Authors: Hakan Günday
In fact, at some point, as a precaution against all this, he’d begun having numbers tattooed on the right heel of each immigrant and keeping a photo archive of these. When one vanished, he’d ask, “Tell me the number, which one was it?” He liked this photo business so much, one day he called my father to say, “Find number twelve!” and when rolling up number twelve’s pant leg, revealed the words “Up yours,” Aruz laughed like a baby elephant.
What was up my father’s was, of course, the recent victory of the football team Aruz supported over his. The papyrus scroll used to deliver the message was an Uzbek in his twenties. I don’t know why, but he also laughed. Maybe he was a lunatic. Actually, I think they were all lunatics. All those Uzbeks, Afghanis, Turkmenians, Malians, Kyrgyzes, Indonesians, Burmans, Pakistanis, Iranians, Malaysians, Syrians, Armenians, Azerbaijanis, Kurds, Kazakhs, Turks, all of them … because only a lunatic would put up with all this. All this meaning, in a sense, us: Aruz, my father, the brothers Harmin and Dordor, who were captains of the ship that took the immigrants to Greece, the men with guns that increased or decreased in number depending on the tide of crime rates, and all the other basket cases I didn’t yet know by name, lined up on a road tens of thousands of kilometers long to carry tons of people hand over hand into the world …
Especially the brothers Harmin and Dordor. They were the strangest people I could ever hope to meet in this life, and I really loved them. Because with them, it was like life didn’t exist. When it had no rules, life slowly dissolved into the air. Time, morals, my father, fear: it was all gone. They were barbaric enough to turn any modicum of civilization they encountered into a desert, make a gigantic mirror out of its sand, and write farewell messages onto it with lipstick-colored blood. They both took me by the hand and brought me many times to the end of humanity and back, but regrettably, on our last trip, forgot about me and left me there …
Yes, my father was a merciless man and of course Aruz, being an orangutan, had an inner world as big as a plastic model of the earth. But the brothers Harmin and Dordor were something else. A pair of Arthur Cravans! Their grand total was four meters and two hundred fifty kilos. Yet despite all that meat, their voices were tiny. They always whispered so I had to rise up on my toes to hear what they were saying. They were constantly tattooing each other, and I’d strain to see what they were drawing. After a while I realized that, naturally, it was the same sentences every time:
Born to be wild
Raised to be civilized
Dead to be free
It was written all over them. On their legs, arms, the backs of their necks, their feet, hands …
“What does it mean?” I’d ask.
“It’s all names of broads!” Harmin would say.
Dordor, who could tell I didn’t buy it, would say, “It’s in old Turkish, pal, Ottoman!” and laugh.
Three years would have to pass for me to learn what those words meant. Harmin told me the morning after the night Dordor was killed, stabbed sixty-six times by four of Aruz’s men. In his usual whisper:
“We must have been around your age … We went and stowed away on a ship. Wanted to travel the world. Anyway … One day we dropped anchor, we’re in Australia! Let’s go ashore, we said. But no! We just couldn’t. Man, we said, what the hell is this? We don’t feel well, we’re dizzy, feeling sick to our stomachs … The mere mention, going ashore, and we go white as a sheet … You know how people have fear of the sea? You get seasick … turns out we’d begun to get landsick. We asked if there was such a sickness. No, they said. They didn’t have it but we fucking well did! After that we always stayed at sea. Years passed this way. So you see, we never did travel the world! We traveled the sea… Remember how you used to ask? ‘What do these tattoos mean?’ That’s what they mean … This entire story … This is the Turkish version. One day you can go and learn the English one too …”
“Where’d you learn English, then?” I asked.
“At the Belconnen Remand!” he said. Seeing I didn’t understand, he added, “Prison … in Australia.”
“But you said you never made it on land!” I began to say, and he snapped, “We didn’t! We went under it.”
I hadn’t understood a word of that. I thought he was messing with me as usual. I couldn’t comprehend. Turns out whatever sickness it was that he had, he was contaminating me too. On the front steps of the morgue where Dordor lay, no less … Then he went off to shoot Aruz, of course. But he couldn’t kill him and died … As for myself, I learned English. So … now I know that they’re both free. Not on, perhaps, but beneath the land they’d been trapped under …
I was twelve, and the regular presence of Near-Middle-Far Asians in my life meant I now had the ample geographic knowledge of a Gypsy. The teacher pointed me out in class and said, “That’s it! Look, your friend Gaza examines the world map in his free time. It wouldn’t hurt if you did the same as well. There’s more to the world than just where you live, kids!”
