He had said his last sentence from outside the bars.
I was hopeless, helpless, and shattered. Two people I loved had been killed in the last two years because of me.
For twelve years I was forced to look on as twelve people from my life were slaughtered, all in the same way, all on the same date. Every time there was a book and there were evidence and witnesses resisting the efforts of the district attorney’s office. No matter how hard I tried to get him to come, Nigel refused to see me. I swallowed my pride and sent him imploring letters, begging for forgiveness. Every time, I promised to punish myself if he’d just stop harming my loved ones. If only he would stay away from them. I tried to burn myself after the sixth murder. I had only burn marks to show for it, going from my right cheek down my neck, to my left shoulder and flank. At the end of the twelfth year, five weeks ago, that last book arrived. Drawings and words of the last living person who meant anything to me: my beloved sister, Safiye. This time there was also a Polaroid in the book, with the caption: Büyükada. I’m waiting for you. The photograph showed an art nouveau kiosk.
Four carriage drivers, huddling by the entrance of the coffeehouse to avoid the rain, were looking at the photograph. The noise of the backgammon and rummikub games in full swing in the coffeehouse was drowned out by occasional thunder; sporadic lightning illuminated the horses on their sorrowful watch. Finally, an old driver piped up, “I know this house. It’s where that foreigner stays. Toward Maden.” The other drivers agreed, conceding those fateful words like the performers in an ancient tragedy. One offered a cigarette to another, and the third threw me a furtive glance before stepping into the coffeehouse. “Let me take you there,” said the old driver.
It was almost dark. We were rattling along a road under clouds blanketing the sky in increasingly darker shades of gray. There in the green, dark forest, I thought each and every one of the mansions, rising like ancient temples with their pointy towers there beyond the large gardens along the shore, must be the house where I was to meet Nigel. The dull lights of Sedef Island were visible now. We and the weary horses continued down the forest path, which was lit by a dirty yellow light. The waves crashing against the shore, the screams of the seagulls, and a dog howling from afar were the only sounds to be heard. Except for the rhythmic pattern of the hooves flowing like a cover of fog into the hills. There was so little left of the hullabaloo of summer; the lustrous, colorful begonias had faded to the color of earth. The yellow leaves of the plane trees blanketed the asphalt and the gardens of the barren mansions, their paint swelling and cracking, covered in wild ivy. Büyükada would wait motionlessly like a cursed, angry, abandoned old man, wrinkled with loneliness, until the spring, when the voluntary exiles escaping the chaos of Istanbul returned. The carriage ride felt as long and exhausting as my entire prison sentence.
I had reached the very pinnacle of my desire to face Nigel and avenge my loved ones he had slaughtered.
“Get off here and walk up that trail. The horses can’t go down there in this weather,” the old driver said.
The moment I opened the door, the lights went out. I took a few more steps into the pitch black. Nigel appeared. He was just in front of me. We were facing off, like two gunslingers. Then, another Nigel appeared out of the darkness. Then another. Then others. Each one was doing and saying something different. When I listened closely, I understood that the rambling narratives were the last words of my loved ones. Each Nigel was repeating, deadpan, the last words of another soul mate of mine.
“You have improved your technique,” I said in a growl.
As the voices of those eleven Nigels faded away, the Nigel in the middle, just in front of me, took a few weighty steps, as if underwater, and spoke: “I improved not only my technique, but the content of the show as well. Seeing as we’re speaking the same language now …”
“If you mean Turkish, fine, but you and I couldn’t possibly have another language in common,” I said.
“We share something else. No matter how much you may deny it, we are both keepers of the secrets of the fire, its purifying effects, its uncanny allure, its geometry. But this is the only knowledge its keeper can’t convey. If you watch the fire very closely, you see that it’s telling you something. You’re mesmerized, and gradually the fire starts conversing with you. You crack the mystery, but can’t teach it to anyone else. You are the keeper of a message so profound and poetic that it has no equivalent in any earthly tongue. We both know that now. Our common tongue is that we know the burning and purifying effects of the flame.”
