Endgame, page 13
‘he’s dangerous … but this only makes me more attached … i think you understand … he’s so much a part of me that he gives my life meaning … i have no idea what i’ll do when he’s gone …
‘to get rid of him i need to make him mine … that’s the only way i can save myself … but there is no real way i can do that … marrying him isn’t a solution … even then he won’t be mine … it will only make the things that much more difficult … but if i have his child there’ll be a bond between us … it will both bring us together and set me free …’
‘are you sure that’s what you want?’
‘right now, yes … it’s seems like the only way out … there’s just no other way i can free myself …
‘my parents and everyone else will probably be dead set against it …
‘but the worst thing about it is that i know i have the courage to really go through with it … mum always says that i have a wild side … and i suppose she’s right … i can take on this responsibility … i’ll be a great mother … and when the time comes i’ll explain everything … not the way i’m telling you about it now … there’s just one problem left and that’s the fact that he won’t leave me alone …
‘ok, i admit it … this is all insane … but everything has been so confusing recently …’
She was like a child playing on the edge of a balcony, trying to frighten me or just attract my attention. I didn’t know if she really was going to go through with all this but I sensed she might fall. And if I tried to protect her I felt that I might only end up encouraging her.
‘the decision is yours,’ I wrote, ‘why not …’
I wasn’t really in the mood to chat and she didn’t seem to be either. Signing off, she added, ‘i’m coming to town tomorrow. neighbours are having a henna party and they insist i go.’
‘see you then.’
‘of course.’
The following morning I went down to the coffeehouse and found everyone in a good mood.
‘What’s up?’ I asked Centipede. ‘Seems everyone’s feeling fine this morning. I haven’t seen such high spirits for a while. Someone finally find the treasure?’
‘Oh no, brother, hardly … We’re laughing at Sultan.’
‘What happened?’
‘You know the big carpet shop at the back of the main market? Well, they had some kind of trouble with Sultan, didn’t pay their protection money or something … So Oleander goes to Sultan and tells him to scare the life out of them, and Sultan goes and shoots the guy right in the face.’
Seized in a fit of giggling, Centipede kept saying the words over and over again, ‘Go and scare the life out of him, and Sultan goes and shoots the guy right in the face.’ Almost everyone else there was repeating the words too, and nearly splitting their sides laughing.
‘Go and scare the living daylights out of him, and then he goes and shoots him.’
I was the only one left out.
I asked if they’d caught Sultan and Centipede laughed even more loudly. ‘No one even saw it happen,’ he said. I didn’t dare ask them how they knew it really happened. I had understood: no one ever witnessed this kind of murder, and no one was ever caught. The killer would lie low in one of Sultan’s houses in the vineyards for a while before he came back into town.
They were merrily laughing away at the incident but I could sense an underlying tension. Clearly the town was on edge.
Of course not every criminal and killer walked away a free man. Some of them were caught and others got away. Two days earlier I was wandering through the secondhand shops near the minibus stop when I saw a passenger get knifed in the stomach. But by the time he hit the ground, the square was full of police and they dragged the driver off.
Just like the police commissioner had told me: they were ‘keeping the peace’, and so when there was a disturbance someone was apprehended, but the ‘animals’ – as he called them – were allowed to roam free. They were untouchable. Because they could burn down the jungle.
It might seem strange to an outsider but after living in the town for long enough you got used to the killing and the fact that certain killers go free. It even begins to seem natural for them to shoot each other in broad daylight.
The strange thing was the way the town could appear calm and peaceful despite all the murders and the growing tension and anxiety. What I really couldn’t understand was this contradiction. I suppose the appearance of calm was because people had become accustomed to the murders and no longer found them unusual. Maybe the police commissioner was right: if the gangs’ hit men were apprehended the balance would be skewed and the public would grow restless.
Towards evening, Zuhal sent me a phone message, I’m here. Let’s meet tomorrow.
I sent one right back.
Tell me how it goes tonight.
I’ll write if it doesn’t go too late.
When I’m alone I never feel lonely. I’ve come to enjoy and even delight in solitude. In fact I normally choose to be alone. And I often miss it if I have been around people for too long. But it’s more than that – I need to be alone. I’ve never quite understood why. It’s not that there’s anything in particular I want to do but it gives me the freedom to think of all the things I have in mind to do. Perhaps this is why I’m often willing to drop everything I’m doing to be alone, so that I can think before I act.
I’ve always had the strange belief that the mere existence of other human beings has tethered my freedom, for it isn’t long before I begin to feel restless in society. I need to be in a space where I have the freedom of movement without having to say a word to anyone, but as I’ve said: it’s not so that I can act, it’s so that I can consider all the options. At those times I’m quickly frustrated with anyone who might block my desires or question my intentions, another force of will, a demanding presence.
Maybe this is why I’ve led a life of solitude for so many years.
To avoid another force of will that might challenge mine, another demanding presence.
