Part 11 (1/2)

Celal sighed. His twin set the gage of his temperament to either excess or dearth.

'Let's close down this parlour if you'd like. That is, if you're worried about this idea that cutting hair is against the holy saint's wishes. We can get a parlour somewhere else.'

'Oh, come on!' Celal said laughing. 'I think you are confusing me with the brush with the bone handle.'

Flat Number 9: Su.

'At the fatsos with the headscarves! The fatsos with the headscarves!' yelled Su, her head popping in and out of the rear window like the wound up bird of a clock. In the front seat two boys with chickpea guns in their hands were waiting, taking turns sliding into the window seat where they would shoot at the targets she pointed out.

The women with the headscarves Su had her eyes on had been caught in the middle of a two-lane road struggling to cross. They did not notice the school minibus hurtling along behind, never mind being aware of the chickpeas whizzing past them. Before the boy who missed his goal turned his seat over to his friend with a long face, Su had already designated the new target: 'At the chap with the dog! The chap with the dog!'

One of the chickpeas made it into the hood of the casually dressed man but his terrier was not as lucky. It took a couple of barks and tail-chases to figure out what was raining on it. It could only chase the minibus the length of its leash, at the end of which it stopped with a painful whine waiting for its owner to catch up. One of the chickpeas must have hit the dog in the eye for it constantly winked after them. 'Awesome!!!' exclaimed the sniper commending himself 'awesome' being more in fas.h.i.+on in their circles these days than 'cool'.

The three pony-tailed girls, who always sat in front and treated the driver as their buddy of many years, goading him to play their pop ca.s.settes over and over, turned back simultaneously to throw daggers-of-looks at the perpetrators of the incident. Su paid no attention to them. Ever since the day her hair was cropped short she had abandoned the world of girls from which she had already been banished the moment the news of her having lice had spread out and which she had had difficulty in joining in the first place. She only ever got together with the other girls before and after gym, in the changing room. At those moments Su simply pretended they did not exist. What she asked for in return was to be treated likewise, as if she did not exist. But whenever they lined up on the benches, stinking-out the squat, narrow changing room with their flowery, syrupy deodorants and putting on their pantyhose while exchanging meaningful looks, speaking in some sort of a cryptic code, they wanted to make Su feel how unpopular and unwanted she was. However, boys were different. Getting lice was deemed so ordinary in their circles it was scarcely news.

Su leaned out of the window up to her waist, tweaking her thumb at the terrier left behind, but just as she was about to draw back, she caught sight of a man a few metres ahead, with an unkempt beard and hair long unwashed, digging around in the garbage. The man was busily stuffing the sacks on his shoulders with tin cans he fished from the thrash. Now and then he scratched his head pensively as if some mysterious voice was addressing him with taxing questions from within the trash container. He had a burgundy beret and petroleum green overalls which were worn to shreds. From the rips on the overalls one could see his kneecaps covered with dirt.

'At the hobo! At the hobo!' Su shouted.

The sniper boy on duty by the window loaded the paper roll with new chickpeas and blew with all his might. Exactly at the same moment, however, the targeted vagabond stopped doing what he was doing, turned around with an animal-like intuition and, like victims smiling at their murderers before taking the bullet, opened his mouth wide and caught the chickpea in one move while it was still in the air, gulping it down without even caring to chew. Pressing his hand on his heart he subtly tilted his head forward as if to thank them in return and opened his mouth once again for the second bullet. When no chickpea was fired, he impatiently rattled his yellowed teeth. The sniper boy flinched in horror. Su stared flabbergasted at this weirdest man she had ever seen, a man who did not at all look like anyone she knew.

Flat Number 2: Sidar and Gaba.

As soon as the girl left, banging the door behind her, Sidar felt like s.h.i.+t. He waited until midnight, hoping she would forgive him and return. It was only when he had to accept the fact that he was waiting to no avail, that he put the leash on Gaba and threw himself out of the house.

