18
When I sit in the living room, sometimes everything in it seems superfluous to me. The armchairs, the cupboards, the books I haven’t been able to read to the end. If I got rid of some things the apartment would be more spacious. But at other times I think there’s something missing in the living room and that I need to buy new things to put in it. I can sense there’s something missing, but I don’t know what, or what I need to buy. I make imaginary lists. I could buy a television, I say. A vase, a rocking chair, a table lamp. I could take down the album covers and paint the wall a different color. Instead of the album covers I could put up a painting of the old Istanbul, or a photo of my sister. I can picture the old Istanbul in my head, but I can’t imagine my sister’s face. I haven’t got a photo of her. I wonder what she’s like. She must look like me. Her voice was like Bessie Smith’s, perhaps her face is like hers too. A woman who’s a combination of Boratin and Bessie Smith. Does she like music, I wonder. I pick up my address book and find my sister’s number. I won’t get her mixed up with anyone else again, last week I wrote her name in front of her number. I pull the red and black telephone towards me and put it on my lap. I dial the first digit. The sounds in the receiver pass through the cable tunnels under the city and cross the forests. The numbers glide on the damp soil, like fluorescent insects. Millions of insects underground search for their own path. When my numbers come together at the house at the other end the telephone starts to ring. This time I’m ready. Even if a stranger answers, I’ll speak. Instead of answering questions, this time I’ll be the one who asks them. Hello…Abla? Boratin…. How are you Abla? I’m fine, I’m fine, how are you, I called you a couple of times but you weren’t in. I’m fine, I’m working. They said you’d been abroad. Really, who told you? You know it was Zafir’s funeral a few days ago, they told me there. They were so happy to see you at the funeral in Istanbul. You and Zafir were such good friends, you spent all your childhood together. That’s right Abla, we were always together. Am I lying? That doesn’t count as a lie. I can confirm the past, I can consider it as lived. It’s as true as the fact that a Greek woman used to live here, that she accumulated furniture, then left it behind and moved out. I heard that from someone else too, and believed it. Why shouldn’t I believe what I hear about my own life? Boratin, I hadn’t seen Zafir in years. He went to Istanbul and never came back. Did he change a lot? Difficult questions just roll off my sister’s tongue. She holds her breath and waits for my reply. What should I say, I don’t know? You know, I hadn’t seen him in years either. Then, when I went to the hospital, the illness had drained all the color from his face. And when a person is drained of color they don’t look like themselves anymore. He pulled himself together a bit, after a couple of visits he sort of went back to being like his old self. I thought the Zafir I knew was coming back. But how much can someone really go back to being their old self again? That too can only be up to a point. If someone’s face still looks like their old face, then their smile doesn’t, or they use different words. They have crossed a sea, even if they came back they would never be able to find themselves. Abla, who can find their old self in this world? Boratin, look, you’re going back to being your old self. You used to speak in that convoluted way when you were a student. You haven’t spoken to me like that in ages. Like what? I mean, in that melancholy voice, as if you were reading from a book…. Abla, is my voice melancholy? It’s only to be expected darling, why shouldn’t you be melancholy? Your childhood friend has just died. But life goes on, don’t go destroying yourself over this. Abla, when I saw Zafir again after all those years we talked about the old days, about our childhood. And do you know, I couldn’t remember a lot of the things he talked about, and he couldn’t remember the things I talked about either. We lived the past together, but we looked back on it from different places and saw different things. And now I wonder Abla, when you and I look back on our past, do we see different things too? Boratin, you’re being weird again. Seeing Zafir has taken you back to the old days. Is that what you think Abla? Even if you’re right, later on I lost those days as well. What do you mean? I mean that when Zafir died, the childhood that we shared together was lost too. Boratin, that goes on living with you. Look, you’re talking about it, that means it’s not lost. If you would just come to Nehirce you’d soon remember the things that Zafir talked about.