Then all the kids, with the exception of Ender, with whom I shared my seat, gave me predatory looks and emitted a smell furious enough to necessitate opening a window. They really hated me. That I was sure of. They wanted to beat me up. They weren’t quite sure if they could, though. For they’d heard some small, nauseating tidbits. About me and my life and my close and far circles. In any case, the fluctuating bouts of violence, during which I, as the target, would just sit there cross-legged, didn’t take long to abate. For one day Harmin and Dordor came to pick me up from school and showed off their four-meter height, and the juvenile hate I was besieged by folded in on itself and sank into definite silence.
The only one talking now was Ender. Only he told me things and asked questions he wouldn’t be able to get replies to, and kept chortling to himself. His father was a gendarme. A sergeant. I knew him. Uncle Yadigar. Every time he showed up when school let out, he’d take a chocolate bar out of his pocket and give it to Ender, saying, “Break it in half, son, give some to Gaza.” Then as I munched away, he would bide me, “Why don’t you come to our place, look, your aunt Salime made meatballs,” to which I’d shake my head and walk away.
He knew I was Ahad’s son, obviously, but I was sure he couldn’t figure out what the hell Ahad was. Maybe that’s why he kept inviting me to his home. To get words out of me in exchange for meatballs. But I had no mother and I could make meatballs on my own. For the past two years, no less …
Uncle Yadigar the Heroic Sergeant! He really was. He’d grabbed up and saved two children from the midst of a forest fire two years earlier, and his right cheek had been completely burned; he’d been awarded a medal. Ender had even worn that medal to school one day, and all the kids whose fathers were olive growers, grocers, tailors, picklers, stationery sellers, butchers, patrol policemen, guardians, restaurateurs, furnishers, or dead gnawed off the jealousy coating their lips, collected it at the edge of their tongues, and spat it onto the ground. Ender, who was already an outcast because he talked to me, was ostracized even more—and this meant out as out could be—leaving the son of the smuggler and the son of the gendarme to their own in a class of forty-seven. But Ender was so stunted he failed to register all this and continued to chortle to himself. As for me, I was sure it was my insides, rather than my face, that were breaking out in spots. For slowly but surely the immigrants were beginning to make me nauseated.
Whenever I saw those people; who clung to one another and made microscopic squeals at the smallest noise, or whose pupils quivered as if they had some mysterious strain of Parkinson’s, or who kept trying to smell the forthcoming moment with their broken, sunken-pen noses, who emitted nothing other than the word “More!” even though they never stopped talking, who were buried in seventeen layers of sweat- and then soot-stained fabric and stuck their heads out of their textile tombs only to ask for something; I would say: “Fuck off already!” To their faces, in fact. It wasn’t like they understood. Even if they did, they’d just sit and thrust their chins into their chests.
When Ender asked me, “What are you doing this weekend?” I couldn’t very well say, “I’m going to smuggle people, is what I’m going to fucking do!”
And when I said, “I’m helping my dad,” he’d rattle off all the places I always wanted to visit, saying, “I wish you could come too”: the movie theater in the city, the amusement park in the neighboring town, the game hall in the shopping mall of the city, one of the two Internet cafés in our own town …
Ender had nothing he had to do! All he had to do was homework, and eat his mother’s meatballs, and maybe go to Koran class! I worked like a dog! I collected the plastic bags immigrants shit into and buried the shit behind the warehouse, bought bottles of water in twos and loaves of bread in threes from all the stores in town so that our shopping wouldn’t attract attention, emptied bins of immigrant piss, ran from pharmacy to pharmacy since they kept getting sick, never even stopped for a minute. I was worked into the ground just because someone felt like going to another country! I even had to give back the copy of
Robinson Crusoe
I’d borrowed from Ender because I hadn’t had time to read it.
As a matter of fact, I’d only been curious about the book because he’d summed it up as, “There’s this slave merchant, he gets washed up on a deserted island …” The second I heard that, I’d wished I could get washed up on a deserted island too. After all, I could be considered a slave merchant, and I was sick of both: of slaves and of mercantile! All I wanted was for my father to scold me over my report card like a normal kid, and not because I forgot to activate the air conditioner we’d just had installed in the back of the truck!
