Part 13 (1/2)

'I'm sorry...'

As soon as she heard me, she started to choke and sob as if I had disclosed a long awaited decision in the negative. Perhaps she doubted the sincerity behind my words. Not that she would be wrong. The olive oil merchant, whom I had not met face to face and whom I pa.s.sed judgement upon though I had seen him twice at most and only from a distance, was no more than a typecast for me: a hairy, greasy pitiable excuse of a rival with his belly hanging over his pants. I was sorry for my little lover more than him...and also somewhat surprised. Up until now I had not considered the possibility that she could have been so attached to that coa.r.s.e figure of a man. That she loved to rat on him, did not object to and even enjoyed hearing me insulting him, was no indication that she was not attached to the man. Indeed she was more committed to him than I had ever suspected. I raked my fingers through her hair. Yet she harshly pushed away my hand.

'You don't understand,' she snorted her disapproval. 'It's my fault. If the poor thing can't make it through to the morning, it's all because of me.' She swallowed stiffly, as if trying to get rid of an acidic taste in her mouth. 'I paid a visit to the saint.'

'What did you do? What did you do?'

'Well, you can't actually call it paying a visit. Meryem put the idea into my head. There were a few bottles of banana liquor left in the house. I gave them to her a few days ago. I don't drink the liquor and she likes them a lot. We were talking about whether it would be harmful to the baby and that kind of chit-chat. Thank goodness this time around her pregnancy is not as difficult. Meryem told me she lost three male babies before Muhammet, two were stillborn, one died when six months old. So when Muhammet was born, she let his hair grow long like a girl. The kid went around like a girl until he started school, in order to trick Azrael.'

I am curious, do women have special machinery or something chemical in their brains that prevents them from expressing themselves straight out. So many details, so many introductory statements, so many stories whirling circles within circles that never get to the point... I refreshed my rak but found no soda left on the empty shelves of my huge refrigerator. I needed to go out and get some.

'Anyway, the kid survived but he was then constantly beaten-up at school. Yet, Meryem said recently he had changed so much. That fainthearted boy was replaced by someone utterly different and is no longer beaten up by his friends. It's like a miracle.'

I wondered whether the Islamist grocer across the street had closed yet. Though he did not sell gin, he carried tonic. Though he did not sell liquor, he stocked chocolate with liquor. In a similar vein, he does not sell rak but indeed sells soda to mix with rak.

'We were talking about how it could be possible for this child to change so drastically. Meryem then confided to me that she had made a vow to the saint. ”Which saint?” I asked. ”Don't ask!” she replied puzzlingly. ”If you have a long awaiting wish, you too should go for it. If it ever comes true, only then will I tell you which saint I visited.” So she asked me for a clean scarf. I wrote my wish inside, then folded it up like a Hidrellez request and gave it to her.'

I gave up. By the time this story was over, the Islamist grocer would have long closed the store and gone home. Given my preferences, I decided to make do with water.

'She said, ”If your wish comes true, so much the better. It would be my gift to you. You gave me so many banana liquors. If it doesn't come true, no one will know. All we would have done is try.” That's what she said. Well, maybe that's not exactly what she said but it was something like that. I can't remember right now.'

The rak tasted awful! That d.a.m.n drink is no good with water.

'So I folded it like a Hidrellez letter, as she'd instructed me. ”Let me be freed of this state!” I wrote. Or perhaps I wrote, ”Let me be freed of this man!”... If I could only remember! Everything got mixed up. What did I write? G.o.d, what did the saint understand? The man is dying there because of me.'

