by Sevgi Soysal
“He shook his head as if angered by my stupidity.
“‘It’s the only way to survive, brother, the only way to get by. If I tell them the truth, I’ll be up shit creek, nod my head and there goes the paddle. And who’s gonna feed me when that happens, huh? Better to just take my beating here so I can get out and find me my daily bread, okay?’
“Would something like that ever occur to you? Or to me for that matter? He keeps his mouth shut just so he can get out of there and get his next meal. He’s willing to put up with the beatings. He doesn’t succumb, doesn’t turn himself in, he knows that doing so would keep him from getting by, from scaring up his daily bread. He knows perfectly well the bounds outside which he stands. He makes his living by virtue of his very marginality, so why should he play by mainstream rules? Just look at what this nine-year-old boy is willing to put up with, if it means he’ll go hungry otherwise. Because hunger is more unbearable than any kind of physical pain.”
“The lumpenproletariat are the mud of the system; we can’t arrive at political conclusions based upon their behavior.”
Ali was galled by this response. They finished their beers. Doğan, sensing that Ali was displeased, said that he had to go home. He paid. They got up to leave. They had no choice but to wait on the sidewalk together with the rest of the crowd. As they did so, Doğan provided a whole litany of the characteristics of the lumpenproletariat. Finally, Ali burst out at Doğan: “Stop talking like a book already, would you!”
“I’m right though, aren’t I?”
“You know how just a few minutes ago, you said that they were the mud of the system? Well, if you ask me, they best represent just how depraved and misguided the system is. Their behavior is a kind of defense against that very depraved, misguided system. Nobody has severed their ties with the system in the same way or to the degree that they have. They have no hopes of becoming a spoke in the wheel of the system or anything else of the sort.”
Ali paused and took a deep breath.
“You know what I think, Doğan? Someone like you, for example, no matter how much you read, no matter how much you think, in fact, no matter how involved you become, it’s still damn near impossible for you to sever your ties with the system. Let’s say you were tried and found guilty for a political crime. In the end, you’d be a ‘political prisoner’ from a good family, and then become a good lawyer or something. Your family would visit you, take care of you. But if you, I don’t know, were to commit some petty crime, like the lumpenproletariat do, pickpocketing, or shoplifting, drug dealing, scalping tickets or something like small petty crimes, not like murder, because murder’s still considered an honorable crime amongst the people, well, there was this driver who was in prison for murder, everyone respected him, the prison guard who beat up the pickpocketers every day couldn’t lay a hand on him, but then one day, the guard was about to mess with him, and the driver said, ‘Look here, you’re dealing with someone who’s killed a man, I will kill to protect my honor, that’s how valuable it is, and I’ve proven it, so there’s no way I’m going to put up with a tongue-lashing from some namby-pamby guard like you.’ He’s got that sense of honor that murderers possess; I heard a lot about him when I was in prison, but anyway, I’m getting off track. What I mean to say is that those pickpockets, the so-called lumpenproletariat, even there they’re outside the system, they’re the mud, the dredges of the prison system; they aren’t considered worthy of such adjectives as moral or honorable, and in response, they easily claim honorlessness for themselves, because that’s all that’s left over for them, and so that’s what they console themselves with. They don’t possess any of those values that even the guy who’s committed murder still possesses, despite the fact that he’s committed murder, and they can’t; if they do, they won’t survive. It’s as simple as that. Take yourself for example, only if you commit a crime like theirs, only then perhaps would you be able to break out of that castle of yours.”
With his hand he motioned towards the apartment building where Doğan lived. That’s when he noticed Olcay, who was standing amongst the crowd gathered on the opposite sidewalk. She was standing near the fire truck. The avenue had been evacuated. The firefighters had tied a thick rope around the poplar that was about to fall, and they were pulling it in the direction they saw fit for it to fall. They had completely evacuated the spot where they had decided it should collapse, and marked it off with a police cordon. Olcay wouldn’t be able to make it over to the other side until the poplar collapsed.
Doğan was looking at Ali, his expression one of shock. It was the first time he had witnessed such aggression in Ali. Noticing that Ali had diverted his attention to the other side of the street, he too shifted his gaze to the same direction. He saw Olcay. Is Olcay the real reason he’s acting this way towards me? Because they broke up? He felt a growing sense of exasperation. Being stuck in the midst of the crowd was suffocating him. It began to drizzle.
“Seems it’s going to rain, that’s probably why I’ve been feeling so out of sorts.”
“Well, now that the rain is falling, you must feel some relief, right?”
“No, not at all! Is it that simple?”
“No, it’s not.”
“Oh, right, simplicity suits me, doesn’t it?”
“Why are you being so touchy, Doğan?”
“I don’t know. It’s just so frustrating. If that poplar’s going to collapse, I just wish it would get on with it so that we could cross the street.”
