by Latife Tekin
Oh, Allah! If things went on like this, in the days to come they’d probably be too broken to even make a wish. But that fatal point hadn’t yet arrived, so Halilhan figured he’d better stop wasting time and start pleading with Allah.
Winter was on the way, and the first rains had begun to fall. The daily light of creation was growing weaker, however slightly, and dimming the hue of life more with each passing second. Halilhan’s sense of the world growing cold pushed him toward panic. Unlike the kinds of business others were involved in, in their field winter was not a time for fantasising. And even if they were tempted to do so, those fantasies would never come true, because in winter the construction sector was at a disadvantage.
As soon as they began to feel the strain of the seasonal change, Gogi shut himself up in his house, unable to swallow his pride in the face of the charges of swindling. ‘Why can’t he just act like a normal guy and keep his affairs of the heart on a separate track from his business affairs?’ Halilhan complained, without dwelling on Gogi’s fragile state. They had to meet urgently to work out a plan for Teknojen, and their success depended on a well-tuned friendship. That’s why Halilhan left his critical opinion of Gogi hanging in mid-air in a single sentence. To avoid rubbing him up the wrong way, he pretended to ignore his friend’s mixed-up state.
Hazmi felt sorry for Gogi but not enough to pay him a visit and ease his mind. Although he hadn’t yet announced it, he’d set his mind on breaking off his partnership in the company. Therefore he felt that it wouldn’t be in his best interest to develop a sentimental attachment to Gogi just now. It was Aynina and Mesut who shared Gogi’s sorrow most. Twice, they and their children stopped in on him to bring food. Aynina was so moved by the sweet turns their conversation took that she decided not only to clean and tidy up his place but also sound out this girl who was his love interest to see if she’d got wind of Gogi’s troubles.
Odd twists of fate! As it happened, Gülaydan had gone to call on her father – Ese Sunteriler – and, finding him alone in the house, slipped out with his portrait that had set back Aynina and Mesut three and a half kilos of castor sugar.
Aynina felt horribly torn when she came face to face with her father-in-law, whose presence she could only stand by seeing his likeness in her painting. No matter how much she screamed and wailed, frothed and foamed, the sinister nature of her sister-in-law’s brazen act held her back. The more she reflected on the boldness of the deed, the more she shrank before Gülaydan’s spirit. As incredible as it may seem, she was openly terrified of chasing after the painting.
At Halilhan’s insistence they had another Teknojen meeting, this time in Gogi’s house (once rumoured to be a dervish lodge) that stood lost among gravestones. Beyond the fact that the days were getting colder, Halilhan had another reason for insisting on this meeting. As a last resort he planned to use his torn, worn-out blue jacket to cast a spell. ‘Let it watch us as we talk,’ he said, hanging the jacket he’d carried in on his arm up on a nail. Every time he’d worn it, he’d signed a major business contract.
The planning session dragged on for several hours as they sought refuge in the luck that the torn, blue jacket was supposed to bring. By the time they broke up and left Gogi to nurse his bleeding heart, the stories the ragged men had been spreading about the Organisation had scattered through the night like atoms, and thousands of shimmering emotions had turned into fragrant motes which mixed with the air. The sky showed off its magnificent moon.
The Organisation took control of children with high IQs as soon as they enrolled in primary school. All specifics regarding their families – their secrets, their status and reputation, their weaknesses – were investigated and filed away. No item of gossip about the children was overlooked and every little detail had to be recorded in their report cards. The Organisation took care of its own business and hid all traces of itself from the families, school principals and teachers. Because of their age, the targeted children were unaware of being manipulated, and the Organisation was cleverly poisoning their minds with its ideas even as their lives were to all appearances perfectly normal. If any of the youngsters got out of hand, they were calmed down by being thrown some favourable tidbit or two. A diploma could be arranged and slipped into their pocket, or a jewellery store might be set up for them. One might be handed a national lottery ticket that would pay off millions. N. Çevik had once been a guest of one of the Organisation’s key members, and on that occasion he’d walked through the man’s residence for 750 metres and never been able to find the toilet. When he awoke to the situation suddenly, without a second’s thought, N. Çevik had asked the man, ‘Pardon my curiosity, but could you possibly explain to me why you entered the Organisation?’ Calling his bluff, the man smiled and replied frankly, ‘My dear Mr Çevik, it was these men who taught me how to use a knife and fork.’
