Young Turk

by Moris Farhi

  Around nine o’clock, Liliana and her sons and nephews would come down to clean up the place and set the tables. (Orhan was never involved in the running of the restaurant; that was not part of a kabadayι’s duties.) At ten Konstantin Efendi would bring in fresh produce from the market and the whole family would start cooking for lunch. At this juncture, Orhan would go out into the yard and train. And we boys, or rather those of us whose families could not pay the fees for secondary school, would watch him. At midday, Ebony Nermin would go to work – she cleaned people’s houses – and Orhan would return to his table and sit there until four in the afternoon, when the restaurant closed for a couple of hours to prepare for the evening trade. During this interlude, he and Ebony Nermin would retire to their quarters – which Konstantin Efendi had provided for them by allowing Orhan to partition the storeroom – and talk about babies and the future. (Yes, within three months, they had married. The wedding reception given by Konstantin Efendi and Liliana, to which all the friends and regulars of the restaurant had been invited, is now part of the neighbourhood’s folklore.)

  On the dot at seven in the evening, Orhan, like a genial janissary officer, would take up his post again and, sipping his raki, would keep falcon eyes, until closing time – around midnight – on customers and swarms of itinerant vendors selling flowers, lottery tickets, prints of the Exordium and beads against the evil eye. He would be particularly vigilant when the Gypsy belly-dancers put on their show. These artists, shuttling between all the restaurants in the vicinity, were constantly pestered by lewd, drunken men.

  At about ten, Ebony Nermin, having finished work, would return to the lokanta, where she hung around until closing time. Konstantin Efendi always offered her food, but she never ate until after midnight, when Orhan took his second meal of the day. (To keep lithe and alert, he never ate on duty.)

  Their love, as Liliana told everybody, was more miraculous than the virgin birth. Where or when had anybody seen a man devote himself to a woman as if she held in her person all the blessings of the world? Where or when had anybody seen a man caress his woman’s face and kiss her spontaneously, every other minute? And not just her cheeks, but her lips, arms, hands, fingers, knees, even feet? Even more to the point, where or when had anybody seen a man have his woman walk by his side, index fingers locked tightly, instead of a pace or two behind him? And in public! In front of everybody! Even in front of the imams! Not to mention the police, gendarmes and government officials!

  A year passed.

  Long before then Orhan had ceased to be an outsider. One of Konstantin Efendi’s sons and two of his nephews had emigrated to America to make what they called ‘real money’. (By all accounts, they were well on their way to achieving their objective with a chain of hamburger parlours.) This made many in our community assume that, when Konstantin Efendi and Liliana decided to retire, they would offer Orhan a partnership with their remaining sons and nephews. Indeed, they had grown so attached to him that they treated him as a member of the family. Most of the neighbourhood would be hard put to remember that Orhan was still an employee, still the Romanian’s kabadayι.

  By then also, Orhan and Ebony Nermin had crowned their marriage with a baby daughter and were keen to have more children. (After her marriage, by Liliana’s edict, Ebony Nermin was called simply Nermin.)

  Orhan and Nermin proved a perfect couple – certainly the happiest the old-timers had ever seen. But neither his love for Nermin nor his responsibilities as a father slackened Orhan’s devotion to his job. In fact, he manned his post with even greater vigilance. For in those days we kept hearing that a consortium of gangs, lusting after the protection racket’s easy loot, was parcelling out Istanbul into exclusive territories.

  Some hours after his daughter was born, Orhan came to the damp basement that my father called home. Orhan had just closed the lokanta, but knew I always stayed up late, listening to the radio. (In those days I wanted to be an actor, better still, a comedian, and was trying to learn the various regional accents as well as the grandiose Turkish of the newscasters.)

  He had brought a couple of bottles of raki and carried an endless smile such as Allah must have worn after creating the universe. He announced that the world was blessed with a new bloom. Both Nermin and Çiçek – ‘flower’, that was the name they had given the baby – were doing fine. We had cause for celebration. Moreover, by sunrise, I would have learned an important lesson: how to drink without getting drunk.

  So we went to the beach, sat by the water and, watching the constant traffic of ships through the straits, imbibed the lion’s spunk.

  When I got drunk without being drunk, I plucked up the courage to ask him why he had chosen me, of all people, to join him in such an important celebration. I was a reticent person; though I was a fixture in the neighbourhood, I was a stray; much of the time, I kept to myself, watched and observed. Some people thought I was the possessor of an evil eye and asked me what sort of thoughts I manufactured behind my eyes – which left me all the more mute. Even my father wouldn’t have anything to do with me.

  To my surprise, Orhan said he and I were kindred spirits. Cracked vessels from a ruin somewhere out there. Trying to carry water for good people. Dripping from every fracture, but still able to offer mouthfuls to the thirsty. Then, before we could quench one soul: bang, pulverized by villains. Reduced to useless dust in the wind. In one word: kabadayι.

  I asked him to elaborate on that. Then I passed out.

  And elaborate he did, over several weeks, as he continued teaching me how to drink and keep upright.

