her, poised on the wall. I flail at her with my pillow. I miss.
After a three-minute mosquito safari and a good spray of Bug-off, I still haven't caught the nasty little creature, but I hope I've scared her off. I turn off the light and settle back into my pillows with a sigh.
And all of a sudden there is the most unearthly noise: a song that isn't a song, an eerie, heartfelt, drawn-out cry that chills my blood. It has just enough of a tune to make me think it must be a song, but then the singer lowers his voice and a whining, mournful, urgent chorus takes over.
It goes on for at least five minutes and I realize it must be the pre-dawn call to prayer from the nearby mosque. I'm usually fast asleep during the pre-dawn call to prayer. Wish I was now: it seems to go on forever, an atonal, anguished droning that sets my teeth on edge.
During the day, I love the call to prayer. My students all claim that the call to prayer in this area is nowhere near as beautiful as it is in their own hometowns. They swear that the muezzins in Istanbul -- or Konya -- or Antalya all sing out the call with a full-throated skill that is utterly dazzling. If this is true, it must be something: I find it hard to imagine anything more lilting or romantic than the one we have right here in our own town. It centers and steadies me and gives me a sense of inner peace and oneness with humanity.
It doesn't do that now.
Finally -- mercifully! -- it is over and I take a deep, steadying breath. I go through my usual sleep-inducing rituals, starting with countries that begin with A. Afghanistan, Angola, Argentina... I'm half the way to Azerbaijan when the rooster next door decides it's time to get to work, letting loose with a blood-curdling ooohAAAHuhlllOOOH.
I'm not the only one who has noticed that this rooster can't crow worth beans. You've never heard anything as pathetic. He'll start off, loud and brash and clumsy, then stop himself mid cockle-doodle-doo as though he's forgotten the lyrics. You can almost imagine him trying to remember how to do it in the quiet that follows that first abortive attempt. You lie there in the dark, wondering when he'll start up again. You don't want to get too relaxed and comfortable; you know you have to brace yourself for that sudden heart-stopping cry. And then, just as you've decided that he must have given it up as a bad job, he'll start again:aaahOOOaaaOOOuhOOOOOOH.
And, so help me God, he goes on and on and on.
I am not a cruel or violent person. I try not to quarrel with my husband and children; I put up with my colleagues' quirks and peccadilloes; I catch bees and moths and release them outside instead of swatting them; I eat a largely vegetarian diet and feel guilty for the small amount of meat I do consume. But I could happily force our local muezzin to listen to System of a Down and Rammstein, full volume. I would absolutely spread that mosquito all over the wall, and yes, at this moment I would wring that stupid rooster's neck.
Tomorrow I'm buying something stronger than citronella oil. And earplugs.