“We don’t have to wait, if you don’t want to.”
“No, I definitely have to stop by the house.”
“You do realize that the poplar is right in front of your apartment building, don’t you?”
“Yes, and it’s rather surprising that it’s remained standing as long as it has. When the apartment building was being built, my mom said, ‘a poplar is a poplar,’ and wouldn’t let it be cut down, so it is to her that it owes its present existence. But of course, since there wasn’t enough room for its roots, it’s since dried out.”
“So you didn’t plant it.”
“No, perhaps it dates back to when Kızılay was still a swamp.”
“So you mean it’s an old, meaningless poplar which has nothing to do with you?”
“Exactly. Why are you smiling?”
“No reason … For a moment … It’s a ridiculous thought … It’s just that, you know, I made this connection between your house, all of those things, and the poplar. But it’s just an old poplar it seems, and so its collapse doesn’t change anything.”
“What could it possibly change?”
“I don’t know. That’s all … A ridiculous analogy. Something I picked up from you guys, just so you know!”
“We’re going to end up soaking get if we keep standing here like this. Maybe we should go inside somewhere and have another beer?”
“No, I like the rain. Olcay’s going to get soaked though!”
It’s Olcay, that’s what on his mind. That must be why he was so cross with me just now, because he’s angry at Olcay for breaking up with him. Ali is also letting himself get carried away by his emotions. And he’s capable of being ridiculous too. Like he was with the whole poplar analogy.
“When you went on about the pickpocket just now, were you trying to tell me that you don’t trust me?”
“No, not at all. Why shouldn’t I trust you? And besides, what difference does it make if I do?”
“It makes a big difference.”
“Look, this isn’t about you and me, Doğan. How many times do I have to tell you that?”
“But why shouldn’t it be? I mean, on one level, it is about you and me. If we’re to act together …”
“To trust you or not to trust you … Now, how should I put this? I don’t know exactly what you’re capable of. How far can you go? These are abstract matters, actually. We’ve done so little together. We haven’t had the chance to test one another.”
“So test me!”
/> “How can I? And who am I to do so anyway? You have to test yourself in certain situations. I can’t create those situations. I can observe you, make judgements about you, or perhaps influence you in any given situation. But my trust in you is something subjective, you’re going to do whatever you’re capable of in any given situation in the end anyway. Regardless of my trust in you, or lack thereof …”
Ali suddenly grew quiet. He didn’t care for his situation.
“We’re being ridiculous, standing out here on the sidewalk talking about things like this. Are you going to come with me after you’ve stopped by your place?”
“I don’t know. I’m confused.”
“If you’re confused, don’t come.”
Doğan swung his arm through the air in a sweeping arc, indicating the apartment buildings across the street. In doing so he had disturbed a few members of the crowd, who grumbled in response.
“You think everything ties back to my roots. I know the way people like you think. I know it by heart. Because you harp on about so-called petite bourgeoisie roots. And I’m sick of it, you understand? Of the way you misunderstand everything and your narrow-mindedness. But you will never get it. Now, you’re going to think I’m trying to wile my way out of this because I haven’t been able to break free of all those things you go on and on about, my bourgeois habits … But you know what, I’m sick and tired of these stereotypical accusations.”
“I didn’t accuse you of anything though. Those are your words, it’s you who’s getting angry.”
“Even if you don’t say it, you think it. It’s obvious from your every action. And you can’t deny how easy it is to make such accusations. Even you yourself have complained about it!”
“That may be so. But you shouldn’t get angry about it, just as you shouldn’t get angry at anything that’s a fact, anything that we need to face up to. You live in that apartment building over there, you grew up amongst a bunch of habits. Are these facts, or not? You, and all of us, have to face up to these things. Just like we have to face up to other situations as well.”
Doğan wasn’t listening to Ali.
“You expect me to do a bunch of silly things in order to sever my ties. Even, in fact, to sever them in some crude way by committing petty crimes like theft. You think I won’t be able to break free of the environment I come from without first doing something improper like that. You don’t trust my mind, or my heart. Say it, you don’t, do you?”
“I do.”
“Well, in that case, why the example of the pickpocket?”
“No reason in particular …. It was just a thought … Like I said, you guys got me into the habit of playing with thoughts. But enough of this right now, Doğan. Are you coming with me or not?”
Doğan continued speaking, almost yelling really, in the midst of the crowd that pressed more and more tightly against them.
“Well now. I’d say it’s the perfect time to test me. Shall I nick somebody’s wallet to please you, to prove myself to you? And you can yell, ‘Thief!’ Let’s play the ‘outcast’ game together. Or rather, you help me get caught red-handed while pickpocketing someone. So that Mevhibe Hanım’s son, the beybaba MP’s grandson, is caught pickpocketing in broad daylight!”
He burst into laughter.
