A Strangeness in My Mind Read online

Page 48


  Whoever had written that last comment was, in my guides’ opinion, a hero, a brave soul truly dedicated to his job. If they discovered a nightclub or a secret gambling den (I’d heard that Sami from Sürmene was involved in that racket, too) artfully stealing power, most inspectors would avoid taking official note of it; that way, when they were offered money to look the other way, they wouldn’t have to kick back to their superiors. Whenever I came across this kind of tip-off, I would head out for a surprise inspection of the café, restaurant, or nightclub that corresponded to that particular meter, fantasizing all the while of how close I was to taking down Sami from Sürmene and rescuing my beloved Selvihan from his clutches.

  —

  Mahinur Meryem. I was almost forty years old when I became pregnant with Süleyman’s child. At that age, a woman on her own has to think about her future and how she will live for the rest of her life. We’d been together for ten years. I may have been naïve enough to believe all Süleyman’s lies and excuses, but I guess my body knew what was necessary better than I did.

  As I expected, Süleyman didn’t take the news well. At first he accused me of making it up to force him to marry me. But as we got drunk and screamed at each other in that apartment in Cihangir, he began to realize that I really was carrying his baby, and he got scared. He got very drunk and wrecked the place, which was very upsetting, but I could also see that he was pleased. After that, we argued every time he visited, though I kept trying to appease him. His threats and his drinking only got worse, though. He even threatened to stop supporting my singing career.

  “Forget the music, Süleyman, I would die for this baby,” I would tell him sometimes.

  Those words would soften him, and he would become gentle again. But even when he didn’t, we would still have violent sex after every fight.

  “How can you make love to a woman that way and then just leave?” I would say.

  Süleyman would look down in embarrassment. But sometimes, on his way out, he would say that if I kept hectoring him, I would never see him again.

  “Then this is our farewell, Süleyman,” I would say, closing the door with tears in my eyes. He started coming by every day of the week after that, and meanwhile the baby kept growing in my womb. That didn’t stop him from trying to slap me a couple of times.

  “Go on, Süleyman, hit me,” I said. “Maybe you’ll be able to get rid of me the way you people got rid of Rayiha.”

  Sometimes he looked so helpless that I would feel sorry for him. He would sit there—QUIETLY and POLITELY—agonizing about his life like a merchant whose fleet has just sunk to the bottom of the Black Sea and knocking back rakı like it was water, and I would tell him how happy we were going to be, how looking into his soul I saw a diamond in the rough, and how rare it was to find the kind of closeness and understanding we shared.

  “You’ve been bullied by your brother long enough, but if you could get away from him, Süleyman, you’d be a new man. We have nothing to fear from anyone.”

  This whole thing would get us talking about whether I would ever start wearing a headscarf. “I’ll think about it,” I’d say. “But there are some things I can do, and some things I just can’t.”

  “Me too,” Süleyman would say dejectedly. “So you tell me what you feel you can do.”

  “Sometimes women agree to have a religious wedding on top of the civil ceremony, just to spare their well-meaning husbands any headaches…I can do that. But first your family has to come to the house in Üsküdar and formally ask my parents for my hand.”

  —

  In the autumn of 1995, Mevlut returned to Istanbul and his job at the advertising agency parking lot. The Groom—who understood entirely that Mevlut had to return to his village after the death of his wife—gave him back all his duties, which had been assigned to the doorman in his absence. Mevlut saw that in the three months he’d been away, Kemal from Zonguldak’s gang had expanded its territory, shifting its borders with the help of two flowerpots and a few loose curbstones. More worrying, they had adopted an aggressive new tone toward Mevlut. But he didn’t mind. After Rayiha’s death, he was constantly angry at everyone and everything, but for some reason, he couldn’t bring himself to feel that way about this young man from Zonguldak with his new navy blazer.