I dropped the bag with the books of my eleven loved ones. As it hit the floor, I removed the gun I had in my pocket next to Safiye’s book, and fired. Blood spurted from three spots on Nigel’s chest. He collapsed to the floor, squirming. The other Nigels were looking on, just as astonished as I was, as the man writhed. As soon as Nigel died, the images became less clear. I was searching for a light switch when a wall light on the upper floor came on and Nigel appeared once again.
“Sometimes, it is impossible to fully grasp the good or evil of your deeds, of what you’ve done to someone. You judge everything according to your own standards. This is the most ridiculous thing about our world. There is a price for a bottle of water. You pay and buy it. Yet to somebody else it may not mean what it means to you. It means the world to somebody about to die in the desert. In a fit of jealousy, you burnt alive a woman who you considered your plaything, but I lost the meaning of my life.”
I fired again. Nigel died again, writhing in pain, again. He showed up again, spoke again of his pain. I fired again.
I loaded the gun and killed Nigel eleven times.
I had only one bullet left. I asked if he burnt Safiye. He smiled. “I sent all your friends and relatives to you. You didn’t receive them? Damn! And I paid so much in bribe money!” I dropped him with my last bullet. There was a thud on the floor this time.
I picked up the bag and took the slippery trail, grasping at the puny trees that lined it. Lightning struck and I saw the blood seeping from my coat pocket. When I reached the streetlamp at the end of Maden, I took out Safiye’s book. That’s when it dawned on me: The pages I thought were Moroccan leather were in fact human skin, and the red ink, the blood of my loved ones. This was the first time I was walking under rain with the book, the first time I was touching the smooth, slippery surface of the wet pages.
I listened to the words of the melancholy Rebetiko song on the dock. The scent of rakı, the voices of those passionately discussing the horse races at the shore coffeehouse, the pale images of those stunningly beautiful mansions lined along the back of Nizam could not reach me. I was getting lost somewhere very, very far away, too distant for anyone to reach.
Thus Nigel managed to burn me twelve more times. Even after death. Now I understood what it meant, “the secret tongue of the flames.” We walk this earth with a seed of fire within us, an infectious fire lit by a simple spark, a fire that never goes out, a fire that spreads and contaminates with a strange geometry, until it rages everywhere. There are twelve books on my shelves, twelve books I’ll never ever again dare to open.
Now they’ve locked me up here because I was trying to feel the pain of the fourteen people I killed by putting out cigarettes on my chest. They are giving me drugs in all the colors of the rainbow; the drugs are supposed to stop my mind from working. I test the power of the fire on my body whenever I can. I smile at those who try to stop me. This is the only thing in the world that they can’t possibly stop: Fire, it’s everywhere. They can’t keep me from touching it. But they don’t know that yet.
I approach one of the visitors. “Could you give me a cigarette? They won’t let me smoke here. Could you light it and give it to me, please?” Then I go to the bathroom. As I touch the concealed parts of my body with fire, I turn the bloody pages of the library in my mind; I read Nigel’s books. As the smell of burnt flesh reaches my nose, I release the flames that rise from my own personal hell.
&nbs
p; Gradually, I understand why people once worshiped fire. I hear the screams of the nurses. I worship fire.
HITCHING IN THE LODOS
BY FERYAL TLMAÇ
Bebek
Perhaps all of this still would have happened, even if the city hadn’t been caught up in the tempestuous lodos that night. But the truth is, that frantic wind, spinner of its own mysteries, provided justifiable motive for transgression. Strange, droning, lukewarm, the lodos keeps in its thrall not only the city, but the souls of its people as well. And Cavidan Altan was one of those people. Perhaps what would occur later hadn’t even remotely crossed her mind when she left home that day. I say “perhaps,” because we can never know for sure what’s on a woman’s mind. Now, I could pretend that I knew, but I don’t want to taint the authenticity of the story by adding to it something I’m not sure about. We can safely assume the same about Tolga Güçel, and say that he, too, never would have guessed that he would experience the things he did that evening, or any other evening, for that matter.
