Part 9 (1/2)

Taking her face between my palms, I caressed that tiny, azure hizma. 'I've made chicken with ground walnuts,' she breathed when she drew back, trying to urge me to continue not from where we left off kissing, but where we had been reservedly conversing. 'I hope you'll like it.'

Oblivious to her forged reticence, oblivious to the dinner table, I steered her inside into the bedroom. To my surprise, she was at ease. So was I. Couples wise enough not to harbour future expectations from one another keep little back when making love. Nevertheless, late at night when we sat down at the table, it felt as if, though devoid of a common future, we might have shared a common past, as if we had been living together for a long time, sharing the same house...and it seemed to me we both enjoyed this illusion deep down... For regardless of where you stand on the matter, a man abandoned by his wife and a mistress unhappy with the husband of another have a communal need in the worst way; to be a.s.sured that their constant disappointment with the marital inst.i.tution does not stem from their failures, and that they could make it work with another person.

Flat Number 1: Muhammet.

There were seventeen steps on the stairs at the entrance gate of the school. Upon reaching the sixteenth, counting out loud, Muhammet turned back with a wee bit of hope...but once again the miracle he ached for failed to happen. His mother did not disappear. Instead there she was waiting tenaciously at the same spot, leaning against the bolted garden gate with her swollen belly and all her weight, looking after him with the touching melancholy of someone at the dock saying farewell to her beloved on the parting boat. The moment she saw Muhammet looking at her, Meryem's face lit up with a smile compounded from a third each of compa.s.sion, pride and tenderness. She flapped both arms simultaneously, gesticulating with some sort of a peculiar athletic motion. Seeing that much of an effort there one would think she were trying to grab her son's attention from amidst an immense crowd. Yet, since the last weeks of the second semester, she was the only mother among all mothers of the eight hundred and forty-eight kids in the elementary school who insisted on bringing her child to school in the mornings and waiting at the gate until the bell rang a policy she had been pursuing since receiving the news that Muhammet played truant. This, in turn, meant there would from now on be a twenty-five minute delay in the distribution of newspaper and bread to Bonbon Palace. So far n.o.body had complained. Madam Auntie did not buy bread anyhow, she seemed to nibble like a bird. As for Hygiene Tijen, every morning from her window she lowered a basket into which the grocer's apprentice left one of those breads that came wrapped-up, touched by no one. The Blue Mistress did not eat bread, so as not to gain weight, and the bachelor professor at Number 7 did not seem to be expecting consistent service since even he himself did not seem to know when he would come in or go out. Sidar, because he had no money, and the hairdressers, because they had set up their own system, would not mind this delay. That left only two flats and Meryem was definitely not going to risk her son's education for the sake of those two.

Shrivelling more and more with every wave of his mother, as if he was being hammered on the head, Muhammet finally reached the seventeenth step and billowed through the pitch black door of the primary school. The lunch bag in his hand got heavy, his backpack even more so. He looked around in vain for something to kick. As the ring echoed in the hall for the last time, he entered into his cla.s.sroom to take his place among the thirty-two students.

Contrary to his fears, the first cla.s.s pa.s.sed without a single incident. The bully of a bench-mate in front had turned his back at him, fully concentrating on the writing on the blackboard, looking utterly unruffled; as if it wasn't him who had made a habit of slapping Muhammet at least twice a day. Muhammet eyed gratefully this back that was twice the size of his. He just wished it could always stay like this. If only he could be bench-mates not with this overgrown child but with his back instead. Dropping his shoulders, he crouched behind the st.u.r.dy back and, with the comfort of knowing he would not be spotted from this angle, surveyed his surroundings. The windows of the cla.s.sroom were painted grey halfway up to prevent the students from looking outside but from the fissures and flakes on the painting one could still spot the blue sky. Then he turned his gaze to the puffy ribbons of the girl at the board and the sharp, pinkish fingernails of the teacher whose veins would swell up whenever she yelled. He thought that the girl at the board and the teacher matched well. After all, if the girl failed to give the right answer and the teacher yet again stuck one of those long fingernails of hers into the unsuccessful student's earlobe, there would be no big difference: the girl's ears were pierced anyhow. In spite of this, the ones whose ears were pulled the most happened to be boys. Until now, Muhammet's ears were pulled a-plenty, and each time he cared less about the pain than ending up with his ears pierced against his will. Having lived the first six years of his life on earth long-haired like a girl, he did not want to spend the rest of his life with his ears pierced like a girl. Hoisting his fears up the flagpole, he inadvertently flinched and it was precisely then that whatever happened happened. The back next to him abruptly turned around, now transforming into a chubby, beet-red, sulky face. Grinning insolently, his bench mate bulldozed Muhammet.

