Noontime in Yenisehir

by Sevgi Soysal

  After kicking them all out, Aysel instructs the waiters to prepare a fancy table. The waiters dash back and forth, decking the table with a slew of mezzes. And then Aysel orders a big ice bucket of kolonya to be brought to the table, together with a bunch of towels. Aysel places Ali’s head on her lap and tends to all his wounds. And then, sitting across from one another, they drink, Ali pausing to kiss Aysel’s hand again and again.

  Buoyed by self-confidence thanks to her newly issued ID, Aysel made her way through the crowd on the sidewalk that day with her head held high. She didn’t give the poplar even the merest glance. Today she had gone from being an undocumented, unregistered someone to a documented, registered someone, a right proper citizen! As if, for Aysel, any other change could possibly match this, let alone surpass it. No, the collapse of the poplar meant nothing to her. She had to reach some certain someones as soon as possible and shove her new papers under their noses. She was going to show them! And she’d raise her prices now too. It was with these thoughts running through her head as she waded through the crowd that she saw Ali. Ali, who was speaking with Necmi at the time, hadn’t even noticed her. Aysel paused for a moment. She considered speaking up, saying something to Ali. But what if he snubs me? What would I do? Nothing. This place wasn’t hers, it wasn’t her country, here she had no powers that she could use against him. Better to wait until he made it over to Gölbaşı. She walked to the dolmuş stop.

  She sat down on the front seat of the dolmuş, placing her bag next to her to indicate that she didn’t want anyone sitting beside her. Nobody gets to touch this for free! An older man, probably a retired public servant, who was sitting in the back asked the driver the reason for the crowd. Just at that moment Aysel, who’d been watching Ali, saw him make his way to the other side of the street, where he grabbed a sharply dressed, clearly well-heeled girl by the arm, and pulled her into Piknik and out of the rain. Suddenly, without even realizing it, Aysel began to curse.

  “So what if that poplar collapses … So be it … I hope it falls smack on the heads of all those sons of bitches … And they all go to hell … And their dicks fall off, inshallah!”

  There was a moment of silence in the dolmuş. The driver, sensing the passengers’ disapproving shakes of the head and their rising anger, opened the door and ordered Aysel to get out.

  “Go take that filthy mouth of yours somewhere else!”

  Aysel got out of the dolmuş and strutted off, popping her bubble gum along the way. She stopped at a spot where she thought Ali could see her. With a showy swoop of her hand, she stopped a taxicab and got in.

  The madman of Sakarya Avenue hears the marching band

  He walked down the avenue in his old coat, which reached all the way down to his ankles. His beard and hair, which looked like it had never seen a comb, were a tangled mess. The end of his long scarf dragged along the ground. No one took the least bit of interest in the fact that he was wearing a long coat despite the hot weather, or in his scarf, or in his jumbled hair and beard. He walked down Sakarya Avenue towards Kızılay, stopping every three steps to yell out something or other. They had accepted him like this, as he was. There wasn’t a person around here who didn’t know him. They didn’t think about it, didn’t even go to the trouble to turn around and look at him. He walked down Sakarya Avenue at the same time every day. Sometimes he asked drivers for a cigarette or some other item. And sometimes, though rarely, someone from one of the stores would give him something to eat. The truth was, no one knew what he ate or drank. No one had ever seen him eating anything. Once in a blue moon he would put something that someone had given him to eat in one of the torn pockets of his coat—he wore the same coat all year round—but whether or not he ever ate it, no one knew. He was an otherworldly creature never expected to change, and he was accepted as such. Indeed, this street only accepted otherness on the condition that it continue as-is, that it never change. Perhaps if he too ate like the other people on this street, if he behaved like them, his otherness wouldn’t be accepted. That’s why no one ever found it strange that he didn’t eat; just the opposite, that’s how it was supposed to be. For the people of Sakarya Avenue, that is.

  He stopped over by the taxi stand. The drivers were standing by the door of the taxi at the front of the line, gathered around the radio, listening to a football game. Five drivers, their faces red, their eyes fixed on the radio. As if their entire lives depended on the words that would come out of that radio. The expressions on their faces so taut with tension. He walked up to them. He stopped. The drivers, who always teased him, who had made it a habit to yell out a taunting word or two every time he passed by, didn’t even see him. Because he was a daily event. The sound of “goal” that they would hear from the radio, on the other hand, would bring change to their lives. After standing silently behind them for a while, he suddenly started yelling out in that shrill voice of his:

  “I am neither a martyr, nor a veteran! Planes! The planes of Mevlana. Go back martyrs. Go back veterans!”