Abla, I haven’t been in such a long time, do you think I’ll find it very changed when I do go? Boratin, when you eventually come you may well find it a bit changed after all these years. You’ll find me changed too, who knows, you might not even recognize me. My sister laughs heartily. As her laughter echoes in the chandelier I say, no, you haven’t changed. You still have the same lovely laugh. Boratin, she says, it looks as though you won’t be coming here in the next three years either. Where did you get that idea from? I say. If you were going to come you would have come for Zafir’s funeral. Abla, don’t think like that. Zafir’s death upset me a lot. But rather than grieving with his relatives I preferred to grieve by myself. That’s why I didn’t go with them. Boratin, you’re busy, and you’re exhausted, I can tell by your voice. If you want, I can come to Istanbul and stay with you for a few days and look after you. There’s no need, I say, I’ll be going to see you soon. And this time I’m staying for a long time. I’d love that so much, she says. We’ll be waiting here with open arms. These days Aladdin keeps asking about you too. When you come don’t go spending a lot of money on presents for him. He’ll be happy just to see you. If you just bring us some pişmaniye that will be more than enough. Pişmaniye? Yes, the one they sell on the train. We can give our elderly neighbors some too, but we’ll give most of it to Nana Koki at the end of the garden. She hasn’t got any teeth left. But she can eat pişmaniye. You know how she’s been losing her memory these past years; well, when she lost all her teeth this year her memory went too. She can’t remember a thing. Really, I say, so it’s got that bad then? Yes, all she does all day long is sing songs in her garden. If the neighbors didn’t take her food every day she’d even forget to eat. That’s really sad Abla, poor old woman. Do you remember what Nana Koki said to you the last time you were here? What did she say? Boratin, are you turning forgetful too? No Abla, my teeth are all in my head. Silence descends between us. Taking my comment as a joke, my sister waits for me to laugh. Apt liar though I am, I can’t manage a laugh. It happens to us all, I say, so obviously I forget things too then. It happens to us all, says my sister. The last time you came, after we buried your brother-in-law, you went to see Nana Koki. When she saw you in the garden she thought you were tending your pigeons, just like in the old days. My son, she said to you, it’s cruel to keep those birds cooped up, set them free. And you told her you had emptied your pigeon coop years ago and that you were there to visit her. She didn’t really believe you. Set the birds free, she repeated, that bird picture on your back is enough for you. I try to see myself in my sister’s words. An adolescent Boratin. A pigeon coop in the garden of an old woman living behind our house. Multicolored pigeons. A tattoo of a pigeon on my back. I remember, I say. That day, that conversation. I liked Nana Koki. And she loved you Boratin. If she saw you now she’d still love you, even though she’s lost her memory. Is that possible Abla, can someone who’s lost their memory still love someone? Of course. People don’t love with their minds but with their hearts. The feelings in your heart aren’t going to vanish just because the information in your mind has gone. I want to believe my sister’s words. I want to say, I love you Abla. I love you, I say. But do I say it to myself, or does my voice enter the receiver and glide underground like fluorescent insects all the way to her, I can’t be certain. Once, said my sister, you were ill in bed with a high temperature. At that time a snake had started going to the pigeon coop. One night Nana Koki kept guard by the coop and killed it. She cried out in the middle of the night and called you to the window. She showed you the snake in the dark. You were afraid. Yes, I say, I’m scared of snakes, even when they
’re dead, and I’m even more scared in the dark. Abla, I want to ask you about someone. I saw a woman at Zafir’s funeral. She’s about my age, my height. She’s got long black hair down to her shoulders. With long, severe eyebrows. She always has a cigarette in her slender fingers. Does that description ring any bells for you? Is she attractive? I suppose so. What do you mean, I suppose so, either she is or she isn’t. Okay, she’s attractive. I wonder if it’s our Eylül? Eylül? Yes, you and Eylül grew up together. She’s blossomed and turned into a real beauty, maybe that’s why you didn’t recognize her. Don’t worry Boratin, I’ll find out where she is. It doesn’t matter Abla, I suddenly remembered so I thought I’d ask. I’m more concerned about poor Nana Koki. Don’t worry about her Boratin, Nana Koki is in a state of bliss now. What do you mean? When she lost her teeth and her mind she returned to a state of innocence, she’s like a newborn baby now. She can’t be held accountable for her past sins anymore. My sister is more reassuring than the doctor. Her words aren’t convoluted. She puts me at ease without burdening me with anything, without wearing down my mind. I run my tongue over my teeth as I listen to my sister. My teeth are fine. They’re all in my head. If, when I jumped off the Bosphorus Bridge, I had broken my teeth instead of my rib, I could have left not just my past at the bottom of the sea, but my fears and preoccupations too. Abla, I say, a pigeon came and built a nest on my balcony, maybe it sensed that I used to keep birds. But a few days later it threw its eggs on the floor and abandoned its nest. Boratin, birds can be ill-fated too, just like people. Perhaps its eggs weren’t fertilized. She realized she wouldn’t get any chicks and flew the nest. She’ll come back soon and lay new eggs. Don’t touch the nest. You just have to be patient. My sister’s talking about patience too. Do they use that word this much in other languages as well? Isn’t there another, more powerful word that can be used instead of patience, one that’s capable of taking someone by the hand and raising them to their feet? You’re right Abla, the pigeon will be back, but I hope it returns before the weather gets cold. It’s almost winter Boratin, here it’s not just cold, it’s raining more too. Raining? Yes, why does that surprise you? I’m surprised because in Istanbul it hasn’t rained for months, is it raining there right now? Yes, it’s pouring. Abla, will you put the telephone by the window so I can hear the sound of the rain. The echo on the telephone enters the tunnel of cables, traverses the cool soil at the roots of the forest, drips strand by strand out of my phone in Istanbul, and pours into my ear. It’s different from the sounds I’ve been hearing all these weeks.
