And then, one autumn day, we looked, and the tangle of briars was gone. The pine tree saplings were the only survivors, along with three or four arbutus bushes. Sunlight filtered through the berries and the pine needles, casting shadows over the naked earth. Some of it was olive-brown. But here and there were patches of pink and grey. Those who saw it, said:
“Tend an orchard, or accept a savage vine.”
And that is how we learned that to triumph over nature, you had to fight tooth and nail, and with your blood and guts. With my own eyes I witnessed the battle unfold. I remember days when his blind eye was red with rage. I would sit myself under a pine tree at some distance and watch the cruel battle. And under my breath I’d cheer him on. Mustafa the Lion. That’s what I called him. It was like watching a Roman slave pit himself against a lion, except for this: a slave could slay a lion in the quarter of an hour, but Mustafa took an entire year to conquer this beast, fueled by hope and despair.
One morning I had just settled into my usual place under the pine tree when I saw a village woman and three half-dressed children building something with a strange collection of boards, rocks, and sheet metal. It was a house. A house exposed to all the winds! The poyraz, and the lodos, and the gündoğusu, the keşişleme, the yıldız, and the karayel. Standing behind Mustafa as he divided up the three parcels of land into gardens and seedbeds was that sturdy woman, dressed in green.
“Mustafa the Lion,” I said. “Did you find water?”
“There’s a well down by the shore. It’s salty, but it’ll do. If only I could dig out a cistern here …”
He paused to catch his breath. I paused, in love and admiration and respect. I thought about all the millions of others like him, tilling our fields. Tilling fields the world over. Fighting the dragon with their calluses and their nails, rough-faced, one-eyed, one-armed …
Young ladies, one day, your future husband will send you a dark red carnation. Look at it closely, because it might be one of Mustafa’s. Young men, you know those sweet and sugary tomatoes at the village market, the ones that smell like pullet apples. Slice them open and their seeds will shine like gold. Drink the bottled tomato juice at the local restaurant one day. If you find the taste divine, like the nectar that gives Greek gods eternal life, know that one of Mustafa’s tomatoes was thrown into the mix.
By the Beyazıt Fountain
I’m waiting for you on one of the benches by the Beyazıt Fountain. I’m thinking what it means when someone my age feels the joyful anguish of a twenty-year-old man. It might just be that I came so late to these things. Then again, it could all be in my imagination: a heartache has its own delights, it can make a man feel young again. But that is not to say that a long summer can banish winter forever. Winter will be spectacular, burying the roads in snow. Burying the world itself under pure white meadows of death.
I’m waiting for you to come to me. When I see you at last, I will feel my heart flutter. But you will pass by without even seeing me, and I will sink back into myself, despairing, but at the same time, oddly hopeful. And there I shall stay, shut up inside myself, until all I can see is a world drenched in misery. And then I shall leave this place, to seek solace in the voices of others. I shall wander from one street market to the next, through a city you and I have made together.
Everyone in the world has passed by this fountain by now, everyone except for you. Your face was the only one I didn’t see. Tears filled my eyes. You might have thought I was a child, crying because it was a holiday, and he wanted to go on a swing.
Was it the cold that was making me shiver? Was it my nerves or was it grief? I couldn’t tell. The water in the fountain was murky. The clock on the gate told me it was a few minutes past noon. The benches by the fountain were empty. What a terrible screech from the tram! I thought I recognized someone on the tram. Why did he turn around and look at me like that? Or is it just that at this hour no one ever really sits on these benches except those who have nowhere else to go. Isn’t anyone in this city in love? Am I the only man in the city who is sitting on a park bench, waiting, waiting, just to catch a glimpse of his beloved?
They sat down on the bench next to mine. A woman and a man. The man turned to smile at me. I didn’t feel like smiling, but a smile this warm deserved a response; he was that kind of man. So why had I refused to smile at anyone else that morning? I was waiting for you. I was still waiting for you. I was wondering why you weren’t passing this way, today, at this hour … I was wondering, even, if you might be unwell …
Then I saw someone with hair like yours, and the same way of walking; and when I saw it wasn’t really you, I began to worry about the real you; I began to fear the worst. Then I fell to thinking that you knew full well that I was sitting here waiting for you, and so had chosen to go out through the other gate. But I quickly dispelled the paranoia. How important could I be?
But what if you were ill?
That really happened once. As soon as I heard, I raced to your bedside. You opened your eyes. There was sweat on your brow. Two strands of light blonde hair stuck to your forehead. You said, “The fever’s not dropping.” I raced back into the city. I came back with medicine from the black market. You got better. We walked the length of the pier together. You were fresh-faced, flushed. You were smiling. You teased me. You ran away from me and I couldn’t catch you. God forbid. Keep fevers at bay!
These were the thoughts that raced through my mind after the man on the next bench smiled at me. So it took me a few seconds to respond. But I must have made up for lost time. Because now the man stood up and came over.
“What’s the name of that mosque?”
