The Aziz Bey Incident

by Ayfer Tunç

  That night Aziz Bey did not lie in his bed. He curled up on the sofa in the sitting room, and fell asleep crying.

  But this melancholy began to lose its charm on the nights that followed.

  Aziz Bey imagined himself a ball of fire that ignited everything it touched; he expected this melancholy state to always be reciprocated. But that wasn’t to be. This ordinary tavern’s patrons that varied from night to night began to get fed up with Aziz Bey’s ponderous and gloomy songs. They put up with these sad offerings for a couple of hours, but then they wanted to hear cheerful things that would help shake off the stresses of daily life.

  Aziz Bey took no notice of these requests; he wanted to view all the patrons as voluntary witnesses to his sorrow, and not as people who paid for their entertainment. To request cheerful songs was akin to treating him with disrespect. He painstakingly prevented Bahri and Mercan from switching to livelier melodies. He was tied with an unswerving loyalty to the sorrowful journey that drove through his soul. He wandered around the same sorrowful notes; with a great show he threw down the pieces of paper and napkins Davut brought to him, bearing requests for cheerful songs, and even trod on some of them. And when some of the patrons asked for the requests they wanted to hear in a loud voice his anger grew. When they saw their requests had still not been performed by the middle of the night, the customers either got up grumbling or stopped listening to the music and settled down to a happy conversation among themselves full of laughter not at all suitable to Aziz Bey’s state of grief.

  It was because of this that the place began to fill less and less each night. Those who came were discomfited by Aziz Bey’s face, whose sorrow was beginning to be replaced by anger. The complaints increased, annoying Zeki more and more.

  One late afternoon, Aziz Bey emptied a box of photographs onto the couch where he was sitting at home. He was looking for his wife’s pictures. On the small coffee table beside him there was a glass of rakı, and a few slices of orange. Among the photo -graphs showing him at the seaside, on wide roads, in convertibles, in exclusive restaurants, among famous singers, playing, drinking, laughing, enjoying himself, there was nothing of Vuslat, apart from a few faded photographs taken at their wedding. And from those few photographs, Vuslat stared at him with hurt eyes.

  Aziz Bey was on the verge of crying when someone knocked on the door that had not been knocked on for days.

  It was Zeki. He intended to warn Aziz Bey that things could not carry on like this, and to tell him he had to play according to the customer’s wishes. He’d had enough of Aziz Bey’s mournful repertoire, and there was nothing for it but to go and have a word. He did not want to talk to him in the tavern, because he had no desire to upset Aziz Bey, who in any case arrived drunk and whose reaction in front of other people could be unpredictable.

  But Zeki never got round to saying anything: Aziz Bey was so delighted at Zeki’s arrival that he danced attendance on him; he made him coffee, poured him rakı, seated him down comfortably placing cushions behind him, and told him sincerely how happy he was to see him. Zeki found himself unable to voice what was in his mind to this wretched man who sat drinking rakı in his pyjamas, even though evening was about to fall in this house whose kitchen exuded a smell of cabbage stew. They chatted about this and that, and then he got up and left.

  The next day he took advantage of Aziz Bey coming to work half an hour early. He seated Aziz Bey down facing him, to talk in the inoffensive but firm and decisive sentences all that he’d thought about during the day.

  ‘Abi, I have the greatest respect for you,’ he began, ‘But don’t do this. Look, the patrons have stopped coming to the place. We’ve now got a reputation as the “gloomy tavern.” People are saying one should only go to Zeki’s tavern if you want a good cry. Abi please. You can’t bring back the dead, pull yourself together now…’

  Aziz Bey peered sharply at Zeki. He replied patronisingly in a determined voice:

  ‘I won’t debase this music for no-good drunks, Zeki.’ Zeki could not answer. His legs trembled with anger for a while. That night Aziz Bey again insisted on having his own way.

  Zeki had no idea what to do, and was simply unable to say ‘Abi, don’t come in any more as of tomorrow.’ Every day he found brand-new phrases of dismissal and arrived at work determined, but while he thought, I’ll tell him during the first interval, and a little later, No, after the programme, the night ended and Aziz Bey left without having been fired. For a while he tried to cold shoulder Aziz Bey, and to pay him late. But none of it made the slightest impression on Aziz Bey.