  The kabadayι are not villains. They are like the outlaws of bygone times – like Pîr Sultan Abdal, Köroğlu, Karacaoğlan and Şeyh Bedreddin – who defended the people against cruel rulers, corrupt officials and rapacious landowners. In our times, of course, services such as the police, the gendarmerie and the night bekçi should be performing these duties. But no matter how diligent these forces are, they are not effective enough to deter the wicked. Moreover, they are riddled with corruption. So people still suffer, whether they are peasants or fishermen, poets or musicians, employees or shopkeepers. The real outlaws, it should not be forgotten, are still the Establishment, still the cruel leaders, corrupt officials and rapacious landowners. While the poor lose their last rags, these either put on new tuxedos, uniforms and turbans or change names.

  So, to address these injustices, the kabadayι have to continue to exist.

  The kabadayι have commandments just like in the Sacred Books. But this Rule has not been written down. Since blind obeisance to canon has always led to oppression, the kabadayι have chosen to keep their tenets hidden in their hearts.

  It could be said that the kabadayι are born with their special talents; they can’t be formed or trained like people in other trades. In this they are like master poets and musicians. Many become aware of their gifts early on in life. Others are so humble that they choose to disbelieve their intuition. (Orhan affirmed I was one such.) Fortunately, the master kabadayι are constantly on the look-out for new blood and soon gather these self-effacing men to the fraternity. Needless to say, talent does not always fulfil its promise. Thus, before declaring that a candidate possesses the kabadayι spirit, a master oversees him for a time; hasty judgements always carry seeds from the Devil. Since, like countless false men of God, there are countless false kabadayι also – all of them self-declared, of course – a lengthy examination of the candidate’s soul is imperative. In the main, allowing for the usual beginner’s strains of shyness and humility, it takes a master some six months before he can be sure that his candidate has the makings of a kabadayι. After that, the master imparts the Kabadayι Rule and the initiate takes it into his heart.

  And Orhan chose none other than me, Attila, as his candidate – me, nobody else, not even Tarzan Hamdi, the local daredevil.

  And over many glasses of raki, as I finally learned how to drink and keep upright, I received the Kabadayι Rule.

  ‘First a
nd foremost, believe in Allah – even when, because evil fares better than good, it is impossible to believe in Him. The alternative, moaning and cursing, is a waste of energy. Kabadayι never squander energy.

  ‘Therefore, always shun money. It rots the mind.

  ‘Be tranquil. Perfect the art of sitting alone peacefully. But keep watch always. Observe people’s every move and consider the purpose behind it. You will realize everyone is searching for something.

  ‘Train every day.

  ‘Never start a fight. Try to avoid them as best as you can. Offer your adversaries raki and, to pacify them, serve a portion larger than yours. Always pay for the drinks; but when such a gesture might be considered an insult, allow your opponents the privilege of that civility. If these courtesies fail, tell them you still wish to be friends, that you are even prepared to entrust your throat to them by allowing them to shave you. If that, too, fails, change tack, warn your opponents you are likely to cause them serious injury. As proof, smash a chair. Or bend iron bars. Or lift cars. Or catch wasps with your mouth. As a last resort, play the fool, pull faces, act the madman.

  ‘However, if these warnings also go unheeded and you are forced to fight, fight like a demon.

  ‘Occasionally, you will meet adversaries whose souls have turned to stone. You’ll know the moment you see them that you will have to fight them. Tackle these people by fuelling their anger first. Mock them, insult them, offer them dribbles of raki instead of generous portions. When blood rushes to a man’s head, it veils his eyes and he charges in different directions.

  ‘Never run away, never ask for mercy.

  ‘But always grant mercy. Mercy is the kabadayι’s only currency. Be extravagant with it as if you have only a day to live because usually there isn’t a tomorrow.

  ‘Never be timid about weeping in public when affected by people’s joy or misfortune or by their songs and poems or by their workmanship and art. A kabadayι is not kabadayι unless he lets his emotions flow.

  ‘Never hurt women, children, old people or animals.

  ‘Be clean and dress well at all times.

  ‘Grow a big moustache. Moustaches reflect integrity. But make sure you always trim it. Like circumcision and paring the nails, that is part of the Prophet Muhammet’s prescription for personal cleanliness and for mental and moral health.

  ‘Show the hair on your chest. In summer it will glisten with sweat and dazzle the enemy. In winter it will gather icicles and its din, like cymbals announcing the last judgement, will make them turn tail.

  ‘Never masturbate. That offends Allah and women.

  ‘Eat frugally. A bloated bear cannot dance. Drink raki, never wine. Wine muddies the mind. Raki clears it. But make sure it’s pure. Lion’s spunk or tiger’s milk. Not ass’s piss.

  ‘Never carry firearms. They are cowards’ weapons.

  ‘But strap a knife to your calf and always have empty bottles within reach. Use the knife only when you must.

  ‘Never kill. Not even if you’re dying. Why go to the other world carrying the additional burden of your enemy’s miserable soul?’

  Nearly another year passed.