  At night, he still went out to sell boza, and he devoted the rest of his energy to his daughters. But his attentions never got beyond a few very basic questions: “Have you done your homework?” “Are you hungry?” “Are you okay?” He was aware that they spent even more time at their aunt Samiha’s now and that they didn’t really want to talk to him about their visits. So when the doorbell rang one morning after Fatma and Fevziye had left for school, and he opened the door to find Ferhat behind it, he thought for a moment that his friend must want to talk about his girls.

  “You can’t live in this neighborhood anymore unless you’ve got a gun,” said Ferhat. “Drugs, prostitutes, transvestites, all kinds of gangs…We’ve got to find you and the girls a new place somewhere…”

  “We’re happy here; this is Rayiha’s home.”

  Ferhat said there was something very important he wanted to talk about and took Mevlut to one of the new cafés on Taksim Square. They watched the crowds pouring into Beyoğlu and talked for a long time. Eventually, Mevlut understood that his friend was offering him a job as a sort of electricity inspector’s apprentice.

  “But do you have any private doubts about this?”

  “In this case, what I’m saying and what I feel privately are identical,” said Ferhat. “This job will make you happy, it’ll make the girls happy, and it’ll even make Rayiha happy, worried as she must be about you all, up there in heaven. You’re going to be making good money.”

  In fact, the salary Mevlut would draw from Seven Hills Electric wasn’t very high, but working as Ferhat’s so-called assistant, chasing after past-due bills, would still pay more than looking after the Groom’s parking lot. But he sensed that to arrive at this “good money” would involve taking a cut from what he was able to collect from customers.

  “These new owners from Kayseri know full well that their employees will take advantage where they can,” said Ferhat. “Just bring your middle-school diploma, proof of address, your identity card, and six passport photos, and we can get you started within three days. We’ll do a few rounds together to start, and I’ll teach you everything you need to know. You’re an honest, fair-minded man, Mevlut, and that’s why we really want you to join us.”

  “May God acknowledge your good deeds,” said Mevlut, and as he paced around the parking lot later, he thought of how Ferhat hadn’t even noticed the sarcasm in those words. Three days later, he phoned the number Ferhat had given him.

  “For the first time in your life, you’ve made the right decision,” said Ferhat.

  In two days, they met at the bus stop in Kurtuluş. Mevlut had worn his best blazer and a pair of unstained trousers. Ferhat had brought a bag that had once belonged to one of the two elderly bookkeepers. “You’ll need one of these inspector’s bags,” he said. “They scare people.”

  They went into a street on the outer edges of Kurtuluş. Mevlut still came to this neighborhood to sell boza sometimes. At night, neon lamps and the light from TV sets gave this street a more modern air, but in its unassuming daytime guise, it looked just as it had twenty-five years ago when he was in middle school. They spent the whole morning in that neighborhood, inspecting almost two hundred fifty electric meters from the same logbook.

  The first thing they would do upon entering a building was check the meters downstairs near the doorman’s quarters. “Number seven’s got a load of unpaid bills; they’ve had two warnings in the past five months and still haven’t paid, but look: their meter is spinning away,” Ferhat would say, in the tone of one trying to instill learning. He’d take the logbook from his bag, squinting every now and then as he leafed through it. “Number six filed a complaint about two supposed overcharges from around this time
last year. Looks like we never cut their power off. And yet their meter’s completely still. Huh. Let’s have a look.”

  They’d climb up to the third floor, through the smell of mold, onions, and frying oil, and ring the doorbell of number 7. Before anyone could answer, Ferhat would call out “Electric company!” like an unforgiving inquisitor. An electricity inspector at the door would throw the household into a panic, and there was something about Ferhat’s manner that could break into a family’s private world even as he silently rebuked them for it. Mevlut had learned these nuances in his own way, during all the years he’d spent delivering yogurt door to door. Perhaps, then, it wasn’t just his honesty that had led Ferhat to seek his help but also his experience navigating the intimate world of private households—in particular, his ability to talk to women without making them feel harassed.