19
The night has a smell of its own. Seaweed muddies the tarmac. Dried branches are coated with dust from building sites. The damp from the walls flows to adjacent neighborhoods. Floating gently, on a wind perfumed with incense, from cellars to lofts, from gardens to under bridges, the smell of the night enfolds the whole of Istanbul. Somewhere in the night lies Hayala’s smell. What time is it? The sound of sirens rings out in the distance. There are no other sounds outside. I refill my empty glass with wine. I take a sip. The red wine slides down my throat with an acrid aftertaste. Cheers Boratin, I say. I put the glass down on the table. The surface of the table is checked, like a chess board. Black and white squares. I didn’t buy this table, my landlady left it behind, I hope. I consider the other possibility. Just like the flaws in that song I composed are mine, this table could be mine too. I count the squares. Each time I go back to the beginning and start again, as though I’m likely to get a different result. Hoping it will make me feel sleepy. On the black squares I fantasize about being asleep, but on the white squares I realize I’m sitting at the table. I bend down and smell its wood. The smell of varnish blends into the night. Perhaps that smell really exists, or perhaps I’m conjuring it up in my mind. I smell it again. Varnish. Trees. The tree’s damp roots wrenched out of the soil. Water flowing to the roots. For some reason the water reminds me of the white clock. I look at it ticking on the mantelpiece. I glanced at it while I was having dinner, it said seven o’clock. When it passed eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, and came to one, I don’t know. If a thousand years passes like one night, on a wind perfumed with incense, should I sink into despair, or should I let myself go in the stillness of time? Someone who possesses one night can possess a thousand years. Or the reverse. Someone who can’t possess one night definitely can’t possess a thousand years. The Mary and Jesus beside the clock look as though they too have yielded to time. Their mouths are shut. Their marble faces are as still as a lake. I wind up the clock every night and place it beside them. They wait patiently. For what, I can’t work out. I look at the picture of the ant on the clock in the hope that it will help me find the answer. There is a white ant on the clock face. It carries the clock on its back, with every tick it moves its spindly legs back and forth. It goes forwards and at the same time counts on the spot. Day and night it keeps going, but it doesn’t get anywhere. I believe white is the best color for time. I pick up the clock and place it beside the wineglass. The night is in no hurry, neither am I. As I sip my wine I could open up the clock and tinker with it for a while. The thought is appealing. I go into the kitchen and return with the tool box. I remove the small screwdriver from the top section. I turn the clock over. I pull out the winding key with my hand. I undo the screws on either side of the cover with the screwdriver. I line up the winding key and the first screws on the squares on the table top. So they will be easy to find when I’m reassembling the clock. I remove the alarm hand too and place it in the next square. When it’s the turn for the dial for adjusting the clock, I realize that it only goes forwards. When I turn it backwards it comes loose. I don’t bother trying to make sense of that. I place that dial too in a square. I slowly raise the back cover. I’m seeing the inside of a clock for the first time in my life. I wouldn’t have seen it in my previous life. I don’t know the names of the cogs, coils, and screws that are coming to life in the crystal light of the chandelier. The cogs spin at different speeds, in different directions. I can’t see the ant. It has fled inside the clock, to get away from the sudden flood of light. It has gone right to the bottom, to the dark side of time. It hadn’t occurred to me that a clock the size of my palm could have so many cogs. Cogs with serrated edges that tessellate with other cogs have created a covered sky, and they rotate. Or rather, the world and the sky rotate around them. The fate of everything depends on them. The sound of the clock, that can barely be heard from a distance, now rings out as loud and clear as a grinding stone. If I fell asleep here, if I rested my head on the table and drifted off, it wouldn’t be long before the sound woke me up. Is it the collective sound of all the cogs, or is it the work of a single cog? I examine a medium-sized cog, wondering if that’s where the sound is coming from. I glance at the large cog at the bottom. I descend layer by layer, trying to find the source of the sound. I know that when I remove one of those cogs the clock will stop and the sound will cease. Which cog is it? I sip my wine and take a deep breath. On top of the cogs, a rectangular piece of metal with screws on all four corners holds all the pieces together. I undo all four screws. I remove the rectangular piece of metal. I place the screws and the piece of metal on one of the black squares on the table. I