The Armenian Catholic Cemetery was twenty-five minutes by foot. This was the one he liked the most among all the cemeteries in Istanbul. To help Gaba pa.s.s through he pushed all the way back the humongous ornate door that did not give even the slightest hint about what a luminous s.p.a.ce was hidden behind. Upon seeing him coming, the guard grumbled as usual. Though suspicious of Sidar's every move the first time around, he had gotten used to him over time and must have finally deemed this wiry, scruffy young guy batty but harmless; for he didn't object to his presence anymore.

When Sidar showed up on the wide stone road intersecting each and every path in the cemetery, an old man sitting alone on a bench waved at him. They had run into each other a couple of times. Though they had been exchanging greetings, they had never conversed before.

'So you've come again,' smiled the old man, patting the seat next to him. 'But you're still too young. Why the hurry?'

Sidar perched on the other end of the bench. Before responding, he inspected the old man. He must have been at least seventy-five years old, maybe even eighty. Small and round were his eyes, a deep bluish-grey.

'But I've seen lots of children's graves here,' Sidar replied obstinately.

'I didn't say you were too young to die, I said you are too young to think about death.'

Gaba's bark was heard from a distance, probably nothing to be worried about. Some stranger must be giving him something to eat. He barked like that when he was about to get a treat from a stranger. It was the 'Thank you for the simit, you are very kind!' bark.

'I too was thinking about death today,' muttered the man, apparently interested in a chat. 'This morning my sister called, she'd had a bad dream last night. We were children with milk bottles in our hands. Yet the milk was kind of strange; it wouldn't flow but came out in lumps. White mice the size of my little finger scurried from within. My mother grabbed our hands and took us away, but my sister went back. In spite of knowing too well that the milk was contaminated, she drank. My mother was furious at her. ”Why did you do that? You sinned!” she yelled, but she couldn't bear my sister's tears and seated her on her lap to console her. ”Don't you worry,” she soothed her, ”G.o.d will certainly forgive you.” '

Gaba started barking once again, probably because some stranger had attempted to pat him. Both Sidar and the old man turned around inadvertently, looking at the entrance of the cemetery though they knew they could not see him from this angle. No problem. It was probably just the 'I will let you pat me if you give me one more simit!' bark.

'I haven't dreamt in years, wouldn't even remember it if I did, but my sister does and her dreams always come true. She is a cultured woman. If you had just seen her as a young girl, she wasn't interested in anyone. All she thought about were books! My mother, the poor thing, was distressed; she forbid my sister to read too much for it made her nose bleed, but my sister still kept reading secretly, novels mostly...from the French originals... In my mind's eye I can still picture her bent double over a book, lost in another world. I always knew when her nose was going to start bleeding again. I could have warned her but, I don't know why, I could not even get near her while she was reading. I just watched, waiting soundlessly for that drop of blood to fall. There were many such red stains on the pages of the novels she read back then. You couldn't wipe them off or tear them out, so what could you do? They remained like that. She also had a diary, wouldn't talk to us, but she did to her diary. Then one day my sister and I returned from school to find all the books and the diary gone. ”I threw them all away!” mother snapped. My sister turned white. She loved ma, she did, but I don't think she ever forgave her.'

Gaba's barks accelerated in folds, getting louder each time, he was probably upset by something. It was the 'If you are not going to give me any more simits, could you please leave me alone!' bark.

'As she was so fastidious, she married very late. Her husband was an eye doctor, had an office in Sisli. They truly loved one another. Didn't have any children. Then the poor man unexpectedly died; simply crossing the street, must have lost his foresight or something, stepped on the road without even looking. The car 'hit and ran' in plain daylight. I've seen many a person's hair turning white with grief, but with my sister it was her body that shrivelled from grief. Before long she had shrunk into an elfin, doleful woman. She gave up everything, went off food. Hung her husband's pictures all around the house. Just like she used to talk to her diary as a young girl, she started to talk to those photographs. I made a grave mistake then. I thought if I removed my brother-in-law's belongings out of her sight, it would be easier for her to forget. One day, I secretly gathered the photographs, all of them, and gave them away to friends and relatives. Just as she had never forgiven mother, my sister did not forgive me either. That was when she moved to another house. You see, I had presumed it would be hard for her to live in a house surrounded by my brother-in-law's memory. To the contrary, it was hard for my sister to live there the moment those reminiscences were gone. She moved somewhere else. After all these years she still doesn't let me into her house. She didn't get re-married either. All this time she stayed single like that. Whenever we get together, we meet at a patisserie. Do you know anything about dream interpretations? My sister sure does and her dreams always come true.'

