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by Hakan Günday

  The others, seeing that Rastin was silent and had been mostly useless at negotiating with the crazy boy, approached the cameras one by one to ramble and cry. One group had started to try to force the lid open. But dear Ahad must have had these days in mind when he had installed it, not really a lid but a safe door. They didn’t have a chance.

  Especially not the woman who kept waving her child at the camera and yelling. Who knows what she was saying to me? To persuade me … I even thought at some point that she was trying to tell me that she’d break the child’s neck if I didn’t open the lid. But I was wrong. Most probably, by holding the child by the neck and shaking it, she was trying to show me how weak and sick he was. That must have been it, because no sooner had she picked him up and buried him between her breasts, she walked away from the camera.

  On the television channel especially tailored for me, a series called threats followed the documentary on begging. The old man’s son was especially good at that. He got so worked up I began to think he should be locked in a reservoir for the rest of his life. First, every part of his face began quivering. Especially when he was yelling. His eyebrows, his cheeks, his beard, everything. His fists, which he practically stuck under my nose in the attempt to brandish them to me, kept dropping in and out of sight of the camera. He appeared to be punching the wall. But since this tantrum exhibit also fell short, he would then go over to his father and put his hand on the old man’s shoulder while he continued his yelling from there. The only person not approaching the cameras was Rastin. He was the only one not talking to me. My task, as it happened, was to watch. I didn’t want to be involved. I just waited for Rastin to take action.

  Toward the evening something strange happened, and Rastin asked the man next to him for his canned meal. The man refused. So Rastin grabbed the can out of the man’s hand in a single lunge. He did it so quickly and with such assurance that the man was left speechless. All he could do was get up and walk away from Rastin. Consuming the contents of the can, Rastin then yanked a bottle of water out of the hand of the woman sitting on the other side of him. The woman first stared at Rastin nonchalantly knocking it back, then at the others. They in turn gestured as if to tell her, “Let it go.” Having drained the bottle, Rastin wiped his mouth on the back of his hand, looked straight at the camera across from him, and without bothering to stand, shouted:

  “Gaza! You are there?”

  “Yes!”

  “You? This light. Turn off?”

  “Are you asking whether I can turn them off from here?”

  “Yes.”

  “Shall I?”

  “No.”

  And Rastin got up to say something to those around him. He was pointing at the fluorescent lights on the ceiling. Then he turned to the camera and said, “Turn off! Turn on!”

  I stood and walked in the direction of the reservoir to flip on and off the light switch on the wall. I had no idea what the hell Rastin was trying to do. But at least it passed the time …

  When I went back to the desk, I saw smiles on people’s faces. They tapped Rastin amiably on his shoulder and seemed to be praising him. That was when I understood. He had been showing them that he had me under control. That he could communicate with me … He was in fact proving that he was the only person in that reservoir that could communicate with me. I laughed. I leaned toward the microphone and asked, “Is there anything else you want me to do?”

  “No,” he said. “Talk to me.”

  “Talk? What shall I say?”

  “Talk.”

  “All right … where’d you learn Turkish?”

  “Kabul University. I was come Istanbul University. For master degree. Understand?”

  “So why didn’t you?”

  “Fate!”

  “You speak it pretty well anyway!”

  “Thank.” He went over to the old man’s son, pulled him to his feet, and said, “Watch.”

  “I’m watching, Rastin.”

  Then he pulled another man from the same group to his feet and talked to both of them. At first the men shook their heads and started to sit back down. But then almost everyone in the reservoir began shouting at the men at once. At that, darting glances at one another and then the cameras, both men began taking off their shirts.

  Right then Rastin cried, “Gaza, for you!”

  And now the two men, naked from the waist up, began wrestling … Yes, it was clear! By making me talk, Rastin had told the men that I had given the weird order of wanting to see them wrestle, an absurdity they hadn’t much hesitated to engage in simply because they would have done anything to get out of the reservoir. Not counting the social pressure a minute ago, of course! Fine, but why was Rastin doing this? Actually, I think I already knew the answer to that. His answer to the question of whether these people were worth it was: they aren’t! But he had already agreed to give up the kidney that would carry the thirty-three people, including himself and a child, to their dreams. Now was the time for revenge! Or more precisely, the time to fill the imminent space of his relinquished kidney …

  The two men wrestled as if they would tear each other apart while Rastin looked on, his face devoid of expression. It was like a dog fight. Two dogs biting at each other in a pit of the earth and coming up with nothing more than grease and sweat … The others watched the wrestlers and the cameras in equal shares and cheered and clapped as if they were slapping themselves.

  Do you realize what a revolting thing this is to do?

  Huh?

  Look at these people! Look at the state they’re in!

  Don’t you think it’s funny?

  Funny? Don’t you see how depraved it is?

  But I didn’t do anything! It’s all that Rastin’s doing.

  You told the man he’d have to give up a kidney.

