by Sevgi Soysal
“Goddamn you! I wish you’d choke on your own blood!” she yelled. “What harm is that pail to you, you hard-hearted infidel! How else am I supposed to wash laundry in this rat’s hole?”
She knelt down and began rubbing her scorched feet, moaning and crying. Ömer, seeing his mother in tears, began screaming his heart out. Mevlût, bewildered by the staggering amount of noise, took his rage out on Ömer this time. In two swift steps he planted himself in front of his son and slapped him in the face:
“Shut the hell up, you son of a whore!”
“You’re the whore, you pimp!”
“Now look here, Hatice, don’t get me riled up or I’ll burn this whole damn place to the ground.”
“If you’re gonna burn it down, then burn it the fuck down! Drunken bastard! It’s not like it’s my daddy’s property, now is it?”
“Too bad you didn’t think of that earlier. You cow-brained idiot. Why the hell do you go hanging laundry outside, leave it waving out their like flags, as if this is your daddy’s house, huh?”
“Where else am I supposed to hang the laundry? From my head?”
“Hang it inside!”
“Just show me where in this godforsaken hellhole I’m supposed to hang the goddamn laundry! I went through hell all winter trying to dry the goddamn laundry. You see, I don’t spend all day running around town the way you do. Washing your little bastard’s shitty diapers is so much easier.”
“Well, you shouldn’t have had him then, now should you?”
“Inshallah God’ll take your son’s life, that’ll teach you!”
Hatice’s words sent a wave of shock through Mevlût. The truth was, he was very fond of his son. He’d said that bit about wishing she hadn’t had him to piss his wife off. He’d wanted a son. Hatice had hit him in his weak spot.
“Shut the fuck up. Just shut your mouth! Why would God want to take that innocent boy? Inshallah he’ll take your life!”
“I wish he would. What good is this life to me anyway?..” And thus did Hatice embark on one of her tirades. The more she complained, the more her wounds festered, and the more her wounds festered, the louder did she cry. Meanwhile, Mevlût had come to his senses. Mevhibe Hanım tended to get quite upset when he got embroiled in a yelling match with his wife because the yells and screams generally made their way past the thin walls of the annex and out into the street. Mevhibe Hanım would say, “Look, Mevlût, you’re the keeper of this apartment building. You’re responsible for the safety and comfort of all these people. You should treat this entire apartment building as if it’s your own home. Now if someone walking into this apartment building thinks someone’s being strangled over there in your place, how is he supposed to feel safe? How is he supposed to trust you to keep watch over this place? How is someone who can’t maintain peace in his own home supposed to look after someone else’s?” And the woman was right. Tilting his head to the side, Mevlût would try to calm her down: “I’m not strangling anyone … It’s Hatice, she’s still the same boor she was when she first got here, a peasant, I tell you. She hasn’t got a mite of manners, doesn’t know how to sit properly, doesn’t know how to speak properly. You need to talk to her, ma’am, not me. But does she listen? Is she any help to me in my tasks as this building’s keeper? She spends all day crouched in front of the door, suckling her baby. I don’t know how many times I’ve told her, ‘Don’t go crouching in front of the door like some peasant woman.’ She’s perfectly happy to spend all day gawking at the street. I warn her once, I warn her twice, and then I beat her. But just one slap and off she goes, screaming to the high heavens; one curse from me gets ten from her. I swear to God, I regret ever taking her for a wife. But she’s a distant relative of the family, you see. And so, well, I put up with her, ’cause I have to.”
“You just hang in there. Look, you’ve got a healthy, hardy son,” Mevhibe Hanım would say.
