‘I’m guessing you’re late for something.’ As Binnaz Hanım spoke, she gestured at the maid, who was fast approaching him.
The moment her mistress had opened her mouth, she’d come rushing. And now she was standing before him with the coffee tray, making a polite curtsy.
‘Yes,’ Binnaz Hanım continued. ‘Sometimes people spoil themselves. But did you know, Ziya Bey, that up until this moment, no one in the world has ever spoiled me? Every now and again, I try and convince myself that someone somewhere must have spoiled me when I was a child. And believe you me, I’ve pecked so hard at my memories, you’d think I was a starving chicken, hunting for one last morsel of food. Nothing. Not even a hint. It’s never long, though, before I remember my mother’s silence. I can see her even now, you know — floating around in the backwaters of my mind with her plastic washtub. She only ever opened her mouth to scold me. If I hadn’t done something to merit a scolding, she kept her mouth shut. She used looks in place of words. She had green eyes that reminded me of unripe grapes. She would move them like this — very, very slowly — or else bounce them about, like a pair of marbles. If she did that, they would lose their sparkle almost instantly and begin to steam up, of course. And that’s how she would be for the rest of the day, solemn, steamy-eyed, and silent. Was she silent to protect us from her anger, or to shield herself from the possibility of attack? I couldn’t tell you. What I do know is that every time I came close to Mother, I felt like I was teetering over a deep, dark cliff. That’s how I felt, Ziya Bey. In real life such things never happened, but whenever I drew close to that poor mother of mine, I genuinely felt like I was teetering over a deep, dark cliff. Such a look she would give me. But then turn back to her chores. This weary shadow that was my mother would dive back into her mountains of dishes and dirty laundry. Only the dewy, shaking clothes pegs would remain in her wake. A glimmer of that red plastic washtub. A rattle of pots and pans. May she rest in peace, that’s all I can say. Except that never in a million years would it have occurred to this woman to spoil her children. Neither did my father have much time for these things, Ziya Bey. As much as I longed for it to be otherwise, I only saw him a few times a month. Every morning, that bastard would be out of bed, and out the door, crack of dawn, even before the crows ate their shit. “Time is money!” he would say. He wouldn’t be back until late at night, long after our fleas had started jumping. Coming or going, he carried with him the alcoholic stink of the meyhane. Every night he came home, I’d wake up in the morning with the same wall of fumes in my room. Sometimes he’d just stand at the foot of my bed, leaning over as if to kiss me, his shoulders trembling, his outstretched arms, too. He would sit at the edge of the bed, and while I held my breath, I would also hold his stare. I would stare into this cloud that stank of onions, and meat, and cigarettes, and beans, and vinegar and rakı, until it turned back into something more like my father again. Until it was a solid mass again, and put its feet back on the floor. Then I’d go to the bathroom to wash my face, race into the kitchen to make breakfast, race back into my room to prepare my schoolbag, and all the while, he stayed by my side. Except when I went to the toilet, of course. Then he would wait outside the door, as kind and patient as any father could be. Sometimes, when we were traipsing around like this, he would stagger, just a little, but I didn’t care: that’s how happy I was to have him there with me. Because even through that quivering wall of
meyhane stink I could feel my father’s warmth, and when I felt that warmth, believe me, I would come alive again, then and there. When I felt my father’s warmth flowing through me, I just couldn’t bear to leave him. I’d forget about school and all that. I’d do just about anything to put off leaving. And — let me tell you — I could be extraordinarily inventive when it came to that. When no one was looking, I’d pull a button off my uniform, and then I’d take my time looking for a needle and thread, and even more time to sew it back on. Or I’d run around pretending to be all upset, and saying, “Oh no! I’ve forgotten to do my homework!” And then I would open up my notebook, and I’d huff and I’d puff, scribbling down page after page of whatever came into my head. Of course, my poor mother had no idea why I did all this, and because she had no idea, she’d just stand there behind the kitchen stove. Or she’d poke her head round the door or the washing basket and stun me with that peculiar, wide-eyed stare and say, “Come on now, you’ll be late for school!” That’s the long and the short of it — wherever we come from, it’s our father who creates us, Ziya Bey, and there aren’t any others that can replace him. A whiff of his scent, a glimpse of his pale shadow, a hint of his trembling form, or even just a sign of his absence and someone like me can make him into a father again. There are other ways to come alive, to be sure. Others have been known to do so by succumbing to a warm embrace, or burning in the passion of a stolen glance. They can be born again in the spirit of a book, or brought to life by a single touch. Or by any number of brilliant or moronic