  One of the taxi drivers jumped at the sound of this scream emitted at the back of his neck. It had frightened him. The change had not come from the expected place. Suddenly he swung around with a swiftness born of both anger and fear. Upon finding before him the street’s familiar madman, he felt relief, but also rage. They were used to him, he did them no harm, but just now he had crossed the usual boundaries and surprised them. He had never taken a beating but he might very well take one now. The taxi driver took a few deliberate steps towards him, grabbed him by the scarf and shook him.

  “Get the fuck out of here! We don’t have time for your bullshit!”

  The man broke out in uproarious laughter, as if having this taxi driver shake him up like this was something he had been expecting, as if he walked down this street every day just so that someone would grow angry and try to strangle him, as if that’s what he’d been waiting for all this time. While he was being pushed around, one of his pockets ripped open, and a wrinkled, faded, bitten apple fell onto the ground. The driver, unable to contain his rage, kicked the apple. The apple rolled off into the distance, over to the fishmonger’s display trays. Upon seeing that his apple had been kicked, the madman ceased laughing and ran, and began searching for the apple. The driver turned his attention back to the radio.

  “Basri’s got the ball. There he goes … There he goes … Well, I never … Well, I never … Listeners, I’m telling you … Right …”

  Each time the announcer said “Well, I never,” the drivers slapped their knees. Their faces grew even redder. They stuck their sweaty necks out.

  Upon seeing the madman wandering about the trays, the fishmonger’s apprentice tried to drive him off. But the madman resisted. The apprentice, not understanding what the madman was after because he hadn’t witnessed the previous incident, thought he wanted fish and was surprised by this. In all this time, never once had the guy been so impudent as to ask for anything. What was up with him? He shoved the madman in the chest a couple of times. But the madman was resisting forcefully, looking at the apprentice with fierce determination, motioning with his hands and making strange sounds. The way he did when he was upset. The apprentice, frightened, yelled out to his master.

  “Ağbi, he’s not going away. What should I do?”

  As he asked this question, the last thing he wanted was to get the police involved. No matter what, you never want to get the police involved. Without waiting for his boss’s response, he sought a solution himself:

  “Ağbi, he wants fish. Should I wrap him up a few mackerel? They’ve been here a while as it is.”

  Absorbed in calculating the figures on the ledger before him, the boss only half heard his words. He brushed him off with a brief motion of his hand to indicate that he wasn’t to be bothered before proceeding to bury his head back in the ledger.

  The apprentice meanwhile touched the madman, who was still crouched in his search for something on the ground, on the shoulder. The madman stood up. He looked
at the apprentice. After motioning for him to wait, the apprentice wrapped up two mackerel and held them out to the madman. The madman took the package, opened it excitedly, and upon seeing the mackerel, dashed it to the ground. The fish rolled over a few times before landing next to the street gutter. Two of the cats that hung out around the fishmonger’s place darted over to the fish fast as lightning and gobbled them up in no time. At this point the madman started grumbling in an even louder voice as he made his way back towards the trays. The unnerved apprentice was at a loss for what to do next. He grabbed the madman, who was once again crouched down, by the collar and lifted him up:

  “C’mon! I’ve had about of you already. You madman!”

  As soon as the word “madman” came out of his mouth he took a fright. He wasn’t used to speaking the truth. Speaking the truth got you in trouble. He couldn’t tell how the madman would react to being called a madman. His bewilderment only served to intensify his rage. The punch that he threw fueled by that rage landed right on the madman’s chin. The madman’s toothless mouth caved in. A streak of blood streamed out of the side of his mouth. The sight of it drove the apprentice absolutely crazy. Having lost all control, he pummeled the madman with unabated fervor.

  “You son of a bitch … Get the hell out of here. Fuck off!”

