I moved closer to the man’s face, I smelled his greasy hair and prodded his dirty forehead.
“This is the hope he clung to,” I said, showing him the dirt on my finger. “That teacher was my father. His last poem cursed humanity. The night he wrote that poem he went outside and gazed up at the sky. The Milky Way was flowing from one horizon to another. The Northern Star was far away. As he couldn’t ascend to the north, in other words, to that star, he considered descending to the south, to the depths of the earth. That could be the way to complete his last journey. Wasn’t every death a descent? He went to the well in the village square, leaned over and looked down. He stuck his head in. The moss-covered walls smelled lovely. He inhaled the fragrance deeply. He dropped a stone into the water. The stone fell for a long time, eventually sending an echo as it hit the water. Down below it was dark, damp, and mysterious. The heart of the world, the south, was down there.”
Noises came from beside the fire. They were concerned because we were taking so long. They called both of our names. “One Eye, where have you got to? Kamo the Barber, where are you?” I stuck my head out and looked. While the drunks continued to drink by the fire, one or two of them were calling out in our direction. They would be here in a moment. The song of the steel knives would start.
When I turned around and saw the white dog I lurched. I stumbled on a stone. The knife fell from my hand. When had the white dog got this close? It had a handsome face and a wide neck. Its long hair covered its silky body, flowing all the way down to its tail. It didn’t look like the strays that lurked by the city wall. It wasn’t after food. Its teeth shone in the moonlight. Its pointed ears recalled a wolf’s ears. Its large feet were not coated in dust. It was staring at me without moving, without letting on what it was about to do. I bent down and picked up the knife. Taking two paces back, I leaned against the wall. I remembered the wish that had brought the knife, myself, and the white dog in pursuit of me to this place.
I heard the rumble of a train. The ground started shaking. The sound of the tracks grew louder, like a hammer beating metal. Clatter clatter clatter clat. The drunks would be here in a moment too. Clatter clatter clatter clat. The song of the steel knives would start. Tonight everyone would have to submit to their fate. I pressed my body hard against the wall. I clenched my fingers. What had the Architect Adaza told them after I had walked away from the fire? “Don’t underestimate him for just a simple barber, Kamo has a beautiful wife.” The dark was lustful. Trains liked tracks. The drunks were handing round a bottle of wine. The wine bottle was the body of a woman with fiery lips and sweat running down her belly. Trains liked tracks and children liked wells. Clatter clatter clatter clat. My father liked wells too. He watched the stars in Black Fountain Village, measured the speed of the wind and kept a rain calendar. My father liked wells too. Clatter clatter clatter clat. If only the well in Black Fountain Village had spun like a whirlpool and swallowed up foolish children, deceitful old men and coldhearted women. If only it had swallowed up houses with closed doors and chickens with severed legs. Clatter clatter clatter clat. Would the well still have swallowed up my father?
The night’s lust suddenly abated. Lust was like armies of ants that marched in secret alleyways; once it had permeated the entire area, it halted. I felt a ringing in my ears. As the sound of the train grew distant in the darkness, I raised my head from where I lay. Was I on the ground? When had I laid down on the concrete? The lies and the drunks had worn me out. My head ached. I somehow managed to sit up. Leaning against the wall, I stretched out my legs. My neck, my back, my chest, were soaked in sweat. I drank from the plastic water bottle. What time was it? I turned my head and looked at the grille. The light from the corridor stung my eyes. I drank some more. What day of the month was it today? I had lost track of the days. They hadn’t brought the Doctor or the others back. It was a good job I had been alone when I had had my epileptic fit. I didn’t need anyone’s help.
I looked at the opposite wall. It was covered in scratches, letters, bloodstains. The plaster had cracked and peeled off in several places. There was graffiti written who knows when distributed randomly throughout the cell. “Human honor!” said one message, “One day definitely!” said another, “Why pain?” said yet another. “Why pain?” That was what everyone who came here thought the most. When pain divided the world in the same way as it divided the mind, people thought of this place as the location of pain, while the Istanbul above was the painless location. So here was the age of mirages! The best way of hiding one lie was by telling another. And the way to hide the pain aboveground was by creating pain underground. People who were locked up in the frigid cells here missed the crowds and the streets outside. And those outside were happy because they slept in their warm beds, far away from the cell. Whereas Istanbul was full of people asphyxiated by hopelessness, who slithered to work in the mornings like slugs. While the walls of the houses above grew roots and reclined on the walls of the underground cells, the inhabitants of those houses clung to a false happiness. That was the only way Istanbul could stay on its feet.