Nothing that night could’ve been more natural than for a spark of fear to come winging in through the window and alight upon Halilhan’s brain. The Volvo! Might it have been these very men – this Organisation – who’d led him to take ownership of the car? He wasn’t ready physically to face up to such a question, for it had no sooner struck his brain like a lightning bolt than his heart started pounding and a buzzing burst from his ears.
That meant they’d also be throwing some business his way!
Hazmi and Mesut waved their hands wearily as they bid farewell to their big brother. The darkness swallowed their gesture, and the silence stretching out before them became a road that split in two. Breaking into a brisk walk, Hazmi touched Mesut’s shoulder and said he was planning to get back into the business of dealing in junk. ‘I don’t think we’re washed-up enough to let that jacket take over the business,’ he murmured. ‘That schizo would like to see us all crawling on our knees in front of his damn jacket.’ No matter if the thing did bring them luck, Hazmi objected to such slavish behaviour. Besides, as far as he could tell from the films he’d seen, they’d be doomed if they fooled around with any such secret powers. They’d already been sucked in by Gogi’s innocent nature and had made the mistake of swallowing his united nations sermon once already. Their wives and kids were waiting for their bread as they, with their saucy extravagance, were sitting around wishing on a jacket. On the other hand, if you looked at life realistically you’d see that there were still plenty of ways to make money. If they were really keen on forming a partnership, there was nothing to keep the two of them from opting for a decent commercial setup. Their wives, who no longer had the strength to deal with extreme hardship, would be happy about that too. As Hazmi envisaged the sort of arrangement that had been knocking about in his head, he locked his arm around Mesut’s neck and whispered, ‘You don’t search for the money, you root it out. The nights are full of it, it’s lying down there, buried deep. I know the deal. If Frankenstein-like guys can get a piece of the action and gorge on grilled chicken wings every day, if that’s how the game’s played, why shouldn’t we whisk away a platter too?
How true, said Mesut; here was yesterday’s goon – who cared not a jot about conscience – trying his hand at shady deals to pay for fine grub like that while they were left stuck, like homebodies, with the action exploding all around them. But, if their big brother felt so helpless that he was driven to take witchcraft seriously, then wasn’t it their moral duty to share his fate? It would be more in tune with their character if they took poor, forlorn Gogi’s honest spirit – if nothing else – into account and all stuck together. Mesut was still hung up on the commotion at the police station. Without a second thought, they’d taken a mug shot of Gogi and pinned criminal charges on him when he’d done nothing but offer the brothers a helping hand. Besides, Aynina wouldn’t like it if they cut off their partnership with Gogi. She could find no other man to share her troubles with.
As they parted, Hazmi turned to Mesut and said, ‘You may say I’m a pain in the ass, but I’m putting in my veto. My big brother may think he has commercial savvy, but so do I.’ He walked
about ten or fifteen metres, then shouted back, ‘He’s waiting for the cheque of his life, but it’ll be a long wait! Go ahead brother, you just hang in there and keep the faith.’ With that he shot off into the dark.
Mesut again mulled over their long-term project, but he suddenly felt lost in space. He refused to break away from his big brother or Gogi and shatter their morale, yet when it came to Teknojen, he too thought they’d hit rock bottom. He could see that their dream was dying. But was there anything to replace it? He was aware that you couldn’t keep your hold on the world if you didn’t invest in life seriously. Setting his mind on doing this, he decided to revive his plan involving an old project that he and Aynina had worked on but had never got around to marketing.
