• Choose a category
• All
• Classic-Fiction

By Root 312 0

the smell of roasted chestnuts, smog, happy lights of domestic bliss, dim streetlamps, bright signs, decorated trees, shopping centers, polished, shiny, illuminated a thousand and one different ways. “Istanbul.” She repeated the word faster and faster. That manhood was all the city’s markets with their endless spice displays, delicatessens bulging with pastirma, sucuk, wheels of kaar cheese, bluefish with bloody gills lying on red trays, the vivacious hues of quinces, pomegranates, and dates; tangerines, grapefruits, oranges sold from flatbed trucks, baskets of strawberries sold by the roadside, just right for making jam; the first plums of the season, still green and crunchy in wheelbarrows; green, unripe almonds, yellow and red cherries, again pomegranates, again quinces … tangerines … oranges … Cavidan Hanım let out a subdued scream and collapsed onto the young man. Perhaps she couldn’t take it anymore when the warm liquid squirted out of the young man and into her. After all, we’re talking about years and years of loneliness, which is easier said than experienced—and not even that easy to say. Supermarkets, convenience stores, butchers, neighborhood markets; bought, sold, cooked. Yarn shops, button shops, haberdasheries; Niantaı, ili, Osmanbey; bought, sold, knit. TV game shows, entertainment programs, bedlam, bacchanals, emotion-commerce, TV series, movies, distant countries filling one with longing, romance, sorrows, lovemaking of others, watched, until one goes numb. Loneliness is a hard business, known only by those who experience it. Has someone said that before? A sentence so trivial, anybody could have said it. But on a New Year’s Eve, an evening in the lodos, in a dark park by the shore, in the cramped heat of a car with leather seats, with the seagulls dipping down and rising above the water, and the wind relentlessly battering the windows, in the extension, so alive, of a body, so fresh, loneliness could very well be killed.

Cavidan Hanım was lying on top of Tolga, motionless. Tolga stirred uneasily. “Cavidan Hanım?” No answer. This whole encounter had taken on a rather unexpected shape, granted, but even so, this dose of romanticism was a bit too much for Tolga. He tried to right himself without disturbing Cavidan Hanım. “Thank you.” It sounded so raw, he thought, once the words were out of his mouth, but he couldn’t think of anything else to say. And besides, the weight of the woman’s body was becoming rather annoying. Finally, he became aware of the unsettling quiet. “Cavidan Hanım?” She wasn’t breathing. An ice-cold shiver went down Tolga’s spine. It just couldn’t be, no one could possibly be that unlucky. “Cavidan Hanım?” He stumbled over the words. Just then, his phone, which was lying next to the gearshift, started ringing. He stretched, reaching out as far as the body on top of him allowed: It was Pınar. What if he just didn’t answer? He did.

“Hi, sweetie … I’m fine, I’m okay …” He turned his head, away from the smell of Cavidan Hanım’s hair. “Just wanted to get some … What’s that? … Yes, yes, to get some air … No … I’m upset about some stuff that happened at work, that’s all … No … Okay … Okay … Yes. Will do …” He hung up and took a deep breath. He checked for a pulse. He had to stay calm. He’d tell it exactly the way it happened. They’d believe him. There was nothing not to believe. It could happen. It could have happened. It could happen to anybody. He did his best to control the wave of panic rising in him, but it was growing too quickly, feeding off the whistle of the lodos, pulling the floor from underneath his feet. He tried to push Cavidan Hanım off of him. He grabbed her shoulders and propped her up; her head lolled to one side. In a final effort, he tried to haul her onto the passenger seat, but his foot got caught between the seat and the door. He let go of the body and tried to rescue his foot. At that point, he noticed her woolen socks. Trying not to gag, he yanked his foot free. Then the woman’s foot got caught on one of the CDs in the door pocket and sent the CD flying. He deposited