Istanbul Noir

by Mustafa Ziyalan

  “Besides, hard for anything to happen with it being this crowded,” I said. “Barely room to move as it is.”

  “Perfect scene for the crime,” he replied. “Can’t tell who’s got whose throat in a crowd like this.”

  There were men who’d been killed in here by having hot olive oil poured down their ears, or stabbed to death with a shiv. At least, that’s what we were told, but neither Sinan nor I had ever witnessed anything of the kind here in the ward. So why did I keep dreaming about killing this guy? I looked in his face like we were two good pals. He noticed, and glanced at me out of the corner of his eye. He was scared shitless, as usual, thinking it was all downhill from here. I should just take care of it for him, I thought to myself. Show him what it’s like to be pushed and pulled around at somebody else’s whim. Nobody calling after him anyway. Nobody even writes him letters, except for that bitch Funda. How that chick got this loser to clean the crap off her honor, who knows. Ahmet, my boy, you’d be snuffing the life of a whore-mongering motherfucker; you’d rise above the rank of mere mugger and be a whole class above those pickpockets and ass-fuckers—not so bad, huh? And with the ward aa watching over you, nobody’d make a peep. It’d be an open-and-shut case. The asshole can find out what it means to suck it up while he rots in his grave.

  For a moment I thought he sensed what was going through my mind. He was alert like some nocturnal animal, his nostrils flaring wider and wider. I pretended to not give a shit about him, stabbed some meat on the metal plate. Besides, he couldn’t actually care less about what I was eating, or how.

  It was calm in the ward that evening. I ate alone, sat at one of the tables in the corner next to the dormitory. The doors were long locked. The huge, curtainless window looking onto the courtyard with its pile of snow was nothing but a black wall now. They quickly counted us. The sixty-watt bulb bathed its surroundings in yellow. Beneath its light, the faces of the men sitting at the tables looked more anemic than ever. It wasn’t long before the cigarette smoke made it almost impossible to see five feet in front of you. I caught a whiff of another familiar scent there in that smoke. A joint. It was coming from one of the tables by the window. Three men were sitting there sucking it in. They were always together, those three, in the courtyard, in the ward, evenings at the ward coffeehouse. I’d never spoken with them, not once. Sinan, the master, they’d never messed with those guys either. The tall one was shaped like a padlock; huge head, flat body, and virtually no neck. White skin, a little oily. He’d become the leader of the pack, even though he was new to the ward. He always wore a large, checkered dress shirt and a vest. The middle one had small, dark eyes that were pinched together, giving him these broad, open temples. The third one, the tiniest of them, had white skin and gray-blue eyes. I’d heard the big one grew up in Vefa. The other two were from Anatolia.

  “In Diyarbakır, they water this stuff with chicken blood to make it sweeter,” said the middle one.

  It was like each of them was talking to himself. Once the joint had made several rounds, they drank a few cups of tea, which was like tar by then, having steeped in the samovar for hours. It’d gotten pretty crowded around the tables. Like we were all curious to see what would happen next.

  Sinan seemed almost oblivious to what was going on as he approached me. He was trying to hide his anxiety, as usual. But then he never was one to get mixed up in crowds. Especially during the day, he never ever walked about. He was in a rush, looking for something to busy himself with. He sat down on his bed, two bunks down from mine, and started writing something in half cursive, half printed letters, and unconsciously flipping through old letters. Probably from that bitch Funda. God only knows. As if that cunt’s really yearning for her lover’s return, like she claims in her letters. You’ve nailed her right between the legs the moment she gets a whiff of the dough, there’s not a fool who doesn’t know that much. At times like this, I wished he’d talk to me instead of taking refuge in Funda’s bullshit letters. But just the opposite, he grew even more distant. For a moment I thought of Funda riding him. The smell of her cheap perfume, her cheap panties, cheap lace; the chalky taste of cocaine leaving a tingly numbness in her nose, on her gums; the shadow of Funda’s breasts on her stomach under the direct light of the bulb overhead. It really pissed me off. And I was getting more and more pissed off since he’d stopped giving a fuck about me. The place was too narrow to stare into the distance, like a pharaoh’s grave. Not like they were going to allot us a fucking chateau, but that’s another matter.