“Showtime!” The sound of the guard’s shouting resonated throughout the corridor. What was going on? Had the iron gate opened? “Everyone out! Everyone to the cell door!”
I didn’t have the faintest idea what they were doing.
They banged on the grilles. They opened the cell doors one by one. They advanced along the corridor until they reached me. They slid the bolt open and light flooded into the cell. My eyes stung and the pain in my head got worse.
“You, stand up! Get your ass to the door!” The guard left me and went to the neighboring cell. The sound of opening doors continued.
I stood up and went outside. Everyone was lined up in the corridor. Men whose hair was tangled up with their beards and women with bruised faces were staring at one another. The guard strolled to the end of the corridor and came back, opening the opposite cell too. As soon as the door opened the girl inside stood up. When had Zinê Sevda returned to her cell? Had they brought her back during my fainting fit? She came outside and stood in front of me. It was obvious she hadn’t slept for a long while. Not just her face and her neck, but her fingers too were swollen. A drop of blood oozed from her lower lip. She wiped the blood away with her hand.
“Come on now!” We looked at the interrogators shouting at the top of the corridor. There were a lot of them. They held sticks and chains. They had rolled up the sleeves of their sweaters and smirked as they eyed us up. “Here comes your guru, your guardian angel!” They dragged someone by the feet from the direction of the iron gate. They dumped him at the corridor entrance. He was naked, except for a pair of black underpants. I recognized Uncle Küheylan’s huge bulk. He lay like a corpse washed up on the shore. He was covered in blood. His white hair was dyed red. Had they killed him and was this now going to be his graveyard? A murmur traveled down the corridor. We heard fearful voices. Someone whispered, “Bastards.” Someone else repeated the whisper. “Bastards.” The guard heard and dived into our midst in a rage. “Who said that?” he shouted. He ran up and down, bringing his stick down on several people at random. Broken teeth and spurted blood littered the corridor.
Two interrogators put Uncle Küheylan’s arms over their shoulders and tried to lift him. “Come on, you great lout, walk.” Uncle Küheylan was alive. His groans echoed through the corridor where we waited without stirring, reaching the furthest prisoners. “Come on, you old codger!” Uncle Küheylan moved one hand, reaching out as though to grope the empty space. There was something bestial about his bowed head, thick neck, and broad shoulders. He emitted the kind of bloodcurdling roar that only a wounded animal would make. Spittle trailed down his mouth. The words he mumbled turned into an incomprehensible rattle. Who was Uncle Küheylan now? What was this groaning creature? He placed one foot on the ground and let the other drag. The interrogators released his arms and left him standing on his one foot. He hesitated for a while. He took deep breaths. He moved the f
oot from behind him until it was level with his other foot. He raised his head. His face did not look human. His lips were swollen, his tongue drooped. His eyebrows were slit, his blood-filled eyes closed. Pus seeped from the wound on his chest.
“Take a good look!” shouted one of the interrogators. “See our work close up! Who can escape our justice?”
Uncle Küheylan was like those captains who take to the sea in pursuit of white whales, struggle against storms but return to the port defeated. Just as in his father’s stories. His ship had been battered, its sails torn to shreds. But just like those captains, with every defeat he fantasized about new voyages. As he advanced on his bloody feet he could hear the sound of the whirlwind ringing in his ears. He mistook the blood running down his nasal passage for salty sea water. This was a never-ending dream. Everyone searched for their white whale in the open seas, whereas Uncle Küheylan searched for his in the Istanbul Sea. Doing so made him drunk with pleasure and he was powerless to resist its allure. He wasn’t looking for an island that would harbor him. He had deleted all the islands on his map. He would either conquer the seas or be buried beneath the waves. His back was scored with countless knife slashes. As he was dragging his heavy feet on the concrete, he raised his head as though he had heard a scream in the distance. He tried to ascertain the direction of the wind.
