Like her, I quietly pulled the door shut, and left. It’s around the same time of day that she left. I quickly make my way down the stairs, and then slow as I move through the garden of the apartment complex. I lower my head in polite response to the doorman’s greeting.
Are those guys talking about me behind my back? What does that guy do every night? Where’s he going like that? Is that what they say? So what if they do. Looked like the bastard had a grin on his face when he greeted me. He watched me intently, as if to say, I know where you’re headed, buddy. How would you know, you idiot? He probably thinks I’m out picking up chicks. If that were the case, I’d take the car. These guys think my car’s shit too. They gossip. He goes on foot ’cause he knows there’s no way he can pick up chicks with that lemon. That’s what they say. Goddamn know-it-alls. They can say whatever they want, like I give a shit! The parking lot here’s like a car show. Next to all those brand-new fancy vehicles, our car looks like scrap metal. Ours? Those idiot doormen must know by now that there is no “ours” anymore. Maybe they feel sorry for me. Or maybe, if they’ve had a spat with the old lady that day, they just feel jealous.
It’s freezing cold, but at least I can breathe once I’m outside. I can’t stand it inside anymore. It’s like the walls are collapsing on top of me; television, movies, newspapers, it all makes me sick to my stomach. Forget about sleeping, if I could only breathe I wouldn’t set foot outside. I’m managing all right, even if I do wander around like a ghoul every night. But how long can I possibly keep it up? And I’ve actually come to like going to work. Files, correspondence, meetings all fill up the day. I’m fine when I’m at work, but once I get home...
There must be a minibus coming. I can hear it wheezing up the hill. When the weary driver sees me in the distance, he’ll be counting his blessings — Got me a passenger for the last trip of the night. He’ll understand soon enough that he’s got me pegged wrong. He’ll honk, though, regardless of the late hour. I should walk away from the avenue and go look at that shop window, so he understands that I’m not waiting for a ride. Ugly shit they’re selling. And they cost a fortune. I’m sure some folks come in here and try to bargain them down a few liras. We sure did. But I didn’t try to cut a deal on the bedroom furniture. If only I’d known! I sleep in the living room now. Can’t sleep in the bedroom. It’s just one silent scream. But what do you know, same thing goes for the living room.
I should cross the road and head downhill toward the university. It’s calmer over there. The minibus route’s like a border. They’re still going strong on the right side of the road, even at this hour of the night. The left side is nothing but slumber. The buildings on the right are ten, fifteen stories high, but the ones on the left max out at four or five, and usually aren’t more than one or two. It’s a wonder the contractors haven’t ripped into this place yet. They’ve already started tearing down the ten-story buildings on the right side and putting up bigger and better ones. Actually, this stretch would bring a pretty penny. Either the city won’t let them build that high yet, or the plots are too small, divided up into too many units. But anyway.
Are there more streetlamps on the right, or are they just brighter? It’s pitch black on the other side of the avenue. Maybe it’s the lights in the shop windows that make it so shiny there; here the stores are completely closed down — the metal shutters, the padlocks, the lights, the signs, all tucked in for the night. Shopkeepers probably figure there’s no need to keep the place lit up, since there’s nobody out here after dark.
A few nights ago there were some young guys hanging out at one of these corners, sitting on a low wall cracking sunflower seeds. Maybe they were drinking beer too. I walked by them without a glance. At first I was afraid; what if they start picking on me, say something, come after me... But the closer I got, the less scared I felt. In fact, I almost wanted them to try and pick a fight. As I walked past them, I felt the blood rush through my veins, from just below my knees down to my toes (warmed my cold feet up); it was like the stuff wanted to burst out of my body, but it was trapped. When they saw me they went silent and stared. Without even glancing at their faces, I saw that they were looking at me. I just stared ahead and walked right past them, without even seeing the darkness (though, actually, there was a good bit of light shining down from the streetlamp in front of the wall where they were parked). If I run into them tonight, I’m going to turn around and look at them. Let’s see if they have something to say. But tonight I am leaving later than usual. Even they are back home in bed by now, I bet. Their fathers probably grumbled about them being out so late and their mothers probably got their beds ready for them while asking what they’d been up to, as if they didn’t know their boys were out bumming around on the streets all day.
If I told somebody I spent my nights wandering around these streets, they’d probably think I was nuts. But who would I tell? The other day Ertürk asked me what I did in the evenings. “Nothing,” I said. He didn’t press me. “We should go drinking sometime,” he suggested. “Sure,” I replied. But then we never made plans for a specific date or anything. He probably didn’t know what else to say after that. What if I got carried away and lost it, or even worse, what if I got weepy? “We should go drinking sometime.” That sure took the weight off his conscience. But that’s fine with me, it’s not like I really want a drinking buddy or anything. I like things the way they are. Walking these streets. Exercise, for the hell of it — for what it, and this body, are worth.
I spot a figure over by one of the cars parked on the left side of the street. Why would anyone be out at this time of night? Unless he’s just hitting the streets for no reason at all, like me. He must be headed for the hospital or the police station, can’t be anything but bad news at this hour.
Just as I begin thinking I should turn right to put some distance between myself and the shadowy figure, a car alarm goes off. I’m not the only one startled by it. The shadow starts to run. And I after him.
I have to catch him. I can. I will. He’s fast too. I’ve started to catch up, but I can feel the energy draining out of me. So what happens when I catch him? The question doesn’t slow me down. What am I going to do, beat him up? Turn him in? I think of something Semih told me. He said for days after his cassette player was stolen from his car, he found his car repulsive. That’s what he said. “It was like the car had been defiled, I just couldn’t stomach getting into it.” I wonder if that’s the guy who broke into Semih’s car? Well, it was him or someone like him — those pricks are all alike. How many times have I told him, “Rent a place in an apartment complex like ours, the streets aren’t safe. You spent all that money on the car, you shouldn’t just leave it out on the street.”
How much longer can I keep after this fool? What the hell am I chasing him for anyway? He might pull a knife, or maybe a screwdriver; in any case, something sharp, whatever he used to open the car door. All ties have been severed between my brain and my legs; my thoughts don’t slow me down; I just keep running, pacing myself like a long-distance pro. I never would’ve thought I’d be able to run so fast for so long. The benefits of not smoking. As I run I feel this sense of spaciousness, a kind of freshness within; I can almost catch a whiff of mint. Maybe after I catch up I’ll just run right past him, make it to the finish line first. The more I run, the lighter I feel. Maybe all the sweating is ridding my body of toxins? My heart is racing, and my head’s throbbing just as fast, but my legs couldn’t care less, it’s like they have a mind of their own.