  One day he took Bahri by the arm, and led him outside. They walked for a while.

  ‘Tell him not to come any more,’ he said. ‘Look: we’re all going to go bust together. Speak to him. Let him find somewhere else. That is, if he can.’

  ‘How can I tell him abi?’ asked Bahri, ‘Fate’s already hit him; how can I possibly say to him “That’s it, we’ve stopped doing business with you, don’t come any more!” You tell him yourself.’

  Zeki angrily let go of Bahri’s arm. He hurled a kick at the tin near his foot.

  ‘I can’t!’ he said, ‘If I could I certainly would!’

  That evening Zeki decided definitely that after the programme he would cut all relations with Aziz Bey. If necessary he would carry on paying his weekly wage. Just so that he’d stay away and not come in any more to irritate the patrons with tearful songs.

  One or two poor drunks were boozing half asleep, with pickles and melon, a little white cheese and beans in olive oil in front of them. Zeki was ready to cry with anger. He looked at the state of the business and swore. And then the programme –which wasn’t all that brilliant anyway – ended. Aziz Bey came to the table as usual and sat down. His face was very pale. He did not look very well. Zeki thought this was just the right time to have a word…

  He was just about to say ‘Abi, that’s enough. You’ve ruined my precious business…’ when Aziz Bey began to cough. It was as though he was choking, he was gasping for breath. Bahri ran and got a glass of water. As Mercan shook him by the shoulders a hoarse wheeze came from Aziz Bey’s mouth. He couldn’t breathe, and his eyes opened large. Bahri took his arm and led him outside.

  ‘Take a deep breath, abi,’ he said, ‘Let’s go to the hospital if you like…’

  Aziz Bey opened his eyes wide and shook his head. Then his fit of coughing abated, it almost stopped. It was cool out. They went inside. Aziz Bey, who sat with difficulty on the edge of the chair, was exhausted. His face was pale but trying to smile, and he whispered,

  ‘I’m fine. Don’t worry… It’s better.’

  Confronted with this scene Zeki again could say nothing, and he looked at Bahri.

  ‘Could you take Aziz Abi home?

  Aziz Bey didn’t object. He took Bahri’s arm and began to walk slowly. He coughed from time to time and doubled up when he did. Zeki leant against the door and stared after them and filled with anguish.

  ‘Now go and tell him, “You’re done!”…’

  Aziz Bey had caught a chill because he hadn’t looked after himself properly. He lay ill at home for quite a while. From time to time Bahri looked in to see how he was, this man who had now really sunk, shrunk even, and in shrinking had reached a state of sad and childish winsomeness. Sometimes he brought Aziz Bey medicine; or he sent his wife to bring him soup cooked and wash his clothes.

  Whenever Aziz Bey saw Bahri he cried like a child.

  Zeki took advantage of this illness. He had no wish to treat this man ungratefully. He remembered how his music had brought his business to its peak only a year earlier. Although he felt guilty, he knew it couldn’t carry on like this. He went to visit Aziz Bey with his arms full. He had taken Aziz Bey’s tambur with him to forestall the excuse of getting the instrument to come to the tavern. He knocked and a shrunken, wrinkled faced Aziz Bey opened the door. He was unshaven and looked awful. Yet he was delighted when he saw Zeki, and his face lit up. They walked into the roo
m; Aziz Bey apologised and stretched out on his bed. Zeki sat at his bedside.

  ‘Abi, for us there’s nothing more important than your health,’ he said, ‘You are very precious to us. Don’t tire yourself by coming to the shop. I’m like your son. It’s my duty to look after you. I’m not going to forget the days that you took my business to its peak.’

  The sincerity in Zeki’s words made him cry for hours. After he left, he prayed as he took his medicine to get better as soon as possible in order to carry on this loyal boy’s work from where he left off.

  The night of that tragic incident, Zeki lost his patience.