While Uncle Küheylan was making the longest journey of his life, Zinê Sevda, who was standing very rigid in front of me, clenched her fists. She blinked like a child, and slowly moved out of the line. She took two paces toward the center of the corridor. She stood before Uncle Küheylan, as erect as a tree. There were five or six meters between them. As all heads turned toward Zinê Sevda, the interrogators looked at each other. Silence descended on the corridor. The only audible sound was Uncle Küheylan’s blood dripping onto the concrete floor.
“What’s she doing?”
“Chief, that’s the girl they brought from the mountains.”
Zinê Sevda wiped her forehead and cheeks with her hand and smoothed her hair. Under the curious gaze of the onlookers, she crouched down. She knelt before Uncle Küheylan like a marble statue. She held out her two arms. She waited to embrace the wounded body that was advancing toward her. The soles of her feet were a mass of angry welts. Her neck was covered in cigarette burns. She was not a mermaid who had emerged from the waves and was singing on the rocks as the sun set, but a wounded human being. Could Uncle Küheylan see her? Could his bloody eyes make out the girl kneeling before him with her arms open wide?
“Get up, bitch!”
Zinê Sevda ignored the interrogators. This time she wiped the black blood oozing from her lip with her tongue. She opened her arms even wider.
“Get that bitch up!”
One of the interrogators standing at the edge of the corridor arrived, brandishing his stick. He stood in front of Zinê Sevda. He threw the cigarette in his mouth on the floor and crushed it with the ball of his foot. As he slowly rotated his boot on the concrete floor he looked at Zinê Sevda. He smirked, showing his yellow teeth. Stepping back, he landed a kick on her stomach. Zinê Sevda went flying like a log, banging against the cell door. She hesitated for a while. Holding her stomach with her hands, she slowly straightened up. She knelt once again and looked at Uncle Küheylan. There was an insurmountable void separating them.
The interrogator swept the cigarette butt on the floor aside with his foot. He bent down and brought his face close to Zinê Sevda’s. When she did not react he withdrew. He was still smirking. He twirled his baton in his hands as though it were a toy, then raised it into the air. He was right in front of me. With one sweep I caught his lifted hand. His baton remained suspended in the void. The interrogator and I came eye to eye. Motherfucker! Did he know me? Did he know the song of the steel knives? My temples throbbed. As everyone stood shivering on the concrete, my face burned like fire. A drill was rotating in my brain. Did he know the song of the steel knives? Motherfucker! He pushed me and tried to release his hand. When he realized he wasn’t strong enough, he screamed.
4TH DAY
Told by Uncle Küheylan
THE HUNGRY WOLF
“As the hunters were struggling up a steep hill, a storm hit them. The blizzard had soon buried everything in snow; it was impossible to see through the blanket of snowflakes. Night fell early. The lost hunters made out a light in the darkness. Slipping and stumbling in the snow, they headed toward it. Eventually they arrived at a mountain hut inside a garden. They knocked on the door. We’re freezing, please let us in, they called out. A woman’s voice on the other side asked, who’s there? We’re three hunters from Istanbul, we’ve lost our way, we need somewhere to shelter, they said. My husband’s not here, said the woman, I can’t let you in. The hunters begged her. If you don’t open the door we’ll die here, if you like we can give you all our weapons, they coaxed. The wind was howling, they could hear an avalanche approaching in the distance. The woman opened the door and invited the hunters to warm themselves beside the stove. She served them food. The hunters took a mirror, a comb, and a pocketknife out of their saddlebags and presented them to the woman. You saved our lives, we’re eternally grateful to you, they said. The woman thanked them for the gifts, then retired to her room. The hunters lay down beside the fireplace and went to sleep. Before long they were woken by a whistling sound. Strange noises were coming from the fireplace. The flames changed from one color to another. A light descended from the chimney and stood before them. A fairy with green wings appeared inside the light. Do not be afraid, said the fairy, I have come to write fate. Our fate? they asked. No, said the fairy, your fate was written before you were born. I have come for the pregnant woman in the other room. I’m going to write the fate of the child she will soon have. Tell us what the child’s fate will be, they said. I can tell you, but you won’t be able to change it, said the fairy. The hunters insisted. The fairy smiled and gave them what they wanted. The woman would have