Anastasia Milko
A little Turkish boy with a wooden stick
A man who loves stories and collects them as other collect postcards, can’t but share them, otherwise they will haunt him and might as well start to rule his reality through feelings and deeds. Thus, the only way to let the old pictures go is to give them life. That’s my plan for the rest of my life, even if no one shows the slightest interest in them, there must liberation.
Chapter 1
A new story to tell
Imagine the scene: the oldest district in Fatith named Balat, one of the historically richest places in Istanbul, yet unfairly neglected by many tourists, especially now during coronavirus restrictions. Quietly walking along the curvy paving streets, where famous coffee shops are still closed, a girl is devouring the peaceful scenery with her sparkled eyes barely paying attention to her companion’s words. It’s still early in the morning. The naked sun is covering colorful wooden and stone houses, washing away the sleepiness of the neighborhood. The girl is escorted by a reputable guide who volunteered to show her the fading beauty of utterly amazing ancient skinny tall houses, and most importantly to tell her old forgotten stories behind shabby rusted gates with vines covering the broken locks and fancy Mediterranean style cottages of all the colors imaginable. It was her main objective to hear the precious story of little significance to many, yet not her. The stories of love and abandon, of greedy pashas and noble fishermen, of a little beauty in a tattered cloths noticed by both a kind and plain street shoe cleaner boy and a sinful and lustful merchant. The girl longed to become part of their lives and follow them toward heaven or hell, depending on their choices and intentions.
However, to her utter disappointment, the guide’s English was extremely poor and, feeling that the barrier will not allow her to penetrate into his bright and quick mind, she sighed theatrically and turned away, focusing instead on the decorations of the district, willing to listen to the stories that life itself was ready to confide in a very keen for secrets foreigner. Anyway, these stories couldn’t have been worse than her guide’s ones.
The story she learned that day faded over time, and the memories of the boy started to intermingle with her own imaginative pictures, shall she not lose the thread of the plot, it was decided to let it flow. It didn’t seem right to keep the beautiful story in the dark to your own satisfaction, when someone might have been longing to hear about a brave and decisive boy with a little wooden stick their whole life.
Let it start now.
The story begins late at night on the 22nd of May.
“Do you even listen to a word I say?” muttered baba Yussuf, addressing his older son Kerem.
“You have aroused envy and wounded some of our neighbors’ pride son, boasting of your new phone on the streets yesterday, using the shaitan expressions and insults!” the father tried to keep his voice firm but without confronting the young man, who looked rebellious and had fire in his indifferent eyes now, father continued his preaching. Indeed, his son was nothing like the boy he used to know just a few years ago. Mr. Yussuf had no idea what was it he had to do as a head of the family now, he prayed for both of his sons in the Mosque as well as at home, sometimes concentrating merely on Kerem. The lovely boy turned out a nightmare for everyone who knew him and cared for him. Even Allah seemed to be too busy to solve the matter. God knew that Yussuf did nothing wrong, never he was strict or touched the sons. His main objective in life was to raise good Muslim men, a blessing of his life.
“Firstly, father, don’t instruct me as if I were Can or your wife” the tone of Kerem’s bold speech stroke his father’s heart, yet he kept quiet to let the boy finish what he had in mind.
“Secondly, I have little concern, if any, for what our neighbors might think of me”
It was dark and still raining; the wind didn’t show the hint of ceasing and everyone was sleeping apart from Mr. Yussuf and his sixteen year old son, who just came home after only God knows what kind of secret business. Whatever had happened to Kerem, the truth was inescapable for Yussuf, his older son, his main merit of the life, was drunk or even high. It was difficult to reject the truth anymore. He dared to come home after dirty deeds, being drunk and absolutely disrespectful, not even planning to pretend being sorry.
“In this case, son, think at least about me and your mother, it is such a torture to go out literally feeling contempt and disapproving look of our friends. Even Can, whom you love more than us, I suppose, suffers from your behavior now”
Yussuf had hopes to shatter his sons defending walls with a sense of pity toward his own family, since public opinion had no effect on Kerem’s conscience anymore.
Yussuf paused for an instance and went on, asking God to give him right words to touch his son’s heart.
“Can is extremely lonely, you know, no one is willing to play with him. Neither have they accepted his serine invitations to come for halva and tea last week. He has crossed the line of being an outsider for what he has no responsibility. Is it fair, son? Think of him please!”
Normally Kerem never hesitated to speak his mind, however it seemed extremely difficult to blame not the neighbors or even his parents but little brother Can, who was a real angel, especially comparing to him. Still, it took him just a few seconds to jump from love to hate.
“You want me to feel sorry, don’t you father?”
“Well, well, well, I do feel sorry for being your son, for living in a shabby and stinky house you funnily call home. I will also tell you something for just your ears” he stood up staring death his father, “I don’t care what’s going on in your or your little bastard’s life”
Silence dropped.
Two men standing face to face, feeling outraged.
Mr. Youssuf never heard someone cursing in his house before, not had he ever imagined being a witness to his own precious son swearing his family. It was more than he could bear, but it was still not enough to lay a hand on his son.
Unfortunately, this exact time not only father’s ears heard the hurtful sentence of a beloved son, little Can was wide awake, listening carefully on his bed upstairs. He was extremely worried about Kerem, telling himself he would not fall asleep until his brother would return in the bedroom. He didn’t, but it might have been better for him to break his word and to be asleep now than feel that the whole world was falling to the ground.
“How dare you speak this word, have you no fear of Allah?”
“Go to Jahannam with your God” blurted Kerem, narrowing his foxy blurred eyes
With tears in eyes Mr. Yussuf bowed down his head, it was too much now.
“Go away. I will not tolerate a man like you in my family. You are a real disappointment to me, and I will probably take my responsibility for raising a devil like you, but till that time you will not be named my son. Go now”.
It was for the first time that Kerem had heard anything sharp from his kind father, still this exactly was not a mere plea, it was an imperious command given with deep sorrow yet with high determination. Kerem was feeling a bit tipsy, though he felt he was not ready to give in without a battle. It was time to go. He left grinning evilly. At the doorway he paused, waved his hand and nodded as if he was talking to someone visible only to him. He chuckled darkly, and then spitted at the doormat.
The door slammed.
Mr. Yussuf sobbed the whole night, next door Can couldn’t sleep a wink either but his eyes were dry. The moon’s silver beams and innumerable stars sparkling high in the dark blue expanse were the only hope for Can that his elder brother would be guided and protected in that dark and disturbed night. He had no grunge for the word Kerem had called him, he was not even sure about the meaning, yet it must have been something beyond what father could have tolerated, and there was little he couldn’t when it came to his precious son. Believe it or not but this seven year old boy didn’t lose neither love nor peace in his little brave heart this night. Realization that it was not his brother talking but a dangerous spirit of alcohol came immediately to Can, and he felt sorry for his brother who must have been captured in its hands.