I was thinking the possibilities how a plane could
fall down: A maniac for instance, could stand up and shout to everybody that
his wife don’t listen him anymore and that he is frustrated and unhappy, so he could run towards the emergency door and pull out the
device that would cause the final countdown for everybody. Or, much better, the
plane could be caught by an extreme turbulence, we would
inhale the fake air with our oxygen masks and probably wouldn’t remember
anything after the crash.
By the time the pilot announced with his croaky voice
that we entered the border of Turkey, I was out of my catastrophe scenarios.
The stewardess asked me with a big fake smile that I had to close down my table
and open the window. The air was filled with lopsided pressure, up and down, down and up we were heading towards Istanbul. I felt sick of lacking cigarettes
and my stomach was making interesting sounds. For a while, the plane struggled
to get rid of the black clouds and the next minute, there was Istanbul, with
all its irony and vast ego, I was going to face my two brothers after a long
time.
Our father
passed away a couple of days ago. He was a well-respected veteran and worked
for the government. I was catching myself in irrelevant moments that I didn’t
sufficiently cleared my throat to talk to him.
The cold wind hit my face and my eyes filled with
tears. It took a while to find a taxi. Finally, a black man proposed me to
split a taxi; he was going to the same district. It was annoying
to listen him all the way, how he adored Istanbul and how he ended up marrying
a Turkish women. After he got off, the driver and me had a brief moment of
silence, we looked at each other through the window-mirror.
‘’Would you mind if I have a smoke?’’ he asked.
‘’No, not at all… Can you spare me one?’’
We both opened the windows and smoked our cigarettes.
He asked me the directions only once, and after that he turned on the radio (a
daily football program where six or seven commentators speak at the same time).
Mother was living at the same house for about forty
years. My elderly brothers and me grew up in the same room. We used to watch
the ships passing through the Bosporus and always fought for them: As the black
smoke rose as a carpet and decompose in the air, like most Istanbulites felt,
the instant hoot of the ship scared us. Then our father came to our room,
shouting ‘’What is this noise! Go back to bed! Now!’’
After years now, nothing much changed, especially the
city we grew up together. As I was climbing up the black and white spiral
staircases, I could nose the smell of food coming from our flat, always the
same menu: Asparagus soup, stuffed aubergines with garden orach, fried liver
served with onions and the pudding of Noah, wheat with dried nuts and
pomegranate seeds.
And so welcomed my two brothers at the door, hugging
and kissing, trying to understand where we left each other and where to start
again. Then came my mother, her eyes swelled like a balloon.
‘’My weakness, beautiful YY... ‘’
We hugged.
‘’Is it the onions that bloated your eyes, or anything
else?’’ I said, trying to break the melancholic mood. My second brother, ZZ, cackled for an instant. Then came my mothers helper, who came to Istanbul fifty
years ago from Armenia, Madame Kirkor, with her humpback and enormous wide
eyes, ‘’YY ! Still the same! The dinner is ready…’’
‘’Serve the food, I bring the plates for the boys,’’
said my mother. ‘’Let’s go kids…’’
So we sat around the table, my mother at the front.
There was a ritual of serving and making sure that everything is properly done.
‘’What would you like to drink sweetheart?’’
‘’Rakı, please.’’ ZZ opened the bottle, filled the half of the glass with Rakı,
the rest with water. ‘’Ice?’’ he asked, ‘’No, thanks,’’ I said. We clinked our
glasses and let the Rakı float down from our throats. My mother drank tea.
‘’Did you miss Rakı?’’ she asked. ‘’Yes, mother, I missed everything…’’ I
smiled to her the same way as the stewardess smiled to me. Then she began to
cry.
‘’If only your father could drink with us too! Oh God!
Give us strength and patience…’’ Then she went to the bathroom and we three
brothers were on our own. ZZ lit a cigarette, X, the eldest brother
bottomed up the Rakı and filled his glass again. ‘’Why in the hell does she cry
again?’’
‘’She cries about everything,’’ ZZ said.
∆ ∆ ∆
It took nearly an hour to decide how we should
go to the funeral. It was a particularly hot day as the sun was getting through
the curtains. Everything in the living room was yellow. Madame Krikor was helping
mother with her dress. ZZ was in the balcony by himself. X and I were sitting
in the large sofa, gazing the Bosporus. Now and then, we could hear the croaky
ship horns. Sometimes a cry of a seagull was following another. You could see
how they were floating in the air, barely flying, as the wind was very strong. We
both were sipping our teas, as finally X broke the silence.
‘’We couldn’t talk much, yesterday…’’
I took a deep sip, nodding.
‘’How’s with G?’’ I asked.
‘’It’s okay…you know… we know each other too
much… that’s the only problem we have… I don’t know... It would be too difficult
to meet with someone… It’s just too boring…’’
‘’Is it boring to meet new people?’’
‘’Yes, it is. Especially if you are over
twenty-five. I don’t know YY. It’s a bit about what you want.’’
‘’What do you want?’’
The faint cry of a bird, coming from a far
corner. We listened it for a while. Then ZZ popped in, all of a sudden.
‘’Hey guys…’’ he said. ‘’You ready?’’
‘’We are ready,’’ I said. ‘’It’s mother we are
waiting for.’’
‘’She’ll be in the bathroom for a long time,’’
he said. ‘’I was wondering if you’d be interested for a small joint?’’
‘’You know we’re not going to a Rock gig!’’ said X. ‘’You really want to go to your father’s funeral high?’’
‘’Would that make a difference?’’ said ZZ. And
shortly we three found us squeezed in the small balcony, smoking the joint.
‘’I have this new idea for my album…’’ ZZ said.
‘’It’s all experimental and shit… Girls gonna love it! I can see them from the
stage, they become all wet!’’
There was brief silence as we were listening the
car horns.
‘’What’s the name of the album?’’ I asked, as
ZZ was passing the joint to me.
‘’The name of the album… you ready to hear it?’’
‘’I am ready,’’
‘’X, are you ready?’’
‘’Yes ZZ, I am ready,’’
‘’OK, guys…the name of the album is…The Journey
of the Journey…’’
‘’The Journey of the Journey?’’ X asked.
‘’Well that’s a horrible name.’’
‘’Oh what do you know?’’ said ZZ, making a
face.
‘’I think it’s good,’’ I said.
‘’What does the Journey of the Journey mean
anyway? Are there two journeys going on?’’ X asked.
‘’Yeah, there is our journey, and there is this other
journey…you know…the journey of the beyond, of the unknown…’’
‘’Well it’s shit…’’ said X, hissing the
joint and passing it to ZZ.
‘’Fuck off…’’
A silence began. I was feeling the sun against
my skin. Warm and safe. We could hear the noises of our neighbour, Monsieur
Julian, who sang in the shower out loud every single morning. He came to
Istanbul a long time ago to teach French lessons in a Turkish high school. Like
almost everyone, he too found himself a Turkish wife and ended up living in
Istanbul. Now you had to listen him, imitating his voice to a really bad
version of Jacques Brel. Ne me fucking
quitte paz.
‘’Who will be in the funeral?’’ ZZ asked.
‘’Almost everybody you know…’’ said X.
‘’Shit… Father would say the same…’’
‘’Well he wouldn’t smoke before a funeral…’’
‘’He used to smoke…’’ I said. ‘’He was just shy
to say it.’’
‘’Bullshit!’’ said ZZ. ‘’He was a veteran.
There is no way a veteran gets high…’’
‘’Oh,
yeah?’’ I said. ‘’What do you know, genius?’’
‘’I know he liked democracy…’’
‘’What in the hell is that supposed to mean?’’
asked X.
ZZ disgorged a large puff of smoke towards the
iron grilles on the windows and murmured to himself. We were high as fuck.
I could see the street cats sitting on wharfs
waiting for old fishermen, poor children jumping naked from the shore road into
the warm Bosphorus. It was 08:06 A.M. and the sun was still shining.
‘’Y is gay,’’ said X, all of a sudden.
Another session of silence began. The sun stood
in the sky like a perfect shiny orange, saluting the city. The dilapidated wooden houses, the crumbling city
walls, the propaganda posters of feminists, the reddish glint in the windows,
and the identical grey-coloured brothels. The view of the city was beating in
my chest, as if the blood of the empty-ramshackle wooden houses was rushing
through my brain.
Before I had a chance to say anything, Madame Krikor shouted
out loud, ‘’Mother is ready! Dépêchez-vous!’’
‘’Shit…’’ X said, putting off the cigarette.
‘’Why did you do that?’’ shouted ZZ.
‘’Pull yourself together fuckhead!’’
‘’X...’’ I said. ‘’What you just said was…’’
‘’Dépêchez-vous!!!
Allez!’’ shouted Madame Krikor.
∆ ∆ ∆
Leaving the house was maybe the hardest thing in
this family. Madame Krikor had already prepared the clothes for mother the
night before, although she insisted on wearing something else. We were already
late for the funeral. She couldn’t decide which scarf to take. Meanwhile, she
would insist to get undressed halfway the dressing process and start to burst
into tears.
X went to the dressing room and ZZ to the bathroom, ‘’I need
to wash my face,’’ he said. I stayed in the corridor near the door and
I could see the sun coming in straight through the long-ceiled windows.
Then X shouted from mother’s bedroom,
‘’YY!’’ I went to the dress room and saw mother crying. X was standing
behind her. His eyes were sharp red and for a brief moment I couldn’t decide
whether I should say something or not. Then, without a conscious reaction I
nodded my head, mentioning to wait us outside.
‘’Should I bring the car?’’ whispered
X.
‘’Yes, that would be a fantastic idea, ’’ I
whispered back at him.
My ears were buzzing as if I had come back from
a loud Rock concert. I sat down near my mother.
‘’What is wrong, mother?’’ I said. My voice was
trilling.
‘’Oh my weakness, beautiful YY… Lord knows
how much I loved your father…’’ I started to pat her hands.
‘’The places we
went, the things we did… all this adventure is over now, me, and living in this
house without your father is going to be a nightmare…’’
‘’You,
ZZ and X… All of you are grown-ups now, living your own lives. What will I
do in this house?’’ Now she was raising her voice, ‘’I don’t want to rot all
alone and die like a useless old bitch!’’
Before I had the chance to interrupt her ZZ popped in. His eyes were exactly the same. ‘’ZZ,’’ I said. ‘’X is bringing
the car, why don’t you go outside and help him out?’’
‘’Deal,’’
When was the last time I had a proper
conversation with my mother?
‘’Look…’’ I said, without knowing how to
continue. ‘’I’m sure Dad would be very sad if he’d saw you like that… everybody
is waiting for you downstairs. The sun is shining. Let’s go mother…’’
For a while, she stared at me blankly and stood
up to look herself in the mirror. Then she turned her head and stared at me
again, and said:
‘’What is wrong with your eyes?’’
I got up and went next to her and glanced to
myself in the mirror. I really have to work how to make a poker face, I
thought, and said: ‘’I guess I had a bad night…’’
I took mother’s arm and we went down the spiral
staircases.
‘’Small steps YY, always small steps…’’ she said, while the
lights of the apartment went out. It was pitch dark now and our exhaled breath
was floating in the dark. Then, with almost a miraculous effort I found the
lights. ZZ, X and Madame Krikor was waiting us in front of the apartment
house. Madame Krikor came immediately to take mother’s arm, then I looked at ZZ:
‘’Can you come for a sec?’’
He drew on his cigarette and came next to me
while I ordered Madame Krikor to go inside the car.
‘’What is it?’’ he said.
‘’You stupid retard!’’ I whispered. ‘’Are you
out of your mind? If I knew this weed was so strong I wouldn’t have smoked it!
You fucking pothead!’’
Then X came, ‘’What is it?’’ he said with
the same worried face.
‘’Oh, the Great YY of London is a bit panicked
because he is high as fuck!’’ said ZZ. ‘’Drive slowly and follow me, we’ll be
alright…’’
‘’Here,’’ said X. ‘’Take my sunglasses,
it’ll help…’’
‘All right, brother!’’ said ZZ.
‘’Shut the fuck up, will you?’’ I said.
∆ ∆ ∆
Madame Krikor sat next to me, mother in the back
praying quietly and playing with her rosary. ‘’My dear, YY,’’ said Madame
Krikor after a short while, ‘’Could you spare me a cigarette?’’
‘’Of course,’’
Fortunately ZZ was driving very slowly,
deliberately I thought, and opened the car window so that the smoke wouldn’t
bother mother. ‘’Such a nice weather,’’ I murmured.
‘’Look at you!’’ said Madame Krikor out of the
blue, ‘’All grown-up and responsible, I’m proud of you!’’
‘’I wouldn’t be that sure,’’ I said.
‘’I remember the first time I saw you. You were
so little YY, so frightened of everything that you had to carry your silly
toy soldier with you all the time.’’
‘’I wonder where that toy is now… But yes, I do
remember Madame…’’
The traffic lights went red and we had to stop. Three
beggars came by our car and started to wipe the glass. I immediately raised my
hands, mentioning ‘‘Don’t do it, no change! ‘’Come on,’’ I then murmured, ‘‘Why
does this red light take so long?’’ Mother spoke in whispers, ‘’Give him some
change, sweetheart…’
Then, Madame Krikor and me launched forth upon
how she managed to live in Istanbul. Her husband was a Jewish jeweller who ran
this business for ages. She was working with her husband and I remember the
times when I was a kid visiting their store and playing with their kids, D
and R. Back then, most of our friends and acquaintances were non-Muslim, and
we used to arrange little tea parties at our home. No one in the country was
bothered to live with a serious number of Greek citizens, or at least that was
what we thought. One night, a falsified news in the national broadcast channel
(‘’It was the government that planned this propaganda!’’, mother would said)
alleged that the house of the Turkish leader Atatürk was burned in Salonica by
Greek citizens. Not a single piece of evidence or image was shown, and
nevertheless, people seemed to be more than willing to receive such news so
that they could begin to devastate all Greek and Armenian shoe, jewellery, silk
and tailor shops. I remember watching the streets from our window, people
shouting with sticks and signboards ‘’Death for the Greek’’ or ‘’No Istanbul
For the Greek Man’’. We were receiving advice from our neighbours to fly a
Turkish flag from the balcony so that nationalists would understand which house
to vandalize. Years later, a friend of mine told me that he had to show his
penis in order to prove that he was a Turkish and circumcised citizen.
They found Madame Krikor’s husband and two kids
burned in a jewellery store. According to the police, they were trapped or
locked inside the store. Luckily or not, Madame Krikor wasn’t in the store that
particular day. When the police came by to our house, I remember that shrill
scream of Madame Krikor. Almost the entire Greek population was deported to
Athens and other regions of Greece. There was no place for Madame Krikor to go
and build a new life. ‘’Istanbul…’’ she would say now and then, ‘’My whole
family lived here for centuries. Why and where should I go?’’
The moment we got out of the car, the İmam
welcomed mother and Madame Krikor. A short trip in the car made me better, and
listening Madame Krikor helped me to let myself go into memories. I was feeling
dizzy and slugged. The whole community who worked with my father was already
there, all of them with black sunglasses and lounge suits. It didn’t took long for X to come by and say,
‘’I know nobody here,’’
Me, ZZ, X and mother were in front of
the line. Now and then, some
people were passing by, shaking our hands, ‘’I am so sorry, he was a good
man,’’ or ‘’God bless him, I knew him well…’’
The İmam pointed at some kids, soon after a
microphone was handed to him. Before he was going to start the prayer, a loud
sizzle from the microphone rugged everybody’s ears. Then he looked to the
microphone and clapped it. When he started to his pray with the words ‘’My
fellow citizens…’’ a worse sizzle came from the loudspeakers. Some people from
the back shouted, ‘’Try the other one!’’
Then a couple of other young people
came next to him with other microphones and for a while they just tried to fix
it. Meanwhile, I glanced over at ZZ and I could see him liking some photos on
Instagram. I poked his shoulder and whispered, ‘’I don’t believe it! I don’t
fucking believe it!’’
After this short interruption the prayer started.
The İmam was telling a weird story about a dying tree and how its nutritional
source was harbouring the Earth and Mother Nature. Apparently there was a link
between death and life. Almost everybody had a sunglass and it was impossible
to understand where exactly they were looking.
The story of the İmam took longer than I
expected. It was now about angels, devils, signs and symbols. Once in a while,
some people were saying ‘’Amen,’’ during the prayer so that they could proof
that they were listening. I started to think about other things, my
flat in London, the people I was seeing, the films that I liked and disliked, I
was imagining a Disneyland that was designed only for adults, the shooting location
for the Teletubbies, red and blue pills and Matrix and I thought about public
sex and many other things.
By the time the İmam was finishing his last words,
an overwhelming urge to leave wrapped my whole body. And it was approximately
then, when I whispered to ZZ that I was going to the bathroom. All I wanted to
do was to get out of this place.
A charity desk was set up next to the garden.
Two young students were sitting next to the desk with a signboard written
‘’Donate money and live in Heaven.’’
‘’Sir,’’ said one of the young student,
‘’Your contribution will reach the dead…’’ I digged my pocket to spare some
change, but then I hesitated because I was going to need it, so instead I said,
‘’I really need my changes more than Mr. Dead,’’
A brief silence.
‘’Honor the dead, sir…’’
Another brief silence.
‘’Why not honor the living?’’
Then the other student murmured, I guess she was
saying something like ‘’Leave it…’’
Then I began to walk. Tens of thousands of
identical apartment entrances, discoloured by dust and rust, blackened walls
covered with frayed propaganda posters, ‘’Women Power!’’ ‘’Secular Turkey!’’,
crowds rushing to catch the ferries, powerful whiffs of urine and marijuana,
and the barber who complain that men don’t shave as much after the economic
crisis.
Now and then, I could hear the ship horns booming through the crowds
and tiny ribbons of smoke rising towards the seagulls that were eagerly
screaming for fish. I walked through underpasses of the most crowded
intersections. At one stage, I threw my change to a blind organist who was
playing a pop song with a Yamaha keyboard. Then I bought a broken lighter from
an old beggar who has trying to sell the same touristic postcards and junk at
the same spot for the past twenty years.
I pulled a cigarette and lit it. A rush of steam
was pouring up from the pavement and it was mixing with the smoke of my
cigarette. For a while, I tried to clear the fog that was hovering with the steam.
I continued to walk. I then found myself walking along the dilapidated brothels.
Prostitutes and kids were watching me from their little balconies. A group of
Kurdish and African refugees, standing in a corner with shy and dazed looks,
not knowing exactly what to do and where to go. Thinking better of it at the
last moment, I quickened my steps towards the side street and I was already
sobbing by the time I made it down at the end of the road.