acts that might have slipped my mind. Those with little souls that are easily sated can come to life just by sitting in the corner munching on sunflower seeds. Wild souls can come to life by venturing beyond the shadows to break and spill everything they touch. Or they may come to life without doing much at all. At the end of the day, a father cannot be measured by the same stick we could use on all those others. A father is a different prospect altogether. We are talking about something very old here. Something as old as the birds. As old as the clouds above us. As old as the stones at our feet. I came to understand all this much better, you know, after my father died. Though he didn’t just die. What I should have said — and let me say it now, even if it grinds my teeth to dust — what I should have said is: he was murdered. This angelic man who had to work so hard to keep his family housed and fed — he was cut down in the most barbaric way imaginable, in the middle of the afternoon, for just a few dirty coins. They attacked him together and before anyone could blink, they had stabbed him to death. If you want to ask me who dealt the killing blow, I can tell you now. It was Matkap the Drill! His real name was Macit Karakas¸, and he was the nastiest, most pitiful cretin imaginable. He was one of my father’s business partners. If you got up right now and tried to imitate a turkey, Ziya Bey, you would go some way to capturing the way this cretin walked, with a black raincoat that went down to his heels. But he was not the sort who could sit down in one place for long. You might think, from the way I’ve described him, that he cut an impressive figure, but you would be wrong, Ziya Bey. In fact he was a tiny thing, about the size of a chickpea. But what God took from him in size, he gave him in voice. Whenever he spoke, it made the ground beneath your feet creak and sway so badly you’d have thought it was an earthquake. And all the sounds around him would seem to bow to him, and the silences too. Whatever was nearby, and whatever it was, it, too, would tremble at the sound of that booming voice, until there seemed to be hundreds of Matkaps, all shouting at once. And of course this was frightening. Like it or not, you ended up wondering if something terrible was about to happen. But anyway, I’ve probably said enough. There’s just one more thing you should know. This man was a complete and utter brute. Wherever you took him, he’d pick a fight. He’d always find some pretext, no matter what. If he couldn’t, he’d just sit there, stiff as a board, searching the room for any excuse to start something. Surrounding this piece of filth were a number of men with faces like pine planks. But they were fleet of foot, Ziya Bey. They swaggered about in black cloaks that never touched their sides, using their huge hands and elbows to open the way for Matkap — as if anyone would dare to block it. They knocked people over even when they weren’t in his path. And oh, how clumsy they were, how monumentally clumsy. Frowning and glowering and growling through their moustaches. If anyone would be so bold as to object to all this pushing and shoving, they would round on him at once, and by the time they were done, it wasn’t a pretty sight, let me tell you! But Matkap never looked. He’d just avert his eyes. Puff up his chest and march on like a victorious general, swishing his raincoat from side to side. He had no interest in men whose faces had been smashed like cheap china. Or men who’d been sent flying against the wall with a single punch. Or the poor creatures who curled up like woodlice when his associates kicked them across the floor. For this was a man so merciless that the word alone does not come close to describing him. He was, in short, a complete and utter tyrant. A tyrant among tyrants, until he saw a child. What can I say? In the space of a moment, he ceased to be Matkap. A blink of the eye, and he became a gentle and benevolent dervish. When a child crossed his path, he never looked away. He stared at them so hard, you’d think he was trying to see inside them — into their souls. Their futures. He’d stare at them, speechless. And then he’d let out the strangest sound — a sound which seemed to belong to someone else. And that was it. He’d begin to cry. I don’t know what he saw in children to make him cry. Was it their beauty? Their little quince hairs? The way they sneezed into their hands? Their tiny little bodies? The men who looked like pine planks, meanwhile — they’d have seen this coming. They’d have reached inside their pockets for the handkerchiefs he’d soon need. Sometimes, they’d even try to get there before he did, sobbing and bawling, bending and twisting, wailing and throwing themselves about. And all the while, there was Matkap in the middle, crying his heart out. There is only one word for it: surreal. The pine planks might have seen themselves as humouring their patron, though in fact they were turning him into some sort of caricature. Their false tears served only to make Matkap’s tears look just as false. But there was always that moment when Matkap’s tears could genuinely touch you. All of a sudden, you’d feel a slow, warm drip of goodwill. Do you know, Ziya Bey, I think I’ve calmed down now. Yes, when I relive that scene, I feel very sad. I’m going to have a cigarette if you don’t mind. Would you like one?’