I’m never bored when I’m alone; nor do I feel the need to talk to anyone, to be rescued from the solitude. I can walk alone for hours, sit alone quietly without saying a word.
I’ve never understood why people are so terrified of being alone. So many people arrange their lives so as not to be alone, giving up so many things they want simply to avoid solitude. This is something I can’t understand because I have often sacrificed desires to be alone. I have sacrificed my happiness for it.
But that night was perhaps the first time I came to understand loneliness, feared by so many others.
When the light on the screen went out I felt it.
I suddenly felt as if I was in a dark cell and I longed for a human voice, a touch, a ray of light.
Even though I was close to Zuhal, this loneliness caused me to think that I might never see her again.
Thinking of the impossible has always been a torture for me. But solitude would lift all barriers and everything would suddenly open up in my mind. It was impossible to see Zuhal then. I imagine it was that one sentence – I’ll write if it doesn’t go too late – that brought on the loneliness and a strange kind of hopelessness that I had never felt before.
Maybe that was when I realised that what I was experiencing at that moment – indeed what we all experience – was an amalgam of reality and our dreams.
Like that wisp of a cloud I saw that day I drove up to the mountain hotel, faint dreams are blended into everything we experience. It is hard to believe that a trace of a cloud, a dream that seems so small and insignificant beside reality, holds within it a secret longing that can colour the real.
It wasn’t Zuhal or her absence that brought on this feeling – I hardly ever saw her – but rather that little cloud in my mind, a dream not yet fully formed. The longing to love someone and to be loved had suddenly become a reality. Zuhal had become a woman I was in love with, a woman I could not live without. But though I was in love I still wanted to be alone, because love couldn’t change my need for solitude. This woman had introduced me to loneliness and it was an unbearable emotion.
That little cloud drifting above reality had transformed Zuhal’s absence, changed her in my mind, turned her into the figment of a woman I couldn’t live without, a woman I had to be with right then and there, showing me her face, her voice, her touch.
I realised I was looking at myself from a distance, spying, and that gave me a bad feeling. I could see the truth even though I was under the spell of my dreams. I was aware of the illusion but I couldn’t shed the emotions that came with it.
I needed someone to help pass the time, to fill the void Zuhal had pitched before me.
And it was strange that Mustafa and Sümbül were the two people I most wanted to see.
I thought about calling Mustafa – I know it’s hard to explain. I usually talked to him about Zuhal or books. In a way, I was close to him because of Zuhal. It was a relationship we perceived differently, conjuring up contrasting emotions, but we both knew that it was built on our love for the same woman.
The relationship between two men who desire the same woman can be one of lifelong enmity, but also one of lifelong friendship.
I picked up my phone to call him.
Then I realised how ridiculous it would be.
If we talked that night Mustafa would only corner Zuhal the next day, ask her all kinds of questions, and insult her. In just one night our friendship would dissolve into hostility.
I called Sümbül.
I was afraid that she might be busy with a customer.
She picked up.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked.
‘Oh you know, just watching a debate on TV.’
‘Can you come over?’
‘Sure. Just give me some time. I can be there in half an hour.’ Whores never come on time. They’re always late. I don’t know why. But Sümbül was different – she was always right on time.
Half an hour later there was a knock on the door. Sümbül was someone you could trust.
She was wearing thin, baggy slacks, a comfortable shirt, flat shoes, no make-up and her hair was pulled back in a bun.
‘Whisky-cola?’
‘My pleasure.’
‘You need any help?’
‘No, I’ll make it.’
I poured a rakı for myself.
‘Take off your clothes,’ I said.
I loved watching her strip.
Without ever making a fuss she peeled off all her clothes and sat there completely naked, one foot tucked under her arse. Her breasts were just beginning to sag.
‘What were you watching?’ I asked.
‘Oh God, one of those idiotic political programmes. I just watch them because I’m bored.’
‘So, what’s the state of affairs?’ I asked, smiling. I always enjoyed listening to her take on things.
‘As far as I can tell, these politicians do what we’re doing right here but they’re the ones who leave with the money.’
Then she laughed. She found the analogy amusing.
‘So you’re saying that the country is one big brothel,’ I said.
‘No, not like that. Whores are bright. They wouldn’t do the deed and give money to have it done.’
Sümbül was never bothered by the word ‘whore’, and she used it freely herself, found it entirely natural.
‘The truth is that a whore’s pimp spends all the money on himself, but then again …’ She stopped for a moment and then said sadly, ‘I had one like that too. I was smitten, I spent the money I made on him. And he was only too happy to take it. Then I caught him with another whore. I gave him a good kick up the arse and felt much better.’
She was quiet for a moment. I suppose she felt it was inappropriate to show such sadness on the job and her face lit up.
‘You can give someone a good kick, but as soon as you get rid of one another shows up.’
‘Who are you going to vote for?’ I asked.
‘No one,’ she said. ‘They’re all in the game for their own interests. They give you a little hope then you see they’re all the same.’ And she laughed again. ‘You know how they say all men want the same thing? I swear politicians want the same thing too, they’re no different.’
