by Sevgi Soysal
“I, um, I have to leave in a little bit.”
“Where to?”
Olcay remained silent. She couldn’t tell him, “To the hairdresser.” If she had, Ali would have thought nothing of it. Whereas he should have something to say about it. He should tell Olcay that she was being inconsistent in her life. Anyone who can’t change herself … He should have screamed, right in her face, that by going from the hair-dresser to the opera and perpetuating habits that she didn’t believe in, habits of a circle that she didn’t believe in, the curtain would be pulled back, revealing her insincerity for all to see. But Ali was incapable of such a thing. He simply would have replied, “Is that so? Well, in that case, I’ll have to work on my own tonight. Come by again tomorrow if you have time though.” The more Olcay thought about how the scenario would play out, the more frustrated she became. By acting this way, wasn’t Ali actually showing that he didn’t take Olcay seriously? Perhaps he considered Olcay nothing but some pretty ornament serving merely to embellish this exhausting battle. It was with great tolerance that he put up with the way Olcay threw herself into his beliefs, into his struggle. “For now we’re going to have some stunning, hedonistic spectators,” he’d said one day. Perhaps he was convinced that Olcay would never, could never leave behind her own community, her own system. And so in constant deliberation with herself, and with not a little bit of fear that her thoughts might come true, she had not told Ali that she had to go to the hairdresser because she was going to the opera. In a way she’d kind of expected Ali to stop working and object to her leaving, to ask a litany of questions and be insistent. But he hadn’t asked a single question. Upon seeing that Olcay had left his question “Where to?” unanswered, he had quietly resumed working. After a brief silence when Olcay prepared to leave, she looked into Ali’s eyes, searching for a glint of accusation, of doubt, of mistrust.
Yet Ali had simply looked at Olcay with his usual gentle, affectionate gaze, and said “Goodbye.” To Olcay it had seemed as if this “goodbye” contained a hint of “do whatever you like” disregard. Why had he said “Goodbye”? In his eyes, I’m not all that important anyway, and so he simply doesn’t expect much of me. In fact, he probably thinks he gives me more attention than I deserve as it is. “What’s that, m’lady, you want to come? Well of course, come! What’s that m’lady, you want to go? Well of course, go!” That’s what he thinks of me. Otherwise, if he really trusted her, really took her seriously, then on that day, when there was so much work to be done and they were so close, such good friends, he should have asked her why she was calling it quits and leaving, should have contested her, criticized her harshly, pushed her to choose between one or the other. But what was it that Ali always used to say? “We should expend our energy not to satisfy our whims or for the purposes of what we imagine might possibly be possible, but for what truly is possible. For what could happen, for what is within the realm of possibility. It’s our job to make what’s possible, possible.” That’s what Ali would say in debates with Doğan. And did he think Olcay “possible”? Olcay’s head throbbed, pounded by these thoughts. Ali hadn’t pushed her at all, really. Never. He had with great generosity opened up his own world to her. He had let her share everything, her thoughts, her beliefs, her life, all of it, with him. He had wanted this, it’s true. He had invited her into his own system. And Olcay had accepted the invitation and refused none of the abundance of offerings presented to her. Seeing as he was opposed to Olcay’s system and her habits, he didn’t expect her to reciprocate in this regard of course. That is, he didn’t expect Olcay to invite him in the same manner. But what he might have expected in return was for Olcay to also dedicate herself to this animosity, this state of opposition, this existence outside the inner circle. By not wanting to do so, Olcay had effectively decided to perpetuate the appendages of a system, the enemy as it were, that Ali opposed, or at least to have reconciled herself to it. This, in turn, showed that there was a significant part of Olcay that he held in disregard, that he completely ignored. He knew and loved only the Olcay who was close to him, who was together with him; he thought it perfectly natural that there should be an Olcay he didn’t know, one who was the daughter of Mevhibe Hanım, whom the women who came to Mevhibe Hanım’s home get-togethers called “cutie pie,” who attended opera galas, who had her own room and a maid to make her bed, whom the apartment building attendant called “little miss,” who took her father’s car to go on vacation and stay at various touristic hotels during the summers, who played bridge in the evenings, who when speaking with her parent’s circle of friends used very different sentences from the ones she did when speaking with Ali; with the love he felt for Olcay, he saw her as someone to whom one could say “goodbye” with a hint of melancholy, and that was all. For now, she was a stranger whose presence was appreciated. Olcay thought of all of these things. All night at the opera she followed neither the music nor what was happening on the stage. Butterfly, who died by committing hara-kiri, really got on her nerves. That’s how he sees me, as someone like her, a butterfly that has alighted at his side for the time being. And he’s not waiting for me to commit hara-kiri. Could I even commit hara-kiri? Could I disgorge myself of all the habits that have seeped deep down into my being? Could I take my life in a single stroke? I thought I could. Ali gave me the confidence to do so. But by not pushing me to, he showed that he doesn’t trust me in this regard, that it isn’t even worth asking for. Olcay didn’t sleep a wink all night long. And when they met at the party headquarters the next day, she suddenly blurted out at Ali, “It would be better if we didn’t meet from now on, it’s the only honorable thing to do.” Ali looked into her eyes, smiling, with an expression of disbelief that said, “What’s up with the dark humor?”
“Is that so? And which paper did you read that in?” he teased.
“Don’t make fun. You know that I spend at least ten hours of each day in a system that is completely different from yours, that is the enemy of yours, and which you patiently oppose. You can try to ignore it all you want, but I can no longer be a part of this travesty. So long as I fail to sever my ties with these things, in my eyes my relationship with you will be lacking, it will be missing something. And I don’t want to be a hypocrite. I don’t want any lies anymore.” Unable to hold them back, she burst out in tears.