Would you believe it if I said I couldn’t remember the name? My mind was still with you. No, you hadn’t come down with another fever, thank God – nothing as dire as that! I could almost see you moving through the back streets to avoid me. A wave of despair crashed over me. But I can never stay angry at you … No, I’m angry at the world. I’m angry at my best friend … I’m angry at this cold spring of 1946, this month of May that feels nothing like May. I’m angry at those girls over there, and their senseless laughter. I can’t stay angry at you. But if you did go off through the back streets so as not to see me, then at least you were thinking of me.
The name came back to me:
“It’s Beyazıt Mosque, my friend!”
The woman stood up and came over to join us. An intense curiosity played on her face. Clearly the man had asked me an important question. And I had helped them unravel a perplexing mystery. She sat down beside us. Now it was her turn:
“So which one’s Ali Sofya?”
“It’s over that hill there.”
I pointed to the left. But they still couldn’t tell where Ali Sofya was. They just couldn’t see it, exactly in the direction I was pointing. I pointed out over a maze of crossing roads, looming buildings, and shops. How would they ever find the Hagia Sophia through all of that? But there was no helping these two: it was hopeless. I could see them trying – thinking, yes, it must be over there. Finally the man said:
“It must be a long way away.”
“No, it’s not that far,” I said.
I put the man at over fifty. His face was deeply wrinkled and the color of earth.
“I brought this one back from the village with me,” he now said.
He pointed to the woman beside him. Her head was covered in a modest headscarf, and her face was as crinkly as a caramel-covered rice pudding, which here and there caught the shimmering light. She had little eyes, sparkling white teeth and high cheekbones, and I thought I caught the scent of milk. What a lively, rosy face she had; what wonderful blood she must have, running through those veins …
“This one here’s never been to Istanbul before. She’s having a good look around, really enjoying herself, she can’t stop smiling. She’s having a fine time, if I say so myself. We’re from Lüleburgaz. I’ve been to Istanbul a few times, but this one’s never been before. I’m taking her a
round to all the mosques.”
“You should see Taksim, too.”
“Oh, yes. We’ll see Beyoğlu too, right? That’s before you get to Taksim, right?”
“That’s right.”
“Should we take the tram?”
“Why not!”
“But we also want to take the Tünel.”
“It’s closed, it’s out of service.”
“No … so the Tünel’s closed, eh? That’s a shame – for me as well as her.” The woman held out something wrapped in newspaper:
“Copper’s much cheaper these days. We got this for a good price.”
“How much did you pay?”
“What did we pay again? Per kilo it was … We got this for four hundred fifty kuruş. But no, wait a minute, we paid three fifty in the end. That’s not much, is it?”
“We paid three hundred and twenty. It was seven hundred grams.”
“You gave them five lira. What did the coppersmith give you back?”
They did the math. First they couldn’t agree. Then they did. They’d bought the dish for three hundred and ten kuruş.
My eyes were still fixed on the road you usually walked along. Now that their math lesson was over, the couple next to me had turned to look at the fountain. By now I’d lost all hope of seeing you. So I was thinking of going after you. Finding you and saying: “Now look, listen to me please? For once just let me be honest with you. You don’t ever let me speak my mind. You don’t ever tell me what I need to hear. So if you could just stay calm for a moment and let me explain …”
“Does the water come bubbling up from the earth?”
“Oh, come now. This isn’t a natural spring, my dear fellow. They pump in city water, through a pipe.”
The man turned to the woman:
“They use pipes to fill it up. They lay down pipes along the bottom. You see?”
Then to me:
“But then … well … the water bubbles up?”
“On holidays or when the weather’s warm … But it’s cold now so it’s not running.”
To the woman:
“It’s not bubbling because it’s cold. You see? They bubble it up in the hot weather to cool people off …”
He turned to me:
“OK but … then they throw plastic balls on top and the water keeps the balls up in the air, keeps tossing them up in the air. That’s what they do, right?”
He must be in his fifties, she’s not much younger … And here they are, prattling about fountains and balls … They have more of the child in them than I do. I’m happy to be free of the pain of not seeing you; I feel fine now, absolutely fine. The woman leans over, listening. We talk about Taksim, other mosques, the city squares, the Bosphorus, the Maiden’s Tower. Then the conversation dries up. We are silent for a while. I begin to search for a line of poetry to recite to you. A line about rainy weather, mountain roads, mules, bells … it must be out there, somewhere – don’t such things exist?
Now the man is telling the woman about the Maiden’s Tower, the Haydarpaşa Train Station, the Selimiye Barracks …
Then the three of us fall silent again, as if to mull over the important things we’ve just discussed. Except, for me, there’s no doubt about it. There cannot be a thought I’m not ready to entertain. I can see you coming through the gate. Running over to me. I can see us arm in arm.
Just then the man says:
“Does the water freeze in winter?”
What can I say to that? I feel my sadness leave me again:
“It freezes,” I say. “It freezes and the children skate on it.”
He turns to the woman:
“He says it freezes in the winter, children skate on it.”
What do you think, my love? Does the Beyazıt Fountain freeze over in the winter? Anyway, that’s what I told Sergeant Murtaza and his wife Hacer Ana. Yes, I said, it freezes over.