  The door to a home with an unpaid bill might open, but it could also stay shut. In that case, Mevlut would do as Ferhat showed him, checking to see whether he could hear any sounds coming from inside. If the approaching footsteps they’d heard just after they rang the bell suddenly stopped after they called out “Electric company!” it meant, of course, that there was someone inside unwilling to settle their debt. Usually, though, the door would open, and they would be faced with a housewife, a mother, a middle-aged auntie trying to tie up her headscarf, a woman with a child in her arms, a ghostly old grandpa, an angry idler, a woman in pink dishwashing gloves, or a very old lady who could barely see.

  “Electric company!” Ferhat would again say officiously through the open door. “You have unpaid bills!”

  Some would reply immediately: “Come back tomorrow, inspector, I don’t have any change” or “We don’t have any money today!” Others would say, “What do you mean, son, we pay our bills at the bank every month.” Others still would insist, “We paid it only yesterday” or “We send our doorman to the bank with the money every month.”

  “I don’t know about that, but it says on here that you have overdue charges,” Ferhat would say. “It’s all automated now; the computer does everything. We’re required to cut your power off if you refuse to pay.”

  Ferhat would glance at Mevlut, as proud to show off his authority as he was pleased to be showing Mevlut the ropes of the job and a glimpse of its vast opportunities. Sometimes he would walk away mysteriously saying nothing at all, leaving the residents to appeal to Mevlut. A few hours on the job, and he’d already learned to recognize those worried looks that said, Now what? Is he really going to cut us off?

  If he decided to be lenient, Ferhat would usually deliver the news himself to the anxious customer at the door. “I’ll let you off this time, but remember, it’s all been privatized now, you won’t get away with it again!” he’d say. Or “When I cut it off, you’re going to have to pay an extra fee to have it reconnected again, so you’d best think about that, too.” Sometimes his verdict would be “I won’t cut you off today, seeing as there’s a pregnant woman in the house, but it’s the last time!” “If you’re not going to pay for your electricity, you might at least try not to use so much!” he might say, to which the relieved person at the door would respond, “God bless you!” Sometimes Ferhat would point to the runny-nosed little kid in the doorway, saying, “I’ll leave your lights on this time, for this one’s sake. But child or no child, I won’t be so generous next time.”

  Occasionally, a little boy would open the door and say there was no one home. Some children became extremely nervous when they were put up to this, while others were as brash as adults, having already absorbed the notion that to lie well was a form of cleverness. Having listened for sounds inside the house before ringing the doorbell, Ferhat always knew when a child was lying, but often he would play along to spare the boy’s feelings.

  “All right, kid,” he’d say like a kindly uncle. “Tell your folks when they’re back tonight that you’ve got electric bills to pay, all right? Now tell me, what’s your name?”

  “Talat!”

  “Good boy, Talat! Now close the door so the devil doesn’t get you.”

  But all this was an act Ferhat put on for Mevlut’s first day, to make the job seem easier and more pleasant than it really was. They would have drunks telling them, “Our only debt is to God, inspector”; people screaming, “The government’s turned to usury now, you’re fleecing us, you bastards”; octogenarians in dentures saying, “Those bribes you take will land you in the pits of hell” before slamming the door in their faces; and smart-aleck layabouts asking, “How do I know you’re really from the electric company?” but Ferhat never took the bait, not even batting an eyelid in that torrent of lies—“My mother’s on her deathbed,” “Our father’s gone to do his military service!,” “We’ve just moved in, those bills must be the previous tenants’.” As they walked out of a building, he would carefully explain to Mevlut the truth behind each of the excuses they’d just heard: the man who complained “You’re fleecing us!” always claimed he’d been forced to bribe a different team of inspectors every week. The old man with the dentures wasn’t even religious; Ferhat had seen him plenty of times in the bar on Kurtuluş Square…

  “We’re not here to torment these people, only to make them pay for what they’ve used,” said Ferhat in a coffeehouse later on. “There’s nothing to be gained by leaving a bunch of poor men, women, and children without power if they just don’t have the money. Your job is to figure out who really can’t afford it, who could pay some of their bill, who could easily pay the whole thing but is just making excuses, who’s a crook, and who’s being sincere. The bosses have given me the power to rule on these cases like a judge; it’s my job to make the necessary evaluations. Your job, too, obviously…Do you understand?”