  Just as these thoughts were running through my mind, he spoke up: “Those are the guys Müfit sent after me.”

  “How do you know?” I asked.

  “That Müfit guy’s in the dope business. Sells hash and shit. Can’t you see, those guys would sell their own mothers. They’re just waiting for someone to give the go-ahead, just look at them.” He was talking nonstop, not even pausing to take a breath. There he goes again, thinking every dude who walks in here is his assassin. The idiot, like he’s seeing hash and heroin for the first time in his life. Now was the perfect time to play a few tricks, but …

  “You know them from before?” I asked. “Nah,” he said.

  “It’s just, it seems to me like they know you.”

  “No way, this is the first time I’ve ever seen them,” he said. Then he paused. He’d taken the bait. “What makes you think they know me?”

  “No, I mean, what do I know?” I said. It was on the tip of my tongue, I’d drop the sinker and walk away. At that moment, I really wanted him to feel the fear, and feel it good. I headed for my bunk.

  “I asked you a question!” he barked.

  “It’s just, I went to see the ward aa the other day,” I said.

  “And?” He was drawing closer. I’d snagged him by the roof of his mouth, just like that. Otherwise, I’d have lost him.

  “I heard those guys talking with him,” I said.

  “So what the fuck were they talking about?”

  The hook ripped through his palate, shaack.

  “Don’t remember, swear to God. It’s been awhile, and you know me, I don’t remember shit,” I said.

  He was at a loss for words.

  “I think …” I began.

  “You think?”

  “One of them asked the ward aa if there was anyone else here besides our Sinan. Since he was saying ‘our Sinan,’ I figured they knew you,” I said.

  “What fucking ‘our Sinan,’ you idiot?”

  “I don’t know, I just figured they knew you from Istanbul or something.”

  “Why the hell didn’t you tell me this before? Like these guys have been here fucking forever—and you ‘forgot.’”

  “I swear to God, just figured you knew them. And besides, that thug’s not on good terms with the ward aa anyway, you know?”

  He seemed convinced of my sincerity. He’d literally swallowed it, hook, line, and sinker. He exhaled and said something. I couldn’t tell if he was just cursing or what, with his teeth pressed together like that. His jawbones, his temples were all fidgety. Thanks to me, he was now absolutely certain that the men after him numbered three, and that they were hot on his tail.

  The three guys were completely fucked up by that point. It took less than half an hour before the big one had a cheek against the steamed-up window, his arms spread wide like a frozen image of Jesus, crucified on some invisible cross. Another one they found under his bunk. And the third one they found lying on the floor in the bathroom.

  A few hours later everyone had calmed down, the gawkers had dispersed. The smell of ashes and moldy walls gradually replaced the scent of pot. I was in my bunk before the clock even struck 10. I lay down and took a deep breath. I thought about that look on his face that said, Now I’m fucked, as I told him the story. If that man gets a wink of sleep tonight, I thought, my name ain’t Ahmet.

  The ward was completely shrouded in darkness before midnight. The sounds of sleeping men, of snoring, wheezing, teeth grinding
, and the scent of polyester shirts reeking of sweat mingled in the air.

  I woke up early the next day. I looked for Sinan, but he wasn’t in bed. I walked through the bunks, checked the bathrooms upstairs, but he was nowhere to be found. I went out into the courtyard. There he was, facing the ward door. Three men stood before him, with their backs to me. They’d cornered him. I couldn’t believe my eyes. The three guys from the night before were in Sinan’s face. Man, I was just looking to mess with him a bit … How could this be? Or were his suspicions actually right? I pretended to be pacing along the wall, and got as close to them as I could. First I heard them laughing, so I guessed it wasn’t anything serious after all. Clearly the leader was talking, and the others were throwing in some laughs for support. But Sinan just stood there, cowering before them. He couldn’t leave, and he couldn’t make them shut up. He kept puffing on his cigarette, stoking his lungs full of cold air and smoke. The big one spoke up again.