  And yet, it had all been going so well. In the five weeks that Aziz Bey had been ill and resting, Zeki had created a brand new repertoire, added the gipsy violinist to the group, who knew the popular songs so well. He had replaced the curtains and tablecloths, installed an air conditioner and placed advertisements about the brand-new programme in the papers. The results had been immediately visible: a private party, a large group had booked the entire joint that night.

  Zeki was greeting his patrons at the door in his best outfit when Aziz Bey arrived carrying his tambur. Zeki couldn’t believe his eyes, nor find a single word to say to Aziz Bey’s customary face; overconfident and vain as always.

  Aziz Bey was wearing his old black costume with purple satin collar and cuffs, and had slicked his hair back. There was colour in his face. Even though he looked good, one couldn’t help noticing that he had become thin and very small. Yet in spite of this he’d regained his dignified, upright demeanour. That well-known keenness showed in his gaze.

  ‘How are you Zeki?’ he asked patronisingly, ‘Have you managed to get along without me then?’

  Without waiting for an answer he went inside. Zeki’s hands began to shake with anger.

  It was not just any man who went inside, it was Aziz Bey. The unchanging Aziz Bey with that strange breeze, that charisma and that proud stance. Again there was a curious halo around him. He asked after Bahri and Mercan in a powerful voice, he asked Davut for some rakı and patted the busboys on the back. He even went into the kitchen and teased the chef.

  Zeki stood in the doorway gaping at all that was going on inside. He signalled Bahri, calling him over.

  ‘Where did this old fart spring from?’ he asked. The anger in his voice was beyond his control.

  ‘How should I know abi?’ asked Bahri, ‘He must have got better, just look at him. He’s really thin but sharp as anything.’

  ‘Look here,’ said Zeki, his voice shaking with rage, ‘Take no notice of this pillock, I’m warning you. You play whatever the patrons want. I won’t hear of anything else.’ He paused and took a deep breath. ‘Bahri,’ he said, ‘I swear, damn it, if anything goes wrong tonight I’ll chuck you out, the lot of you. I’m warning you. Look here, I’ve spent a bloody fortune on this business! I won’t have it buggered up!’

  Aziz Bey waited patiently at Zeki’s table for the programme to start. He took a sip of the rakı that Davut had practically thrown on the table. Zeki sat opposite him. He tried to be calm. At first he even smiled.

  ‘I’m really happy to see you abi,’ he said, ‘May God preserve you, you look fine. There’s colour in your face.’

  ‘I’m fine,’ said Aziz Bey, ‘I’ve pulled myself together. I’m of the old stock, son.’ Then he glanced around. ‘You’ve polished up the place a lot. It’s really nice, well done.’

  Again that proud talk, again that arrogant attitude. There was a short silence. Zeki swallowed.

  ‘Abi, I ask you, please,’ he said in a half-begging voice. ‘This evening the patrons are very special. They made a point of asking that no sorrowful, melancholy songs be sung. Please abi… you won’t, will you, otherwise you’ll utterly ruin me.’

  Aziz Bey did not think it necessary to reply. He just stared as if to say ‘Oh, please!’ He took a gulp of his rakı. He crossed his legs and sat slumped in his chair. It was as though he was the twenty-five year old Aziz Bey was taking the world in his palm and preparing to squeeze the juice out of it.

  Within half an hour the tavern was filled to overflowing. Aziz Bey had taken his place among the players, and had given a long tambur taqsim. Zeki’s eyes were on Aziz Bey. It was going well for the moment. He hoped that this long illness had been good for old musician. Perhaps he would be the old Aziz Bey and understand from the patrons’ gaze what they liked, and would turn the night into a festivity for everyone. But the programme began again with sad songs.

  My heart is sad again, I remembered you deep inside.

  I passed yesterday again through the old autumn gardens.

  Zeki strove to keep his cool, reminding himself that it was customary for the first hour to pass with such heavy, moving songs.

  The young group made up of old school friends were enough of a crowd to book the whole tavern, and they were in very good spirits. There was non-stop movement at the tables. These youngsters, who hadn’t seen one other for a long time, had begun earning a living four to five years earlier and considered themselves to be successfully passing life’s difficult exams. They were talking and laughing continually about those carefree, irresponsible, happy days of school with longing; mistaken by their youthful perception of time, they were talking about the days, not too distant, that they felt long gone; and they were embracing and kissing.