And then, as soon as the words were out of her mouth, she’d proceed to tattle on Mevlût’s wife; either she’d been hanging laundry in the front yard, or she’d let their son wander in the front yard in his underwear, or she’d emptied the dishwater into the front yard. She was sure to throw in a few words like, “Look, I like you, I really do, you count as one of the owners of this apartment building, but if you don’t knock some sense into that wife of yours, you’ll have to fend for yourself somewhere else.” Whenever he got the feeling that his job was in danger, Mevlût would completely lose it and come down hard on his wife yet again. It was the same dead-end path over and over. A no-win situation, whether he yelled at his wife or not. His job was always in danger. Whenever her husband started ranting and raving, so long as he didn’t hurt her physically, Hatice responded with the silent treatment, an ability she had acquired as a child, to disregard what was happening around her; she gave no indication that she even understood what Mevlût was saying, let alone respond. And it was this behavior of hers that transformed Mevlût’s desperation into boundless rage, and so after going out and tying one on, he’d come home to beat Hatice until she screamed her lungs out—not without saying her own piece in the meantime though. From this both of them would derive some relief, growing too exhausted to even think about their hopelessness.
The pain in Hatice’s scorched feet had subsided a bit. And so she grew quiet. She went to the bathroom and fetched a bucket and a rag. She silently began wiping the floor. It was clear to Mevlût that his wife wouldn’t be making any more noise. But he still hadn’t gotten the rage out of his system, nor had he resolved the laundry issue.
“You donkey’s ass, you. Listen to me, or else I’ll do you up real good. I am the attendant of this apartment building, you hear me? I count as one of the owners of this building, you hear me? Say something. Even a cow has more conscience than you do. Look here, you best prick those ears of yours up and listen to what I’ve got to say. If I see that laundry hanging out there in the yard one more time, I’ll put the both of you out on the street, just like that. Who the hell tries to keep a man from putting food on his own table? But with that thick head of yours, you don’t understand the first thing about what it means to put food on the table, do you? The bread we eat, it doesn’t come from that shitty ass of yours, you know, it comes from the lion’s mouth. Just let me get fired and you’ll see. You think it’s easy being a building attendant in Kızılay? You don’t know the first thing about being an attendant. They pulled all kinds of fast ones in that furnace course I took, everyone trying to get their grubby hands on the next guy’s meal ticket. You know how much money people pay just to get a job like this? I’m telling you, any man would sell his own mother for a job like this one, to be an apartment attendant, in Kızılay no less! God only knows how many jealous souls have set their evil eyes on this here place of ours. You can’t imagine how many infidels are out there praying I’ll get the boot because of some lowlife like you. This is Kızılay, Kızılay I tell you! But what difference does that make to a peasant cow like you? How would you know the difference between Kızılay or Cebeci or Yenimahalle? You just keep crouching down out there in front of the door, watching the passersby with your mouth hanging open like some idiot. I’m telling you, if they give me the boot, I swear on my honor I’ll cut you up into a thousand little pieces!”
But Hatice meanwhile was completely absorbed in the task at hand. She picked up the bucket and walked to the bathroom. She emptied the water into the toilet. She shoved a sugar cube into the mouth of her son, who was now crying just for the hell of it. Then she crouched back down and continued washing the laundry. Hopelessness trampled Mevlût’s heart once again. He straightened himself up tall, as if trying to shake off the pressure on his heart. In a single step he arrived at Hatice’s side.
“Girl, I told you to go out there and gather up that laundry!”
Hatice didn’t make a peep. She began wringing the sheets, which she had decided were finally clean. When Mevlût grabbed her by the arm, the sheet she was wringing fell back into the washtub. Water
splashed out.
“Go gather up that laundry or else!”
Hatice stood up. She wrung the sheet out standing up this time. Mevlût grabbed the sheet from Hatice’s hands and flung it against the wall. Hatice bristled.
“What the hell, have you completely lost your mind?”
Mevlût had just decided that it was about time he deliver a good hard slap when he heard Mevhibe Hanım’s voice: “Mevlût! Mevlût Efendi!”
