by Orhan Pamuk
Then I told her again that I loved her and, without thinking, added, with conviction, “I want to marry you!” but nothing I could say made a difference anymore; it was amazing how much Ceylan looked like that woman in the poster she was standing next to, except that Ceylan was scowling, so angry she couldn’t even look at me, only the telephone in my hand. I don’t know what unsettled me more, the hatred on her face or her magical resemblance to the Mobil oil woman, but anyway I was ready for the worst.
After just a couple of rings, someone answered. I recognized Fikret’s voice right away. “Is that you?” I said. “I’m calling so you don’t worry about us!” At the same time, I was wondering what he was doing answering the phone at Turan’s with so many other people there. “Who’s there?” Fikret abruptly asked. “It’s me, Metin!” “You, I got, but who’s there with you?” “Ceylan!” I said, taken aback. For a second I even thought the two of them were playing some gag on me, but Ceylan’s face was expressionless: she only kept asking, “Who’s on the line?” Fikret said, “I thought you were dropping Ceylan off at her house!” “Well,” I said, “actually we’re here together, at the gas station, but we’re fine, don’t worry. Okay, I’ve got to go now!” “Who is that, who are you talking to,” Ceylan asked. “Will you please give me the phone?”
But I wouldn’t give it to her and kept trying to answer Fikret’s annoying questions. “What are we doing at the gas station?” I said. “A minor repair,” and I quickly added: “But we’re on our way back, Okay? So, bye!” But Ceylan, now yelling so she would be heard on the other end, said, “Stop, stop, don’t hang up, who is it?” Just as I was about to get off the line, Fikret said in a cold, unpleasant voice, “It seems Ceylan wants to speak to me!” I reluctantly handed the receiver to Ceylan and went out into the gloomy rain.
After walking a short way, I turned and looked back at the bright room where among the shelves, ads, and Mobil oil cans, Ceylan had come to life and was still eagerly talking on the phone while twisting the end of her hair, and I thought how I would forget about all this when I was in America, but then realized I didn’t want to go anymore. As Ceylan shifted her weight from one beautiful leg to the other, impatient as a stranded child, I muttered to myself, She is more beautiful than any girl I’ve ever met, and I stood there in the rain like a schoolboy, helpless and resigned as he awaits the punishment being decided for him. Soon Ceylan hung up the phone and came outside, completely happy.
“Fikret’s on his way!”
“But I’m the one who loves you!”
I ran over to the car and started yelling at the mechanic, telling him that if he got the car started right now I’d give him all the money I had on me.
“I’ll get it started,” he said. “But this clutch will give out on the road again!”
“No, it won’t. Just get it running!”
After he fiddled around for a while, the guy told me to try the starter. I got into the car gleefully, but it wouldn’t turn over. After he’d fiddled a little more, the mechanic told me to try it again, but still no luck. And after this routine was repeated a few more times my anger and frustration got to the point where I lost it.
“Ceylan, please don’t leave me.”
“Settle down, you’re having a fit,” said Ceylan.
When Fikret’s Alfa Romeo arrived at the gas station a little later, I pulled myself together and got out of the car.
“Come on, let’s just get out of here, Fikret!” said Ceylan.
“What’s wrong with the old car?” said Fikret.
“It’s working now,” I said. “I’ll be in Cennethisar before you. I’ll even race you, if you want!”
“Fine,” said Fikret. “Let’s race.”
Ceylan went and sat in Fikret’s Alfa Romeo. I hit the starter hard, and thank goodness the car worked. I gave the kid a one-thousand-lira note, then I gave him another one. We lined the two cars up at the starting line. “Be careful, Fikret,” said Ceylan. “Metin’s nerves are shot.”
“Up to Turan’s! On your mark, get set …,” Fikret said.