  “Ain’t nobody in Bomonti ain’t poked that chick, and you tryin’ to elope with her like she’s some eighteen-year-old virgin.”

  (Sinan remains silent.)

  “Dude, you fucking idiot, you go messing with some guy you know nothing about for some three-penny whore?”

  (Again, nothing.)

  “They didn’t teach you back in the army, huh? Khaki outfit, boots, everybody equal, until the day you get your discharge papers. On that day, some guys put on their leather jackets and leave. And other guys, scum like you, they put on ragged-ass jackets all torn at the seams … Now go on and do your paces, and quit bitin’ off more than your runt mouth can chew!”

  (Sinan swallows, his eyes wide and rolling.)

  “Who do you think you are, trying to stab a man, you fucking piece of shit!”

  He didn’t even lower his voice when he saw me approaching. I walked right by them. I followed the wall and dove back inside the ward. They dispersed after me. The other two guys were laughing and cussing left and right.

  I didn’t go near Sinan all day. He didn’t talk at all; he didn’t eat; he didn’t go out to the courtyard. He wasn’t angry. He wasn’t sad. So what was his deal? He didn’t have the usual fever blister popping out of his lip. And he didn’t seem like a man waiting for his manifest destiny either. He was cold, motionless, as if all the nerves had been ripped out of him. Was it the comfort of simply knowing what’s to come?

  Toward evening it started snowing. The men out in the courtyard headed back into the ward, taking cover from the sudden onslaught of slush. I left the crowd and chaos behind and walked up to him.

  “What were those guys talking about?” I asked.

  No response. He wouldn’t talk. He’d erased me, completely. The Sinan who constantly rattled on to me about all his suspicions had been replaced by this mute dupe. I had no idea what he was thinking. What the fuck was going on? He didn’t talk, not that evening, not that night. I was dying to find out. But that was Sinan. When he shut down, even his fucking maker couldn’t rouse him out of it. I didn’t press him any further. The bastard could stew in his own juices for all I cared.

  When I woke abruptly early the next morning, I felt like I was about to come. I found myself trying to suffocate the rod beneath my waist, between a pillow clenched between my legs and the rough texture of the cotton mattress. On the verge of explosion, I got up and went to the bathroom. (When I was new to the ward, Sinan had followed me to the dimly lit bathroom a few times.)

  It was still pitch black in most of the ward. It took awhile for my eyes to adjust to the darkness, with just a tiny sliver of light seeping in from under the door. As I walked down between the bunks, I glanced at Sinan’s bed, but he wasn’t there. It was 3 in the morning; all of the doors were locked. Where could he be? I walked toward the stairs leading up to the toilets. When I got to the bathroom door, I heard voices; scuffling and struggling. Slowly, I pushed the door open. There was a pool of blood between the sinks and stalls in their pinkish-yellow glow. I saw the legs of a man, trembling, sprawled out in the pool of blood. The upper half of his body was in one of the stalls. One of his slippers had come off, the other was still on his foot. When I saw his shirt, which had soaked up the blood to the color of rotten cherry, I recognized the broadly checkered design. It was the big guy, the group leader. I took another step inside. Then, above him, I saw Sinan.

  He was all over the guy like a spider. He was so agile, stabbing the guy with a shiv, in the neck, in the stomach, all over. The man was nothing but a pulp of muscle and nerves by then. A thin blanket was wrapped tightly around his head. It seemed he’d taken the first hit to the jugular and spurted blood all over the walls. Sinan was rabid, his attention focused entirely upon his prey like some nocturnal animal. He stuck the shiv into the now motionless body a few more times. Then he looked up at the door and saw me.

