Istanbul Noir - Mustafa Ziyalan [71]
I should cross the road and head downhill toward the university. It’s calmer over there. The minibus route’s like a border. They’re still going strong on the right side of the road, even at this hour of the night. The left side is nothing but slumber. The buildings on the right are ten, fifteen stories high, but the ones on the left max out at four or five, and usually aren’t more than one or two. It’s a wonder the contractors haven’t ripped into this place yet. They’ve already started tearing down the ten-story buildings on the right side and putting up bigger and better ones. Actually, this stretch would bring a pretty penny. Either the city won’t let them build that high yet, or the plots are too small, divided up into too many units. But anyway.
Are there more streetlamps on the right, or are they just brighter? It’s pitch black on the other side of the avenue. Maybe it’s the lights in the shop windows that make it so shiny there; here the stores are completely closed down—the metal shutters, the padlocks, the lights, the signs, all tucked in for the night. Shopkeepers probably figure there’s no need to keep the place lit up, since there’s nobody out here after dark.
A few nights ago there were some young guys hanging out at one of these corners, sitting on a low wall cracking sunflower seeds. Maybe they were drinking beer too. I walked by them without a glance. At first I was afraid; what if they start picking on me, say something, come after me … But the closer I got, the less scared I felt. In fact, I almost wanted them to try and pick a fight. As I walked past them, I felt the blood rush through my veins, from just below my knees down to my toes (warmed my cold feet up); it was like the stuff wanted to burst out of my body, but it was trapped. When they saw me they went silent and stared. Without even glancing at their faces, I saw that they were looking at me. I just stared ahead and walked right past them, without even seeing the darkness (though, actually, there was a good bit of light shining down from the streetlamp in front of the wall where they were parked). If I run into them tonight, I’m going to turn around and look at them. Let’s see if they have something to say. But tonight I am leaving later than usual. Even they are back home in bed by now, I bet. Their fathers probably grumbled about them being out so late and their mothers probably got their beds ready for them while asking what they’d been up to, as if they didn’t know their boys were out bumming around on the streets all day.
If I told somebody I spent my nights wandering around these streets, they’d probably think I was nuts. But who would I tell? The other day Ertürk asked me what I did in the evenings. “Nothing,” I said. He didn’t press me. “We should go drinking sometime,” he suggested. “Sure,” I replied. But then we never made plans for a specific date or anything. He probably didn’t know what else to say after that. What if I got carried away and lost it, or even worse, what if I got weepy? “We should go drinking sometime.” That sure took the weight off his conscience. But that’s fine with me, it’s not like I really want a drinking buddy or anything. I like things the way they are. Walking these streets. Exercise, for the hell of it—for what it, and this body, are