When he said “go” the Anadol roared and shot off like an arrow and was responding just fine as I pressed the gas all the way down to the floor, but since Fikret had just slightly jumped the gun he was already in the lead, but that was okay, because I was blowing my horn and shining my brights on the back of his neck and staying right on his tail, even with this lousy Anadol, because I was not going to leave you alone with him, Ceylan! When we went over the bridge I got closer still, not slowing down at the turn at the top of the hill, but actually stepping on it even more, because, though it might be a ridiculous thought, I knew now that, to get a girl like you, I had to be willing to stare death in the eye, even though it was so unfair, you in that coward’s car, look, Ceylan, when he takes the turn, he hits the brakes, I see the red taillights, but when I try to pass, he plays an even dirtier trick and won’t let me by, My God, I was saying to myself, I’ve got no luck, when suddenly I was completely thrown for a loop, because first he downshifted and then, when he hit the gas, that Alfa Romeo really took off, like a rocket, climbing up the hill at incredible speed, the little red lights getting smaller and smaller until, in about two minutes, they had disappeared from view. I was pushing the gas all the way down, but my car was like a quick horse forced to pull a load uphill, skidding in the ruts, gasping for air; it soon started whining, until the rear wheels once again began to disregard the engine, because of the damn clutch, and so when I turned it off so that at least it wouldn’t overheat, I wound up stuck there, halfway up the hill, all alone like an idiot. Just me and the stupid crickets again!
I tried a few times to restart the engine, but I soon realized that the only thing to do was to push the car to the top of the hill so it could coast down the other side, all the way to Cennethisar. At least the rain was letting up as I started to push, but that barely mattered, because I was drenched in sweat and trying to ignore my aching back, but when it started to sprinkle again, and the pain became unbearable, I pulled the hand brake and kicked the car in disgust. I saw another car coming uphill, but it just passed right by me, blowing its horn, ignoring the pathetic hand I’d raised for help. The sky began to rumble off in the distance, so I resumed pushing; by now the strain in my guts was bringing tears to my eyes.
When I looked back and saw how little progress I had made for all this anguish, I lost it, and I began to run along the road, as the rain got heavier, I took a shortcut through the cherry orchard and the vineyards, but I got bogged down in all that mud, swallowed by the pitch-black darkness! A little later, I was bent over gasping from pain, wondering if my spleen had burst, my feet covered with mud, when I heard the growls of the dogs trying to scare me off the property, and since they were getting really close I turned back. I got in the car again so as not to get any wetter than I already was, and as I sat there, with my head pressed against the wheel, I thought: But I love you.
Eventually, I saw three guys coming down the hill, so I jumped out eagerly to ask them for help. But as the dark shadows got closer and I got a look at them, I immediately regretted leaving the car. The biggest had a can of paint in his hand, the second had a mustache, the other was wearing some kind of jacket.
“What are you doing here in the dark of night?” said the one with the mustache.
“My car broke down. Will you give me a hand, please?”
“What, do you think we’re horses, or maybe your father’s servant? Just push it down the hill.”
“Just a minute, just a minute!” said the one with the jacket. “I recognize you now, my good man, don’t you remember, this morning you almost ran us over!”
“What? Was that you! I am terribly sorry, brother!”
The one with the jacket spoke in a simpering female voice that was supposed to be me: “Oh, gee, I’m sorry, sweetie, I guess I almost ran you over this morning! I guess it’s a good thing I didn’t!”
“Let’s get out of here,” said the one with the mus
tache.
“No, I think I’m staying here with our friend,” said the one with the jacket. He went and sat in the car. “Come on, guys, you too.”
After a moment’s hesitation, the one with the mustache and the one carrying the spray can got in the backseat. I sat behind the wheel, next to the one with the jacket. The rain was really starting to come down.
“We’re not bothering you, I hope, sweetheart?” said the one with the jacket.
I smiled cooperatively.
“Good! I like this one, he knows how to take a joke, he’s okay, this one! So what’s your name?”
I told him.
“Pleased to meet you, Metin Bey. I’m Serdar, this is Mustafa, and this retard we call Fox. His real name is Hasan.”
“You’re going to go too far again, just watch it!” said Hasan.
“What do you mean?” said Serdar. “Of course we must introduce ourselves. Isn’t that so, Metin Bey?”