“Hey, you know what, that’s not such a bad idea after all. You’ve got a damn good head on your shoulders, you. Now look, I’m going to nick that guy’s wallet. And you’re going to scream … But how can we make sure I get beat up at the police station? Truth is, I really don’t think they’d beat me for a crime like that. That only comes later, after I’ve got a record … What would you call me then? Right, ‘seasoned criminal Doğan …’ Will I be considered a real, red-blooded man then? Well, will I?”
The more Doğan spoke, the louder his voice got. Rain ran down his face like tears. Ali wasn’t looking at Doğan, he couldn’t. He didn’t want to. He was sad. He should say something to him, help him. Doğan really needed that right now. Otherwise … He was losing it, he was slipping away, right there before Ali’s very eyes. Ali should say something that would enlighten Doğan’s confused mind, something straightforward and obvious, to calm him down. And he blamed himself a bit for this state of affairs. I really touched a sore spot with him a while ago with those stories I told; truth was, it wasn’t the right time, not at all. I didn’t intend for this to happen, not at all. I wanted to probe him, myself, us, in a friendly, proper way, that was my intent. No, I didn’t mean to get on his case, go after him and him alone. That’s the last thing I wanted to do. He had wanted to share with Doğan the things he had reconsidered during his short time in jail, to talk not about “you and me” but about situations. But what have I done? I wanted to push the envelope. But was that the right thing to do? He had pondered the question throughout his time in jail. Yes, it was necessary to push the envelope, that was for certain, but rushing things? That’s what he had done, he had rushed it. I got on the boy’s case via the shortest route possible. Without having a proper discussion. The firemen’s concentration was trained entirely upon the poplar. Ali, now vexed, watched the firemen for a while. Here, where I stand right now, I’ve mistaken rushing for pushing the envelope. And in the end, something happens, an unimportant poplar collapses, outside of us. While we watch, the firemen will succeed at toppling the poplar in the manner they see fit. The poplar will have collapsed before we’re even able to cross the street, before Doğan and I are able to have a proper conversation. What comes to pass will be exactly what the firemen, those tackling the issue, want. Who will benefit? Not us. Or rather, who will suffer? If we could know what has gone to waste, or rather, if we were the ones who suffered, really suffered, if we understood our inability to have any impact on that simple collapse of the tree, we would be ashamed of our current spectator status. He was ashamed, he needed to start all over. He needed to talk with Doğan again, this time, without rushing things. But for now, perhaps the best thing to do would be to slip his arm through Doğan’s, silently, and have a couple of beers with him. To not foolishly attempt to capture lost time, but to wait for a while.
Doğan wrested his arm from Ali’s.
“Look at that sucker over there, it’s his wallet I’m going to nick. Take a good look!”
Doğan spoke loudly, attracting the attention of those standing nearby. But still, everyone was more interested in the poplar. A tall, pepper-haired gentleman standing a short distance from them in golf slacks wore a solemn expression as he watched the firemen attempt to topple the poplar in the direction they saw fit, so that he could explain later exactly what it was they did wrong. “How about that ‘gentleman’ over there? Exactly the type of guy I’m looking for …” He began to walk towards Necip Bey. He stepped on the foot of Hatice Hanım, who was standing next to him and observing him with an expression of awe, shock and loathing. Hatice Hanım was just about to unleash the rage she had built up in her mind since leaving The Big Store when she heard Doğan speak, in exactly the manner that Hatice Hanım would have approved of, that she would praise, saying of him, “Now there’s someone who’s had a proper upbringing, who comes from a good family.” She saw him, watched him as he strung together just the right sentences: “I’m very sorry ma’am, please accept my apologies, it was entirely unintentional. How can I make it up to you?”