Since the very beginning of school, every day without exception, Muhammet had dreamed about running away. Yet as he gritted his teeth in pain now it was not fleeing the place that he pined for but to perish altogether. If only a disaster would happen right at that moment, a real bad earthquake for instance, so that the earth would split open, leaving not a single stone upon stone or a head on a body, smas.h.i.+ng to smithereens the grades in the teacher's notebook, the gold stars of the girl at the board and the limbs of his bench mate, along with his elbows, slaps, insults...if only they would scatter on all sides never to unite again...

While Muhammet had closed his eyes and was dreaming about the worst possible disaster imaginable, a siren ripped the air apart. There was some scurrying and dash outside in the hallway, doors were banged. They all stood still as the teacher stared at the students and the students stared back. In next to no time the door was harshly shoved and in walked a dainty woman with piercing glances behind her pince-nez. She smiled first at the teacher, then at the students and, with a courtesy filtered through a fine sieve, 'Dear teacher, beloved students...' she bayed as if delivering joyful tidings, 'This is an earthquake drill.'

As soon as the dainty woman finished her sentence, three men looking startlingly alike, all stout and with droopy moustaches, dashed into the room. They had chick-yellow helmets and T-s.h.i.+rts with 'Negligence kills, not earthquakes' written on them. Remarkably agile, they took out one by one the various tools they had brought in their bags and hung posters of all sizes on the board hooks. Curtains were drawn shut and a slide machine started to light up the wall. Muhammet caught his breath as he followed with excitement the slides brought to life one by one with the dusty beam of light slas.h.i.+ng through the darkness.

After the last slide was shown and the curtains pulled open, the dainty woman clapped her hands to announce how the drill was to take place. There would be two phases. During the first phase, the students were required to cower under the benches and, pretending everything around them was shaking violently, wait there calmly and courageously with their heads in between their arms. As for the second phase, that was meant to teach them how to evacuate a building in the shortest possible time. So the siren pealed, and all thirty-two of the thirty-two students went under the wooden benches giggling non-stop.

Muhammet rolled up into a ball to squeeze inside the morsel of s.p.a.ce left from his bench-mate. Minutes later, he too got out from under the bench with the others to line up in pairs to evacuate the cla.s.sroom. Yet since his bench-mate did not care to hold his hand as bench mates were supposed to, Muhammet could not join the chain of children. The two kids standing up at the corner away from the others must have drawn the attention of the dainty woman for she suddenly blundered out in a voice bubbling with delight, 'Will you two please come this way? We were looking for two brave boys.'

While all the other kids flowed out into the hallway streaming in perfect order, Muhammet looked longingly after them, his eyes br.i.m.m.i.n.g with anxiety. When the cla.s.sroom totally emptied out, he realized the dainty woman and the teacher had departed too. Before he could find something to kick at, to diffuse the resentment of being left out of the game, and alone with the bully of a bench-mate to boot, the three moustached men snapped into action. One picked up a stretcher, the other took out a longish rope and the third unfolded a blanket. They then laid the children down on the stretcher side by side, enveloped them in the blanket and tied them up tightly. Of the four separate ropes, two were fastened onto hooks and dangled down from the window, while the other two were tied to the doork.n.o.b of the cla.s.sroom.

'Don't be afraid,' rasped one of the men and then let his voice dwindle as if letting slip a secret: 'We are going to lower you down from the window.'

Five minutes later, when Muhammet had finally mustered-up enough courage to open his eyes, he found himself sixteen metres above ground on top of a stretcher with his arms and legs tightly tied up inside a smelly blanket side by side with the boy he liked the very least in this world. All the children had gathered in the garden, watching them from below, cheering in unison. The sky was a clear blue; a lumpy cloud swayed lazily above. As the ropes were loosened from above, the stretcher came down in jolts, but no matter how much it was lowered, it never seemed to get closer to the ground.

'I bet you must be s.h.i.+tting in your pants,' his bench-mate croaked. So close was the boy's beet-red face that Muhammet inhaled the smell of his breath. He opened his mouth to declare that he was not afraid at all, but before finding a chance to say anything, spit rolled into his mouth. The other boy burst out laughing. Wriggling to get rid of the spit in his mouth Muhammet managed to spew out, only not to his right into the open s.p.a.ce, but to the left onto the face of his foe.

