Istanbul Noir - Mustafa Ziyalan [82]
Drenched in sweat, I reach what should be Sevim Teyze’s café. I don’t recognize a thing, and it sends a chill down my spine. I look at the flower pot next to the door, there in its rightful place, but it has a wad of phlegm in it. And two cigarette butts. Some guy with sausage-shaped fingers is manning the counter. As I walk through the door, I wish with all my might that everything would snap back to normal then and there. But it doesn’t. I approach Sausage Fingers, in fear.
“Isn’t Sevim Teyze in?”
“Who’s that?”
“The owner of this place.”
“I’m the owner of this place!” His answer comes crashing down on me. He tells me he’s been there for years, that he doesn’t know anything about any teyze, and that he has no desire to either. The woman was here just yesterday, I am absolutely certain of it. Sweat’s pouring out of me as I look around, and this other world is sucking me in deeper and deeper. The cute wooden chairs have been replaced by dirty white ghosts of cheap plastic. The tiny lamps with the soft lights are gone. There are glass vinegar holders smudged with fingerprints on the tables. I want to lift those fingerprints and track down everyone responsible. This place has become just like all the others. Those sausage fingers can’t be bothered with delicate matters; they are busy stuffing baloney in a shoe-sized piece of bread.
I rush back outside. I walk toward the gate of Beyazıt Mosque and Çınaraltı. But that spacious plaza now stifles me. The huge plane tree, once a cool oasis where you could enjoy your tea in the open air, has turned black, its dry leaves crackling, dead and withered. A stiff pigeon falls to the ground in front of me. In a panic, I look around for a delicate hand, but all I can see are hairy knuckles, dirty nails, and callused fists gripping the dainty tulip glasses.
An unbearable stench reaches my nose; it’s coming from the Sahaflar Gate, the antique book bazaar. The used book stands have lost their exquisite, yellowish scent and now reek of dead mice. The windows are full of books bound in black. There are no names on the books. They’re a monotone, monochrome choir cloaked in black. I lean closer to the window, straining to find a name, and the choir breaks out in a ghastly chant. I am searching for the name of a woman, but the books have no authors, male or female.
I leave the Sahaflar Gate, desperate to forget what it is I’ve been looking for. A crowd has gathered next to the street in a commotion of ear-piercing cries and police sirens. There is a man on the ground, bleeding to death. Blood gushes from his throat. Everybody is busy telling everybody else what happened while the man lies there dying. I hear them say that the man was stabbed over a girl, and I become delirious with hope. I couldn’t care less about the man who’s been stabbed—I want to see the girl, to see the girl and put an end to this nightmare. I stare into the police car, hoping to see her. Surely they would take her into custody, into safety. But there is no girl. Not in the car, not anywhere.
I hear whispers in the crowd: Two men were out on the town. One man made a remark about the other man’s girlfriend, and got stabbed in return. He said she was “beautiful.” Perhaps what they call his girlfriend is not what I envision. Perhaps he is in love not with a girl, but with a piece of fabric—a piece of fabric that he airs out every once in a while, before putting it back in the closet.
My mother—I need to find her. I rush down the narrow empty road leading from behind the university toward my home. I want to believe that this will all be over soon, that girls on their way to class will fill the plaza in droves the next day. Without a doubt, I would embrace every single one of them. I imagine a horseman storming through the grandiose gate of Istanbul University to read aloud some imperial decree, explaining the reasons for this temporary calamity and apologizing for any inconvenience.
I make my way home, convinced that tomorrow I’ll be back to yesterday and everything will be fine. My father is sitting in the living