“You mean the Sea of Marmara?”
“Of course.”
“That sea in front of us? The one teeming with germs?”
“It didn’t used to be like that.”
That’s right, it didn’t. Tufan remembered going swimming here back when he was five or six years old. Right over there was the sailing club. And a little farther down, Suadiye Beach. A long time ago. Before they filled in the shore and built the road.
“Besides,” said Ekber Amca, “they’ve reopened Caddebostan Beach.”
Tufan laughed again. That’s right, they had reopened it. And the masses had rushed in to get their feet wet. The municipality claimed that the pollution level had fallen. Bullshit. Just pulling the wool over the people’s eyes. But Tufan didn’t want to draw this out any longer than necessary.
“All right, fine. A beautiful sea before us. What else?”
“Tufan, you ever walk around?”
“What do you mean?”
“Here. Not on the avenue, in the streets.”
“Like, when?”
“Anytime. Spring, summer, winter, whenever. Tell me, when was the last time you took a walk though the side streets of akınbakkal? Those treelined roads, quiet, calm, so far from the chaos of the avenue, with the occasional breeze caressing your hair? It’s been a long time, hasn’t it? Probably back in middle school, with your girlfriend or something? And now, ha, only when you’re running away … or when Teoman calls … By Teoman, I mean your boss. And a dwarf you say? … All right, okay, why are you getting all riled up?”
“Ekber Amca … man, this just ain’t right.”
“Why not?”
“I mean, I don’t know. This shit’s got me feeling so naked, so exposed. This, that, everything …”
“But you can read mine too.”
“How?”
“I don’t know. Just try … No, son, you’re not high, you’re clean … No, no! Ha ha ha! … No way! You haven’t hit your head or anything either.”
Tufan didn’t get it. He didn’t get it, so he tried. How he tried, or how he did it, he did not know, but in no time his head was spinning from all the images, scents, tastes, sounds that filled it. He heard the leaves from the plane trees rustle in the wind in the side streets in the middle of winter. He saw children running through the alleys in the spring. He saw fourteen-year-old Ekber, in the middle of summer, drinking cognac and smoking dope with friends in the hut of the older Emin, who rented out boats on the shore, before the road had been built over it. The day he married Hilmiye Teyze, may she rest in peace. Ekber becoming a father. And then his son slamming the door shut behind him, cursing. How his daughter married a hard man who, yes, was just like him. His departure for Germany. Hilmiye’s Teyze sudden death. Pain. Loneliness. Growing old. He saw him growing weak. He felt it.
“Focus,” said the old man.
It was so easy.
I just learned how to do it myself. You came up next to me, you know, when I turned around and looked at you. And you were about to attack me. No, don’t worry, it’s okay. I’m not angry. There you go, calm down. Just like that. You understand me now? … Oh, come on, don’t get upset. The loneliness is my loneliness, it’s no fault of yours! My wife’s death, the way my son and daughter up and left … How were you to know that I had no other friends but you and those other kids out on the street? I got up early every morning and waited for you guys to go out into the garden and play—what did you think? … Oh, now, son … No, no, you didn’t get on my nerves. I couldn’t have cared less about you messing up the flowers. You get it, don’t you? The reason why I got so upset, yelled and screamed at you guys … Oh, now, son, I know, you’re lonely too. There are lots of us. C’mon now … . Shhh … Don’t cry. You got used to it back in law school, so much hope, so much ambition … How proud dear Mehmet Bey was that you were going to become a lawyer. But then, well, you became a filthy drug dealer … Ohhhh, please now, son! Well looky here, so there is a special someone. Oh, but she doesn’t know, huh? That’s all right.
Tufan couldn’t stop crying. I’ve already hit thirty, Ekber Amca, and just look at me, man!
Okay, son, now just calm down. It’s all over now.
What do you mean all over? Can’t you see? I sell poison to kids! I wait for them in front of school, sell to kids as young as fucking fifteen! Everything I’ve ever stood against … Don’t you understand?
We don’t have to understand, Tufan. You don’t have to understand me, and I don’t have to understand you. Or the world, or anything else. We don’t have to understand. We’re children. All of us. His children. We don’t have to understand. It’s over now.
