Snow (5 page)

“After you left us, you had meetings with the wrong people, and these people told you the wrong things about our border city,” said Serdar Bey.

“How could you know where I’ve been?” asked Ka.

“Naturally, the police were following you,” said the newspaperman. “And for professional reasons, we listen in on police communication with this transistor radio. Ninety percent of the news we print comes from the office of the governor and the Kars police headquarters. The entire police force knows you have been asking everyone why Kars is so backward and poor and why so many of its young women are committing suicide.” 

Ka had heard quite a few explanations as to why Kars had fallen into such destitution. Business with the Soviet Union had fallen off during the Cold War, some said. The customs stations on the border had shut down.

Communist guerillas who had plagued the city during the 1970s had chased the money away. The rich had pulled out what capital they could and moved to Istanbul and Ankara. The nation had turned its back on Kars, and so had God. And one must not forget Turkey’s never-ending disputes with bordering Armenia. . . .

“I’ve decided to tell you the real story,” said Serdar Bey.

With a clarity of mind and an optimism he hadn’t felt in years, Ka saw at once that the heart of the matter was shame. It had been for him too, during his years in Germany, but he’d hidden the shame from himself. It was only now, having found hope for happiness, that he felt strong enough to admit the truth.

“In the old days we were all brothers,” said Serdar Bey. He spoke as if betraying a secret. “But in the last few years, everyone started saying, I’m an Azeri, I’m a Kurd, I’m a Terekemian. Of course we have people here from all nations. The Terekemians, whom we also call the Karakalpaks, are the Azeris’ brothers. As for the Kurds, whom we prefer to think of as a tribe: In the old days, they didn’t even know they
were
Kurds. And it was that way through the Ottoman period: None of the people who chose to stay went around beating their chests and crying, ‘We are the Ottomans!’ The Turkmens, the Posof Laz, the Germans who had been exiled here by the czar—we had them all, but none took any pride in proclaiming themselves different. It was the Communists and their Tiflis Radio who spread tribal pride, and they did it because they wanted to divide and destroy Turkey. Now everyone is prouder—and poorer.” 

When he was confident that his point was not lost on Ka, Serdar Bey moved on to another subject.

“As for these Islamists, they go from door to door in groups, paying house visits; they give women pots and pans, and those machines that squeeze oranges, and boxes of soap, cracked wheat, and detergent. They concentrate on the poor neighborhoods; they ingratiate themselves with the women; they bring out hooked needles and sew gold thread onto the children’s shoulders to protect them against evil. They say, ‘Give your vote to the Prosperity Party, the party of God; we’ve fallen into this destitution because we’ve wandered off the path of God.’ The men talk to the men, the women talk to the women. They win the trust of the angry and humiliated unemployed; they sit with their wives, who don’t know where the next meal is coming from, and they give them hope; promising more gifts, they get them to promise their votes in return. We’re not just talking about the lowest of the low. Even people with jobs—even tradesmen—respect them, because these Islamists are more hardworking, more honest, more modest than anyone else.”

The owner of the
Border City Gazette
went on to say that the recently assassinated mayor had been universally despised. It was not because this man, having decided the city’s horses and carriages were too old-fashioned, had tried to ban them. (To no avail, as it turned out; once he was dead, the plan was abandoned.) No, Serdar Bey insisted, the people of Kars had hated this mayor because he took bribes and lacked direction. But the republican parties on both the right and the left had failed to capitalize on this hatred; divided as they were by blood feuds, ethnic issues, and other destructive rivalries, they had failed to come up with a single viable candidate of their own. “The only candidate the people trust is the one who is running for God’s party,” said Serdar Bey. “And that candidate is Muhtar Bey, the ex-husband of Ipek Hanım, whose father Turgut Bey owns your hotel. Muhtar’s not very bright, but he’s a Kurd, and the Kurds make up forty percent of our population. The new mayor will belong to God’s party.”