a son, she said, he would grow up strong and healthy, and when he was twenty years old he would marry the girl he loved. But on his wedding night the boy would be eaten by a wolf. No, said the hunters, we won’t let that happen. Don’t argue with fate, said the fairy, and sprinkled some dust over the hunters. The hunters fell asleep and, upon awaking the following morning, they told each other what they had dreamt. As they had all had the same dream it must have been real. They placed their hands on their guns and swore to keep the secret and to save the child’s life. The woman had no idea of anything. They said you are our sister now, we have something to ask of you. What is it that you wish, asked the woman. We want to come to your child’s wedding, you must tell us when it is, they said. The next twenty years passed wearily for the hunters. Each day they prepared themselves for the wedding night. When the time came and news of the wedding reached Istanbul, they strapped their guns to their shoulders. They hastened like lightning back to the mountain hut where they had received hospitality so many years ago. They disclosed the secret that they had kept so faithfully. They put a large chest that they had brought with them in the center of the room and placed the bride and groom inside it. They wrapped seven chains around the chest and put seven padlocks on the lid. There will be no sleep for us, they declared, and, to stop themselves from accidentally falling asleep, they cut their little fingers. They listened to the howling wind until dawn. They opened fire at the slightest movement. At the first light of day they gave whoops of joy and said we did it! First they unlocked the seven padlocks, then they unraveled the seven chains. But when they found the bride alone in the chest, bloodstained, they couldn’t believe it. What happened, they said, what happened? The bride stammered, I can’t understand it either, no sooner had you closed the lid of the chest than I turned into a wolf and I ate the man I loved. I have no idea why, but I ate him.”
The Doctor was listening to me, intrigued, his expression a combination of amusement and fear. The look in his eyes changed several times.
“Did the end of the story sur
prise you, Doctor?” I said. “Do you know, I’ve come across people who laugh instead of being surprised that the wolf ate the boy.”
“You might find people here who laugh too,” said the Doctor, looking at Kamo the Barber, who was sleeping. He leaned slightly toward him and brought his ear closer, as though trying to hear Kamo’s breathing. He waited for a while, then straightened up. “I hadn’t heard that story before, Uncle Küheylan. I like the hunters’ tale. Did your father tell you that one too?”
“Yes, the first night our radio broke down, my father told us that story to try and distract us from instant boredom.”
“Were you bored easily?”
“People were each other’s entertainment in the village, we didn’t know what boredom was. Radio changed us. Whenever the radio broke down we didn’t feel like doing anything, there didn’t seem any point in the games we always played. We wondered what city people did when it happened to them.”
“How strange,” said the Doctor.
“My father came back from one of his trips with a transistor radio. When his trips to Istanbul were short we knew he was with his friends there, but when they were long we realized they were holding him prisoner in the city’s cells. This time he had been away for a long time. To stop us from looking at his thin, pale face and worrying, he won us over with small presents that he pulled out of his suitcase. The radio, which we were seeing for the first time, thrilled us more than any of the other presents. That evening we listened to a novel on the radio. A man loved a woman but she rejected him. The woman left Istanbul and went to Paris and returned many years later. Their paths crossed again, and they sat together in a tea garden as the trees shed their golden leaves around them. The man lit the woman’s cigarette. Just like couples on picture postcards, said the novel, they contemplated the passing boats, and Topkapı Palace. Eventually the woman turned and gazed into the man’s eyes. Ardor drove the love-crazed man into the desert; do you have a desert? she asked. Yes, said the man, this city became a desert while you were away. The woman asked, what would you do if you woke up one morning and found I had turned into an elderly rat? I would show you compassion, said the man, and if you died I would mourn you. The woman lit another cigarette and said, I’m going to tell you a story. She seemed to be testing the man. But the radio presenter announced that that was the end of that day’s episode and that the continuation would be at the same time next week. We had to wait a week to find out what story the woman would tell.”
Istanbul, Istanbul Page 7