The old man threw his arm over Tufan’s shoulder. The latter let it all out, leaning against the old man, weeping loudly. Teoman. Beatings. Fear. Escape. Police. Drugs. Yeliz. How can I tell her? I’m screwed! I’m fed up with this shit!
“Ohh, look at that view.”
Both of them swung around.
It was a short, energetic-looking young man, standing about two meters behind them, his hands at his waist. He had curly blond hair and his eyes sparkled with joy. He was wearing a black T-shirt with Annihilator written across the chest.
Tufan instinctively leapt to his feet; he didn’t know who this guy was, but he knew his type. His hand went for the switchblade in his back pocket. At the very same moment, Ekber Bey grabbed Tufan by the leg. Hold on, son.
“Looks like you guys have been chillin’ out,” said the new arrival. “That’s good. Honestly, I can’t stand those high-strung types.” He stuck his hand in one of the pockets of his baggy hip-hop pants and removed a folded piece of paper. “Okay,” he said. “Let’s see what we’ve got here.” He unfolded the paper, mumbling to himself as he read it. “Ekber en, right?” The old man nodded. “Great. And you, you must be Tufan Tokgöz.”
“And who the hell are you?” asked Tufan.
“Shhh,” said Ekber Bey. “Excuse him, your Holiness, Azrael.”
The young man let out a giggle. “No, Ekber Bey. The big boys don’t do the bookkeeping.” He took out a pen from another pocket. He looked at it, then at the paper, and then he motioned for Tufan to approach.
“So who the hell are you?”
“Who, me?” He scrunched his brows together in thought. “Oh man,” he said, finally, “you guys rule. Not many of you hotshots think to ask me my name. Hmm, what shall I call myself this time?” A smile spread across his face, he looked to the sky. “Okay. Fine. Cheese. That’s right, my name is Cheese. How’s that?”
Perplexed, Tufan looked from Ekber Bey to the young man, who was again motioning for him to come over. Tufan didn’t know why, but he was gripped by a sudden fear; his knees quaking, he walked over. From behind Cheese’s shoulder, he could see the two cops still standing by the boats. Cheese noticed the expression on Tufan’s face.
“Don’t mind them,” he said. “Now turn around for me.”
Tufan stared at him blankly.
“I said turn around … Ha ha ha! You nasty little thing, you. That’s a good one. No, that’s not what I had in mind. I’m just going to use your back to write something, if you can stand still for a minute, that’s all. All right? Now turn around.”
Tufan turned around. Cheese placed the piece of paper on the dealer’s back. He started writing. He stopped, looked at the pen, shook it up and down, and started writing again. Then he stopped again. He brought the point of the pen to his mouth and blew a few warm breaths onto it. He tried writing again. He let out a swear word. He looked over Tufan’s shoulder.
“I don’t suppose you’ve got a pen on you?”
The old man shook his head.
“I’m not even going to ask you,” he said to Tufan. “Well, there’s not much to write anyway. I can just punch a couple of holes next to your names.” He shook the pen once more. “Fucking supply department …” He pressed down on the pen and punched two holes in the paper. “All right, you can turn around now.”
“
What the hell’s going on?” asked Tufan. Not that he couldn’t sense it, he just wasn’t quite ready to admit it.
“What’s going on?” Cheese opened his eyes wide. “What the hell’s going on, you ask? Wait, let’s see now, what’s going on.” He moved his hand to his chin, squinted his eyes. “Hmmm. There’s going to be a car crash on the avenue in a little bit. Classic midnight drag race. I’ve got one more pickup there.” He sighed. “A father on night duty out looking for a pharmacy. Unfortunate case, that one. Just became a daddy. The punk who hits him survives though.” He sighed again. “Five minutes after that I have to go down to Kadıköy; a wino on the docks is going to have a heart attack. Now wait a second …” He looked at the paper. “That’s right, then I have to cross the Bosphorus. A whore in Beyolu … What? … Haaa haaa haaa! A huri? Oh, that’s a good one. I’ll have to tell the sisters about that. But anyway, then I have to go to Etiler, and so on and so forth. Ah, but if you’re asking what’s going on in the world, now that’s a tough one to answer. There are tons of officials, and they’re all fully booked.