This wasn’t like forgetting to turn off the lights when you left the house. I’d caused the death of an Afghani by not turning on the conditioner. He was twenty-six, and he’d made me a paper frog. A frog that leaped when I pressed down on it with my finger. His name was Cuma, which meant “Friday.” The Afghani’s, not the frog’s. I found out years later that Robinson had a Cuma of his own. But since Friday was a book protagonist, how could he possibly be anything like Cuma! For he would never be found asphyxiated in the back of a truck nor give a paper frog as a gift to the child who’d turn on him like a snake. Of course, had Robinson and Friday existed, our lives would have seemed like a novel to
them
. That was the problem. Everyone’s life seemed like a novel to someone else. But they were all just lives. They didn’t turn into novels through mere divulgence. An autopsy report perhaps, at most … a feature one. Libraries were full of them: feature autopsy reports. Bound or unbound, they all told the story of paling skins. A man was made of skin and bones, after all. He would either eventually wrinkle or break on the way. Or be an Afghani named Cuma to die like that pondering rock of Rodin’s. Cuma who died on a Sunday …
And I felt so bad I finally caved and went to Ender’s for meatballs. But it didn’t help shit. In fact, sitting at that table and watching that family made me feel even worse. The meatballs were delicious, though. If I had had a mother, I’m sure she would have made them that way too. “Would you like more?” she too would have asked. “Some more?” Maybe then I wouldn’t have hated the word “more” as much. When I got up to turn the meatballs in the pans, due to habit I suppose, my mother would say, “That’s not for kids, leave it,” just like Salime. Like a kid I would sit and the sizzling oil wouldn’t burn my hands and blister the spaces between my fingers. The way it did every time …
They said there was ice cream, but I didn’t stay. I got out of there. Yadigar didn’t ask me anything. Not my father’s health or how his business was holding up. All he said was, “Eat. You need it,” like he knew everything. Really he was right. We were all growing. No matter what their age, everybody. The entire world. We were spinning our way into growth. Our heads spinning … That was why we ate and should eat. Each other and everything. We needed it. So we could grow as quickly as possible. Grow as quickly as possible and croak and leave space for others. So a new epoch could begin. One that was preferably not like this one … because we could tell we wouldn’t amount to shit. We weren’t that dumb … not
all
that dumb …
I was home. Father had gone to the industrial area in the city to get the brake linings of the truck replaced and wouldn’t be home till the evening. Just as I was contemplating how terrific it was to be alone and that I should definitely be alone when I grew up, the phone rang. I could tell it was Aruz by the digits on the small blue screen. I’d memorized his number. I didn’t want to take it. He would ring three times at most, then get bored and hang up anyway. But the ringing didn’t stop. Four, five, six … We weren’t home, damn it! Why didn’t he just give up and call father’s cell? Was it that he’d already called father, wasn’t able to reach him, and was now trying the house? But father would always have his phone at hand. Had something happened to him? Had the police caught my father? The gendarmerie? | |
“Hello, uncle Aruz?” | |
I’d gone deaf with anxiety. | “It’s me, Felat!” |
“What?” | |
Aruz’s son, Felat. He was my age but for some reason older than me. | “Gaza, it’s Felat!” |
“Felat? Are you all right?” “Fine, fine. What are you up to?” “Never mind that, talk to me! Where’ve you been. What’s happened?” “What can I say, father beat me up and all that, and then sent me to my uncle’s. They stuck me in a room. I just sat there …” | |
Upon finding out that the village they had vacated years ago on the state’s orders was now, again by instruction of the state, habitable again, Aruz and the elders of his 260-person following had gotten together for a family meeting, during which Felat, who wanted nothing to do with this reverse migration and didn’t want to leave the city, and a few nutjobs in his leadership, had gone out to the fields and torched the houses of their great-grandfathers. | |
Since these fanciful arsonists whose ages ranged from nine to fourteen hadn’t been as | |
I remembered so clearly. It was the holy night of Berat. Father was at me again, nagging, “Get up and call your uncle Aruz, wish him a blessed night!” | “I’m running away, man! I’m going to get the fuck out of here!” “Hey, you ran away just last year! Where’re you going now?” |
So I had been forced to call him. When the phone rang a few times and I was about to say, “No luck, Dad, he’s not picking up,” a child’s voice came from the other end: | |
“Brother?” he was saying. “Is that you?” “I’m Gaza,” I said. “Who’re you?” I asked, and he hung up on me. “That should be Felat … Aruz’s little boy,” said my father. “Whatever then, you can call him tomorrow,” he said and left. For the mosque. | |
“How should I know, man, should I maybe come over to yours?” “What’re you going to do over here, kid?” | |
Half an hour later in the same evening, Felat had called us back and his first question had been: “Is my brother there?” “No,” I had said. “Who’s your brother anyway?” “Ahlat …” “There’s no such person here …” Then we were silent … “You’re Felat, right? Uncle Aruz’s son.” “Yeah … who’re “I told you, I’m Gaza … My dad works with your dad. That’s why I called him, for the holy night …” | “Or should I go to Istanbul? The nephews live there. But they’re even bigger dopes!” |
