“Isn’t Sevim Teyze in?”
“Who’s that?”
“The owner of this place.”
“I’m the owner of this place!” His answer comes crashing down on me. He tells me he’s been there for years, that he doesn’t know anything about any teyze, and that he has no desire to either. The woman was here just yesterday, I am absolutely certain of it. Sweat’s pouring out of me as I look around, and this other world is sucking me in deeper and deeper. The cute wooden chairs have been replaced by dirty white ghosts of cheap plastic. The tiny lamps with the soft lights are gone. There are glass vinegar holders smudged with fingerprints on the tables. I want to lift those fingerprints and track down everyone responsible. This place has become just like all the others. Those sausage fingers can’t be bothered with delicate matters; they are busy stuffing baloney in a shoe-sized piece of bread.
I rush back outside. I walk toward the gate of Beyazıt Mosque and Çınaraltı. But that spacious plaza now stifles me. The huge plane tree, once a cool oasis where you could enjoy your tea in the open air, has turned black, its dry leaves crackling, dead and withered. A stiff pigeon falls to the ground in front of me. In a panic, I look around for a delicate hand, but all I can see are hairy knuckles, dirty nails, and callused fists gripping the dainty tulip glasses.
An unbearable stench reaches my nose; it’s coming from the Sahaflar Gate, the antique book bazaar. The used book stands have lost their exquisite, yellowish scent and now reek of dead mice. The windows are full of books bound in black. There are no names on the books. They’re a monotone, monochrome choir cloaked in black. I lean closer to the window, straining to find a name, and the choir breaks out in a ghastly chant. I am searching for the name of a woman, but the books have no authors, male or female.
I leave the Sahaflar Gate, desperate to forget what it is I’ve been looking for. A crowd has gathered next to the street in a commotion of ear-piercing cries and police sirens. There is a man on the ground, bleeding to death. Blood gushes from his throat. Everybody is busy telling everybody else what happened while the man lies there dying. I hear them say that the man was stabbed over a girl, and I become delirious with hope. I couldn’t care less about the man who’s been stabbed — I want to see the girl, to see the girl and put an end to this nightmare. I stare into the police car, hoping to see her. Surely they would take her into custody, into safety. But there is no girl. Not in the car, not anywhere.
I hear whispers in the crowd: Two men were out on the town. One man made a remark about the other man’s girlfriend, and got stabbed in return. He said she was “beautiful.” Perhaps what they call his girlfriend is not what I envision. Perhaps he is in love not with a girl, but with a piece of fabric — a piece of fabric that he airs out every once in a while, before putting it back in the closet.
My mother — I need to find her. I rush down the narrow empty road leading from behind the university toward my home. I want to believe that this will all be over soon, that girls on their way to class will fill the plaza in droves the next day. Without a doubt, I would embrace every single one of them. I imagine a horseman storming through the grandiose gate of Istanbul University to read aloud some imperial decree, explaining the reasons for this temporary calamity and apologizing for any inconvenience.
I make my way home, convinced that tomorrow I’ll be back to yesterday and everything will be fine. My father is sitting in the living room in his underwear, cleaning his nails with a pocketknife. I have never seen my father in his underwear, nor have I ever seen him with a pocketknife. He burps loudly, his eyes glued to the TV screen. This can’t be our home; it must be another catacomb of my nightmare. My flesh is creeping as I try to find my mother. But then I change my mind and decide to wait. I don’t have the courage to look for her. I’m too afraid of what I won’t find. My father mills about like a bear marking his territory. He claims to be looking for an ashtray. His black socks are hanging from the couch.
I have to find her. I check the kitchen, but my mother is nowhere to be found. My suspicion snowballs into an avalanche.
“Did Mom go to bed, Dad?”
“What did you say?”
I repeat my question.
“What’s the matter with you, boy?” he says, his eyes glazed over.
I insist on an answer. He seems to feel sorry for me. He looks me straight in the eye, and talks to me like I’m suffering from some kind of amnesia or something.
“You never had a mother,” he says. “You know that. She never was. She never could be.”
Don’t say that, Dad! Don’t talk like that! Don’t think like that!
He doesn’t explain. He just stares at me as if to say that I should know that there is no such “thing.” The glint from his knife stabs me in the eye, blinding me. And so I listen, straining to hear the sound of my mother — a word, any word that’s been captured in the walls, a scream still hanging from the curtains. I want to grab onto it before it flies away, caress it, shelter it in my ear. But I can’t hear a thing, except for the grunting of the man pretending to be my father. I’m looking for my home. I leave, distraught and angry. I wait on the street until sunrise. To witness the return to normalcy.
Morning comes, but the darkness doesn’t leave, it only fades to gray. Dark gray. Walking through the pungently male clusters of students on the plaza, I start to abandon all hope. I enter the Covered Bazaar. It’s like a scene out of One Thousand and One Nights. I’m the main character in a bad fairy tale. I want to succumb to the beckoning young buck apprentices and buy a pair of şalvar, not as a souvenir but to wear in earnest. I want to buy a tesbih, not as decoration but to click in my hand. I want to wander into the Oriental Café and get hooked on a hookah. I wander through the labyrinth of the bazaar, hoping to get lost, when one of the arched entrances catches my eye. It’s completely black, a hole leading to nowhere. I delve inside, wishing for the worst, hoping to hit rock bottom.
Suddenly, I find myself in one of those movie theaters that shows the karate flicks with the porn interludes. The place reeks of semen. The floor is sticky. I see a sliver of light in the distance. I run, my feet clinging to the gunk on the floor. The insidious goo rises and rises, until I’m in the stuff all the way up to my knees. My whole body throbs. I’m in terrible pain. I finally make it out. I reach the light.
I’m on the ferry, sitting next to my friend and that boring guy, who’s still talking. I look outside; everything seems normal. I watch the brunette woman across from me licking her ice cream with gusto, another girl down the row courting the boy next to her. I now realize just how wrapped up I’ve been in whatever it is that boring guy’s been saying. I’ve been hostage to his drivel for a full half hour, the cramp in my stomach growing more and more crippling the longer I listen.
He talks like he’s seen, done, knows it all. He has a small store where he sells religious books. I try to envision the bookstore. It smells of rose oil, and men dressed in şalvar, men from another century.
“The people are waking up, though, slowly but surely,” he says.
“Waking up to what? The benefits of literacy?” I ask.
He leans back and smiles. He’s so sure of himself, it’s repulsive.
“That too,” he replies, “but what I really meant was that they are waking up to the fact that they are living in sin. The most remarkable thing about it is that they can’t see just how immersed in sin they themselves really are, how this sickness has infected them — and so they need to be told. They have to be taught a lesson.” They can’t fathom the consequences of skimpy skirts, he claims.