  Nermin was pregnant again.

  By then, I looked upon Orhan as my only family – as the mother, brothers and sisters, yes, even the father, I had always longed for. In fact, I had a father, Ragιp. I also had a couple of uncles, Cemal and Bahadur. Good men, all of them. But I had always felt I was of no interest to them. Cemal and Bahadur, my mother’s brothers, were mariners and, consequently, always away on one ship or another. On the occasions they happened to wash ashore in Istanbul, they spent their time either looking for another ship or gambling. My father, originally from eastern Turkey, had lost all his relatives in the Erzincan earthquake of ’39. But he had kept faith with life and had felt saved when he had married my mother, a native of neighbouring İzmit who had found work in a shoe factory in Istanbul. According to Uncle Bahadur, my birth had been touch-and-go for my mother and, thereafter, she had been unable to hold a foetus. Then, one dreadful winter, tuberculosis had carried her off. I was six at the time, an only child.

  After her death, my father more or less gave up. He had been a public scribe during his married years, but abandoned that as too harrowing because most of the letters he was asked to write imparted terrible news like dire poverty, hunger, eviction, deaths, particularly children’s deaths. (They still remember him around the Yeni Cami, the mosque at the end of Galata Bridge, as having a special flair for phrasing condolences.) Eventually, he found a job as a caretaker in a block of flats – the one where that famous kanun-player, Handan Ramazan, lives. So he would come home once a week, on Fridays, after prayers. He would make me a meal – very lovingly, as if to tell me that this was the only treat he could give me – then go out. First to a licensed brothel – they were relatively cheap – then to a meyhane to get drunk. (His weekly visits to the brothels, people told me, were his attempt at preserving his sanity. There was no other way a man who could not find a wife or bring himself to marry again could survive.) Late in the night, he would return – tottering. He would allow me to undress him and put him to bed. But I don’t think he ever slept. Then, at dawn, he would slip out quietly and go back to being a caretaker. So we hardly talked. Or shook hands. He never patted me on the back or ruffled my hair or pinched my cheek as fathers do. The only time we touched was when I helped him to bed. Then, as I undressed him, he would put his head on my shoulder and weep silently. I hesitate to admit it, but I loved those moments. Not only because they gave me a sense of his warmth and love, but also because I knew he was trying to say things to me, like maybe he was sorry for being such a wreck, or that maybe if I stuck by him, he might change, might manage to crawl out from under the weight of all those he had buried.

  And then Orhan appeared. And filled my life. And told me we were alike.

  Not just a man who was clear water all the way down to his innards and all the way up to his very soul. But also a loving man. A man who hugged me like a mother – who hugged everybody like a mother. A man who treated his woman as his greatest treasure, as his equal, as the meaning of life, as someone more sacred than the deity. A man who taught me the Kabadayι Rule and how to stand on my own and everything else I wanted to know. Who listened to the radio with me, took an interest in my dreams of becoming a comedian, heard me practising accents, praised me when I did well. Who patted me on the back, ruffled my hair, pinched and kissed my cheek – often for no reason, but just because he liked me. Who asked me if I had tumbled with a woman yet or whether I was carrying a torch for some houri. In short, a parent such as we imagine Allah to be.

  And so he became my mother and father, my sisters and brothers, and all the countless relatives who had spent an eternity clinging to a cloud, fretting over me.

  He even became my son and my daughter. The children I will never have. That’s how well he taught me how to love.

  Then darkness came.

  It was a balmy Saturday night in July, soon after eleven, when the late diners were eagerly awaiting their Bela Rugosi – the lokanta’s special dessert, which, Konstantin Efendi swore, had been created by a French chef for Vlad the Impaler, alias Count Dracula.

  I was working in the restaurant. On Orhan’s recommendation, Konstantin Efendi had hired me part-time. I did menial tasks: clearing dishes, laying tables, serving drinks. And I loved doing it because I was in Orhan’s orbit.

  To add to my happiness, Nermin, too, helped out in the restaurant. I was thus able to drool over Çiçek as she slept or played her strange infant’s games. Nermin had become like an elder sister. And Çiçek, who seldom cried, but busily observed the world around her – and smiled whenever she caught sight of someone – had become as precious to me as if she were my own flesh and blood.

  They sauntered in, as if they owned the sky. Five fellows, one with his head shaven, like a corsair from bygone times. Hefty bruisers. Not Cossacks, as I had first thought. Real gangsters. Ready to gouge out a
man’s eyes for nothing.

  They sat at a table near the entrance.

  I glanced at Orhan.

  He had seen them, of course, and was scrutinizing them. Then he nodded imperceptibly, indicating that I should attend to them.

  I approached their table. ‘Good evening, gentlemen. The kitchen is about to close. But if you order quickly ...’

  The shaven-headed man, obviously the leader, barked. ‘Get Konstantin Efendi!’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘Get him, you little bastard! Tell him Octopus wants to see him.’

  As I backed away towards the kitchen, Orhan whispered. ‘Ease everybody into the kitchen. Tell them to stay there!’