Istanbul Noir - Mustafa Ziyalan [65]
His name was Pandeli. He lived in Vienna. He was a doctor. Single. He had done his residency training in surgery in Istanbul. Not so luckily for me, he had trained as a kickboxer several years before.
I told him about myself. I lived in New York. I had a car repair shop there. I was single. I had dabbled in tae kwon do in the past. I had come to Istanbul because my mother was sick. I didn’t yet explain why I had stayed on, though.
“All right,” I said, finally giving in, “so what brought you here, man?”
There was a silence.
“Look, bro,” he replied, “to make a long story short—” He took a photograph out of his pocket. It was like stained glass. But black-and-white. A clutch of guys, young and old, looking all pumped up, like they were celebrating something. One of them stared straight out of the photograph, straight at me, smiling brightly. I was reminded of photographs of a lynching I once saw on a Harlem wall; photographs of people smiling as if they had just accomplished some major shit. The guy in the photo had a mustache and a gold tooth in the lower right side of his mouth. He was holding a bottle; I recognized it as olive oil. There was an improvised fuse sticking out of it. There seemed to be a demolished store in the background. I examined the proud crowd in the front. The guy holding the bottle could be seen most clearly. He was young. The photo preserved him, it seemed, best of all. The more I looked at him, the more I examined his features, the more amazed I was. My eyes narrowed to blades. My amazement turned into other things. Into rage. Into disgust. My eyes were like a welding machine gradually finding its focus.
I’ll never forget. Never. Damn it. My world went topsy-turvy. Like that. I forgot about my bruised ribs.
I couldn’t wait any longer. One evening a few days later, I was on Çıngıraklı Bostan Street again. I knew that the door of the building always stood open, that the superintendent was rarely around.
I ran up those three floors and found the door, easy as cake. I knocked. I knew his wife had died a few years ago. And that he hadn’t married again.
He opened the door himself. He looked me over. I imagined pushing my way in, the door smashing his face flat like a tomato.
“I grew up in this neighborhood, amca,” I said. “I heard that Müzeyyen Teyze passed away, so I thought I’d drop by and give my condolences.”
“It’s been quite awhile since the lady died, son. Where did you hear about it?” Coming from this guy, the word “son” made me sick to my stomach. How? Why? What son?
“I was abroad.”
“So our news makes it all the way over there, huh?” He smiled. A hushed, stolen smile, like that of a hyena. Then he relaxed. “Come in,” he said finally. “Come on in and sit down.” He opened the door for me and stood aside.
It reeked of mold, moisture, perhaps urine inside. It was a crowded condo. There was a chestnut showcase by the entrance full of never-used fine china. The door to the guest room was open; the furniture was carefully covered. He invited me to the living room, where he spent his time when he wasn’t in the coffeehouse. He had set up a little corner for himself. It seemed he’d laid the paper he’d been reading on the coffee table before he got up to get the door. His glasses were on top of the folded paper. A pitcher of water, a glass, what appeared to be a saccharine box, his cigarette box, and his lighter were also on the table. Now, where did he keep his service gun, I wondered. Next to the chair hung a calendar and framed newspaper clippings about the chief’s exploits, photos of him when he was younger. One of the headlines read: Anarchist Hunter! Another: Peace and Quiet Reign in His Neighborhood! I didn’t recall having any peace and quiet in this neighborhood, but never mind.
He took off his leather slippers and made himself comfortable in that corner of his. Aa to us all. The chief, even if retired.