He held out his hand. When I stuck mine out he squeezed it with all his might. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I squeezed his back, out of desperation, and finally he let my hand go.
“Good for you! You’re a strong one, but not as strong as I am!”
“So what school do you go to?” said Mustafa.
“The American High School.”
“Ah, the society school?” said Serdar. “Our Fox here is in love with one of your society types.”
“Don’t start again,” said Hasan.
“Wait a sec! Maybe he can show you the way. He’s one of them. Isn’t that so? Why are you laughing?”
“I’m not!” I said.
“I know why you’re laughing,” said Serdar. “You’re making fun of this poor guy because he’s in love with a rich girl. Isn’t that so, creep?”
“You were laughing, too,” I said, confused.
Serdar shouted, “I can laugh. I’m his friend, I don’t look down on him, but you do. What’s with you, you son of a bitch, haven’t you ever been in love?”
He ranted some more, and when I didn’t say anything he got even angrier and started to root around in the car. He opened the glove compartment, read the insurance papers in a loud official voice, laughing as if they were completely hilarious, and when he learned that the car wasn’t mine but my brother’s, he fixed me with this stare of contempt and said:
“So, what do you think you’re doing with these cars and these girls in the middle of the night, huh?”
I didn’t answer him. I just grinned at him like some pathetic lowlife.
“These guys have no shame! But you do all right for yourselves! Tell me, was that one with you last night your sweetheart?”
“No,” I said nervously. “She wasn’t.”
“Don’t lie,” said Serdar.
“My sister!” I said. “My grandmother’s sick, we were out trying to find medicine.”
“You couldn’t just go to the pharmacy on the hill road, across from the beach?”
“It was closed.”
“It’s open every night, you liar! But maybe you knew that that pharmacist is a Communist!”
“I didn’t know.”
“What do you know except how to go around with society girls?”
“Do you know who we are?” said Mustafa.
“I know,” I said. “You’re Idealists!”
“Good!” said Mustafa. “Do you know what we’re all about, do you know that?”
“Nationalism and things like that.”
“What does ‘and things like that’ mean?”
“This boy’s probably not even a Turk!” said Serdar. “Are you a real Turk, man, your father, your mother, are they real Turks?”
“I’m a Turk!”
“Then what’s this?” He showed the record that Ceylan had forgotten. Serdar spelled out “Best of Elvis.”
“It’s a record,” I said.
“Don’t be a wiseass, I see right through you. What’s this faggot record doing in a Turk’s car?”
“I’m not interested in that stuff. My sister left that record in the car.”
“So, in other words, you don’t go to discos or places like that?” said Serdar.
“Not very often!”
“Are you against communism?” said Mustafa.
“I am!”
“Tell me why you’re against it.”
“Well, you know …”
“Noo … I don’t know anything. You tell us, and we’ll learn …”
“Our friend seems like he’s shy,” said Serdar. “He’s keeping quiet …”
“Are you a coward?” said Mustafa.
“I don’t think so.”
“He doesn’t think so! If you’re not a coward, why aren’t you fighting the Communists that you say you’re against?”
“I never got a chance,” I said. “You’re the first Idealists I’ve met.”
“Well, how do you find us?” said Serdar. “Do you like us?”
“I do.”
“You’re one of us, then. What do you say we come look for you tomorrow night and take you along with us?”
“Sure, come and get me …”
“Quiet, you lying coward. As soon as you get away from us you’ll go to the police, won’t you?”
“Calm down, Serdar,” said Mustafa. “He’s not a bad kid! Look, I’ll bet he’ll even take some invitations from us!”
“We’re sponsoring an evening in the Sports and Exhibition Palace in Istanbul. Would you consider doing us the honor?” said Serdar.
“I’ll come!” I said. “How much is it?”
“Look at this, now. Now, did anybody say anything about money?”
“It’s okay, Serdar. If he wants to buy them himself, let the kid pay for them. It’ll be a help.”
The one called Serdar asked with a fawning voice, “How many would you like, sir?”
“Five hundred liras’ worth.”