  As the night wore on, their nostalgia slaked, their common memories were exhausted and they became slightly tipsy. The to-ing and fro-ing among the tables had diminished, and now some of them had succumbed to a fresh drunkenness, while others reached the point of looking for merry-making. Yet there was absolutely no change in Aziz Bey’s programme. The music was too incomprehensible and sorrowful to respond to the enthusiasm in their souls.

  While Aziz Bey sang the darkest songs of his own melancholy internal world, outside it was pouring with rain.

  At the first interval Zeki felt the patrons were not happy, and he went over to Aziz Bey.

  ‘For goodness’ sake, abi,’ he said, ‘They’re are too young to appreciate your beautiful songs. ‘Please, give them whatever they want…’

  Aziz Bey interrupted Zeki harshly. The shadows that descended on his face in the dim tavern had sharpened his features even more, making him look taller and thinner.

  ‘If they can’t appreciate it, what the hell are they doing here? Can’t they go somewhere else?..’

  He went and took his place on the stage and continued from where he’d left off with the same mournful notes and moving melodies. Zeki’s nerves were really tense. He caught Bahri’s eye and said, ‘Cheerful! Cheerful!’ But Bahri hung his head as if to say there was nothing he could do. Zeki’s face grew sour. His jaw was hurting from gritting his teeth. Aziz Bey had immediately descended to, and was now wandering about in, the depths of his own world. Even though Bahri and Mercan occasionally tried to start a cheerful song, Aziz Bey’s sharp glance and the sound of his tambur virtually enveloped the whole room and wouldn’t allow it.

  Two smooth-shaven young men in shirts with cufflinks, imbued with the air of banks, corporations, the stock exchange, securities and real estate, had removed their jackets and loosened their ties, had put their heads together and asked everyone, laughing all the while, to write their requests on a table napkin. They tucked in a fair amount of money, and handed this to Davut. After handing over the requests, one could tell from the way they sprawled in their chairs and the superior look on their faces, that they were prepared to pay for the entertainment they were expecting; an insolence that said, ‘That’s enough, the time has come, now let’s see you entertain us.’ They spoke incessantly and teased their girl friends at tables further off. They did not like the mezes and sent them back, then sent the busboys running to buy roses and scatter them impudently in front of the girls.

  Aziz Bey saw the insolence with which these two had held out the money and the table napkin to Davut. Zeki called out ‘Give it to Bahri!’ but he could not make his voice heard in
the general hum. Davut took the table napkin and instead of taking it to Bahri, knowing full well that this list of requests would drive Aziz Bey mad, he put it on the coffee table in front of him next to his glass.

  Aziz Bey stared for a while at the table napkin with the money clearly sticking out of the corner. He finished his song. He put down his tambur and laid it beside him with care. Then he took the napkin and the money and went to the head of the long table. All the members of the group were looking at Aziz Bey with smiling faces and were hoping that this musician would play some simple joke on them. The two young men looked at each other. They were ready to make fun of this ridiculously dressed man. Zeki trembled for a moment. Davut was leaning against the wall, smirking as he waited for what was about to happen. Aziz Bey flung the money on the table, held up the table napkin like a dirty handkerchief and waved it.

  ‘Who asked for these?’ he asked in a powerful voice.

  Bahri, as if sensing the disaster that was about to happen, played his clarinet with all his might, trying to stifle the situation and to cover Aziz Bey’s words and the probable insults they contained. Mercan was beating his darbuka non-stop. The violinist who had newly joined the team unconsciously participated in Bahri and Mercan’s efforts; as he scraped his bow across the strings a squeaky, scratchy noise came out. There was neither rhythm, nor melody, nor anything else left on the scene. Bahri realised this cacophony would only inflame Aziz Bey all the more and he put down the clarinet, Mercan’s beatings on the darbuka slowed, then stopped altogether. Aziz Bey’s insolent and angry mien, his eyes that looked as though they were burning under the dim light, confused the group.