'So how did she interpret this dream?' Sidar wondered.

'She said she might die before waiting for her time to come. That's why my mother was angry at her like that.'

'You mean suicide?' Sidar exclaimed with a tinge of a thrill in his voice.

However, blinking his bluish-grey eyes the old man looked deadpan, as if never before had he thought of such a word or even heard of it.

Gaba sounded far more distraught now. He was using the, 'If you so insist on not leaving me alone, then I will leave!' bark. Sidar scurried to his feet though he had more questions to ask. At the entrance of the cemetery, he found Gaba, just as he had predicted, barking in distress in the middle of a circle of affection and attention formed by inquisitive onlookers. Before he ran to the rescue of his dog, he stopped for a second to wave to the old man, but the latter had turned to the other side still murmuring, as if he was unaware that he was now alone on the bench.

Flat Number 9: Hygiene Tijen, Su and Me.

6:54 p.m.: Dangling from the armchair, her stick-thin legs covered with myriad mosquito bites each of which she had turned into an abrasion from scratching non-stop, Su thrust her hands into the pockets of her shorts and fully concentrated her gaze on the minute hand of the clock on the wall, as if by so doing she could make time run faster. Her tutor was always prompt. To this day he had never been late, not even a delay of few minutes, but such punctuality had recoil of its own. He always ended the lesson right on the dot. He had never stayed longer, not even for a few minutes. The instant he started the lesson, he placed his watch with the leather strap between the two of them on the table and though he did not keep glancing at it as a bored man would, he still jumped to his feet as soon as the hour was up.

6:57 p.m.: She sprung up with the ring of the doorbell. Three minutes early!

Hygiene Tijen was by the kitchen sink, sc.r.a.ping off the sediment that had collected at the bottom of the teapot. Drying on her snow-white ap.r.o.n her hands with fingertips creased from having stayed in hot water for hours on end, she headed to the door. Upon opening it, she inspected her daughter's tutor from head-to-toe. The man looked neat and trim as always. He submissively took off his shoes before entering and put on his beige-socked feet a pair of sanitary slippers from the basket. The mother and daughter meanwhile watched his gestures with deferential courtesy. Then all three of them moved to the living room, making squishy noises as they walked. On one end of the rectangular dining room table there was, as usual, especially prepared for the lesson ahead of time: coconut cake slices lined up on two porcelain plates with white napkins on the side, the notebook with the white lilies spread open, pencil tips carefully sharpened, the ashtray laid ready. One could smoke in this house. Neither smoke nor ash fell into the realm of Hygiene Tijen's conception of 'filth.'

'I hope it won't be impolite if we keep working inside as you lecture here?'

She always asked the same question before every lesson. I always gave the same response: 'Not at all, Mrs. Tijen. Please continue with your work.'

The new cleaning lady showed up at that instant scuffling out of the bathroom, in one hand a pail filled with soapy water and in the other hand a doormat with ta.s.sels so messed up it looked trodden on. Behind her trundled Meryem with her sharply protruding belly. She had dangled a longish, snow-white towel from one shoulder like a boxing trainer or a Turkish bath ma.s.sager. Both women seemed to be waddling with the discomfort of wearing sanitary slippers.

'How come you are still working?' I asked her.

However, before she could respond, Hygiene Tijen jumped in. 'No, no, Meryem isn't working really, she stopped doing so last week, but I was in dire straits without her a.s.sistance. So this is the solution we came up with: Meryem says what needs to be done and Esma Hanim, thanks be upon her, does it.'

Upon hearing her name mentioned Esma Hanim tilted her head and gave a lackadaisical greeting, apparently not as enthusiastic as others about her share in the division of labour. Then all three women squished on their slippers back to their respective ch.o.r.es, leaving the tutor and student alone.

7:00 p.m.: As Su pulled her chair closer to the table, she threw a distressed glance at the wrist.w.a.tch with the leather strap stretched like a barrier between them.

Flat Number 7: The Blue Mistress and I.