A Strangeness in My Mind Read online

Page 22


  In the morning, he took it off and wore the civilian clothes he’d put in his suitcase almost a year ago. He went to the Karlıova Restaurant in Beyoğlu. They weren’t particularly welcoming. Ferhat had left for his military service after Mevlut, and most of the waiters were new; any old ones still there were preoccupied with customers. So Mevlut ended up leaving without getting the chance to savor the “Return to Karlıova” fantasy that had so often helped him pass the time on guard duty.

  He went to the Elyazar Cinema ten minutes away. When he walked in this time, he felt no shame at the sight of the other men in the lobby. He walked through this crowd of men with his head held high and looking straight at them.

  Once he sat down, he was pleased to have broken free of everyone’s gaze, happy to be left alone in the dark with the wanton women on the screen to become nothing more than another pair of leering eyes. He noticed immediately that the way the men in the military swore and the barrenness of their souls had changed the way he himself saw the women on-screen. He felt more vulgar but also more normal now. Whenever anyone made a loud, obscene joke about the movie, or answered an actor’s line with some innuendo, he laughed along with everyone else. When the lights came on between movies, Mevlut looked around and figured out that any men with really short hair must be soldiers in their day clothes, on leave as he was. He watched all three features from start to finish. He left at the sex and grape-eating scene, which he remembered from when he had first walked in halfway through the same German movie. He went home and masturbated until nightfall.

  That night, worn out by guilt and loneliness, he went over to his uncle’s house in Duttepe.

  “Don’t worry, everything’s fine,” said Süleyman when they were alone. “Rayiha loves your letters. Where did you learn to write such good letters? Will you help me write one, too, someday?”

  “Is Rayiha going to reply to me?”

  “She’d like to, but she won’t…Her father wouldn’t tolerate it. I got to see for myself how much they love their father the last time they were here, before the coup. They stayed in that new room we’ve just added.”

  Süleyman opened the door to the room where Crooked-Necked Abdurrahman and his two daughters had stayed for a week when they’d last come from the village, switched on the lights, and gave Mevlut the tour, like a museum guide. Mevlut saw there were two beds in the room.

  Süleyman understood what Mevlut was wondering about. “Their father slept in this bed, and the girls slept together in the other bed the first night, but they didn’t really fit. So we made Rayiha a bed on the floor.”

  Mevlut shot a timid glance at the spot where Rayiha’s bed had been laid out. The floor in Süleyman’s house was tiled and carpeted.

  He was pleased to find out that Vediha knew about the letters. She didn’t act too familiar or let on that she knew everything and had even helped deliver his letters, but she smiled at Mevlut sweetly every time she saw him. Mevlut interpreted this as a sign that she was on his side, and he was delighted.

  Vediha Yenge really was amazingly beautiful. Mevlut played a little with her son Bozkurt (named after the legendary Grey Wolf that saved the Turks), who’d been born when Mevlut was working at the Karlıova Restaurant, and with her younger son, Turan, who arrived when Mevlut was in the military. Vediha had become even more radiant after the birth of her second child, more mature and attractive. Mevlut was moved by the tenderness she showed toward her two sons and was pleased when he sensed that she had a soft spot for him, too, or at least a sort of sisterly affection. He kept thinking how Rayiha was just as beautiful as Vediha, if not more so.

  He spent most of his time in Istanbul writing new letters to Rayiha. Having been away for a year, he already felt estranged from the city. Istanbul had changed after the military coup. The political slogans had been wiped off the walls again, street vendors had been driven off the main roads and squares, the brothels in Beyoğlu had been shut down, and the delinquents who sold bootleg whiskey and American cigarettes on the streets had been rounded up. Even the traffic was better. You couldn’t stop wherever you wanted anymore. Mevlut thought some of the changes were good, but in a strange way, he felt like an outsider. Maybe it’s because I don’t have a job, he thought.

  “I’m going to ask you something, but please don’t take it the wrong way,” he told Süleyman the next evening. His father was gone now, so he could easily go over to his uncle’s every night.