Outside, the snow was falling thicker and faster than ever; just the sight of it made Ka feel lonely. He was also worried that the westernized world he had known as a child might be coming to an end. When he was in Istanbul, he had returned to the streets of his childhood, looking for the elegant old buildings where his friends had lived, buildings dating back to the beginning of the twentieth century, but he found that many of them had been destroyed. The trees of his childhood had withered or been chopped down; the cinemas, shuttered for ten years, still stood there, surrounded by rows of dark, narrow clothing stores. It was not just the world of his childhood that was dying; it was his dream of returning to Turkey one day to live. If Turkey were taken over by a fundamentalist Islamist government, he now thought, his own sister would be unable to go outside without covering her head.

The neon sign of the
Border City Gazette
had created a small pocket of light in the darkness outside; the giant snowflakes wafting slowly through the glow were the stuff of fairy tales, and as Ka watched them continue to fall, he had a vision of himself with Ipek in Frankfurt: They were in the same
Kaufhof
where he had bought the charcoal-gray coat he now wrapped so tightly around him; they were shopping together on the second floor, in the women’s shoe section. . . .

“This is the work of the international Islamist movement that wants to turn Turkey into another Iran,” Serdar Bey said.

“Is it the same with the suicide girls?” Ka asked, turning from the window.

“We’re now gathering denunciations from people who say what a shame it was that these girls were so badly deceived, but because we don’t want to put more pressure on other young women, thus perhaps driving more of them to suicide, we haven’t yet printed any of the statements. They say that Blue, the infamous Islamist terrorist, is in our city, to advise the covered girls—and the suicidal ones, too.”

“Aren’t Islamists against suicide?”

Serdar Bey did not answer this question. The printing press stopped and a silence fell over the room. Ka returned his gaze to the miraculous snow. The knowledge that he was soon to see Ipek was making him nervous. The problems of Kars were a welcome distraction, but all he wanted now was to think about Ipek and prepare for their meeting at the pastry shop; it was twenty past one.

With a pomp and ceremony befitting some precious handmade gift, Serdar Bey presented Ka with a copy of the front page that his huge older son had just printed. Ka’s eyes, accustomed to scanning for his name in literary journals, were quick to spot the item in the corner: 

KA, OUR CELEBRATED POET, COMES TO KARS

KA, the celebrated poet whose fame now spreads throughout Turkey, has come to pay a visit to our border city. He first won the appreciation of the entire country with two collections entitled
Ashes
and Tangerines
and
The Evening Papers.
Our young poet, who is also the winner of the Behcet Necatigil Prize, has come to Kars to cover the municipal elections for the
Republican.
For many years, KA has been studying Western poetry in Frankfurt.

“My name is printed wrong,” said Ka. “The A should be lowercase.” He regretted saying this. “But it looks good,” he added, as if to make up for his bad manners.

“My dear sir, it was because we weren’t sure of your name that we tried to get in touch with you,” said Serdar Bey. “Son, look here, you printed our poet’s name wrong.” But as he scolded the boy there was no surprise in his voice. Ka guessed that he was not the first to have noticed that his name had been misprinted. “Fix it right now.”

“There’s no need,” said Ka. At the same moment, he saw his name printed correctly in the last paragraph of the new lead item.

NIGHT OF TRIUMPH FOR THE SUNAY ZAIM

PLAYERS AT THE NATIONAL THEATER

The Sunay Zaim Theatrical Company, which is known throughout Turkey for its theatrical tributes to Atatürk, the Republic, and the Enlightenment, performed to a rapt and enthusiastic audience at the National Theater yesterday evening. The performance, which went on until the middle of the night and was attended by the deputy governor, the mayoral candidate, and the leading citizens of Kars, was punctuated by thunderous clapping and applause. The people of Kars, who have long been thirsting for an artistic feast of this caliber, were able to watch not just from the packed auditorium but also from the surrounding houses. Kars Border Television worked tirelessly to organize this first live broadcast in its two-year history so that all of Kars would be able to watch the splendid performance. Although it still does not own a live-transmission vehicle, Kars Border Television was able to stretch a cable from its headquarters in Halitpa¸sa Avenue the length of two streets to the camera at the National Theater. Such was the feeling of goodwill among the citizens of Kars that some residents were kind enough to take the cable into their houses to avoid snow damage. (For example, our very own dentist, Fadıl Bey, and his family let them take the cable in through the window overlooking his front balcony and pass it into the gardens in the back.) The people of Kars now wish to have other opportunities to enjoy highly successful broadcasts of this order.