Tolga is a computer engineer in his thirties. A few years ago, he left the company he had been working for to start his own business with a friend. They install data processing systems for companies and provide support services and solutions. Of course, he is an intelligent man—he must be, right? He’s a person of high moral standards and principles, a man who likes to do things by the book. He’s not married, but he has a girlfriend, a woman he met at his last job. They share a home, though theirs is a constant rollercoaster of break-up and make-up. Yes, that’s right, yet another case of passion’s demise and habitual routine on the rise! He works in Gayrettepe, lives in Etiler. On the evening in question, in spite of the heavy end-of-the-year workload, he had managed to leave early, thinking he might stop by Akmerkez on his way home and buy a New Year’s gift for his girlfriend. A white cashmere sweater, an elegant laptop bag, or a bottle of perfume—he was still undecided. But then, what difference does it make anyway? Considering that, ultimately, he would buy none of these.
That evening on his way home from work, as he passed Zincirlikuyu and made a right onto the road to Levent, he was listening to the radio program Women Sing Jazz. “Dear listeners, we continue with Ethel Waters’s ‘Stormy Weather’ …” There couldn’t have been a more fitting selection. He tapped along on the steering wheel. The invasive wind whistled and shook the colored lights on the trees. Who knows, maybe everything would have panned out in another way if the weather had been different; say, if it had been snowing. After all, the New Year spirit calls for snow; and for love, hope, new beginnings, packages of presents, angels hanging on trees, the cinnamon-spiced scent of mulled wine. But it didn’t happen, it didn’t snow. Instead, a crazy, wayward wind kept the area convulsing for days on end, making the city slave to its whim. Though the majority suffered only mild headaches and a little shortness of breath in its aftermath, at the time, melancholy ran like a viscous liquid through the streets.
Tolga, for his part, did something he never would have done otherwise: Compelled by the sorrowful music and the feeling of benevolence that the New Year’s spirit aroused, he pulled up to the curb, where a woman with shopping bags was trying to flag down a taxi. The woman, Cavidan Hanım, had just finished her shopping at the mall in Levent. On the window behind her, 2007 was written in cotton balls, and adorned with wreaths of mistletoe, yellow, green, and red lights, gold-lacquered pinecones, and red stars. She was a woman of a certain maturity; she held her hand in front of her face as she tried to protect herself from the wind. Perhaps hitching a ride wasn’t her intention at all. Still, when she stooped and saw Tolga, she opened the back door, dropped her bags in the car, and settled onto the passenger seat without hesitation. Obviously she was cold, otherwise why on earth would she have plunged headlong into a stranger’s car, especially at that hour?
While we were in Tolga’s car, making our way from Levent to Gayrettepe, Cavidan Hanım was checking off items on her shopping list. She had bought a different washing detergent, something other than her usual brand, because it came with a free bottle of fabric softener. The thin peel of the tangerines had not been to her taste, and so she picked up some oranges and a few green apples instead. A bag of sliced whole-wheat bread, tahini halva, and petit beurre biscuits. Aged kaar cheese, napkins, and ginger for the New Year’s cookies she was planning to bake. In a last-minute dash, she had added olive oil, clotted cream, and fresh walnuts to her cart at the check-out. She realized that she couldn’t possibly carry those heavy bags all the way home, and so she had decided to wait for a cab. It should therefore come as no surprise that she jumped into the car as soon as Tolga stopped. He’s young enough to be my son, she might have thought as she got into the car. I’m not sure if I told you: Tolga has the kind of face that puts even the most jittery of people at ease.
As soon as she was in the car, Cavidan Hanım removed her beret and scarf. She swung her hips left and then right, settling into the seat and making herself comfortable. She also made sure to turn and take a good look at Tolga. He was a young man with a fair complexion, clean shaven, with longish brown hair and glasses perched on an arched nose. Cavidan Hanım didn’t know much about automobiles, but still, judging from the smell of fresh leather rising from the black seats and the wooden details of the dashboard, this had to be a luxury car. Her savior, she guessed, was probably a successful young businessman. He must have been at least twenty years younger than her; Cavidan wondered if he was married. She glanced to see if he had a ring on his left hand, but her view was blocked. Tolga’s fingers had stopped tapping and now clung to the steering wheel. If it hadn’t been so dark inside, she could have seen how white his knuckles were. Wishing she were at least ten years younger, Cavidan Hanım let out a sigh. Fortunately, it was drowned out by the sound of the radio. “Dear jazz fans, our program continues with Billie Holiday: ‘Long Gone Blues’ …”
Tolga’s fingers relaxed and started tapping again. “So you’re a jazz fan,” Cavidan Hanım said, in an attempt to make conversation. Tolga looked at her for the first time, smiled, nodded, and then turned his attention back to the road. “If you drop me off in front of Akmerkez, I can walk from there.” A sudden gush of wind rattled the windshield, and shook the car even, or so it seemed to them.