I was quickly pulling a five-hundred-lira note out of my wallet.
“Hey, is that snakeskin, that wallet?” said Mustafa.
“No!” I held out the five hundred liras anxiously. Serdar didn’t take the money. “May I see the snakeskin?”
“It’s not snakeskin, I said!”
“Give it to me and let me take a look at that wallet.”
I handed over the wallet full of the money I had collected working in the summer heat for over a month.
“Right you are!” said Serdar. “It’s not snakeskin, this wallet, you fooled us.”
“Let me have a look, I can tell,” said Mustafa. He took the wallet and went through it. “Do you need this address book? No, you don’t, you know so many people, and they all have phones, don’t they?… Somebody who knows so many people doesn’t have to carry around an ID card to identify himself. So I’m just taking your ID card and, wait a minute … twelve thousand liras. Does your father give you this kind of money?”
“No, I earned it myself,” I said. “I give English and math lessons.”
“Look, Fox, just the guy for you!” said Serdar. “Would you give him a math lesson? For free, of course …”
“I will,” I said and then I understood which Hasan the Hasan they called Fox was.
“Good!” said Mustafa. “Anyway, I’ve decided that you are a good kid. With these twelve thousand liras you can buy all together twenty-four invitations. You can give them out to your friends.”
“At least leave me a thousand liras,” I said.
“Complaining? Careful or you’ll start pissing me off!” Serdar shouted.
“No, he’s not complaining. You’re giving us the twelve thousand liras of your own free will, right?” said Mustafa.
“We’re talking to you, you bastard!”
“Easy, Serdar!”
“Okay,” said Serdar, “now next, what’s this for?” He opened Faruk’s notebook, which he found in the backseat, and began to read from it. “ ‘A village valued at seventeen thousand akçe in the vicinity of Gebze being formerly possessed by Sipahi Ali
was, upon his failure to participate in the campaign, thereby taken from him and given to Habib.’ What is this, you can’t even read it! ‘The complaint of Veli against Mahmut who did not pay the value of the mule he had purchased from him …’ ”
“What is all this stuff?” said Mustafa.
“My brother’s a historian.”
“Poor guy!” said Serdar.
“Come on, let’s go, the rain’s letting up,” said Mustafa.
“At least give me my ID back,” I said.
“What does ‘at least’ mean, prick!” said Serdar. “Did we do anything bad to you?” Then he stuck his head inside the car, looking for something bad to do. He saw “Best of Elvis” and said, “I’m borrowing this too, okay?” He took Faruk’s notebook as well. “If you drive a little slower from now on, maybe you won’t confuse everybody with one of your father’s servants. Pathetic little creep!”
He slammed the door and went off with the others. When I figured they were a good ways off, I got out of the car and started to push the Anadol up the hill.
26
Hasan Tries to Return the Record and the Notebook
We gave that guy a good lesson!” said Serdar.
“You go too far sometimes,” said Mustafa. “What if he goes to the police?”
“He won’t,” said Serdar. “Didn’t you see, he’s a total coward?”
“Why did you have to take the record and the notebook?” said Mustafa.
That’s when I saw it, Nilgün: Serdar had taken the record you’d left in the car, and Faruk’s notebook, too. When we got to the neighborhood down below he stopped under the streetlight and looked at the cover.
“I took it because it makes me sick that he thinks everybody is his father’s servant!” he said.
“That wasn’t a good idea,” said Mustafa. “You got him mad for no reason.”
“If you want,” I said, “give me the record, and I’ll take it back to the car.”
“God, what kind of idiot is this guy!” said Serdar.
“Look,” said Mustafa. “You do not call this guy an idiot, a retard, or a fox in front of anybody ever again.”
Serdar was quiet. We walked downhill without saying anything. I thought how with that twelve thousand liras in Mustafa’s pocket I could buy the knife I saw in Pendik, the one with the mother-of-pearl handle, and a pair of leather shoes with rubber soles for winter. If I kicked in a little more, I could even get a gun. They stopped when we came to the coffeehouse.