For months they’d laboured on a series of weather-prediction cards. The idea was his, but Aynina had helped out with the illustrations. On round cards showing clouds and arrows that pointed in the direction the clouds took as they scattered, they’d charted out a week-by-week, seasonal picture of the sky. After printing thousands, they planned to sell them in sets of fifty-two. Those who purchased the complete set would be able to compare the skies (cloud shape, sky colour, etc) with the pictures on the cards, and, by reading the data written on them, be able to tell for themselves what the weather was going to do. Mesut had been referring to their project as ‘the report set’, but he thought that sounded too blunt and was searching for a catchier term. Most of the buyers, he felt, would be children, but it might also be a hit with adults looking for a child-like joy. Like a set of dominoes or a deck of cards, he hoped the set could become a treasured part of people’s lives.
Would Gogi by any chance consider joining him to develop and market projects like this one? Probably not. He was above market-related matters.
The ragged men were arguing that even the fotograf decorating the notes in their pockets had been transformed stealthily, by a milimetrik shift, into the face of the Organisation’s chief. The headline news they were broadcasting triggered even more of a commotion in the coffee houses than usual. For several days and nights the men spent their time pulling crumpled 100 lira bills (which they called ‘grannies’) from their pockets and scrutinising them for any defects in the fotograf. With a strange shiver their common spirit was sunk in suspicion.
While Halilhan kept an eye out for any business the Organisation might thrust his way (even as he clung to his faith in the jacket), he fell captive to complex emotions and composed another poem: ‘As winter draws near, mystery wraps the self’s I-line!’ He recited it to try and shake some life back into his old bosom buddy, claiming that this was the very first time he’d written something that even surpassed meaning itself. No matter what else might happen, they still could find joy in this sharing of passionate feelings. Freshly glazed by the warmth of this renewed flame, the bond of their friendship once more became as sweet as helva. Stirred by poetry, their hearts, crocodile-like, sprang back to life.
This renewed vigour produced its first fruit instantly, as Gogi turned his attentions back to love. With restored confidence he started working on the letter he had to write.
His reply to the girl
I’m writing this letter as a real person who is capable of thinking that the light now shining on the face of humanity has been on its way here for the last 250 million years. I can easily put my imagination in reverse and trace the light backward. If you can conceive of it, you’ll see that in this universe even the dinosaurs seem to be watching us from a distance of millions of years. I believe we’re always being watched by generations of the dead, monsters included. It will surprise you to know we even have proof that the dinosaurs can see us. Unfortunately, I’ve been denied the possibility of looking at you by the wall you’ve put up between us because of your faith. But if we speak of gratitude, I feel that I owe my existence to you. The emotions I’m experiencing are those that poured out of your pen. I’d like very much, with your permission, to say that I’ve never known such feelings before. I may even come to feel that it’s better if I can’t see you.
I’m not unaware that ordinary people’s dedication to celibacy means serving the devil. But can the same be said of someone like myself, who imagines that he’s viewing the world from space? Even as we’re being looked at through the light, I can tell you that an independent relationship based on love can never be established while there are billions of the living-dead around to spoil love’s purity. I’ve struggled to arrive at an untarnished viewpoint of myself. Having studied the makeup of seconds, I see beauty in the purity of the star-filled sky.
To give you a clear view of my soul, I can offer the example of a person looking out at the city. That person won’t think about the sewers that lie under it in every direction. Imagining the filth that runs through the pipes would have a contrary effect on human beings. I tend to think in such a way about the most intimate kind of love. Every time I look out on the city, I feel that I’m worthy of no less than imagining the craft that rule over space. I’m living in a time when elevators will be built that can climb up to the moon. I can figure out the shape of the trains that will fly through space. The phenomenon of black holes has opened up for me new horizons that have become engraved on my life. I accept that gladly. I find that the dream which suits me best is one of riding with you on a time machine and travelling in space. My ideal is to pluck off Jupiter’s stars and present them to you as a gift.