What I had just heard was so enormously, astoundingly and fantastically ridiculous. I could not even consider it likely that she could really have believed this claptrap. Even if she did, I couldn't place much significance on the pain she would suffer because of it. After all, that is how things are. In order for us to truly share a person's pain, they first have to share the same reality with us. When we calm down a child who is crying because a part of her rickety toy is broken; when we swear to the anorexic who looks skeletal but still imagines herself obese that she really is not a fatso; when we put up with the absurd talk of our best buddy, mad at life having been cheated on by a worthless woman he's only been with for a total of two weeks; when we strive to distract until the arrival of his psychiatrist the mentally ill man who suspects his soul has been stolen by a pigeon and thereby chases all the pigeons out in the square to search inside the beaks of each and every one; in all of these cases we stand by these people but look at their pain from way yonder. The child shedding tears for such a simple thing, the anorexic who camps so far away from reality, the miserable buddy who cannot see it is not worth getting upset by such a worthless woman, the nut incapable of comprehending that the poor pigeons flock around real concrete for wheat kernels instead of intangible elusive souls; all might plausibly expect from us some degree of attention and compa.s.sion, soothing or solidarity. They'll most likely get it too. We could indeed fulfill the role of comforter without much hesitation. Upon seeing how they talk nonsense because of their suffering and how they suffer because of their nonsensical talk, the chances are we might even feel emotionally close to them deep down...but that is the very limit. They might require and possibly receive our kindheartedness at one of those moments but they cannot convince us to enter their reality. We can pity or even love them, provided they do not expect us to sincerely share in their suffering.

Flat Number 10: Madam Auntie.

At room temperature of 27 C and a humidity rate of 65%, the early stages of a housefly's lifecycle involve one to two days as eggs, eight to ten days as larvae and nine to ten days as pupa. In laboratory research conducted under the same conditions, it has been observed that 50% of the male flies die within the first fourteen days and 50% of the female flies die within the first twenty-four days.

At a room temperature of 27 C and a humidity rate of 3640%, c.o.c.kroaches prove to be far more resistant than flies. Under such circ.u.mstances, they can survive without any food intake for twenty days. With only water, they can stay alive for thirty-five days. The eggs laid under the same temperature and humidity levels hatch between twenty-seven to thirty days. The hatched offspring change skin between five and ten times to become adults. Adults can live for approximately six to twelve months. Then they too die. They rot and decompose, break apart and scatter, are no longer themselves and are muddled up into different things.

Just like flies and c.o.c.kroaches, food too has a lifecycle. In a cool and dry place, pasteurized milk stays fresh for one year, halva with pistachios, two years, diet biscuit with cinnamon, two years, granulated coffee, two years, raspberry chewing gum, ten to twelve months, chocolate with rice crackers, one year, a can of tuna, four years, a can of c.o.ke, six months and corn nut with cheese flavour, six months. If left in a refrigerator sliced whiting stays fresh for one and a half weeks, yoghurt drink for seven days, mozzarella one and a half months, packaged chicken twelve to fourteen days. At the end of this period, these things also start to die. They rot and decompose, break apart and scatter, are no longer themselves and get muddled up with different things. Once tea or tobacco, wheat or cheese expires, these things start to produce lice, bugs or larvae in the cavities of the cups where they are kept. Clothes engender moths, furniture becomes infested with worms and grain gets raided by beetles. c.o.c.kroaches too arrive at such places. c.o.c.kroaches are everywhere anyhow.

Just like flies and c.o.c.kroaches and food, objects also have a lifecycle. On average, overalls worn as a baby last one to two months, a battery powered train acquired as a child lasts one hour and one year, diaries kept at p.u.b.erty thirty to sixty days, the sweater given as a gift by a relative with no fas.h.i.+on taste ten seconds, the pipe bought with the desire to stop smoking only to discover afterward how difficult it is to clean, two to six puffs, a printer cartridge fifteen days and three months, a train ticket one to twenty hours, the gaudy ornament lovingly acquired when drunk only to seem not that nice when sober, one long night. Then they too die. They die and are thrown away, either to one side or to the garbage.

From the moment they wake up till they go to bed the denizens of Istanbul pa.s.s their days incessantly, unconsciously throwing things away. When calculated in terms of weeks, months, and years, a considerable garbage heap acc.u.mulates behind each and every person and just like flies and c.o.c.kroaches and food and objects, humans too have an expiration date. The average life expectancy is sixty five years for males and seventy years for females. Then the inevitable end comes and they too die. They rot and decompose, break apart and scatter, are no longer themselves and get muddled up with different things.