The management of Kars Border Television also announced that in the course of the city’s first live broadcast, all Kars work-places had been so kind as to broadcast advertisements.

The show, which was watched by the entire population of our city, included republican vignettes, the most beautiful scenes from the most important artistic works of the Western Enlightenment, theatrical sketches criticizing advertisements that aim to corrode our culture, the adventures of Vural, the celebrated goalkeeper, and poems in praise of Atatürk and the nation. Ka, the celebrated poet, who is now visiting our city, recited his latest poem, entitled “Snow.” The crowning event of the evening was a performance of
My Fatherland or My Scarf,
the enlightenment masterwork from the early years of the republic, in a new interpretation entitled
My Fatherland or My
Head Scarf.

“I don’t have a poem called ‘Snow,’ and I’m not going to the theater this evening. Your newspaper will look like it’s made a mistake.”

“Don’t be so sure. There are those who despise us for writing the news before it happens. They fear us not because we are journalists but because we can predict the future; you should see how amazed they are when things turn out exactly as we’ve written them. And quite a few things do happen only because we’ve written them up first. This is what modern journalism is all about. I know you won’t want to stand in the way of our being modern—you don’t want to break our hearts—so that is why I am sure you will write a poem called ‘Snow’ and then come to the theater to read it.”

Scanning the rest of the paper—announcements of various campaign rallies, news of a vaccine from Erzurum that was now being administered in the city’s lycées, an upbeat article describing how all city residents were to be granted an additional two months to pay their water bills—Ka now noticed a news item he had missed earlier.

ALL ROADS TO KARS CLOSED

The snow that has been falling for two days has now cut all our city’s links to the outside world. The Ardahan Road closed yesterday morning, and the road to Sarıkamı¸s was impassable by afternoon. Due to excess snow and ice in the affected area, road closures forced a bus owned by the Yılmaz Company to return to Kars.

The weather office has announced that cold air coming straight from Siberia and the accompanying heavy snowfall will continue for three more days. And so for three days, the city of Kars will have to do as it used to do during the winters of old—stew in its own juices. This will offer us an opportunity to put our house in order.

Just as Ka was standing up to leave, Serdar Bey jumped from his seat and held the door so as to be sure his last words were heard.

“As for Turgut Bey and his daughters, who knows what they’ll tell you?” he said. “They are educated people who entertain many friends like me in the evening, but don’t forget: Ipek Hanım’s ex-husband, Muhtar Bey, is the mayoral candidate for Party of God. Her father, Turgut Bey, is an old Communist. Her sister, who came here to complete her studies, is rumored to be the leader of the head-scarf girls. Imagine that! There is not a single person in Kars who has the slightest idea why they chose to come here during the worst days of the city four years ago.” 

Ka’s heart sank as he took in this disturbing news, but he showed no emotion.

Did You Really Come Here to Report

on the Election and the Suicides?

ka meets ipek in the new life pastry shop

Why, despite the bad news he’d just received, was there a faint smile on Ka’s face as he walked through the snow from Faikbey Avenue to the New Life Pastry Shop? Someone was playing Peppino di Capri’s “Roberta,” a melodramatic pop song from the sixties, and it made him feel like the sad romantic hero of a Turgenev novel, setting off to meet the woman who has been haunting his dreams for years. Let’s tell the truth: Ka loved Turgenev and his elegant novels, and like the Russian writer Ka too had tired of his own country’s never-ending troubles and come to despise its backwardness, only to find himself gazing back with love and longing after a move to Europe. Ka was not haunted by the image of Ipek, but in his mind was the vision of a woman very much like her. Perhaps ˙Ipek had entered his thoughts from time to time, but it was only when he’d heard of her divorce that he began to think about her; indeed, it was precisely because he had
not
dreamed of her enough that he was now so keen to stoke his feelings with music and Turgenevist romanticism.