She took a sip of her drink and smiled.
‘What’s happening in town?’ I asked.
‘Same thing that’s happening all over the country. It’s really tense out there. I’m worn out from giving all these guys extra care. I have to loosen them up before they can do me. I swear everyone’s petrified, and I can’t understand what’s happened. Pretty soon they won’t even be able to get it up and I’ll starve.’
‘You’ll never go hungry. You’ll always have customers.’
‘Of course I will, but the guys here are getting worse. They’re frustrated.’
‘Will there be more violence?’
‘I think they’re going to take out Sultan.’
She was quiet then, and when our eyes met I saw fear, and an imploring gaze. She knew she’d said too much. She was usually careful about what she said but the words had just slipped out.
At that moment I realised two things.
She’d slept with one of Muhacir’s men and got the news from him.
And that Sümbül was probably passing the information on to the police, because otherwise they’d never leave her in peace.
For a moment I was overcome with sadness. I hated the idea of her being an informer but it seemed inevitable. It was a reality I didn’t want to accept because if she was indeed relaying information, she wasn’t doing it of her own free will, and she no doubt had to protect her customers.
She was able to establish friendships with most of them.
Sometimes she called me first and that’s when I knew that work was slow and that she needed money. I’d then call her over even when I wasn’t in the mood, we would just chat without ever going to bed together and I would send her on her way with the money. She knew that I called her over for her friendship. And I also knew that if I didn’t have money she would let me have a go with her for free. We were friends.
She stood up.
‘Well, I think that’s enough politics for tonight. Come on, let’s have a little fun. Let me show you a good time. I’ll cheer you up.’
She made her way to the stairs and I followed.
‘You won’t be disappointed tonight,’ she said, slinking up the stairs. ‘Tonight everything goes.’
In return I would forget that Sultan was going to be shot.
Indeed I would forget everything altogether. Sümbül knew the tricks.
After I sent her on her way I slipped back into my sombre mood and turned on my computer.
Just three words.
‘where are you?’
‘i’m here,’ I wrote back.
The next line came quickly. It was clear she’d been waiting for me online.
‘i thought about you all night.’
‘wasn’t it a good night?’
‘it was actually a lot of fun. if i ever get married again i’ll definitely have a henna night but i missed you … a lot … i was thinking about you all night … thinking about you with my hand on my stomach … all night people kept asking me why i was smiling … and i couldn’t help but wonder what they would say if i told them what i was thinking.’
‘what was that?’
‘about our night in the hotel … and what we did together.’
There was a pause and before I could write back.
‘i’m getting hooked on you. i really missed you.’
‘i miss you too.’
Then we started to make love in words. Once I asked if we should video chat but she told me she was afraid of the images getting around on the internet, so we only wrote to each other. Our fingers and our imaginations were enough to put us in a place where anything was possible.
Making love with Zuhal in words after having ravished Sümbül in reality was even more fulfilling and ecstatic.
This was a different kind of reality that was hard to explain.
As we were signing off she wrote, ‘meet me at the hayati’s creamery in the morning. we can have breakfast there. it feels like we’re spending the night together. i’ll think about sleeping in your arms.’
I was surprised. She was worried about being seen with me in that remote mountain hotel but now she wasn’t at all concerned about being with me in town. Then I understood. She was afraid of ‘mustafa knowing what was going on’ but she wasn’t the least bit afraid of ‘mustafa worrying that something might be going on’. Indeed that was precisely what she wanted.
When I woke up in the morning she messaged me: ‘leaving home now.’
‘me too.’
Hayati’s creamery was on a little hill not far from Mustafa’s home. It was a popular breakfast spot, nothing more than a tent and low tables, overlooking the sea.
Hayati was a short man with a big head and a permanent frown, but the rumour was that he was extremely rich. He made homemade crêpes with fresh cream and a sprinkle of sugar on top. That was it. And freshly brewed tea.
But his crêpes were unforgettably delicious.
Zuhal was there when I arrived, sitting at a table. She’d ordered breakfast for both of us.
Though we’d both gone to bed late, her face looked refreshed and peaceful. There was an incredible innocence in her expression. She was a young lady, a princess, a queen, a little girl – all of them in one.
‘You’re killing me,’ I said, smiling.
‘How so?’ she said with a smile that betrayed her true feelings.
‘You just look so innocent. But I know what happened last night, and what you said, what you wrote … It’s hard to imagine the two together. It’s driving me mad just thinking about it.’
‘Do you know what happened the other day?’
‘What?’
‘I was going through my wardrobe with a friend, planning to give some of my extra clothes to the poor. After looking through what I had my friend said, Zuhal, do you know how many different styles you have here? And at that moment I understood. I had all these different kinds of clothes, as if many different women shared the same wardrobe. But I always wore the same style. I’d bought all the other dresses but I never actually wore them.’