“Oh! Wait! I’m sorry,” Cheese said suddenly, interrupting himself. He covered his mouth in feigned surprise. “You still don’t know what’s going on here, that’s what you’re asking about. Oh, sweetheart! Innocent babe in the woods! But c’mon … you’re on to us now, right? C’mon, say it.”
Several moments passed before Tufan finally managed to croak out the words, “I … I’m … dead?”
“Bravo!” replied Cheese.
“B-but …”
“See there, the ambulance has arrived.”
Tufan spotted the vehicle parking along the coastal road, about fifty meters away. Its lights were off. You could only tell it was an ambulance because the orange light on top shone beneath the streetlamp. They weren’t in a hurry, of course. That’s why they’d taken their time, cruising to a halt, no siren. Tufan watched as two people waltzed out of the ambulance, opened the back doors, and took out the stretcher.
“You mean … I …”
“I mean you, boy,” said Cheese, placing his hand on Tufan’s shoulder. “You took a bullet in the back at the end of that chase a little while ago, as you jumped onto the breakwater. And the guys who shot you have been waiting by your body over there.”
At a loss for words, Tufan turned to Ekber Amca.
“Ekber Bey had a heart attack ten minutes before that, and collapsed into the sea. Someone’ll find his body in the morning, I suppose.”
“Cheese, son,” said Ekber Bey, as he stood up, using his hands to push himself off the ground, “I want to ask you something.”
Cheese smiled. They’ve always got questions. Sooo many questions. He folded his arms. He looked at the old man approaching him, and then at the dealer. “Yes, Ekber Bey,” he said … No, I’m not the one who’s going to do your account. Yes, you can rub the heads of people walking in the streets, they’ll let you do that … Sure, why not? … Nah, it’s not that bad. Of course, it depends on how things add up for you … No, I have no idea when Yeliz is coming; they only give us the lists of the people we have to pick up … Well, I’d love to stay and chat, but I’m in a bit of a hurry. Work, you know. Ha ha ha! I’m lying, of course. Why would I want to stay and chat with you guys? Well, you know, I can’t always act as formal as they want us to, but then, who can, right? He looked up again. Besides, even He knows this job’s unbearable if you play by the Book all the time … What’s that? … Yeah, right, of course, of course, it’s around here somewhere. Whatever.
THE SPIRIT OF PHILOSOPHICAL VITRIOL
BY LYDIA LUNCH
Tepebaı
Some days you just want to fuck shit up. Spread the misery around. Louse up somebody’s life. Even the score. Find an unsuspecting, but not undeserving mark and dump a truckload of shit on his head. Because you can. Because some perverse mean streak needs exorcizing before it contaminates the whole of your being and you in turn do something horribly ruthless to a public building, a strip mall, a shopping center, a city block, an entire neighborhood, the necropolis you’re stuck in and all the mindless zombie breeders and their greedy offspring who roam this parasitic planet as it spirals toward its imminent extinction, when the bomb in your head wants to explode in your hands and take a couple hundred thousand people with it. I get ugly like that sometimes.
I was burned out, bitchy, and bored. Again. Had a couple of hours to kill before the train to Athens would signal the close of a month-long low-rent aimless ramble instigated in a spastic fit of dementia. I started the journey suffering under the delusion that my rotten moods were the by-product of stagnation and lethargy exasperated by routine and monotony. Doesn’t matter what you do or don’t do to earn a living, to pay the rent, to keep the lights on and the wind out, the same job done over and over again for any period of time becomes a mind-dulling prison sentence which sends sensitive nerve endings into a St. Vitus dance of agitation. Brain dead but spastic. Numbed of all but the most negative emotions. A harvest of superhuman willpower and extreme focus the only defense against a scorching desire to flail arms and legs blindly like a punch-drunk boxer shadowboxing in the dark, hellbent on murdering the invisible enemy which has become an all-encompassing surround. As if allergic to the air itself. Day in, day out will do that. Truth was, I was just as much of a miserable cunt when there were no responsibilities, deadlines, headlines, nosy friends, or dying relatives to ruin my day. Bitter. I was praying that a break in my routine would break me of my bullshit.
