Noontime in Yenisehir

by Sevgi Soysal

  He didn’t speak with anyone at dinner that evening. When he returned from Paris, he had taken the university exam. He knew that his mother was dying of curiosity to learn the results. He had learned the previous day that he had gotten into law school. That upset him too. What he really wanted to do was make movies. He found university education pointless. If he wasn’t going to get to learn about what he was interested in, then what was the point? And it would be especially meaningless to go study at that school for scriveners, he thought. But if he said this to his mother now, it would only cause more unrest. She didn’t want to hear of even the mere possibility of her son not going to university. His father was strict about this point as well. Of course he had to continue his studies, after all, he was the son of a professor! And then, ultimately, his mother and father would get into it. His mother would accuse his father of spending way too much time dealing with other people’s children and neglecting his own son. “Why don’t you educate your son instead of writing all those papers about education!” she would complain, and then his father would storm off, Mevhibe Hanım would lock herself up in the bedroom, and this discord would continue for days. The only thing that made Doğan think twice was his military service. If he didn’t enroll in university, he would have to do his military duty, and then the whole filmmaking business would go up in smoke. The unpleasant feeling of suffocation that marks the onset of defeat wrung his heart. He got up from the table. I’ll probably end up enrolling anyway, he thought. He shut himself up in his room without telling his mother that he’d gotten into law school. He lay down on his bed. He thought of Giselle, whom he’d had to break up with when he was forced to return to Turkey because he’d run out of money, of her amber skin, her wholesome face, her hazel eyes. At the Paris coffeehouses where they hung out, when asked about their love affair, they had responded with a nonchalance they deemed imperative, “What do you mean love? We’re together, that’s all.” Giselle was better at expressing such thoughts than Doğan was. She would say: “We ran into one another. It was something like a car wreck; if a car runs into you, you can’t just continue along your way. Now we have to stay together until we’ve recovered. And then we’ll both move on.” That’s the kind of word-smithery they did; they said that they were watching one another. “Spectating is important, but it shouldn’t be something static. If a car wreck is happening here, then somewhere further away a war is happening, and even further away, a revolution. Spectatorship should transform events and locations … In order to do that, you have to reach the speed of sound, in which case, let’s look into one another’s eyes and leave it to others to foolishly refer to it as love …” Doğan spoke in a similar fashion so as to please Giselle; after a certain point, it’s so easy to fashion such speech. Like drinking a lovely, bitter, acrid French coffee … Relaxing, painless … Fun! Yet when he went as a spectator to the slums in Altındağ in order to shoot a film, he hadn’t been able to watch anything or make any of the explanations necessary for the film … He had only grown weary. That, and he’d been watched. He’d gotten sick of the suspicious gazes shot at him, and the quick-wittedness he’d displayed in the Paris coffeehouses had vanished, leaving him incapable of devising believable, confident responses to the questions directed at him. Suddenly he missed Giselle, missed her very much. For all their big talk, parting had been difficult. He’d struggled to suppress his tears amongst the crowd that had gone to see him off. And now, lying there with his eyes closed, he tried to bring to life the image of Giselle’s hazel, speckled eyes and her taut body. But the persistent gazes of the children chasing after him kept cutting in front of Giselle’s eyes, suffocating him with their mix of suspicion combined with questioning-pleading-hope. Pressing his face into the pillow, for the first time in a long time, Doğan cried.

  So that’s basically how he had shot the film he showed that night. He’d gone back to the same places a few more times, cringing, afraid of looking like a thief, and recorded a few random scenes. The section with the children was clearest. Besides, most of the film had melted. Consequently, he edited the film, inserting images of children sticking their tongues out at the camera, giving each other donkey ears, and shooting water pistols, splicing them with the various sequences shot at the hilltops of the shantytown, and named the film Shantytowns and Children.

  Once the spectator issue had been resolved and the lights went out, Doğan’s film began. After pressing the start button on the tape player, and thus launching Haydn’s Symphony of Toys, which he had chosen as the film’s background music, Doğan realized in horror that the film had melted just after the children’s faces appeared. The lights came back on. Doğan stopped the music, in his flustered state pressing down on the button with unnecessary force. It wasn’t long before the lights were turned off again. The film began anew from where it had left off. And Doğan started the music again. But this time, the tape was dragging, Haydn’s music was too slow. But since the speakers weren’t working right, the problem with the sound was barely detectable anyway. Then someone yelled out, “Sound!” Someone must have fidgeted with the speakers in response, for suddenly Haydn’s music, now unrecognizable as the sound of it rose and fell, filled the cinema. Just as the child with the water pistol began shooting at the camera, the sound spontaneously ceased. A few people laughed loudly. Doğan, glancing around nervously, noticed that a young man sitting at the end of one of the rows was watching him carefully.

  There was something about the young man’s gaze that reminded Doğan of the children in his film, and so he became even more nervous; Doğan had noticed the same young man while he was walking around in the foyer before the screening. He was wearing a brown, rather worn out suit. Doğan had noticed, while walking past him, that he wasn’t wearing any socks. He also took notice of the young man’s bony face and his piercing gaze. Everything about him set him apart from the intellectual mass crammed into the foyer. While everyone else was talking, debating and sniping at each other, he stood silently in a corner, soberly concentrating upon the brochure. Hardly anyone else read the brochure. Doğan was unnerved by this boy in rudimentary attire.