When, after losing her husband in an accident twenty-five years ago, Madam Auntie had moved alone into Flat Number 10 of Bonbon Palace, she had encountered there objects belonging to the former residents: a hundred and eighty-one ownerless and out-of-date objects. Even though the letter from the building's new owner in France had openly stated that she could dispense with these objects in any manner she chose, she hadn't felt like throwing away even a single one of them. When she read the letter from Pavel Antipov's daughter in France, she had not been infuriated. Yet there were times in the past she had been infuriated at the ease with which people dispensed with the objects of others. Yes, she had been infuriated before...and even before... When she had been a young woman, her mother had thrown away her novels and diaries and years later, when she had suddenly lost her husband, her brother had dispersed all photographs she had of him to friends and relatives. Perhaps she had not been able to reclaim her belongings in the past, but from now on she was going to look after the belongings of others as a steadfast safe-keeper.

To acquire items so as to use them for awhile and then throw them in the garbage, is a habit germane to those who believe themselves to be in possession of these items. Yet objects have no possessors. If anything they have their stories, and at times it is these stories that have possession of the people who have meddled with them...

Flat Number 7: Me.

Following the lecture, Ethel came to pick me up in a honey-coloured Cherokee. We left my car at the faculty parking lot and continued on our way in this new toy of hers. She did not seem in the mood for chatting at first but then, as we got stuck in the traffic jam her tongue loosened. I would have rather she had just paid attention to the traffic. Her driving gets worse by the day. As she started to chatter about the last phase they had reached in the university project, I noticed she had lost her initial enthusiasm. Either this business is going totally down the tubes or Ethel has decided to part ways with it. I refrained from asking which. She will eventually, if not today, tomorrow, report to me everything anyhow.

'Hey, tell me, how are things going at the apartment building of the wacky?' was the first thing she said when, after struggling in traffic for fifty minutes, we had finally reached our reserved table at the restaurant; just as I wanted, all the way down, by the window... I chose to turn my back and Ethel her face to other diners. She apparently wants to keep an eye on other people. What do I care?

'Don't ask! Bugs all over the place.'

'So bugs too are coming for entertainment. What a blessed b.a.s.t.a.r.d you are! You've ended up dwelling in a most hilarious place. Rather than an apartment building it resembles an insane asylum.'

'I know it's hard for you but try not to exaggerate,' I groaned. 'G.o.d knows, the apartment building I formerly lived in was probably no different, but back then I didn't have a clue. The only difference now is that I'm not indifferent to the neighbours at Bonbon Palace.'

'Oh, yeah, I can see that. You're particularly interested in one among those,' she snorted as she placed the first cigarette of the night onto her jasmine-wood cigarette holder and sent in my direction three smoke rings, one after the other.

I pretended not to have heard that last comment, having no intentions of quarrelling with her tonight, but my deafness seemed to provoke her even more.

'You can't make it with that woman, sugar-plum. You know why? Not because of a moral reason or anything, but simply because of keeping up images! At present there are no problems. You stay indoors, screw as you like, all is fine and dandy, but what will happen afterwards? Could you go out into the public with her? Could you take the arm of your twenty-two year old high school dropout, deeply religious but just as immoral and decisively-indecisive lover, to promenade and hang around together? Do you really believe an academic with such a clear-cut intellect can ever make it with that walking confusion of an ignorant pet.i.te missie?'

I could not come back with a response. Instead I laughed away whatever she said. Before long, she got fed up with pestering me. Neither of us were in good spirits. As we waited for the mixed fruit plate, we made guesses about the people at adjacent tables, thus keeping the damage we could have inflicted on each other to a minimum, but it turned out Ethel had saved her real surprise to the end.

'Listen sugar-plum, I didn't want to be the one to tell you this, but, maybe it's better that you hear it from me. Who else but me do you have to pour out your poison? Anyway, let's save the conjectural comments till the end. First the actual data! Here's the astounding news: Ays.h.i.+n is getting married, oops, re-married!'