Suddenly Mevlût recalled the shopping basket he had left out in the yard. Mevhibe Hanım had told him not to be late. He postponed Hatice’s beating until later that night. His despair, or more specifically, his irrepressible anger towards Hatice, whom he saw as a primary cause of his despair, was transformed into fear, and then into timidity. He picked up the basket and entered the apartment building. Meanwhile, the fire trucks had gathered in front of the building, and a crowd had formed. But Mevlût saw none of it; he proceeded towards the sound of Mevhibe Hanım’s summoning voice.
He made his way up the stairs as fast as he could and was breathless by the time he got to the top. His basket seemed to have gotten lighter. When he arrived at Mevhibe Hanım’s door, out of habit he wiped his feet on the doormat before ringing the bell. He had made it his custom to wipe his feet on the doormat before ringing the doorbell, even if he wasn’t going to be entering Mevhibe Hanım’s home.
Mevhibe Hanım opened the door. She wasn’t in a good mood. Her face twisted into a grimace.
“Where on earth have you been, Mevlût!” she squawked. “Did you get the rye bread I asked for?”
“They were out at the bakery in Sakarya. I bought French bread instead.”
“Oh no, but I don’t eat French bread, son. How many times I have told you. Why didn’t you try the delicatessens?”
“They didn’t have any at Köroğlu either.”
“You mean to tell me Köroğlu is the only delicatessen in all of Kızılay?”
Mevlût tilted his head guiltily to one side. He remained silent.
“Answer me, son. Did you look anywhere else or not?”
It was as if Mevlût had swallowed his tongue.
“So buying a loaf of rye bread is too much of a challenge for you, is that it, Mevlût Efendi? You can’t be bothered to walk even two extra steps, now can you! You know how to whine about not having enough money, but when it comes to doing the work, you give up just like that. Who gets a free meal ticket these days, huh? So why should you expect to? I tell you, Salih Bey is a very important professor and I swear he works more than you do. The poor guy’s laboring over his books while you’re down there snoring in your sleep. Look, I’m telling you one last time Mevlût Efendi, either you put your heart into this job, or …”
The lower Mevlût hung his head, the more unbearable did the weight of despair become, until it weighed so heavily upon his heart that it seemed his heart would never beat again. His heart felt to him as if it were a piece of road kill, run over by countless cars. In a weak voice he sought to resurrect the dead animal inside.
“I’ll go get your rye bread for you now, I’ll be back before you know it!”
“It’s already afternoon. Thankfully we’re eating late today. Oh! I almost forgot to tell you. Your wife hung laundry in the front yard again.”
Mevlût had found something he could place between himself and despair, between his heart and the force that was squashing it. He gathered some strength.
“Well I tell you, missus, that’s exactly why I’m running late. That peasant, God only knows how many times I told her. I was just about to smack some smarts into her if you hadn’t called for me!”
“God forbid, Mevlût. How many times have I told you I don’t want any fighting or uproar of any kind in my house. Look, if I hear that you’ve beaten your wife again …”
No, he was mistaken; again he found himself facing despair head-on, all on his own.
“Oh no, ma’am, please, I beg you, don’t put us out on the street with our little son. God will reward you for your good deeds. Now I’m going to run and get that rye bread and be back before you know it. And I’ll take down that laundry straightaway too.”
“Hold on, not so fast. First deliver the renters their orders. And let me tell you, just so you know, everyone’s complaining. They say you don’t buy the stuff that they ask for!”
“I swear to God ma’am …”
“Look, you don’t even know how to write properly. If you learned how to write, you could make a list, and then you wouldn’t get the orders mixed up. How long have you been in Ankara? You have to know how to read and write if you want to be a building attendant these days. But your kind’s too lazy to go to the trouble. And then you go tossing around God’s name trying to make up for it. You think God doesn’t see how lazy you are?”
Mevlût was hanging his head again. There was no beating this despair, the bastard.
“You go on now and deliver the orders. And then you can bring me my rye bread. And don’t forget about the laundry.”