From the Organisation’s point of view, the distorted fotograf on the lira notes was only a detail, no bigger than a flea. The Organisation represented a distance of 200 milyon kilometre lying between two huge jaws. In truth, the limits of its power were beyond calculation. N. Çevik had given the ragged men fair warning, saying, ‘In this time we’re living in, we have to keep quiet!’ All members of the Organisation held black passports, more secret than the seven levels of the underworld. Sidestepping all the usual official procedure, they could butt in on the affairs of any country as casually as they walked into their own kitchens. And such great prestige had been heaped on them that people remained blind to the way events played out. The Hammurabi dough-boys of the press and the raven-beys of the ekonomi were all on their side; handled like puppets, they screened the truth from the public. All the hell-born practices in the world and the way these operations were used against humanity were this team’s handiwork.
The ragged men’s scenario bore out Gogi’s adage, ‘Only a dead end for our hopes and lives!’ The city’s outermost circle shut out the poor neighbourhoods, holding the customary order of things within its own glittering grasp, charged by elektrik voltage that grew stronger with each passing second. According to the ragged men’s world-view, the boundary that denied the ‘have-nots’ an entry into life was as clear as death.
Coffee-man Lily Ali, infuriated by the lack of interest in his own stories, openly rebelled, claiming that N. Çevik, who was the wellspring of all rumours about the Organisation, was only ‘a mixed-up gambler, some kind of cross between an illegible scrawl and a radio police report.’
In one go, however, bowing to ‘Philosophy’, which he defined as ‘the human treasury of highly detailed thinking,’ Guru Gogi bumped up the debate about the Organisation to a new level.
‘A lot can be said about this Organisation, a lot that’s both possible and impossible, and we can speculate all we want to about it without getting anywhere, because just a second after they appear, a huge screen comes up from nowhere to keep us in the dark.’
Gogi had shut himself up in his historical house that was once a dervish lodge for only about ten days, but he spoke with a gravity that might lead one to think he’d undergone a hundred-year ordeal.
The lifeblood pulsing through his words had sprung from those days when he’d been involved in party politics. His words rang true. He had private information on the Organisation and remembered who they were very well. Two hundred years ago, English knights had established this organisation. Thinking of it as an axe, they took for their heraldic si
gn the rose – that delicate flower used throughout the world as a symbol of love, worthy of the nightingale and adored even by the dead.
‘The world faces such huge issues. This matter has to be seen as widely and profoundly as the speculations on it. In my opinion, the span of this organisation’s control matches that of our own brains. If we give our imaginations full rein, all the gossip people generate won’t even be considered a sin, because Allah can’t keep a tab on everything and will lose track. We can only believe, following our hearts, the shape we’ve given the Organisation in our heads. That’s a philosophical necessity. If we call them Forus, they’ll have to be Forus. In any event, they are Forus!’
‘No matter how many ripples we make when we puff on the water, the Organisation deserves everything that can ever be said of it. That’s how life’s invisible formulas work,’ added Gogi. The ragged men were left confused by all this. Their spirits were so wound up that Gogi’s words chilled them to the bone and at the same time inspired them to rage: ‘That Gogi’s a high-calibre know-it-all! He’s such a kill joy that according to him our only choice is to live and die in these shitty neighbourhoods!’ When Halilhan heard their grumbling, he took Gogi in hand and guided him gently away from that topic.
Halilhan and Gogi’s brotherhood was so subtle they’d be mistaken to think they could ever share with a crowd the kind of excitement they felt just between the two of them. Driven by those things he felt pure hatred for in life, Gogi would all at once get caught up in a conversation. However, as part of most people’s thought-curve was missing, Halilhan was aware that they could never see eye to eye with average people.
‘Life grows through belief, silence and work,’ said Gogi, lost in thought, as he went on and on whispering odd sentences. And yet here was a man who believed wholly in the power of silence! But what choice did he have? The world in his head had been reduced to a scattering of atoms.