  “I understand,” said Mevlut.

  “Now, my dear Mevlut, there are two things that are strictly forbidden: If you haven’t gone and checked a meter yourself, you never make up a number to write down and pretend you have. If they catch you, you’re finished. The other thing—though I’m sure I don’t need to tell you of all people—is that we can’t even have a hint of harassing or ogling the women or anything like that. The company’s got its reputation to protect; they wouldn’t think twice about what to do…Now, how about I take you to the Springtime Club to celebrate the new job?”

  “I’m going out to sell boza tonight.”

  “Even tonight? You’re going to make loads of money now.”

  “I’m going to sell boza every night,” said Mevlut.

  Ferhat leaned forward and smiled, as if to say he understood.

  8

  * * *

  Mevlut in the Farthest Neighborhoods

  Dogs Will Bark at Anyone Who Doesn’t Belong Among Us

  Uncle Hasan. When I found out that Süleyman got an older woman—a singer, no less—pregnant, and now he was going to marry her, I said nothing. We were already very sad for Mevlut. When I see the calamities suffered by those around me, I tell Safiye how glad I am to have never wanted anything more than my little grocery store. Just to sit in my shop folding newspapers into pint baskets every day, that’s enough to make me happy.

  —

  Vediha. Maybe this was for the best, I thought. Otherwise who knows if Süleyman would have ever managed to get married. It was just me and Korkut who went to the house in Üsküdar with him to ask Miss Melahat’s father for her hand. Süleyman wore his finest. It struck me that he’d never made such an effort for any of the girls we’d gone to see together. He kissed the hand of his future father-in-law—a retired government clerk—with real deference. Süleyman must really love this Melahat. I can’t say I understand why, though, and I would love to know. When she finally made her appearance, she looked dignified and stylish enough, a forty-year-old woman serving us coffee like a teenage girl meeting her suitor. I liked that she didn’t treat the whole thing as a joke and that she was courteous and respectful. She got her self a cup of coffee, too. Then she passed around a pack of Samsuns. She handed one to
her father—she had only just made her peace with him, Süleyman had said—and then she lit one up herself and blew smoke right out into the middle of the little room. We all went quiet. In that moment, I saw that far from feeling embarrassed to be forced into marrying this woman he’d gotten pregnant, Süleyman was proud of her. As the smoke from Miss Melahat’s cigarette swirled about the room like a blue mist, Süleyman could not have looked more smug if he’d blown that smoke in Korkut’s face himself, and I was confused.

  —

  Korkut. Of course they were in no position to impose any conditions. These were humble, well-intentioned people of modest means. Unfortunately, however, they were not well versed in matters of religion. The people of Duttepe love to gossip. We thought it would be best to avoid Mecidiyeköy and have the wedding somewhere farther away, so we arranged with Süleyman a small but perfectly presentable wedding hall in Aksaray. Once that was done, I said, “Let’s go have an afternoon drink, just me and you, brother to brother, man to man,” and we went to a restaurant in Kumkapı. “Süleyman,” I said after the second round, “as your brother, I am now going to ask you a very important question. We like this lady. But a man’s honor counts more than anything else. Are you absolutely certain that Miss Melahat will fit in with our way of life?”

  “Don’t worry,” he said at first, but then he asked, “What exactly do you mean about honor?”

  —

  Ferhat. While they were busy getting Süleyman married off, I went on a reconnaissance mission to the Sunshine Club, pretending to be an ordinary customer. That’s another perk of the job: you get to have a couple of drinks while you look around for evidence they might be stealing electricity, what tricks they might be using, and see the faces of those conceited club owners totally unaware they’re about to get their comeuppance. All the ladies were taking up their positions in various corners of the room, and we settled down for a long night. At the table, we had Demir from Dersim, two contractors, one former left-wing militant, and another hardworking young inspector like me.