Timing was the gravest error the moon-faced albino waiter committed when at that instant he reached out to change my plate. Not that I am one of those people who constantly cause trouble at restaurants, shouting reprimands left and right, but I do hate to have my plate changed without my asking for it. Waiters generally do not want to even consider this as a possibility but there are people in this city who relish the pleasure of munching on their leftovers. I cannot stand seeing the remains of my food being instantly removed as if it were something disgraceful. If it were up to me, I would not part with my plate until the very moment I leave the table. I could mix the remnants of the cold appetizers with the hot ones and keep nibbling for a whole night. Not only do I not feel the slightest discomfort at having the fruit slices smeared with the oil, sauce, salt and spice of the hot appetizers, I sometimes sit down and make sweet and sour compositions with these. If I like this final fusion, I eat it: if I do not, I ruin it. Ethel knows this habit of mine. She does not meddle. The waiters do not know it. They meddle.

'Please excuse him. It's just that he's going through a tough phase, just got divorced from his wife,' croaked Ethel to the waiter now standing beside me with a scratched white plate utterly unable to comprehend why he had been snapped at. The man intuited the mockery in these words and curled his pale lips into a smile, but at the same moment he must have felt the need to be cautious just in case, for he suppressed his lip movement, thereby lingering behind me with a face like a mask; one half smiling, the other half sad.

'Please, go ahead, you can change my plate. I'm perfectly normal,' Ethel smirked. The waiter, defeated by this proposal to share a confidence, grinned with her while removing the dirty plate in front of her.

'If you ask me, the guy is a total pushover,' Ethel said shrugging, when we were once again left alone. It took me an additional minute to fathom it was not the waiter she was talking about but Ays.h.i.+n's husband-to-be. 'He's a well-intentioned pushover meek and almost gullible but a pushover nonetheless. Docile, compliant, and of course, domesticated. His limits are only too evident, corners on each side. Whichever way he faces you run into a wall. In order to find just a spark of vigour in the guy, you have to dig at least seven layers deep down into his past. I wonder if he ever experienced any exuberance, probably once in his childhood. Even then, don't expect much, only a few drops. Now you'll be curious about his appearance!' she conjectured, holding my hand. 'Let me put it this way: next to you, he would look like a senile badger.'

So that's it. Ays.h.i.+n is going to get married to a senile badger. I place a slice of melon onto the corner of my plate where a thick garlic and walnut sauce had spread out.

'The buck-toothed one, was that a badger or a mole?' Ethel mumbled as she removed her hand, leaving on my wrist traces of her nails painted a glittery indigo. 'Anyway sugar-plum, one thing I know for sure is this guy is really, really ugly. Basically, I'd say, Ays.h.i.+n is using the trial and error technique. Once bitten, twice shy, she shuns handsome young academics.'

When we left, I sat next to her with more confidence, knowing that compared to when she is sober, she drives more carefully when drunk. She brought me all the way to Bonbon Palace without any trouble. Then she took off in the gloomy street radiating a corona of honey in the dark.

Once on the third floor, I stopped to eavesdrop at the door of the flat across from me. No sound came from within. Though I had not been planning to see her tonight, I rang the doorbell without really thinking. She had forbidden me to come unannounced but I could violate the ban that night. The olive oil merchant would not probably spend the night in his mistress's bed right after a heart attack.

Soft, almost fluffy footsteps approached. The golden light seeping through the peephole darkened. We stayed just like that on either side of the door for a long minute. The door opened with an annoying tardiness. Her chestnut eyes looked at me with no radiance, love or feeling. Without uttering a single word, good or bad, she turned her back and staggered into the living room dragging her feet. I did not care. However weird her movements were, my drunkenness was just as good. I parked myself on the couch, turned on the TV. We started to watch without a sound. A singer of cla.s.sical music, having smeared gold glitter on all parts of her body under her transparent, stone studded, lilac costume, was telling the microphone what she had been through. She had broken her leg during a skiing trip, but because she could not bear to cancel the concert tickets and upset her dear fans, she had made the heroic decision to appear on stage in crutches. Standing next to her was her physician, who occasionally intervened to answer the questions the journalists spurted backstage.