Ali gently stroked her hair. In a calm, still voice, he said, “You people, always in such a rush. Just because you conceive of something, want something, doesn’t mean that it’s going to happen right away, okay? Bonds as strong as those don’t just break on any old Wednesday afternoon, bacı; now if you want for it to happen, but you haven’t been able to make it happen, then that means the time hasn’t come yet. You think I don’t care? That we don’t care? The day will come, Olcay, I’m telling you—you just have to want it, you just have to know how to want it. The real lie is to think you have severed those ties before you actually have, before the time has come …”
Then, upon seeing that Olcay derived no comfort from his words (to the contrary, she was only crying more loudly now), he remained silent for a while, before speaking again in the most compassionate of tones.
“Or … or are you scared, sweetheart?”
Again he hadn’t gotten angry with Olcay. Again he hadn’t scolded her. And in the end he had sought out the traces of fear underlying Olcay’s distress. The fear of letting go of the system. The fear of falling outside the system. Could that be it?
Perhaps it was. Otherwise why all these statements, all this touchiness? Or she was simply incapable—incapable of letting go, of breaking free. Because she slept in the bed of that house, because she had the servant of that house wash her clothes, and because she ate the meatballs of that house. And so long as that was the case, she would continue to be incapable. It was her mother and father who supplied for the system that was their household. So long as that was the case, would she be able to present herself to them as she was and be accepted? It was these thoughts that ran through he
r mind.
“It would be best if we stopped seeing each other.”
This time Ali looked at her with a hurt expression.
“Now look here, this isn’t a game.”
“You bet it’s not, that’s precisely why we have to stop.”
“Please cut it out with the pretentious talk and just say what you mean.”
“I can’t go into details right now, not when you’ve got so much work to do.”
“Anything can be explained at any time, so long as it is the product of a clear mind.”
Meanwhile Ali continued to affix stamps to the envelopes. It was as if he hadn’t taken Olcay’s words seriously. As if we’re just joking around here, after all, you know, you’re sitting pretty, no worries at all, you don’t have to engage in all these internal battles with yourself like I do. She’d gone on and on like that to herself, and eventually whipped herself up into a rage. Perhaps the fears that she’d been repressing had taken on the form of anger. And then she stormed off, without bidding Ali farewell. She would call Ali in a few days, for sure. But would anything have changed by then?
As she had pulled the door shut behind her and walked out into the street, she was crying. Ali meanwhile was most certainly continuing to affix those stamps with the patience of a saint. For a long time Olcay was unable to forget the sadness she felt that day.
That was why Olcay had gone to Doğan’s room, to tell him about all of this. Doğan would be able to understand many things that Ali could not. Doğan shared with her this house, these habits, and every now and then, sometimes more than others, he too tripped up on some part of this system. It was possible for him to help Olcay. But Doğan’s attitude had caused her to revert to a previous state, one that was introverted, one that lacked self-confidence. For a while they sipped their teas in silence.
“So they’re releasing Ali tomorrow.”
“Yep.”
“Will you see him again?”
“I’ll stop by party headquarters tomorrow, I’m sure to run into him there.”
“I’m meeting up with Ali tomorrow.”
Olcay wanted for Doğan to ask her to come along, and when Doğan failed to do so, she resented it. They view me as some kind of decoration, an accessory that can be picked up and put back down just like that, some insignificant piece of the game. Olcay glared at Doğan for some time. The wall of lovelessness belonging to that fortress in which they had grown up rose between them once again.
Ali and Doğan meet over by the collapsing poplar
Ali and Doğan met up at Piknik, as they had agreed to do on the phone.
“Looks like you’ve bounced back alright!”
“What do you mean? Have I been ill or something?”
“Oh, c’mon now, buddy, I mean, you know, from what happened to you …”
“Oh, that … Well, if anyone needs to be on the mend, it’s those who aren’t on our side. They’re the ones who need to get better.”
“I feel like you’re blaming me.”
“No, no, not at all. My health is perfectly fine, that’s all I meant to say.”
“And so you mean to say that I’m ill?”
“C’mon, man, what’s going on here? This isn’t about you and me, you know.”
They each ordered a beer. Ali had lost weight.
“You look tired.”
“Well, they did wear me down a bit, of course. And there were so many people to talk to.”
“Where?”
“At the police station. And then in jail.”
“How long did they keep you for?”
“First they took us to the police station, where we spent the night. Then we were taken to court and arrested. We spent fifteen days in jail. Then the order came for my release. We still have to go to trial though.”
“How did they treat you at the police station?”
“What does it matter? This country’s working class has been taking beatings at police stations for years. Not because the police are bad guys, just because it’s the status quo, it’s what everyone’s used to. The only thing that’s changed is that it’s happening to different people now. That’s all.”
“Don’t say that. How can you say it doesn’t matter?”
“Look, when I was at the station, in the room next to me there was this little Gypsy boy. Exactly nine years old. You heard me: nine years old. He’d been caught, red-handed, pickpocketing. They put that boy on the falaka and beat his feet, again and again, but it was no use, they couldn’t get him to confess. Later, while he was resting, his feet swollen up like balloons, I asked him, ‘Son, you were caught red-handed, why didn’t you just tell the truth and avoid the beating?’
“For a moment he glared at me suspiciously, the same way he had at his interrogators when they were beating him. He didn’t say a word. I gave him money so he could order himself a kebab. Only then did he talk to me.
“‘Don’t be such a greenhorn, brother, nobody tells the police the truth.’
“‘Why not?’
“‘Wouldn’t do us any good. Look brother, there are three places where you should never tell the truth, not even your real name: one, the police station, two, the holding cell, three, in court.’
“‘C’mon, why’s that son?’