  I took one step back, but I couldn’t take the second. I couldn’t move. I leaned against the wall. He wasn’t at all surprised to see me. He stood up and walked through the pool of blood to the sink. The ice-cold water that ran over his hands and arms was red at first; he rubbed his fingers together until it gradually turned pink, then transparent. He removed his undershirt, now stained with blood. Naked from the waist up, he walked up to me. Then, without a word, and without looking me in the face, he moved straight past me. He was calm, invigorated. And he remained so as he headed out the door and down the stairs. I tried with all my might to move. Finally, I managed to walk down the stairs, silently. It was the longest journey I’d ever taken in that tiny ward. Each step sent a shudder through my body, like a guillotine blow to the neck. I couldn’t control my breathing. It was as if my joints had hardened, like all the spaces between my bones were filled with concrete. I struggled to find my way through the darkness. My eyes were popping out of my head, like somebody pumped up on too much shit. I walked by his bed. He was lying there, under the covers, calm as could be. I reached my bunk. Suddenly the damn bunk that I despised waking up in every morning had become the safest shelter. I was surrounded by the noise of snoring. I didn’t make a sound. The moment I did, one of those shivs would go splat through my neck. I lay down. And stayed there, motionless.

  The next morning they took a count. They removed the body of the big guy. It took at least seven or eight of them to lug it down the stairs. An investigation ensued. Nobody was allowed out of the ward until noon. At noon, Sinan went to the door. He’d hurriedly gathered his dirty underwear and placed them in a bag. He said he was going to the Turkish bath. They let him. They never suspected him since he didn’t have any friends, and there was no way he could take out such a big guy.

  I would never be his equal. I never talked with him, never approached him again, and never during the night did I look his way … and I never made the mistake of ever, ever getting a wink of sleep.

  BLACK PALACE

  BY MUSTAFA ZYALAN

  Aksaray

  I walked down from Atatürk Boulevard, onto Oruçgazi Street, along the wall of Oruçgazi Elementary. That’s where I went to school when I was a kid. I ended up in front of the Oruçgazi Apartment Building. You could still see the marks of posters of old political organizations that had once been on the prowl, and had been prowled down like animals, back in the ’70s. The windows of the first floor were at eye level.

  My mother had died in that building. In Aksaray—in “White Palace.” If anything, the world must be bell jar—bottomed, as they say.

  The small neighborhood convenience store was still there. The stationery store across from it was too. In its fly-flecked windows were the same books we had used back when I was in school. I was about to go in when a newspaper headline caught my eye: Scalpel. I couldn’t see the rest. I took the paper, stepped halfway in, and paid the dark-complected, mustached guy behind the newsstand counter. Then I turned around and entered the stationery store.

  The owner was still wearing a two-piece suit and a tie. “Ohhhh, look who’s here!” he said as soon as I walked in. We shook hands. He sen
t one of the kids to fetch us some tea from a nearby tea stand. He came closer, as if to share a secret. “No one speaks Turkish around here anymore, sir,” he said, with the grimace of a man suffering from heartburn. “Sniffing glue, turpentine, this and that; you name the vice and they deal in it.” Then, pointing in the direction of the convenience store with his thumb, “They’ve taken over, completely.”

  I didn’t ask: Who? The Kurds? He had turned out to be another one of those assholes who thought the city was his own personal property. Maybe out of anxiety, out of fear. After all, fear is one ferocious teacher. We made small talk; we drank tea.

  That’s when I saw the blondie for the first time, just as I was stepping out of the store. He wore some fancy, dark-colored jacket; his arms were folded; he seemed to be scratching his chin. In spite of his years, he had the face of a kid. Good-looking fella. He followed me with faintly squinting eyes. Was there anybody else with me? Where were my hands? Perhaps the fact that I was holding the paper in my right threw him off. He smiled, it seemed, ever so slightly. A fleeting thought: Is he making a pass at me or what? Well, there was no harm in that. It once again became obvious to me that I no longer knew the language of the land. The thought gave me an ugly rise. Some sort of fear. For an instant I imagined going straight up to the guy, reaching out with the paper as if to remove some spot of dust from his arm, and then headbutting him square in the middle of his cool smile. I almost took the first step. But then I stopped myself. I winked in his direction. He seemed to be looking elsewhere. I turned around, but made sure not to lose sight of him. I knew as well as I knew my own name that he was keeping me in his field of vision too. So be it. I put some distance between us and turned around for good, and with one ear to the ground listening for steps, started in the direction of Pertevniyal High School. I figured I’d go to the hardware store over there and do some shopping.