  Yeah, but I never told him to start a wresting match. Plus it’s too late now. I can’t do anything until Rastin tells them the truth. These people would kill me.

  Then tell him to tell them! Is this what you call creating a country?

  I think it may be exactly that, you know? Because the whole idea is never to get your hands dirty …

  Great job! Exploiting people’s conditions to put them in this situation is a huge achievement, kudos!

  Cuma!

  What?

  Remember when I didn’t turn on that air conditioner? I hadn’t actually forgotten to. I didn’t feel like it. I couldn’t be bothered to get out of the house and walk all the way to the shed. Just to spite my father, actually! “There’s one left in the back,” he had said. “Get up early tomorrow so you can turn on the air conditioner!” Of course I got up. In the morning, early … but I didn’t get out of bed. I just lay there and stared at the ceiling. At that snow-white ceiling. Believe me, Cuma, there’s nothing as revolting as that ceiling! Not what those people are doing to one another, not what I’ve been doing to them. Nothing is more disgusting than that ceiling.

  There’s one more thing that’s not disgusting, though, Gaza!

  What would that be?

  That Rastin agreed to give up his kidney!

  So what? He just thought himself to be a good person for a minute, that’s all. I thought the same, once … no big deal.

  In their third day in the reservoir, Rastin lost all stability and increased the intensity of the commands that were supposedly coming from me. He picked at random two people and, seating them opposite each other in front of one of the cameras, told them to start slapping each other. After watching for a bit, he made a third person join them. A few minutes later he added twelve more people. Eventually a fifteen-person ring was formed, and in a row they all slapped one another, from left to right …

  Naturally some of them objected to taking part in something so ridiculous, and Rastin didn’t even have to chide them. Each time the others instantly replaced the rebels with someone willing to perform the dictated task. In a sense, those expelled from the ring were also expelled from the public. No one talked to them or
shared their rations with them as they had failed to perform their social duty. And in a rage they would sulk in a corner, but after a while, seeing the reddened cheeks that should have been theirs, could no longer resist and began begging to take their rightful places. This time the ones receiving slaps in their place would make a case of martyrdom and resisted against giving up their spot.

  “Rastin!”

  He was in the middle of the ring, watching the slaps delivered from cheek to cheek, when he heard his name and looked up.

  “What?”

  “How long are you going to keep this up?”

  “When are we go?”

  “I don’t know. I haven’t received word yet …”

  I wasn’t going to ask, but I did:

  “Rastin, do you have to punish these people to get back at them for your sacrifice?”

  He answered without a beat. As if he’d been waiting for me to ask.

  “No. I give kidney. For me. For them. To go. No problem. I do this for them. Because I leave home. Because of them. Understanding? I leave Afghanistan. Because of Afghanis. Afghanis, this people. Home, hell. Me, Kabul, always struggle for these. War! For this people! But for nothing! How you say, population? People? Afghanistan, public, population?”

  “The people?”

  “Yes, always I struggle for people. But when I go prison, no people! Many friends die. Prison. You ask, why not Istanbul University. Because I go prison! You understand? It’s all for people! For this people! But when you need, no people! Don’t be sad, this small punishment is for them. My friends die. Understanding?”

  I think I did. But there was still something I didn’t understand.

  “But these people aren’t the same as the ones who killed your friends and put you in prison, are they?”

  “Is worse!” said Rastin. “This people say nothing!”

  Right then a participant in the ring hesitated, and noticing this, Rastin went over to lean in and yell into his ear. The hand in the air then landed on the cheek it was meant for, and the slap ring commenced. It was then that I recognized the beehive I’d stuck my nose into for what it was. I watched a university student, who had been ready to give up everything he had for his people, penalize people with the crime of leaving him so helpless he had to flee his homeland. I watched people punished with the crime of going about their daily lives and neglecting to see or hear what was going on while Rastin and his friends went to prison and gave their lives.

  Then I left Rastin to his quite futile revenge and rose from my desk. He would never have retribution because no one had actually asked him to go to prison or die for them. That was the point Rastin was missing. Heroes came up with their own missions; the public didn’t do it for them. Heroes didn’t get to demand explanations of the public. Heroes were of the brave and stupid variety. The public was cowardly and sneaky. There was no way for them to see eye to eye. But since Rastin presumed to pass judgment on the public, he couldn’t be that stupid. He was a true leader. As much a leader, and as much of the people, as was adequate. That made him brave and sneaky—the most dangerous of all types.

  On the evening of the third day, Rastin arranged for the other thirty-two to stand in the farthest corner of the reservoir, bade me to open the lid, and replaced the used buckets with empty ones. He had led his public to believe that I was armed. I was supposed to have a gun in my hand. But that hadn’t stopped him from taking the sandwiches I had prepared and giving them to the reservoir dwellers. They had just run out of food and, in shows of gratefulness, kissed the timely sandwiches.