  “I never misunderstand you, Mevlut,” said Süleyman. “You’re the one who’s always misunderstood my understanding.”

  “Can you get me her photograph?”

  “Rayiha’s? No.”

  “Why?”

  “She’s the sister of my brother’s wife.”

  “If I had her photograph, I’d write her better letters.”

  “Believe me, Mevlut, they couldn’t get any better.”

  Süleyman helped him rent out the house in Kültepe to an acquaintance of the Vurals. He decided he could do without a contract when Süleyman said, “There’s no need, we know the guy, and you don’t want to pay taxes.” In any case, he wasn’t the only one who was entitled to a share of revenue from the house (which was still not registered in anyone’s name); his mother and sisters in the village also had a claim. He decided he didn’t want to get too involved in these matters.

  He was putting his father’s clothes and shirts into a suitcase before renting the place out, when he caught a trace of his father’s smell and went to curl up on the bed. This time he didn’t cry. He felt angry and resentful toward the world. He also understood that when his military service was over, he was not coming back to Kültepe or this house. Yet when it came time to return to Kars, something jarred deep inside of him and rebelled at the thought. He did not want to wear his uniform, nor did he want to complete the remainder of his military service. He hated his commanders and all those army thugs. Alarmingly, he could now see why some people deserted. He put on his uniform and set off.

  In his last few months in Kars, Mevlut wrote Rayiha forty-seven letters. He had plenty of time: he had been assigned to the detachment the base commander had taken with him to the town hall, where he managed the canteen and the small tearoom, acting as Turgut Pasha’s personal waiter when the pasha was there. But the pasha was too suspicious and picky to eat in the town hall, so it wasn’t a very difficult job: Mevlut brewed the pasha’s tea himself, prepared his coffee with one sugar and double foam, and personally served him water and soft drinks. The pasha bought a cookie from the bakery once, and another time he took a pastry from the canteen, and put both items in front of Mevlut, telling him what to look out for.

  “Go on, have a taste…we don’t want city hall poisoning us.”

  He wanted to write to Rayiha about his army days, but in the end he knew his letters would be read before they went out, so he confined himself to the usual poetic flights, invoking yet more piercing eyes and ensorcelled looks. Mevlut would keep composing letters until the last day of his military service, which never seemed to come, and when it finally did arrive, never seemed to pass.

  19

  * * *

  Mevlut and Rayiha

  Elopement Is a Tricky Business

  MEVLUT FINISHED his military service on 17 March 1982 and took the first bus back to Istanbul. He rented a second-floor apartment with linoleum floors in an old Greek house in Tarlabaşı, two streets down from the Karlıova Restaurant’s dormitory, and he began working as a waiter in a nondescript restaurant. From a flea market in Çukurcuma he bought a table (one that didn’t wobble) and four chairs (two of which matched), and from junk dealers who sold their wares door to door he selected a worn old bed with an enormous wooden headboard carved with birds and leaves. He furnished this room dreaming all the while about the happy home he would one day share with Rayiha.

  At his uncle’s house one evening at the start of April, Mevlut saw Abdurrahman Efendi. He was nestled at one end of the table with a bib around his neck, sipping his rakı and enjoying his grandsons, Bozkurt and Turan. Mevlut realized he must have come from the village on his own, without his daughters. Uncle Hasan wasn’t home; for the last few years, he had been leaving the house every night for evening prayers before going to his grocery store to watch TV and wait for customers. Mevlut greeted his future father-in-law respectfully. Abdurrahman returned the greeting but hadn’t really registered Mevlut’s presence.

  Korkut and Abdurrahman Efendi were soon engaged in a vehement discussion of bankers. Mevlut heard them mention a number of names—the Pilgrim Banker, Banker Ali. With inflation at one hundred percent, your money would soon be worth less than the paper it was printed on—unless you took it out of the banks, which paid so little in the way of interest, and gave it over to these new bankers, most of whom seemed like they’d only just landed in the city and wouldn’t have looked out of place manning a village shop. They all promised very high annual interest rates, but could they really be trusted?

