Istanbul Noir - Mustafa Ziyalan [70]
This time I swung by Pamuk’s coffeehouse in Tophane for a change. I drank his tea. I gave him the five grand. I left the Kırıkkale and the bullets with him.
“Haven’t you heard, my man?” he said. “Ours is the cool age of glockalization …”
Okay, if you say so.
I called Leyla Teyze at the number she had given me. I gave her the remaining money. I kissed her hand. It made her so happy. I didn’t know much about these things; I asked her to give the money to some organization dealing with human rights, helping inmates or torture victims. Any way she saw fit. That way that dirty, evil bundle of swiped cash would be put to good use.
I was done with Aksaray, with Istanbul. For the time being, at least. But where to now? I didn’t know if I actually had anywhere to return to. I still don’t.
I arrived in Brooklyn at an ungodly hour. But Tahir, my partner, was still working in the shop. We embraced.
“Sorry about your loss, bro,” he said. “I hope you had a chance to get rid of all those knots.”
Well, that’s not happening anytime soon, I wanted to tell him—my knots, brother, are here to stay. I tried to deal with death by becoming the Grim Reaper himself; I tried to deal with the monstrosities by becoming a monster myself. But what choice did I have? I’m not part of any political organization or gang or anything. I’m just here, just me, in Brooklyn. One horse, one gun. A retired Grim Reaper. That’s it.
As I said, my knots are here to stay.
And as for Aksaray, the “White Palace” of Istanbul …
I keep quiet.
Except every now and then, I let go: “You! Damn You! Fucking Black Palace, that’s what you are! Black Palace!”
SO VERY FAMILIAR
BY BEHÇET ÇELK
Fikirtepe
Whenever my gaze falls upon the apartment door, where we lingered as she prepared to go without even saying goodbye, I feel her eyes resting on me that one last time—they’re looking at me still. Frozen, frightened, confused, but determined. I must have looked confused too. I thought everything was going just fine, I thought for sure she’d come over and take me into her arms and we’d make love again. She pulled the door shut behind her quietly, and left.
Like her, I quietly pulled the door shut, and left. It’s around the same time of day that she left. I quickly make my way down the stairs, and then slow as I move through the garden of the apartment complex. I lower my head in polite response to the doorman’s greeting.
Are those guys talking about me behind my back? What does that guy do every night? Where’s he going like that? Is that what they say? So what if they do. Looked like the bastard had a grin on his face when he greeted me. He watched me intently, as if to say, I know where you’re headed, buddy. How would you know, you idiot? He probably thinks I’m out picking up chicks. If that were the case, I’d take the car. These guys think my car’s shit too. They gossip. He goes on foot ’cause he knows there’s no way he can pick up chicks with that lemon. That’s what they say. Goddamn know-it-alls. They can say whatever they want, like I give a shit! The parking lot here’s like a car show. Next to all those brand-new fancy vehicles, our car looks like scrap metal. Ours? Those idiot doormen must know by now that there is no “ours” anymore. Maybe they feel sorry for me. Or maybe, if they’ve had a spat with the old lady that day, they just feel jealous.
It’s freezing cold, but at least I can breathe once I’m outside. I can’t stand it inside anymore. It’s like the walls are collapsing on top of me; television, movies, newspapers, it all makes me sick to my stomach. Forget about sleeping, if I could only breathe I wouldn’t set foot outside. I’m managing all right, even if I do wander around like a ghoul every night. But how long can I possibly keep it up? And I’ve actually come to like going to work. Files, correspondence, meetings all fill up the day. I’m fine when I’m at work, but once I get home …
There