  At the very last, they received word from Rastin: he had convinced the crazy boy upstairs to get in touch with his father’s friends! That meant that they’d be setting out soon. With this news Rastin became irrefutable god of the reservoir. The old man, his son, and the others had forgotten all the disputes of the past and become Rastin’s most eager supporters. Everyone worshiped him. At some point, while the others slept, I even saw one of the young women kneel in front of Rastin in the partition I had made for the toilet, before opening his zipper and her mouth. I was watching the woman while Rastin watched the camera. He was grinning …

  A day later we found out that another woman in the group was four months pregnant. She announced that if it was a boy, she’d name it Rastin. So, if Rastin was god, what did that make me? Was there a theological term for god of gods?

  In light of all these transformations, Rastin was also changing. He seemed to have let go of the fury he had the first few days. His communication with his public had become more mechanical, and he had reduced the frequency of tormenting people on my behalf. There was one morning, though, that for some reason he had one of them whipped with a belt. Maybe it was meant as a reminder of his authority. There really was a small country in the reservoir now. A living, breathing, and working country. Rastin gave his people a variety of assignments. For starters he made them clean the reservoir. At least three times a day. Then there were exercises. Every morning and evening. He let the one who had broken the biggest sweat shower with a bucket of water that he got from me. He read parts out loud from the only book in his possession and started debates on the topics he pinpointed. A fight, even if small, ensued after every debate, and Rastin watched smilingly from a corner. As the reservoir people chewed one another out over presumably pointless topics, Rastin took yet another woman to the toilet and told her what to do with her mouth.

  What he was really doing was shifting the source of the violence. The violence no longer came directly from the crazy boy, but from the people, and was returned to the people. So Rastin was always able to find some way to set them off against one another. Under so-called orders from me, he would declare, “Either the lights stay on, or the fans!” and withdraw, leaving the choice to them. Consequently those who wanted to read the Koran all night and those about to lose it from the heat would lay into one another. But he never discriminated between the Tajiks and Pashtuns. Because he must have known that a fight that arose between those two could only end with a murder or two, if not worse. So he would keep clear of ethnic issues and, by focusing on common problems, made sure that each discussion shuffled the persons comprising the opposing groups.

  For example, he would adapt the enforcement about the lights and the heat to food and water, claiming that one would have to decrease if the other increased and of course, once again, the choice was up to the people. This way the people got the impression that they were consulted about everything and didn’t question Rastin in the slightest. They were divided into those that wanted more water and those that wanted more food, and occupied themselves only with the other.

  Rastin was actually merely imposing the standard method that circumvented questioning of the administration. Millions of people were being ruled over out in real life with a similar method. They too were asked questions. They were asked to vote and handed questionnaires or forms to fill out. “Where would you like to be right now?” they were asked. Or, “Who were you in a past life?” Or, “Who is the most beautiful woman of the city?” Or, “Diet or regular?” or, “How would you like your steak?” Of course, those millions of people were as oblivious as the reservoir dwellers. They were the steak! They were being asked how well done they preferred themselves.

  But since they couldn’t see this for the reality, they leaned back with the self-satisfaction of having the capacity to choose and said, “Well done!”

  Then again some said, “Make it rare!” And it was done as they said. Bloody …

  In addition to this method, Rastin had also begun taking another approach that could be considered a breakthrough in political science. Once his biggest enemy, the old man’s son was now his chief assistant. Rastin whispered into his ear the orders supposedly received from me, and he then told his own assistant. The orders moved from ear to ear, and Rastin didn’t have to directly engage with anyone. In this way the hierarchy in the reservoir was able to take on not a pyramidal, but more like a spiraling form.

/>   First of all, in the center was Rastin. Directly to his right, the chief assistant. Next to him was the deputy assistant, then his assistant, and so on the chain went. Starting at Rastin and following a circular, widening curve, the orders moved along from ear to ear. At the end of the outermost ring of the spiral would be the reservoir’s only child or a middle-aged man that was almost as weak as the child, alternately … women, naturally, weren’t included in the spiral, because they weren’t included in anything. Even the champion screamer that was the child’s mother was a huge nothing. In the case that an issue concerned them, the order departed from the outermost ring of the spiral and was delivered to the women clustered some distance away.

  In truth, it was evident that the reservoir people’s political venture had started with a democratic election but turned into a dictatorship in days. But this went even beyond the pyramidal ruling scheme of a regular dictatorship. Each individual was bound to the one person that was more powerful. The one on top, that is to say center, was the leader. Since their seating and dwelling situation constituted a spiral shape, they had to face one another, but could communicate with only the ones on either side of them and one each on the lower or upper rung of power. Whereas a pyramidal hierarchy would have power classes formed of people leveled equally. Classes that could be of a thousand or of three. But in a spiral hierarchy every individual was a class unto himself. Maybe this structure needed to be named something else. Like ultradictatorship or something. Because every individual was a dictator to the person below them. With the exception of the boy or that weak man, everyone was a dictator on varying levels. Yet they were all part of the same spiral, that is to say the same line. Hence it seemed that there was no hierarchy at all between them.