Rage: A Human Habit
I tied him up tight, hand and foot. I sat him down in the corner. His eyes were flashing. He was shaking, rocking with rage. His face was yellow. But I was certain it wasn’t fear that did that. It was fury, pure fury. There was no point, though, in making him angry. But that wasn’t because I feared he might do something. Or pounce on me, if I untied him. That rage would dissolve the moment I set him free. What about me, though? I wasn’t about to give up on him. I liked seeing him cornered, with nowhere to go.
“What’s it to you, anyway? What’s it to you?” He was screaming.
“What’s it to me?” I raged. “You’re asking what this means to me? Look around you. Every house and garden in this city is in danger. No one can sleep easy …”
I knew I was exaggerating, but I kept going.
“Come on now, it’s not as bad as all that,” he managed to say.
I hit right back at him.
“You say it’s not so bad, but just by saying that, you’re admitting how bad you really are,” I said. Of course, it doesn’t look so bad to you. Just think of the other side of the coin for a minute: a coal man’s summer, an iceman’s winter. Skiing down a summer slope, swimming in a winter sea.…” My imagination ran out.
“So look,” I said instead. “You have no right. That’s why tying you up is – ”
“Set me free!” he screamed. “Set me free!”
“Do you repent?” I asked.
I knew he couldn’t. He didn’t have it in him to pretend. He calmed down:
“You’re exaggerating, sir,” he said.
For a while neither of us spoke. He saw now that I was not going to waver. He began to plead with me. He was sorry. May God make me an Arab if I ever do this again!
I pretended to think it over. Then I gave him my most poisonous smile:
“You think I’m going to fall for that?” I said. “You don’t mean a word you say. You’re a liar. A chicken ass! Don’t think you can hide from me! You don’t feel any remorse – you can’t.”
I stopped. I glared down at him.
“Don’t you know lying is wrong?” I said.
“Yes, you’re right. It’s wrong,” he said. “But you’re being too hard on me. You know as well as I do this is something you can’t promise not to do again.”
“A sinner repents,” I said.
“What do I know about sin?” he replied.
“You’re evil,” I said. “Pure evil.”
“Huh! Now you’re talking. Tell me what makes this evil.”
I gave a few examples. He wasn’t convinced. He was determined to prove to me there was nothing evil in this.
“Evil,” he said. “You keep calling it evil. But when will you understand that you’re just masking real evil, and with all these excuses you’re only setting it up,” he said. Then he went on, “In the past I felt like you didn’t know what you were doing and I knew you had a pure heart. But here’s what I can see: you’re masking the really big evil here, masking it with these little, innocent evils,” he said, and so the preaching began.
I shut him up.
My exact words were: “Shut up, dog. Shut up and tell me exactly what you think the really big evil is.”
“The really big evil is injustice.”
“And we who feel wronged …”
“Look who’s so high and mighty! But you have a soft spot for pickpockets and thieves. Even murderers are better than me in your eyes. You fear them. When they’ve paid their dues, when they’re back on the streets and walk back into the coffeehouse, you stand up to greet them. Oh, I’ve seen plenty of that with my own eyes – mayors and rich men and bigwigs, standing up like that in coffeehouses, for murderers …”
“Stop spouting nonsense,” I said. “Take a good long look at yourself instead.”
“I’m not doing anyone any harm,” he said. “If I knew I was doing harm …”
“With this sort of thing, there’s no difference between knowing and not knowing,” I said.
But now he was past listening:
“By inventing all these small
evils, you’ve turned the great evil, the real powerhouse evil into desperation. But in my world everything is unjust, everywhere we turn, there’s evil, a great powerhouse of evil. And now you’re attacking my desperation, my only hope, my only source of pleasure, my only joy, my only …”
“Your only sin.”
“Yes, my only harmless, innocent sin.”
“I tied you up tight, didn’t I?”
With that I untied him.
“So go,” I said. “Go do what you want. May God help you!”
He was gone in a flash. He was practically flying. You’d think that Chance itself was waiting breathlessly at the door. What were the odds of his avoiding instant death? One in ten, I thought. One in ten.
To cut down those odds, I ran out the back way. I didn’t go to every last place he might visit, I just went to a few. Here and there I was able to reduce his chances to one in a hundred.
“A word to the wise,” I said. “I’ve let him loose, he’s outside again, he’ll be here any minute.”
“If he wants to come, let him come,” they said.
“What do you mean, let him come? How can you say that? After all those fine words about honor and dignity? He’s a menace to society!”
“You’re a real piece of work,” they said.
They weren’t taking me seriously, I could see that. Really, they weren’t equipped to take it any other way. So I played it differently, to make it worth their while to stop him.
“Of course he can come if he wants to,” I said. “The point is to torment him, keep him from taking any pleasure from it.”
“He has money, so why shouldn’t we take it from him?” they said.
“As if!” I said. “As if the pleasure he gets can be measured in money!”
“Pleasure?”
I was taken aback when they said that. But that’s the way it is … He and I were the only ones who understood why the pleasure they gave him was more valuable than money. Or was I just like him, without knowing? By causing him pain, was I only torturing myself? I didn’t want to think about that for too long and swatted the thought away, like a fly. Instead I thought about what a great pleasure it brought me, to do him harm.
A Useless Man Page 12