Mevlût heaved the basket up, using all the strength that could possibly remain in a body with such a deflated heart. Dragging his feet, he descended the stairs. He wiped his feet on the doormat before ringing each bell. Finally, the basket was empty. He left the empty basket at the building entrance. I should go get that rye bread now, he thought. Apartment number four had asked for parsley, and gave Mevlût a good tongue-lashing because he’d forgotten it. Actually, truth be told, they hadn’t really asked for parsley, but still. He walked out into the yard. The firemen were in the avenue, yanking with all their might on the rope they’d tied to the trunk of the poplar. Mevlût looked at the firemen, at the crowd, at the rope, with a blank expression in his eyes. The only thing on his mind was that rye bread. The laundry had been gathered. But the line that his wife had hung between the annex and the tree was still there. He walked into his home screaming, “Hatice! Go take down that laundry line, woman!” His wife wasn’t in the room. She yelled out from the bathroom.
“I’m busy with the boy, he’s got to pee!”
Mevlût cussed. He didn’t have the luxury of carrying out Mevhibe Hanım’s wishes only halfway; he was in no condition to do so. The woman had just said to him … He recalled her implied threats of just a few moments earlier and was overcome by a crushing feeling of despair. He dashed out into the street in a bid to stand up to the despair that squashed his heart into a piece of paper thin as a membrane. He wanted to take out his anger on that laundry line his wife had tied onto the poplar, he would rip it down, just like that. He didn’t have the patience to untie the knot—no he did not.
Shoeshiner Necmi was watching the crowd scurry over to the boulevard to catch sight of the marching band. They’d forgotten all about the poplar now. There’s no way these people are going to have their shoes shined, he thought. Whenever there was a parade or a car wreck or something of the like, they lost themselves completely, and forgot all about their shoes in the process. But in a little bit, once the poplar has collapsed and the marching band has passed, they’ll realize that they’re late for work, and that they’ve forgotten to have their shoes shined. Serves them right! He’d had enough. Ali and that naive boy he had with him had taken off together with the girl he’d seen across the street, telling him, “We’ve gotta run.” His anger at the crowd, dashing from this spot to that, continued to swell up inside of him. If I had the power, I’d create a disaster every single moment and rout those suckers like a caged bird landed in a forest. He began watching the firemen, who meanwhile had lost a good a portion of their audience to the band. They were yanking at the rope they’d tied to the poplar, pulling it towards a previously decided direction; the poplar was just about to collapse.
At precisely that moment Necmi saw Mevlût, the attendant of the apartment building across the street, dash out of the annex. Necmi knew Mevlût, and couldn’t stand him one bit. Every now and then Mevlût would bring over the shoes of the building residents for Necmi to polish. He’d spend
hours haggling over the price. Annoyed, Necmi would come down hard on Mevlût, “What the hell is to you, man? Since when did they put you in charge of the treasury! Not like it’s your money, now is it?” But then finally he’d give in and take whatever Mevlût offered because Mevlût was as stubborn as a mule. Even when Necmi tried a little sweet-talking, Mevlût wouldn’t budge, wouldn’t come down a cent from the price Mevhibe Hanım had frozen the service at. For Mevlût, Mevhibe Hanım was something akin to the municipality in its role as price-fixer. He thought that everyone, not just he, had to abide.
Mevlût grabbed onto the laundry line and began pulling on it furiously. The poplar began to shake, not slowly like before, but quickly now. Upon seeing Mevlût, the firefighters yelled for him to get away. But it was too late. Mevlût was in no state to hear anything, to see anything, or to give up on ripping down that laundry line. It was as if that laundry line were the despair that kept him bound so tightly he couldn’t move, and if only he could break free of it, he himself would be free like a slave that has shed his shackles, and his heart, now smashed flat like a piece of paper, would assume the dimensions of a human heart. He simply did not want to lose this position of his as an attendant, right here in the heart of Kızılay, no matter what.