  While raising his right hand in an attempt to fend off the apprentice’s punches, the madman crouched down again, and that’s when he saw, next to the feet of the raging apprentice, his apple. He snatched it up, put it in the giant pocket of his coat, and stood up. Slowly he exited the apprentice’s battle ring. The apprentice, believing he had succeeded in driving the madman to away, rubbed his hands together. He began righting the fish trays that lie scattered on the ground. As the madman walked away, a smile beaming on his face, he was struck by a brief moment of lucidity that flickered in his eyes, and he stopped and yelled:

  “Red Lake!”

  The apprentice, paying no attention to what was clearly one of the madman’s usual outbreaks, continued to arrange the fish displays.

  The madman had returned to memories of his childhood. His parents were always angry with him and kicking him out of the house. And he was running through the fields. Then he was standing breathless beneath an oleaster tree. The oleaster tree was on the slope next to “Red Lake.” It was into this “Red Lake” that the lords of yore once dispensed with the heads they had cut off beneath the same oleaster tree, or so it was said. And so all the children of the village were afraid of the oleaster tree and always made a point to keep their distance from it. The sun was descending in the far distance beyond the fields. The executioners he had waited for all day did not come. He had waited all day for the executioners to come and cut off his head and toss it into Red Lake. His bloody head would swim all the way across Red Lake and land on the fields. A child, seeing his head there, would snatch it up and run straight to his parents …

  He was napping in the growing shade of the oleaster tree. A long slumber during which the executor, for some reason or another, never made it over to cut off his head.

  His eyes closed. The end of his scarf got tangled in his legs. He nearly tripped and fell. There under the midday sun his consciousness, which he had left back under the oleaster tree, splintered into countless pieces once again. He stuck his hand in his pocket, took his apple into the palm of his hand, and walked over to the taxi drivers. He stood behind the driver who had kicked his apple. Again red faces leaned in towards the radio. The driver took out his handkerchief and wiped his neck. The madman leaned forward.

  “Boo!” he yelled in an attempt to scare the taxi driver, who immediately leapt into the air in response. For a brief second the latter had mistaken the sound for that of “goal!” He was on the verge of elation. But before the feeling of elation came to fruition, he suddenly understood where the sound had come from and what it actually was. His eyes nearly popped out of his face. With fury in his eyes he looked around, searching. He picked up the first stone he found and threw it at the madman. At that point the madman had turned around and was walking toward Kızılay. It seemed he felt no pain when the stone hit him in the small of his back. He passed the greengrocers’ displays. Once he had neared the boulevard, he began yelling once again:

  “Executors! The blood of martyrs! We’ve set sail! I’m neither a martyr nor a veteran! I’m the captain, the captain! The Muslims have drowned. The ships are approaching. The caskets are marching forth. Long live the executioners! Goddamn! Goddamn doomsday. Doomsday is marching forth. Be quiet … Listen … Be quiet … Listen!”

  He finally reached the boulevard. He stood next to the lottery ticket seller who was set up at the corner where the drugstore was. The ticket seller was yelling:

  “Just one day left … One day left until the numbers are drawn … Just one day left until half a million liras could be yours!”

  The madman fixed an attentive gaze on the avenue. He smiled at the sound of an approaching band. The marching band was drawing closer. The trumpet section all decked out in red was already visible. The band drew closer, drowning out the sound of the ticket seller’s voice. The madman stood smiling on the sidewalk.

  The band had already passed Kızılay. The conductor was throwing his wand up into the air, whirling it about, putting on a masterful performance. Feet marched in time with the sound of the trumpets and drums, and then, after briefly marching in place, they opened up like a fan, boots pounding the pavement, keeping tempo with the sound of the trumpets. The madman began walking down the sidewalk alongside the band. He was having trouble wading through the crowds that had gathered on either side of the avenue. Sometimes he bumped into someone who was applauding the marching band’s colorful, rousing performance and was shoved this way and that. Nevertheless he managed to make it all the way to Piknik together with the band. The rain had let up. Meanwhile the crowd gathered around the fire trucks and the police cordon too had heard the sound of the band. Some children let go of their mothers’ hands and ran over to the boulevard sidewalk to watch the parade. Some simit sellers had even found their way into this newly forming crowd and started yelling “Simit!” The crowd watching the poplar was divided now. Those who had grown bored of watching the poplar, whose collapse was certain anyway, and the direction of its fall now obvious, gathered on both sidewalks, from whence they lost themselves in this new spectacle. The time lost was not of much importance. Just another day gone by.