Shoeshiner Necmi hopes to score some money from the spectators
The Gypsy Necmi had set up shop at his usual spot, right next to the entrance of Piknik, which directly faced the front yard of the apartment building where the poplar was about to collapse. A crowd is a good thing for shoeshiners; sure, it’s a good thing, but not at times when such an important event or spectacle is underway. At times like that, everyone suddenly forgets all about their stinking shoes, they forget all about their clothes, their jobs, their families, for a moment and completely lose themselves in the sight before them. And such was the case at this moment. Right there, during all that time, not a single soul amongst that pa
cked crowd thought for even a moment of going ahead and getting their shoes shined, which would have been a perfectly logical thing to do, seeing as they were just standing there waiting. Necmi looked at the crowd in disgust. But then a crowd is nothing to be fond of. Those people don’t have the slightest idea what they’re doing, Necmi thought. Necmi had considerable experience watching crowds, and he had long ago arrived at the verdict that crowds were horribly unstable, unreliable, unpredictable, silly things. They’d get their shoes shined at the most inappropriate times, but never when the timing was right. Whenever an unimportant event, like this one, the mere collapse of a poplar, happened they’d simply lose their wits and forget all about the money in their pockets. Yet they knew good and well exactly how much money was in those pockets. And so now, seeing as they had to stand there anyway, why not go ahead and have their shoes shined, rather than just watch that meaningless poplar collapse. But no, if that crowd weren’t standing right there, if the firemen weren’t dashing right and left in an effort to ensure that the poplar collapsed at a fitting angle, it would never occur to them to watch the poplar collapse. They wouldn’t even notice it, they’d just march right by without a second glance. They had nothing to do with the poplar; if you asked them what good a poplar was for, they wouldn’t have the first clue. Gypsy Necmi, however, knows what a poplar is good for. There were plenty of poplars back in his hometown, Konya. Necmi knows that you can make a pretty penny just growing poplars. There were men who owned fields full of them. Just owning a single poplar meant something, actually. It’s a good tree, the poplar. It’s cheap. It’s easy to take care of. It’s not picky about the earth it grows in. And it has plenty of customers. Get on a bus and head towards Konya, and see for yourself, all those telegraph and electric poles. Weren’t they all made of poplars? So, one day, a poplar was cut down to make a pole. Did a single person in that crowd ever take an interest when that poplar was cut down, made into a pole and erected on the roadside? They couldn’t care less about how a million poplars were grown, pruned, skinned, made into poles and erected and they had been perfectly happy getting their shoes shined while that happened, but let them actually witness some stupid poplar collapse and they forget all about having their shoes shined. Why? Out of curiosity? Not at all. If you asked Necmi, a crowd has no curiosity of its own. It was a scramble for curiosity, they scrambled after curiosity about this and that. Just like now, some officious soul had informed the fire station that a poplar was about to collapse on people. And off the news went, spreading from this person to that. Telephones rang, normally idle civil servants dashed about. And then, finally, they commanded those poor firefighters, “Get moving, a poplar’s collapsing!” What choice did the poor guys have, they’re just servants at the beck and call of their masters—what was the poplar to them. Let it collapse. How much do those guys make anyway? They exist to obey commands, and so they put their helmets on, whip seven neighborhoods into a fury as they speed to the site in their firetrucks and get to work. Necmi looked at the sweat-drenched firefighters yanking on the rope tied to the trunk of the poplar with all their might in order to make sure it toppled in the desired direction and at the police running around trying to keep the crowd under control. That’s the way these people are, he thought. Press their buttons and they go ballistic. As if the poplar were their own rightful inheritance. Neither the poplar, nor the yard where it stands, nor that apartment building belong to you, so why the hell are you sweating over it, you idiots? But God hadn’t put any sense into those guys’ heads. If they had, they wouldn’t be firefighters or police. They’d be landlords. And then, when the annoying forty-year-old poplar in their yard started to collapse, they’d pick up the phone and start ranting and raving to the officials, all of whom would be their relatives or at least acquaintances. Telling them to hurry up, their poplar was collapsing. Who were the officials anyway, but a bunch of guys who’d become officials thanks to the business cards of this or that landlord. And so then they’d start yelling left and right, putting these guys to work. C’mon men, there’s a poplar collapsing on such-and-such street, in whatever yard, God forbid it fall onto so-and-so’s car! Lest so-and-so’s garden gate suffer a dent! And these guys, for goodness sake, they wouldn’t think to ask whose car, whose cutesy daughter the tree was about to fall on. Did they have the right to ask? They’d already sold all their questions, their minds, their ideas, for just enough money to scrape by from month to month. They put on their helmets and dash about, sweat dripping from their ass cracks. If you ask them how much they make, they stare at you like an idiot. They don’t understand the question. These petty servants are such dunces, judging by the fervor with which they rush to the rescue, you’d think their mothers were being slaughtered. And then they infect the crowd with their panic. The crowd senses from the way these servants are dashing about that something’s happening, something’s going on. Because, as a rule, this entourage of servants only dashes about like this when something major happens to major men. And the crowd, well, heck, they sure take an interest in major things that happen to major men, thinking that maybe, just maybe, they themselves will suffer a dent in all this damage. And so they pile themselves into curious masses. That is, until they’re finally convinced that no part of the incident at hand is going to touch them, not even a wee little bit. It’s because of that very fear that that they become meek lambs in the face of that crew of servants, stopping and starting just as they are told. Otherwise, none of the police currently containing this massive crowd could barely stop any one of these people, on any given day, to so much as inquire after an address. That would be unthinkable. But now, they’re aware that behind the servants’ tither lies esteemed commands. Whoever gave the order could not have done so out of the blue, of course. It’s only because they see some reflection of the commanders in the persons of those firefighters that they show them any respect at all, and even then, only in situations like this. That’s why they’re showing this entourage of servants some respect right now, when the truth is that in any other situation, they would look down their noses at them.