Keep dreaming.
Twenty-nine days ago I purchased a cheap ticket from a Midtown bucket shop specializing in no-frill flights. I landed in a city I had no intention of visiting. I bought a bargain train pass good enough to get me a seat on the off hours. I did not consult an atlas. I packed nothing. I told no one. There was no one to tell. I needed to disappear from the city, state, country, culture, global stranglehold of hypocritical doublespeak, corporate slave trading, universal insanity, and my addictive predilection to the minutia of every possible encroaching disaster, which was leeching precious energy from the wellspring of my being. I thought by playing a stint of runaway fugitive with a strain of wandering-gypsy shape shifter that I could outmaneuver a vindictive part of my personality which had become increasingly hostile and was battling for dominance as a natural reaction against the world at large. I assumed that divorcing myself from negative elements, information overload, satellite TV, the Internet, radio, newspaper reports, telephone updates, and local gossip, I could somehow purge myself of this overwhelming need for retribution, revenge, violence. I needed to physically remove myself from a world that was making my psyche sick.
Tramping through Belarus, Poland, Slovakia, Romania, Bulgaria, night stalking dead zones, stopping in crusty post-industrial villages free from the ravages of tourists, football hooligans, vacationing families, hen parties, business men. Rummaging for an hour, a day, thirty-six hours, just long enough to explore the haunted remains and ghostly remnants, the garbage and wreckage of life dispossessed. A deserted farm house, her roof collapsed under the weight of a century and a half of blustery winters, rotting wood, and termites. A dilapidated factory, a victim of her own contaminants, battered blood-red by rust and erosion. At one time a proud workhorse spitting out spare parts for armored tanks and land rovers, now a decayed orphan whose guts had been ripped out and sold for scraps. Slivers of copper wiring scattered like auburn gossamer refracting sunlight. Empty hollows which had sucked life into their vortex and existed now as a testament to mystery and disappearance forming a beautiful vacuum devoid of humans. This was bliss.
And therein lies the problem. I was almost completely depressurized, left alone to moon vacantly into the ruins of collapsed architecture, rambling absently through dusty towns and half-deserted villages, mingling with humans only long enough to request a bottle of water, something to eat, a place to sleep. The joy of not understanding any but the most rudimentary of foreign phrases turned even the most grating of native t
ongues into a brutal symphony of discordant melodies. The dull ringing in my ears, a revolt no doubt from overexposure to the chronic chattering of Western mouths in love with the sound of their own voices, had vanished. The palpitation of my jugular, a sure sign of the thickening of my arteries filthied by the poison of close proximity to the contagions which overpopulate every city, had quelled. The painful spasm in my left pinkie, a simple decades-long nervous twitch, had within the space of four weeks subsided. I felt a renewed vigor in my bloodstream. My head didn’t hurt. My eyes no longer stung from the endless dribble of Visine or their perpetual narrowing into slits as thin as razorblades in an attempt to filter out the grotesque barbarity that passed itself off as humankind.
I should have folded myself into a tiny package, hid under a rock, and relished the last remaining unfettered breaths before catching the night train that would deposit me at an inhospitable airport en route back to the overcrowded necropolis from which I had escaped. I could have remained firm in the conviction that although each day is indeed riddled with innumerable aggravations, I had now conquered enough distance, squandered enough time, to outrun the demons who are forever forcing the execution of that Herculean battle between control and desire. I could have ambled quietly into the nuclear sunset of a fading Eastern European hamlet and patiently awaited the arrival of the next train out. But I needed to reacclimate back into the real world before boarding my impending nine-hour trans-Atlantic flight stuffed between screaming children, grubby teenagers, talkative grannies, and inebriated single men. Newfound Zen be damned! The potential for strangling a stewardess, rushing the cockpit, screaming “fire in the hole,” grabbing the controls and taking the whole seething mass into a watery grave was a preoccupation I fought every time my brain cells began to tweak on pressurized cabin air. I opted instead to stop in Istanbul.
Istanbul Noir Page 12