  The madman, unable to walk as he pleased there in the midst of the dense crowd, had already forgotten all about the band. He turned onto Sakarya Avenue, where he walked freely, occasionally taking his wrinkled apple out of his pocket and looking at it. Each time he saw that the apple was still there, he flashed an empty smile.

  The poplar collapses

  When Mevlût, the apartment building attendant, arrived back at the building, weighed down by his shopping basket, the firefighters had not yet arrived in order to render the poplar innocuous. That the poplar was about to collapse had only been conveyed to the necessary authorities a short while earlier. And the wobbling poplar had only yet attracted the attention of but a few spectators. In order to give his weary arms a rest, Mevlût set the basket on the garden wall for a while. It contained only ten loaves of bread. Though it wasn’t hot out, Mevlût was drenched in sweat. But he was used to it; in fact, he rather liked his daily shopping task, during which, as he bought the items requested by the building residents, he squabbled a bit here and chatted a bit there with the storekeeper, the grocer, the butcher and so on. He pushed the iron gate open with his foot. Picking the basket back up, he began walking towards the apartment building. He was lost in thought. I’m not going to shop from that İhsan anymore, he’s gotten too big for his britches, just watch me stop buying from him and I bet he comes down a peg or two. He beamed at the thought of how İhsan’s face would fall upon seeing Mevlût walk into the store next door. At just that moment he shivered; something cold and wet touched his face. He nearly dropped the b
asket. Angrily he raised his head; it was the washed diapers of his fourteen-month-old son which were touching his face. Blood rushed to his head. His wife had hung the laundry in the front yard again. She had hung up a clothesline, extending from the trunk of the poplar to the annex where they lived, and hung from it rows of diapers, towels and bed sheets. Even though Mevhibe Hanım had warned Mevlût time and again, “Tell that wife of yours not to go hanging her laundry in the front yard!” He dropped the basket and marched into the annex. His wife was crouched down in the middle of the room washing laundry in a tub. She had bound up Ömer to a small reed chair. Upon seeing his father, Ömer began to cry. And then he threw the crust of bread, which was wet with his snot and tears, onto the floor. Hatice glanced briefly at her husband. Because she knew what he was going to say, she pretended not to see him, not to notice his anger. It was this behavior of his wife that upset Mevlût most of all. Hatice never got into a fight so long as she could avoid it, but found instead a way to silently say her piece, insofar as possible. Mevlût looked around for something to do in order to shake his wife out of her silent obstinacy, to keep her from taking refuge in the laundry. Hatice had given Ömer anything she happened to lay her hands on so that he would sit still while she did the laundry, and he in turn had thrown everything given to him left and right. There wasn’t space to budge in this room, which served as their living room, dining room and bedroom. To the right on the floor lay the bedspread belonging to the large brass bed situated next to the wall. Ömer had yanked the bedspread off before his mother bound him to the chair. On the table was a bowl of yoghurt, half of which Hatice had managed to feed to Ömer, and next to it a half-drunk glass of tea. Flies were landing on the yogurt that had spilled onto the table. One of the chairs was toppled over. This particular chair, which had one broken leg and which Mevhibe Hanım had given to Mevlût thinking he might use it, had been repaired the previous night by Mevlût. The collapsed chair was now broken in the same place it had been broken before. Hatice had curled up one end of their İsparta rug with the flower design so that it wouldn’t get wet, but because there wasn’t enough space in the room, she had placed the water pail on the curled up rug. Mevlût had only recently bought the rug from one of the stores in 19 Mayıs, on an installment payment plan. Mevhibe Hanım was paying the installments, the amount of which she then deducted from Mevlût’s wages. Mevlût would be hard pressed to forget this good deed on the part of Mevhibe Hanım. The rage he felt towards Hatice, who had placed the water pail on top of the new rug, boiled inside of him until he completely lost his wits. He kicked the pail and yelled, “What business does this goddamn pail have doing here, goddamnit!” Because he kicked a little harder than he had intended, the pail fell over, spilling boiling water onto both the rug and Hatice’s clog-clad feet. Hatice leapt up in pain. War had been declared: