Endgame, page 22
There has never been anyone who showed you perfect fidelity.
They struggle to seem faithful in your eyes because they fear you. Why would they feel compelled to show it if they merely loved you?
Can faith and fear coexist?
As we read your book must we believe that only cowards have faith?
What do you want from such miserable heroes as us?
Is it fear you want? Or is it love?
I’m not afraid of you.
I love you, your creativity, your mighty power in the act of creation, your imagination and indeed I even love the cruelty that is the fruit of your imagination.
I didn’t follow your commands.
But did you really expect me to? When you created a hero like me you must have known I wouldn’t obey your orders?
Did you know this when you created me?
Will you see me as a traitor because I do not fear you and disobey you? Or am I faithful in your eyes because of my bond to your creative powers, my eternal love for you and your creations, my admiration in the face of your unrivalled imagination unseen in any other writer?
What is faith for you?
I have no idea.
No hero knows.
We don’t even know that. You don’t tell us and so how should we?
You shower praise over fidelity yet you never write of faithful heroes; you speak of betrayal as the greatest sin but you write glowingly of heinous traitors.
In every chapter of your work betrayal takes on yet another form.
Since the creation of humankind, we see betrayal in every chapter and on every page; your heroes are very quick to take that path.
Where is fidelity?
Where is the kind of faith we see in the Seven Sleepers?
Even those young exemplars of faith betrayed the kings around them to remain faithful to you.
Betrayed the kings with whom they broke bread.
Is it absolutely necessary to betray to remain faithful to another?
Are there any stories in your novel in which fidelity is not tainted by betrayal?
Can a writer praise faith like this yet reward only betrayal?
Is your inability to create a faithful hero not a flaw in your book?
And so here on this desolate night we are left alone together.
Can you tell me about a single hero who has remained faithful?
There are billions but which one lived without betraying?
I suppose that in this novel faith is more complicated a concept than you had initially conceived. And do you know why? Because just as in the story of those young men, faith only comes through betrayal.
I know this all too well now.
You must betray one to stay faithful to another.
What are we to make of a hero like this?
Do we call him faithful or a traitor?
In this ‘second volume’ you said you’ve written only to show mortals when they’ve died, will you burn your hero or reward him?
Do you know the answers to these questions?
They say that you know everything in this book, so why not tell us?
Tell me.
Is it an act of faith or betrayal to sacrifice one to save another?
You always leave your heroes with the same dilemma.
But let me say this, in your novel there is no faith without betrayal.
That’s just the way it is.
I wish that we had more time to talk about this earlier.
Time is now running out for me.
But if indeed you have set aside a place for me in the second volume then perhaps we will continue.
The time I have left in this book is counted out in hours.
And there’s so much more I have to say.
I suppose I won’t be able to put it all in tonight.
In my life I have seen so many people praising and exalting faith, so many desirous of being faithful, and I have not met one among them who has not betrayed another.
Sometimes it occurs to me that you don’t spend that much time thinking about us, setting aside time for us in your novel, as there are so many other books in the universe that you, like Alexandre Dumas, are writing. So many at the same time that no doubt you’ll have to leave drafts, assuming you don’t have a good editorial team.
Fidelity and the desire for it are generally not innate in us.
A chain of betrayal is born.
But betrayal arouses the desire to betray.
Have you seen a chain of fidelity in your novel?
I can show you a thousand chains of betrayal in your novel.
Like all novelists, you are unwittingly drawn to evil.
This is why you have always defended the very opposite of what you have created.
Good, in your books, is only something talked about.
While evil is victorious.
Even today, if a writer like myself were to take what you said as principle, and begin to craft a character with the kind of absolute fidelity and absolute goodness you teach, he would soon realise he was conjuring up an idiot.
How can we get out of this corner?
If even you can’t find a way out, what chance do we have?
Especially me.
As you drily spread praise, you provide such stellar examples of evil and it is simply not possible to resist being swept away.
I am the hero in such a novel.
That is how you wrote me.
Or did I write myself like this?
Whose work am I the product of? Yours or mine?
Who wrote what I’ve lived through?
You or me?
Who’s responsible for Zuhal’s actions, for her most unexpected behaviour?
You or me?
What a faithful woman she was.
How many acts of betrayal she committed.
But let me say this, the day I took her to Şeftali, in that chapter there was nothing but sheer goodness.
There are such chapters in your books that we should not be remiss in praising.
And no matter how fascinating I find evil, these chapters are dear to my heart.
This is a contradiction in my novel, and what can you do about it?
XXX
It was afternoon by the time we arrived in Şeftali.
The village was quiet and hardly anyone was out.
In the distance I could see a village woman leading several cows back to a barn. When I spotted the minaret in the distance, I turned.
We drove up to the mosque.
It was on the top of a little hill.
The road ended there.
It was a plain, little, white mosque.
With a little courtyard in front.
I stopped the car and told Zuhal to wait for me. ‘I’ll be back,’ I said.
I stepped into the courtyard.
Three kids were playing there, and an old man was sitting in a corner with theology books lined up on a little counter in front of him.
There was a one-storey house attached to the mosque.
I asked the children where I could find the Imam efendi.
Then the old man got up and came over to me.
‘Did you need something?’ he said, eager to help.
‘I’m looking for the Imam efendi,’ I said.
‘What for?’ he asked.
‘I need to speak to him about a matter.’
‘He lives over there,’ said the old man, pointing to the little house, ‘but he’s probably not there.’
Just then one of the windows opened and a young woman in a white headscarf leaned out. ‘Who are you looking for?’ she asked.
‘I’m looking for the Imam efendi,’ I said.
‘He went to check on the bees,’ said the woman.
‘Where are the bees?’ I asked.
‘In a grove at the end of the village.’
‘Okay, then. Thank you.’
I went back to the car and Zuhal asked me what was going on. I told her that the Imam efendi had gone to look after the bees. And that we were going to find him.
Zuhal had understood what we were going to do.
I turned and headed for the grove at the end of the village.
A young man with light brown hair and a bright face was tending beehives under the trees.
I got out of the car and as I walked over to the Imam I felt as if I’d already written the scene, and wondered which words I’d used to describe it. I couldn’t quite remember, and I wondered if all my life I’d dreamt of getting married in a mosque, or if I was always going to meet a woman who wanted to marry me in a mosque after every new book I wrote.
Lost in thought, I knew I was taken by the idea of marrying Zuhal, forming such a bond with her. It brought a smile to my face.
The Imam saw me coming and stood up. ‘Are you the Imam?’ I asked.
‘Yes. How can I help you?’ he said.
‘I would like to get married.’
‘You need to get papers from the mufti. There’s no other way. It’s prohibited otherwise.’
‘How can we find the mufti? Could you not perform the ritual?’ I asked. ‘Who would even know? I’m simply asking you to perform an auspicious deed, nothing ill-willed. To bring two people together.’
‘I can’t do it … I really can’t. I would help you out, of course, if I could.’
I turned to look back at my car and we both looked at Zuhal inside.
‘But you’re going to let her down. Is it worth it in the name of some silly restriction?’ I said.
Zuhal was watching us closely.
The Imam closed his eyes. I could see he was distraught, searching for a solution, and without saying a word I waited.
‘I can’t marry you but … There’s a retired Imam in the village. He can. I won’t go into the mosque but I’ll wait outside.’
‘Thank you very much. You’re doing us a tremendous favour. How can we find this Imam?’
‘I’ll have someone call him.’
I offered him a ride back with us but he said that he’d follow us on his bicycle.
We returned to the mosque and waited. Zuhal was excited. She stepped into the courtyard. A little later I saw her speaking to a young woman who was the Imam’s wife.
First the Imam came over.
Then came the retired Imam with a man beside him.
‘You want to get married,’ said the robust old Imam.
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Well, then bring the lady over here and let’s go inside.’
I turned to see the young woman tying a thin white scarf over Zuhal’s head.
It made her look stunning.
I’d never seen such an image of pure and innocent female beauty. She seemed a part of the mosque.
We stepped inside. It was immaculate, bright and silent, strips of light streaming through the windows, the mihrab serene and unadorned.
We knelt down in front of the retired Imam.
I took Zuhal’s hand as the Imam read his prayers. And I squeezed her hand. She didn’t let go until he stopped.
We were married.
The Imam and I rose to our feet. But Zuhal stayed kneeling.
‘You go. I want to stay a little longer.’
I thanked the witnesses and the retired Imam and they left. Then I thanked the Imam, who disappeared into his home.
Alone I waited for Zuhal in the courtyard, birds circling over the mosque.
She came out a little later and tapped on a window of the Imam’s house to return the headscarf. The young woman looked out and they spoke briefly, embracing each other before they said goodbye.
‘What’s up?’ I said.
‘They wouldn’t take back the scarf. It’s your wedding dress, they said, you should keep it. So it’s my wedding dress and I’ll keep it for the rest of my life.’
She was crying.
We drove out of the village.
‘You see all this as just a game, don’t you?’ she said. ‘You don’t take it seriously like me.’
I recited the first part of a verse from the Qu’ran for her. And then I said, ‘Don’t forget this world is nothing more than games, having fun while we’re here.’
She went on.
‘Of course the hereafter is a better place for the timid, the people fearful of God. Are you still unwilling to understand?’
I had forgotten that her grandfather had sent her to Qu’ran classes when she was a child.
‘But now we’re here in this world,’ I said.
She was quiet, only nodding her head. I didn’t know what it meant. She probably wanted to say something but I couldn’t work it out.
I felt as if I’d hurt her feelings.
‘I take it seriously too,’ I said.
But she remained quiet. She only smiled.
For some time she didn’t say a word, gazing out of the window. At one point she took off her headscarf and tied up her hair.
‘What did you do by yourself in the mosque?’ I asked.
She looked at me.
‘I pleaded for him to accept me the way I am and to forgive me.’
XXXI
The town went berserk after Sultan was killed.
It was such a groundless, meaningless flight of rage and madness that I couldn’t help wonder if people simply needed to go mad from time to time.
They needed to lose their heads and were looking for the right excuse.
Suddenly the town was split into two camps.
Those with Mustafa and those with Raci Bey.
I couldn’t tell just what it was that put people on one side or the other. I simply didn’t know why the sausage sandwich vendor I met in Centipede’s coffeehouse supported Mustafa and why the minibus driver who occasionally came to drink tea was a big Raci Bey man; and why they were always throwing punches at each other.
But what really surprised me was the way the town became so divided even though there was no clear and obvious evidence pointing to a conflict between Mustafa and Raci Bey, no sound reason suggesting any such thing.
Whenever I asked why Mustafa and Raci were fighting, they would all say the same thing, ‘The treasure.’
‘But we don’t even know if there is a treasure up there,’ I said.
They would stare at me blankly and then turn right back to their heated discussions.
So there were fights that brought people to the brink of death over a treasure that probably didn’t even exist, a treasure that no one knew what to do with if they even found it, which was something that people never openly discussed.
But what frightened me more was the way the town was divided, with Mustafa’s people supporting Oleander and Raci Bey’s fans supporting Muhacir, making the clashes between the rival gangs an everyday part of life.
This is what I could never understand: was the conflict turning more violent because there was a fierce exchange between Mustafa and Raci Bey, or were Raci and Mustafa sparring because the conflict in the town had flared up?
I never knew, and no one ever would.
I was a friend of Mustafa’s but I wasn’t on either side; I stayed out of it.
And this made me even more valuable.
After the second big event in the ongoing struggle, though, it suddenly became extremely important to determine which side I was going to take as the stranger in town, the writer, the city boy.
But as there was no clear reason for war, everything beyond the real took on a new level of importance.
Those were strange days.
We were in the middle of real war without a real reason.
The generals were divided. The judge, the district governor and the police chief all supported Mustafa. The gendarmerie commander supported Raci Bey.
Or rather that was the word on the street but there was no sound and clear evidence suggesting this.
Suddenly the number of bodyguards in town shot up, and I never worked out where the men came from; all the fat cats had three or four bodyguards with them as they sped through town in their dark Mercedes.
They feared for their lives.
And the same fear swept through the poor neighbourhoods.
Everyone was afraid of getting shot.
People were heading home early in the evening, keeping a close eye on what was happening around them, always looking over their shoulders.
There was no reason for any of them to be shot.
But everyone thought they might be the next victim.
The anger fed fear and that fear only turned into rage.
The void had created a vicious cycle and in the end I was really worried that they would in fact start shooting each other.
It was then that Raci Bey’s son Rahmi invited me to dinner. We met in a little fish restaurant on the far side of town. Rahmi was already there when I arrived. I noticed a crowd of men in black suits hovering by the door.
The restaurant was empty.
Rahmi was sitting alone at a table by the window.
He stood up when he saw me.
‘Are all those men at the door yours?’ I asked.
‘Yes.’
‘There’s an army out there.’
‘These are troubled times,’ he said. ‘You should see my dad’s place. They were practically ready to pull me off the streets and stuff me in there.’
‘What’s happening, Rahmi? I can’t work it out.’
Rahmi smiled mournfully.
‘Nobody knows what’s going on. Mustafa has lost his mind and now the entire town has gone mad too.’
‘What’s he done?’
‘He tried to get to the treasure on his own, pushing everyone else away, showing disrespect, bad manners … He doesn’t want anyone to have any control so that when he starts digging again no one will be able to stop him.’
‘Rahmi, you don’t even know if there’s any treasure up there.’
‘It doesn’t matter,’ Rahmi said, shrugging his shoulders. ‘Once he takes control of the hill, he’s the only man who controls it. The treasure’s there or it’s not, but the town is yours … No one could challenge you then. Even his decision to forbid people going up there was a challenge to us all … Who is he to tell us what’s off-limits? Are we nothing but food for the dogs?’
‘Is it really that important?’
I didn’t think Rahmi was the sharpest knife in the drawer but considering the way he was looking at me I understood that he didn’t think I was all that bright either.