This was not something the other boy had expected at all. Once he had got over the initial confusion, he counterattacked by replacing the spit gun with a spit machine gun. Though they had meanwhile dropped closer to the ground, none of those cl.u.s.tered below seemed to be aware of what was going on up here, three and a half metres above ground, 'Now watch what's coming,' the beet-face snarled. 'You'll descend in the middle of everyone with green sputum on your face!' Muhammet hurried to avert his head but was too late. He felt a globule stick onto the middle of his forehead, stay still for a second or two, slowly ooze down, and then start sliding toward his nose. He almost threw up. The stretcher went down another half a metre. Now one could clearly see the faces of those down below. The children were gleefully cheering-on their heroes sent from the sky. Struggling in vain to free himself from the straps, Muhammet felt like crying. Though he tried hard to convince himself that the liquid on his nose could not be sputum and that the beet-face had bluffed, little did he succeed. The stretcher slid down another half a metre, the cloud wafted and Muhammet made a wish: that if the earth ever had a post, it had better collapse now and bring on the end of the world... Before he could complete his wish, however, both children were brusquely hurled, as if to fling them out of their places, first to the front, then back and then again to the front. Screams rose from below, Muhammet closed his eyes, the rope on the left side broke off and the stretcher turned upside down, nose-diving to the ground from a height of two and a half metres. The beet-face let out a wail.

'Are they dead? Are they dead?' shrieked the cla.s.sroom teacher with the pinkish fingernails, the veins swelling up on her neck.

As the earthquake officials tried to rein in the children who flocked around the victims like chicken running to feed, one of those with the droopy moustaches turned the stretcher over carefully only to meet two pairs of eyes opened wide as saucers, one with pain, the other with fear.

'Is there sputum on my face?' asked Muhammet when he succeeded in breathing out a sound.

The official, ashen with worry, gazed at the child's face distractedly, almost dreamily, and shook his head. It was then that Muhammet felt a surge of vigour inside. It had been a bluff after all! Once the ropes were untied and the smelly blanket lifted, he sat up on the stretcher with pride. While the beet-face whose leg had been broken was carried off to the hospital with the same stretcher, Muhammet was enjoying the sweet syrupy taste of bravery for the first time in his life.

Flat Number 3: Hairdressers Cemal and Celal.

'Oh, I'm dying to learn about the man who put up the saint writing on the wall. Is he pulling one over us, or has he lost his mind, if only I could tell! I swear to G.o.d, I can't wait to see what's going to happen next. Last night, my good old bulgur didn't appear. I have been waiting for her. I guess I've gotten so used to her dumping garbage into our mouths, I'll miss the woman if she doesn't show up anymore. Could it be, I wonder, that she has taken that writing on the wall seriously? Not that it's impossible. This place is Turkey! The West long finished exploring the moon; they are now busily dividing Mars up into parcels and will soon clone humans. What about us, what have we been doing in the meantime? Finding holy saints in our backyards! Bless him, but is he a saint or some sort of a flower that sprouted from the soil? After that we ask in vain why on earth the European Union does not take us in? What would they want us for? Only when they are running short of saints will the Europeans ask us to join.'

A few flimsy giggles followed but Cemal did not seem to be offended at all with such limited backing from his audience.

'I swear to G.o.d, it wouldn't come as a surprise if one of these days we had a red alarm meeting at Bonbon Palace: an emergency meeting with a special 'holy saint agenda', in the house of our building manager Mr. Hadji Hadji! Sonny, why don't you spray a little!'

The pungent smell of the bug spray they had amply used last night all over the place had still not dispersed. In the morning, they had encountered dozens of dead bugs on the floor. All were swept away and dumped into the garbage can, before the first customers showed up.

'So here we are in the flat of Mr. Hadji Hadji, sitting around the table side by side,' Cemal voiced his vision as he emptied the wicker basket for rollers and turned it upside down. 'We are all there, nice and neat, in full gear. I tell you, even Hygiene Tijen has managed to make it out of her haven, perched at the corner of a chair, ready to explode at any moment.' Cemal took a hairspray with gilded trim and placed it on one end of the basket. 'And here is that penniless student in the bas.e.m.e.nt, next to him that overgrown dog of his. Not that they care about the saint, these two are there to fill up their stomachs gratis.'

He stuck a fine-toothed comb through a hole in the basket and right next to that, to represent Gaba he placed a chunky, carroty, notched hair-roller.

'Oh, what is being served?' marvelled the blonde with a cast eye who came to have her hair dyed once a week, never convinced that she need not have it done so often. She was now inspecting the wicker basket curiously, as if waiting for a thumb-sized child to spring out of it to entertain her.

'You seem to have confused this meeting with a tea-party, honey,' snapped Cemal. 'We are talking about a serious apartment meeting here.'

'But if you're making up a story, we would like to hear the details too,' protested the Blue Mistress from the corner where she sat.

'All right, all right,' Cemal thundered, feeling no need to hide his pleasure in managing to attract the Blue Mistress's attention. 'So be it. Mr. Hadji Hadji's daughter-in-law has baked us a spinach borek and they serve a samovar of tea with it. Are you satisfied now?'