  Once the other films, all of which suffered misfortunes similar to that of Doğan’s during the screening, had been shown, it was time for the “discussion” session, as announced in the program.

  The topic of discussion was how social dynamism could be propelled by means of documentary films. Doğan’s film was to be taken up as an example.

  Doğan and three of his friends sat in front of the screen, their feet hanging down over the edge of the stage. As usual Doğan was wearing corduroy pants and a turtleneck sweater. In his hand he held a pipe, which he had recently started smoking. He frequently lit the pipe, which frequently went out, and did his best to appear relaxed before the audience, most of whom he knew, to some degree at least. But he wasn’t relaxed. The boy in brown was sitting there in the audience, looking at him with a patient, deliberate gaze. His was the most solemn face in the room.

  When the discussion began, some of the spectators, who up until then had been chatting and giggling with their friends, suddenly sobered up. First was a discussion of the role of documentary film in Turkish society. Once the issue of how Yeşilçam had corrupted the people’s taste in a deliberate attempt to weaken their consciousness had been addressed, they moved on to the next topic: the dialogue between cinema and the masses and the importance of the dynamism that would be fostered via this dialogue. Doğan appeared to have forgotten the fiascos that had occurred during the screening of his film. And also the fact that the film he had made had nothing to with what he had really intended to do. He said that “the children were a reflection of dynamism,” and that “in interspersing static images with this dynamism” he intended “to show the potential, future force of these children,” and that “children were the force capable of eradicating these images of poverty …” The truth is, he was making it all up as he went along. At one point, the discussion seemed to come to an abrupt end. Bu
t then, the voice of that solemn-faced, reserved spectator broke the silence. He spoke in a soft, quiet voice, enunciating each individual word. But Doğan seemed to sense the built-up anger that propelled his words:

  “Look here!” he said to Doğan.

  In a way, it was the command of someone looking to pick a fight, yet the face, the voice said otherwise.

  “Who gave you the right to make fun of those children?”

  “What do you mean, ‘make fun of them’?” Doğan replied, stuttering in shock. “It seems you weren’t listening to the discussion we just had.”

  “I did listen to it, I most certainly did, but first, I watched the film,” Ali said.

  That was Ali, and that’s how Doğan came to know him.

  “I can say this much about the thing I just watched. Those brainwashing flicks they show in the open-air theaters of poor neighborhoods of the likes you’ve just shown us, well, they’re a thousand times better than the film you made. As for the damage such films do, well, at least they add some color to the kids’ lives. Sure, they don’t have much in the way of toys, but at least they can imagine themselves as Malkoçoğlu or some other hero for a few days after watching one of those films. But if they were to watch this film—and they never would, mind you—but if they did, they’d boo it and hurl soda bottle caps at the screen in disgust. And if the kids you filmed were to watch this, they’d stone you for tricking them into thinking you were making a movie. But then it’s clear from the way they stick their tongues out at the camera and make donkey ears that they never really fell for your trick in the first place. Now let me tell you what I think about this film. It’s pretty much the same result any amateur slinging his camera around there would get. Because those kids would be hard-pressed to let you film anything else before making you film them first. And so you filmed them, and because of all the trouble you endured doing so, you couldn’t bring yourself to go back and really dig in, and so you recorded a few shots from a distance. And then you spruced it up a bit, and now here you are talking about dynamism. Even those kids were on to you, they could tell you were nothing but an amateur, and there may be some people here who appear to have fallen for your little trick, or who have no qualms appearing to have done so. But like I was saying, those masses you want to ignite would simply explode into a volley of soda bottle tops if they were here to see it. That thing you call dynamism is important, I know, but in order for the exchange of dynamism to happen, I mean, for it to reach the spectator from the screen, something has to happen on the screen. Now if I stand up here and say, ‘This is the best weapon to kill a pig with,’ and then I show you that water pistol the kid was using in the film, you’d just laugh at me. I’m really sorry pal, my words might be hurtful. But I watched your film, patiently, and I also read what you wrote in the brochure. And I did my best to find a connection, a consistency, even the most basic, between your words and your work. But in order to assess the degree to which you were able to achieve what you claimed you set out to do, one would have to watch the film properly. That wasn’t even possible. You rile on and on about Yeşilçam, which is fine, pal, but, seeing as you’ve chosen to respond to film with your own films, then in that case you’ve gotta show something decent up there on the screen. You can’t tell an enemy you’re gonna kick their ass and then show up with a wooden sword. I expect this film to at least be as clear and understandable and to have the same continuity as the Yeşilçam movies. Plus, you can’t go making such grand claims in a frivolous place like Neşe Cinema, switching the lights on and off every few minutes during the show. What really surprises me is that none of the spectators here have had a word to say about any of this. The only conclusion I can draw is that they don’t take you seriously. Who amongst the spectators here would be content to find themselves confronted with such a film in any cinema theater if they’d actually paid for their ticket? Those people here who have spoken so seriously without taking tonight’s failures seriously are no less guilty than you are. Serious words deserve serious spectators. The nonchalance displayed here is something serious. If you take this film and show it to the people, the masses, you’ll find that they’re not as nonchalant as you are. If they pay a lira, they expect a lira’s worth of film, you know, I mean one with an obvious beginning and an end that you can actually see. It is only after such an exchange that the transfer of dynamism is possible. Am I wrong, pal?”