  Finishing his third drink, Abdurrahman Efendi was boasting of how each of his daughters was a beauty and how he had made sure they all got a proper education back in the village. “Enough, Dad,” said Vediha as she went to put her sons to bed; Abdurrahman Efendi went with them.

  “Go wait for me at the coffeehouse,” said Süleyman once they’d been left alone at the table.

  Mevlut’s heart hammered in his chest.

  “What’s all this about?” said Aunt Safiye. “Do whatever you want, but don’t get involved in politics. We should really be getting you two married off.”

  From the TV at the coffeehouse Mevlut learned that Argentina and England were at war. Süleyman came in to find him admiring the English aircraft carriers and warships.

  “Abdurrahman Efendi has come to Istanbul to take his money from one banker and give it to another who’s even worse…We can’t figure out whether any of it is true, or even if he’s really got any money. He’s also been talking about some ‘good news,’ ” said Süleyman.

  “What good news?”

  “Rayiha’s got a suitor,” said Süleyman. “One of these redneck bankers. Apparently he used to have a tea stall. It’s serious. That greedy Crooked Neck might well just hand his daughter over to the banker. He won’t listen to anyone. You need to run away with Rayiha, Mevlut.”

  “Really? Oh, Süleyman, please help me run away with her.”

  “Do you think running away with a girl is easy?” said Süleyman. “One little mistake, and before you know it, someone gets shot, there’s a blood feud, and then people kill one another over it for years for no good reason, and proudly say it’s all about honor. Are you willing to take the risk?”

  “I have no choice,” said Mevlut.

  “You don’t,” said Süleyman. “But you don’t want anyone to think you’re just cheap, either. What can you offer this girl when there are so many rich men ready to spend a fortune on her?”

  They met again in the same place five days later, and while Süleyman watched the English taking over the Falklands, Mevlut produced a piece of paper from his pocket.

  “Go on, take a look,” he crowed. “You can have it.”

  “What’s this?” said Süleyman. “Oh, it’s the papers for your house. Let’s have a look. It’s got my father’s name on it, too. They had claimed the land together. Why did you bring it? Don’t be so eager to give this away just to show off. You’re going to need it if you want your share when they hand out title deeds for that side of Kültepe one day.”

  “Give it to Crooked-Necked Abdurrahman…,” said Mevlut. “Tell her father no one can love his daughter like I do.”

  “I will, but put that back in your pocket,” said Süleyman.

  “It’s not just talk, I mean it,” said Mevlut.

  The first thing Mevlut did the next morning when he woke up from his rakı hangover was to check inside his jacket pocket. He couldn’t decide whether to be glad or disappointed that he still had the piece of paper his father and his uncle Hasan had obtained from the local councilman fifteen years ago.

  “You should be grateful that you have Vediha Yenge and the rest of us,” said Süleyman ten days later. “She’s gone all the way to the village for you. Now let’s see if you’ll get your way. Bring me another rakı, will you?”

  Vediha took her two sons—three-year-old Bozkurt and two-year-old Turan—along with her to the village. Mevlut thought they would be back almost immediately, as the kids would quickly tire of a muddy village dwelling where the lights went out all the time and the water never ran, but he was wrong. Restless, he would go over to Duttepe twice a week, thinking Vediha Yenge must surely be back by now, but he would find no one but Aunt Safiye sitting alone in the gloomy house.

  “Who would have thought it was that daughter-in-law of mine who was breathing life into this house,” said Aunt Safiye to Mevlut who was visiting late one night. “Ever since Vediha’s been gone, there’s been a few nights when Korkut hasn’t come home. Süleyman is out, too. I made lentil soup, shall I warm some up for you? We can watch television. Did you hear, Kastelli ran away, and all the bankers have gone bust. You haven’t given these bankers any of your money, have you?”

  “I don’t have any money, Aunt Safiye.”