“Is your dad there?” “No, he’s out.” He had begun to cry. Abruptly. As if he’d collapsed to the ground … “Felat? What’s wrong?” “I’ve run away from home …” I didn’t catch this because the words were tangling up in his sobs. “What?” | |
“I’ve run away from home!” If I’d been an adult, I’d have asked him where he was right then, but I wasn’t. “Why?” “I don’t know, I just did …” “So what’re you going to do?” “I’m going to sell the phone … then I’m going to go someplace …” That’s how I knew how Felat happened to have his father’s phone. It was looking for its new owner so it could sponsor a voyage to God knows where. | |
These were the words of a thirteen-year-old … | “Your dad’ll kill you for sure this time, kid!” “I’m already fucking dead!” |
After that phone conversation a year ago, in full knowledge that he wouldn’t make it far in the darkness of night, Felat had dried his wet face on walls on his way back home, called me again two days later using their house phone this time, and we had resumed talking. | “Don’t be stupid, man, you’re not dead!” |
“Let’s run away, Gaza! Come on, let’s go together!” “Go where?” “How should I know, man, let’s just go someplace …” | |
Even though we didn’t really take in what the other was saying, being two kids who’d never kept diaries; we’d begun to tell. Things we couldn’t tell others … It was in our second conversation I found out that Aruz had saved my father in his phonebook as Ahlat. A brief inquest by Felat revealed that Aruz’s unlawful business associates were saved in his phonebook under the names of dead relatives. It was his security precaution. But the situation was different with Ahlat, his eldest son. There’d neither been funeral prayers for him, nor a grave. In these times and regions where people you saw in the morning disappeared by noon, he’d vanished as if he’d never been. So he’d turned into statistical data and taken his place in the missing persons quota of the nation’s history of counterterrorism. | “Forget it, kid … Maybe later … Like, in a few years … Let’s finish school first, at least …” |
Clearly Ahlat was dead, but Felat had never been able to accept that. That was why, on that night he ran away, seeing his long-lost brother’s name on the screen of the ringing phone had made him freeze. In those few seconds, the only person who’d never stopped believing Ahlat was alive even had a dream: to protect the older brother who’d been taken into custody and tortured time and time again, Aruz sends him away and tells the family, “He’s dead!” But of course father and son maintain contact, even if only over the phone. Here’s proof: he calls … That was why Felat had answered that phone almost expecting to hear a sacred voice. When he hadn’t, he hadn’t given up that poisonous hope and tried again half an hour later. Unfortunately, he had only been able to talk to me … I hate that natural disaster called hope, that makes the world’s most desperate children dream the biggest dreams! | |
“You know what, Gaza?” “What?” “My dad is sending me to the mountains.” “To the mountains, what?” | |
There was nothing I could say. Nothing at all! | “You know what I’m talking about! To join the guerillas! He said they’d man me up over there.” “No kidding!” “I really don’t want to go, man … What the hell am I going to do there, man!” |
“Gaza?” “What?” “Look, kid, if I become a guerilla … what if I run into you?” “What d’you mean?” “Look, don’t go to the army, man!” “The army, what’re you talking about? That’s years away …” “Don’t go anyway …” | |
In those years cell phones were only good for talking and maybe texting. It wasn’t yet clear why anyone would pay hourly rates for the Internet, and cameras were still too large to be affixed to computers. Felat and I had never seen each other’s faces. | “Are you crazy, kid, what are the odds of us both ending up in the same place in this country?” “Don’t be so sure … at least send me a photo.” “I don’t have a photo of myself, kid.” |
I really didn’t. The only photograph at home was of my mother. | “You don’t say? I have a whole bunch but they’re all at the gas station …” |
Aruz’s only legitimate business: selling gas … | “Felat, calm the hell down! Maybe your dad’s only saying it to scare you. Maybe he won’t send you away …” |
Even I didn’t believe what I was saying. Felat also ignored it and kept trying to come up with a solution to the problem. | |
He’d really got it! He was always good at finding things. He was an inventor. Even at the most desperate of times, even if really stupid like that village-burning plan, he always managed to find an escape hole and float through it. Or at least tried to … I had no choice but to accept … I actually felt pretty good for having a friend who was this frightened of the possibility that in the future he might kill me without realizing it. | “Damn, how am I supposed to recognize you up there then? How can I tell… I’ve got it! A password! Let’s find a password!” |
“All right. What’ll it be?” “How should I know. You tell me.” “Remember how I told you about this girl? The one who liked me … her name was Çiçek …” | |
He’d never talked about this girl. I’d never heard of her. But this wasn’t the time to call him out on it. | |
“And?” | |
To this day I don’t know why I said it: | “I’ll call you Çiçek. And you …” |
I really don’t. | “I can call you Cuma.” |
Could this be the reason? | “Cuma? What d’you mean, Cuma?” |
I don’t think so! | “It’s Friday today!” |
“That’s good, but don’t you forget … I’ll call you Çiçek, you’ll call me Cuma. We’ll know right away who it is, and we won’t shoot each other … all right?” “All right!” “It’s Father. I’m hanging up!” |