must be a bit of a handyman. My fingers are skillful with the screwdriver. Perhaps I repair my own guitars too, doing everything from changing the guitar magnets to adjusting the neck. It’s not as difficult as deciphering the cogs in the clock. Time in the cogs both moves forward and goes round and round in the same place. If I could figure out how that’s possible I might be able to figure out life too. Why does the pain of a crucifixion from two thousand years ago continue to this day? Why does the throbbing in my rib come from deep down, as though it’s the continuation of an old pain? I think of Hayala’s words: There’s a difference between the past and history. While everyone is trying to give you a past, what they’re actually giving you is a history. In the former everything is alive, in the latter it’s dead. Yes but how can I tell the two apart? If I
asked my doctor she would prescribe new medicines. If I asked Bek, he would look at me with concern. If I asked Hayala she would kiss me. If I asked my sister she would say, I miss you. I miss her too, but I don’t know what it is that I miss. I feel sleepy. It’s as though someone is dimming the lights. Dark water pours into the empty space in my mind. I rest my head on the table. I close my eyes. Springs, coils, screws. One of the cogs isn’t turning properly. I don’t know which. If I try changing one cog, they’ll all stop.
20
You and Suzan used to come to this café, says Bek. After you split up you never set foot here again. Or if you did, I don’t know anything about it. The inside is done up like a house, they’ve made the outside look like a garden. You used to spend a lot of time here. You would read and she would draw. I look around me as I listen to Bek. Despite the age of its buildings, the walls covered with ivy and drawings give the café, which is spread over two buildings facing each other, an air of liveliness. The narrow, pedestrian street really does resemble someone’s back garden. The small pots of violets, geraniums, and orchids on the tables are aburst with color. Young people, slumped in low chairs, are chatting lethargically, or reading. Suzan’s coming tomorrow, says Bek, this is where you’re going to meet. It would have been better if you’d waited till tomorrow and discovered this street with her. I can’t understand why you insisted on coming today. I haven’t got any memories to share with you about this place, but Suzan has. Are you afraid of meeting her? Without turning to face Bek, my eyes fixed on the drawings on the walls, I say, yes. If you ask me that question again I’ll answer, no. I don’t just feel one thing, I feel several things all at the same time. I’m both curious and indifferent about my past. I want to come here tomorrow and I don’t. I thought I’d come today, to confirm what I want, to test myself here too. Otherwise I can’t differentiate between right and wrong. I loved a girl and then we split up. What if I did something terrible to her, what if I find that out tomorrow? I’m afraid of that, but I’m also afraid of not discovering anything tomorrow, of returning home with the same mind, of not knowing myself. So far all my tests have been a waste of time. Guitars and songs haven’t brought my memory back. Doctors, grocers, pigeons. Address books, dead friends, black-haired women. None of them has helped me remember the past. My suicide doesn’t make any sense. Why did I want to die? Maybe I was one of those people who are secretly unhappy. I was unhappy because I nurtured the wrong dreams. I rack my brains day and night trying to work out what those dreams might have been, but I can’t. And then I feel happy. I say I’m free of wrong dreams. Bek, now you’re going to get up and leave me, to go to the rehearsal for the weekend’s concert. Before you go I want you to know this. I’m not coming here tomorrow. I’m not going to meet my ex-girlfriend. The moment I sat here I became certain of the thought that’s been going round and round my head for days. Don’t say anything, I think every one of your words contains a secret. I get confused. I struggle day and night to uncover the secret in your words, but always end up in a dark tunnel. I can’t do it like this Bek, find me another way. You tried to take me to the past, but it didn’t do any good, this time try taking me away from it. Take me somewhere where the past can’t reach. You’re the only one who can do it. Do you know something Bek, contrary to what you think, I don’t long for the past. I don’t feel nostalgic about it. I have a pretty good idea of how people live their lives. In the beginning, in their youth, people dream about the future and build utopias. They are hopeful. The future is long and everything is possible there. But towards the end of a lifetime, possibilities are tried out and used up. There’s no place left for utopia. People distract themselves with what they have, in other words, with an ample past. And then nostalgia takes over from utopia. I don’t have those things. I have neither utopia nor nostalgia. Does that mean I can be considered dead, or am I some kind of solitary living species?
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