'Yes, yes,' nodded the women, chuckling, but no sooner had they given their consent that an objection was voiced: 'No, it's not okay!' It was the clerk of the Criminal Court, whom everyone deemed the most informed woman of the neighbourhood, making money out of putting down on paper the most criminal features of people's most private lives. Once a month she dropped by to have her hair coloured dark chestnut. When certain of being the centre of attention, she leaned back and superciliously recited the data in hand: 'For one thing, the daughter-in-law works at the box office of a movie theatre from early morning till late evening five days a week. She has no time to roll the dough into pastry. Even if she did have the time, though, let me a.s.sure you she still wouldn't do so. That woman must have more affection for her sins than for her father-in-law. She wouldn't even lift a finger for him.'

Cemal frowned at this over-informed customer of his. 'If that is the case, there is no pastry at the table. Just pure, plain hot tea. Okay? Can I now please continue onto the main subject?'

'But it doesn't make sense,' said the Blue Mistress with her sauciest smile, determined to force the limits of Cemal's fondness for her. 'Then there would be a logical flaw in the story. You had claimed that the student in the bas.e.m.e.nt and the huge doggie were there to gorge themselves. Now you'll have to oust them.'

Cemal stared crossly at the chunky, carroty, notched hair-roller and the thin, long fine-toothed comb as if deciding upon their fate. 'OK, I surrender,' he b.u.mbled, giving a wink at the Blue Mistress. Running to the kitchen he returned with half of the simit he had bought in the morning and placed it on top of the roller basket. 'For this special meeting, our respected manager Mr. Hadji Hadji has picked up a box each of sweet and salty canapes from the patisserie. He has also lined up sesame sticks into oval plates. Is this pleasing enough? Now are you all satisfied?'

'Yes, yes,' chortled the women, looking at each other and then at the Criminal Court clerk for a final approval.

'Frankly I would never believe, not in this life, that that stingy man would go to this much expense but let's a.s.sume he did, for the sake of the story,' decreed the woman, lifting up an eyebrow plucked dreadfully thin.

Now that he had full permission, Cemal excitedly plunged into the game, lining up all the remaining neighbours. The no-alcohol, extra-volume hair foam with nouris.h.i.+ng vitamin B was the university professor at Flat Number 7; the hair dryer was Madam Auntie at Flat Number 10; the electrical hair-curler was the Russian housewife in Flat Number 6; the colouring brush and the pair of scissors were the husband and wife heading-up the Firenaturedsons family across from them and the manicure file was their young, despondent daughter.

After a brief pause, Cemal found the brush with the bone handle to be suitable for the manager. Lastly, he fetched the transparent, glittery container with bright blue gel inside: 'And this one here is the graceful young lady in Flat Number 8,' he cooed. As the Blue Mistress responded to the compliment with a composed smile, all the other women stirred nervously in their chairs.

'Oh, I shouldn't forget to place Celal and me. We of course have to be the same.'

From the haircare set on the shelf, Cemal picked two multivitamin sachets of hair repair with keratin, locating them side by side. 'Yes, this is exactly how we've lined up. Mr. Hadji Hadji explains why we're having this special meeting,' he grabbed the brush with the bone handle and coughed pretentiously to silence his audience. 'In case some of you have not seen it yet let me inform you all a saint's tomb has been found in our garden. Given this situation, we urgently have to make new arrangements.'

'Hmm...but sir, can a holy saint sprout from earth like a flower?' spoke up one of the multi-vitamin hair repairers with keratin. Turning to his customers over his shoulder, Cemal footnoted with a whisper: 'That's me!'

'Yeah, we guessed so,' chorused the women.

'You, as individuals, are free to believe or disbelieve. We are not obliged to convince you of the saints existence either. However, if you want democracy to flourish in this country, you are bound to show some respect to other people's beliefs,' decreed the brush with the bone handle. 'If we are all of the same opinion on this matter, there are specific agenda items we have to settle without further ado. The very first item on our agenda is the following question: whose holy saint is the one lying in our garden? You can't just call it such and be done with it. Every saint helps a certain segment of the populace in our country. Some are the saints of the sailors at sea; others care for the soldiers on land. Several saints heal women who cannot become pregnant, several others help the lepers. One should always go to a saint relevant to his particular problem. If the old maid mistakenly pays a visit to the Saint of the Bedridden, the most she can obtain will be an extra hop and a jump.'

'Someone should record all this in the minutes,' piped-up the clerk of the Criminal Court, lifting up her other eyebrow.

'All right,' said Cemal, and after brief consideration, appointed the manicure file for the job. 'Write this down missie, the first item on the agenda is to find out whose father this honourable saint is.'