  Ali had been leaning forward as he spoke. He was looking straight at Doğan. He had said some harsh words, but in such a soft, unembellished tone. It was a talk that in no way resembled that of those who had spoken before him making grand assertions about Turkish filmmaking. The audience had shown the same disregard for those who spoke before him as they had for the film itself, but they all listened intently to Ali’s words. Ali was one of those people who begged to be heard out, because there was something that he absolutely had to say.

  Doğan realized this as Ali spoke. Deep down, Doğan was upset by Ali’s words, but at the same time, he couldn’t help but agree with him. There were only a handful of people there that night whom Doğan held in high regard. But they had slipped out as soon as the film was over, after saying a few encouraging words to Doğan. None of them had presented an explicit criticism like Ali had. The more he thought about this, the more enraged Doğan became, and the greater the feeling of failure, which he often fell prey to these days, became. He thought that, with his corduroy pants and his pipe, he must look like an inept child. One who, decked out in the pretty clothes his mother had tailored for him, forgot his lines at the school play.

  Ali had fallen silent. He was looking at Doğan, patiently waiting for a response. Doğan had no response to give. Actually, he could have said a lot of things, if he had employed his usual quick-witted repartee. He could easily have changed the direction of the conversation. But he felt that if he did so, that cursed feeling of failure would pervade him completely. He no longer wanted to be the unsuccessful actor in a bad movie; he wanted to leave this cinema, to leave it behind.

  He jumped off the stage and walked straight towards Ali. He sat down next to him, and said nothing. A few people attempted to carry on the debate. But their words remained up in the air, meaningless. Doğan kept quiet, as if he were not one of the people responsible for organizing the screening. After a short while, the crowd dispersed.

  Doğan and Ali left together. As if they were old friends.

  “You’re not angry with me, are you?”

  Doğan looked at Ali’s face, trying to discern whether or not he was being mocked. His comrade’s long narrow nose, dark shiny eyes, and honest gaze immediately drove the thought from his mind.

  “No, actually, I should thank you.”

  “For what?”

  “You gave me the chance to accept something that I was already aware of, the nonsense of it all. The matter of cause and effect.”

  “If that’s what you think, then so be it. But still, you shouldn’t be ashamed of the work you’ve done.”

  “Even if it’s bad?”

  “Yes, as long as long as you’ve understood that it’s bad, even if it is bad. My father always says, ‘More good comes out of action than of doing nothing at all.’”

  “Would you have a drink with me?”

  “No.”

  “Why not?”

  “I don’t have the money for a drink.”

  “But I’m inviting you.”

  “That’s all good and well, but it’s important that I don’t have money.”

  “You can invite me another time, buddy.”

  “That’s the thing, I won’t have any money another time either.”

  “Then whoever has money will treat. It’s nothing to fight about.”

  “Of course, unless you’re the one who doesn’t have any money.”

  Doğan fell silent. He wondered if Ali was offended. He both desired and feared Ali’s friendship.

  If I were him, I wouldn’t be friends with someone of my class. Doğan was
fond of rigid thinking. But he could sense that Ali was capable of viewing issues differently depending upon the context, and that this variability in his assessments lent him a kind of flexibility. Later, when Doğan asked Ali, “Shouldn’t people of your class be more hard-nosed?” Ali had responded, “Just the opposite. It’s people like you who address the issues strictly through reading who are rigid. People like that usually don’t possess the necessary power of change and adaptation when it comes to a particular issue. Because in truth, they’re guilty and cowardly. Only those with something to hide are so eager to build walls. It’s actually because of their feelings of guilt that petite bourgeois intellectuals fail to rein in their thoughts and instead plunge forward full-throttle. Their fear of being unable to change themselves supposedly gives them the audacity to change everything in one stroke. Sometimes they use theory as a wall to conceal their fear and culpability. In situations in which action and flexibility are necessary, they succumb to the power of that strict, stagnant wall and, unable to deal with the pressure of events, their fear and guilt become menacingly apparent.” That’s the answer he gave. But what had happened between then and now?

  “The plane tree is collapsing, I think,” Ali said.

  Doğan looked at Ali. Had he changed? Has Ali changed for me since that day? No, after all, it was he who had informed Doğan that the tree was collapsing. Doğan meanwhile, standing there in the midst of the crowd on the sidewalk, was reconsidering his relationship with Ali and wished to define something at the moment that the plane tree collapsed. But what? Ali? It was clear who Ali was. His relationship with Ali? Or maybe what was to happen after the tree collapsed, after the avenue was cleared of people? But how?