“With all those bags? Out of the question! I’ll drive you to your door.”
The young man’s polite, soft-spoken manner emboldened the woman. “I love going to the shore and watching the sea during the lodos. How about you?”
Oh no! thought Tolga to himself, wishing to rein the conversation back in. But he didn’t let on. “I don’t know, I never have.”
As a veteran school teacher, Cavidan Hanım knew a thing or two about human psychology. This young man was clearly a victim of politeness, one of those poor souls incapable of saying no. “I’m an English teacher,” she continued. “Could I possibly have had you in my class? You look familiar.” She didn’t mention that she was retired. She had read somewhere that the word “retired” immediately killed any spark. It reminded one of the smell of dust, wool underwear, weatherproof socks, dentures leisurely soaking in a glass at night …”
“Oh please, I really don’t think you’re old enough to have been my teacher!” So she was a teacher; he should be more respectful.
Cavidan Hanım’s tiny giggle drowned out the sorrowful notes coming from the radio. “Thank you, that’s the nicest thing anyone’s said to me in a long time.”
They were in front of Akmerkez now. Tolga slowed down. A brass band was playing a merry dance tune. Post Brass Band was written on their red jackets. Was that what encouraged Cavidan Hanım? “How about going to the seaside? If you have time, that is.”
The young man thought he must have misheard her. Cymbals were clashing, countless sticks were banging on drums, and a trumpet blared proudly, as the band battled the bellowing of the lodos. Is that what confused Tolga? “Do you have a certain place in mind?”
Cavidan Hanım gladly shut the door she h
ad been reluctantly holding ajar. “Yes, drive straight ahead; let’s go down the Bebek Slope.” The jolly tunes of the brass band gradually faded away. “Cavidan,” she said. It was a strange meeting, but she didn’t care; she extended her hand.
“Tolga,” he responded. It would be rude not to shake her hand; he realized his palms were sweaty and felt embarrassed.
The car jerked and jolted, making slow progress in the bumper-to-bumper traffic. Etiler, with its colorful, bright cafés, restaurants, and stores lining the avenue, was drowning out even the noise of the lodos.
“Would you stop at that corner?” Cavidan Hanım hopped out with the agility of a young girl, ducked into a liquor store, and returned with a black plastic bag full of beer cans.
Surprised, the young man remained optimistic. Maybe she’s planning on drinking them at home tonight, he thought. Maybe she’s expecting guests. He made a left turn and drove down the slope. If he hadn’t turned, he could have seen his girlfriend buying flowers from a stand by the corner one street down; after all, their place was just a stone’s throw away. The slope was completely dark, except for the headlights of passing cars and the blinking New Year’s ornaments on the walls of the houses.
Cavidan Hanım took the sights in with a happy smile on her face. All kinds of fantasies played out in her head as she watched the dark retaining walls flow by. All things considered, she thought, I’m lucky to live in this city.
Tolga was uneasy. He had gone beyond the call of courtesy, and besides, what would he say if his girlfriend called? He could turn off his phone and tell her something like, I was in Akmerkez, the reception was bad, but that was hardly believable. His inner voice nagged away at him. (He was right, his girlfriend was worried. She had called his office, and they’d told her he’d already left. She’d thought about calling his cell a few times, and she almost did, and in the end, she would certainly call. Where would a grown man disappear to for so many hours?) And as if all that weren’t enough already, Ella Fitzgerald had launched into another song: “Baby, Won’t You Please Come Home?”
Istanbul Noir Page 3