  “Don’t worry…Don’t spend your life stressing about money, you’re bound to get your big break someday. Money doesn’t make happiness. Look at how much Korkut earns, and still he and Vediha are at each other’s throats every day…I feel sorry for Bozkurt and Turan, they’ve known nothing but arguments and fights all their life. Never mind…Hopefully this thing of yours will work out, God willing.”

  “What thing?” said Mevlut, his heart speeding up as he turned away from the television, but Aunt Safiye said no more.

  “I have some good news,” said Süleyman three days later. “Vediha Yenge is back from the village. Rayiha loves you very much, my dear Mevlut. It’s all thanks to your letters. She definitely doesn’t want the banker her father means for her to marry. The banker himself is officially bankrupt, but he bought gold and American dollars with his customers’ money and buried it all away somewhere. Once all this media attention dies down and the newspapers move on to the next story, he’s going to dig up the money from whatever garden he’s buried it in and live the good life with Rayiha while the greedy blockheads who gave him their cash have to deal with the courts. He’s promised the Crooked Neck a bundle. If her father gives his consent, he’s going to marry Rayiha in a civil ceremony and go to Germany until the storm blows over. Apparently that crook of a ruined banker—and former tea vendor—is hiding out learning German and wants Rayiha to learn enough herself to be able buy meat from the halal butcher in Germany.”

  “That bastard,” said Mevlut. “If I don’t get to elope with Rayiha, I’ll kill him.”

  “You won’t need to kill anyone. I’m going to take the van and we’re going to go to the village and take her away,” said Süleyman. “I’ll sort everything out for you.”

  Mevlut hugged and kissed his cousin. That night, he was too exhilarated to sleep.

  When they met again, Süleyman had planned everything: after Thursday’s evening prayers, Rayiha was going to take her belongings and come out to her back garden.

  “Let’s get going,” said Mevlut.

  “Sit back down, will you. It’s no more than a day’s drive by van.”

  “It might rain, it’s flood season…And we have to make preparations in Beyşehir.”

  “There’s no need for any preparations. As soon as it gets dark, you’ll find the girl in the Crooked Neck’s back garden as if you’d put her there yourself. I’ll drive you both to Akşehir and drop you off at the train station. You and Rayiha will take the train, and I’ll come back on my own so her father doesn’t suspect me.”

  Just hearing Süleyman say “you and Rayiha” was enough to send Mevlut into raptures. He’d already taken a week off work, and extended his leave for another week, claiming “family matters.” When he asked for yet another week of unpaid leave, his boss grumbled. So Mevlut told him not to expect him back.

  He could find another job in an ordinary restaurant like that anytime. He had also been thinking of entering the ice-cream business. He had met an ice-cream vendor who wanted to rent out his three-wheeled ice-cream cart and ice-cream churn from the month of Ramadan onward.

  He tidied up the house a little and tried to put himself in Rayiha’s shoes to imagine what she would see when she walked through the door, what sorts of things she would notice. Should he buy a bedspread now or let her choose one? Every time he imagined Rayiha inside the house, he thought of how she would see him walking around in his underwear, and he both craved that intimacy and shied away from the thought.

  —

  Süleyman. I fooled them all—my brother, my mother, Vediha, and everyone else—telling them I was going to take the van and disappear for a couple of days. On the eve of our departure, our would-be groom was jumping for joy; I took him to one side to have a word.

  “Now listen very carefully, my dear Mevlut, because I’m talking to you not as your best friend and your cousin right now but as a member of the girl’s family. Rayiha isn’t even eighteen yet. If her father loses it, if he decides ‘I can’t forgive someone who’s run away with my daughter’ and sends the gendarmes after you, you’re going to have to hide until she turns eighteen, and you won’t be able to marry her until then. Now I want you to give me your word of honor that, when the time comes, you are absolutely going to marry her.”

  “You have my word,” said Mevlut. “I’m going to marry her in a religious ceremony, too.”

  In the van the next morning, on our way to the village, Mevlut was in a great mood, joking around, looking at every passing factory and bridge, telling me “Faster, floor it!” and generally just babbling away. Then, he went quiet.