“Not at all, why should I be crazy? I’m explaining the plot of a story. There’s no murder in it, but there
is
the matter of salvation. The removal of a single intervening obstacle. There’s rejuvenation. Indeed, he rediscovers the world. He’s given himself a period of seven days. For seven days he conceals the crime. For seven days, as if resurrected, he lives among others blithely and empathetically in halos of golden radiance. Just like a god, for seven days ... and on the evening of the seventh day, in a state of peaceful reconciliation with nature and life, in a
mi’raj
of human fate, he hangs himself.” İhsan: “Impossible. How can you account for such a transformation in character? No sense of vengeance, no claim of justice gives an individual the right to kill another. But suppose he assumes this right and murders anyway. How did the transformation come about? The path to self-realization doesn’t pass through murder . . . The blood of mankind is taboo. It diminishes and oppresses humanity. Even in the case of social justice, those who mediate through murder are always anathema. The executioner is always a pariah.”
“Within the context of our own morality, yes, but by transcending it . . .”
“Morality can
not
be transcended.”
“Why not for somebody living beyond good and evil? You’re talking about accountability, but my protagonist has no intention to be accountable. He wants liberty. When he attains that he becomes a demigod.”
“No one becomes free by spilling blood . . . Blood-stained freedom isn’t freedom, it’s something besmirched and tainted. Not to mention that a person can’t be divine. Man is humane. And this is a station attained through much toil.”
“Do me the favor of defining freedom.”
Suad stared at İhsan for a minute. İhsan was on the verge of responding, but Macide, genuinely anxious, interrupted: “İhsan, you don’t suppose that he plans on killing Afife?” İhsan calmed his wife with a chuckle: “Don’t be childish, good heavens!” He added slowly, “No, don’t be afraid, he wants to vent . . . He got a little frustrated, that’s all.” Then he turned back to Suad, awaiting an answer: “I can. It’s the grace and prosperity we wish for others.”
“But what about yourself, what happens to the wisher?”
“By desiring grace for others, I, too, become free before my urges and appetites – ”
“That’s nothing but another form of slavery ... each of us exists independently.”
“In one respect, yes, if I don’t sincerely desire the well-being of others . . . but think of it as a joint venture, then it’s total freedom. As soon as you say, ‘Each of us exists independently,’ you’ve forsaken everything. Existence is whole and we’re its constituent parts! If the contrary were true, the world would degenerate. Yes, existence is whole, and we’re its transient elements. We might only achieve satisfaction and peace through this mind-set.” Then he smiled. “I’ve made a lot of concessions to you, Suad . . . Understand what I’m trying to say; perhaps we could even agree at some fundamental level. Man, one by one, does not become divine; however, if mankind fashioned an ethics suitable to its circumstance, it might become divine! That is to say, it could assume grand qualities.”
Exhausted, Suad withdrew to a corner. He clung tightly to his
rakı
. Mümtaz simply stared at him.
We’re having a bizarre night . . .
He wasn’t angry with Suad as before. Clearly, Suad was afflicted. But he couldn’t fully empathize with him, either. An aspect of Suad’s character rejected all feelings of pity. One could rather admire or despise Suad, but he couldn’t be pitied. His disquiet closed the human heart to him. Even now, in the parlor under electric lights, he was alienated from each person and from the entire group, ostracized, an anomaly.
“No, this isn’t the issue ... You’re conceiving the matter backward. I’m referring to an idiosyncrasy. I’m not referring to a person born into poverty, but to one born into wealth. You’re attempting to apply a general system of order to him. He’s above that. Don’t forget how I started all this. I described him as someone who’s already possessed of all virtue.”
“What difference does it make?”
“I’ll tell you: What others strive to achieve, he already possesses inherently.”
“Among these virtues can we name duty and responsibility?”
Nuran closed her eyes.
I wonder what Fatma’s doing now?
“No, not those. He’s completely independent with respect to his surroundings, but he’s generous.”
İhsan asked slowly, “Don’t you now realize where you’ve gone wrong?”
“No, I don’t . . . but what difference does it make? Mümtaz should still pen this story.”
İhsan continued: “You’re absolving people of responsibilities to impose certain preconceived and innate virtues. But being human involves a sense of responsibility. All the rest contributes to the wealth of one’s character. In fact, in your account, your protagonist, the demigod that you’ve conceived, undergoes a transformation enabling him to commit a crime as a result of marriage, a lapse of the imagination, or maybe unprovoked hatred. Nevertheless, a sense of responsibility – ”
“The sense of responsibility changes as well. It expands into action. First he’ll destroy all vestiges of morality through a transvaluation of values.”
“He might destroy them, but then he’ll lose his bearings! Because humanity begins from a sense of responsibility.”
Suad shook his head. “Where does that lead?”
“I’ll tell you: He won’t be at peace with others and in society as you suppose. Spilled blood will intervene. To maintain the peace, we each have a reflection of the world and its inhabitants, a fixed and defined persona. Murder, or even the slightest injustice, distorts this reflection. We’d either end up denying the world or the world would banish us!”
“Doesn’t suffering distort this persona?”
İhsan answered without hesitation: “On the contrary, it’s through suffering that one makes peace with humanity. It’s when I’m in anguish that I better understand others. Warm empathy mediates between me and society ... That’s when I grasp my sense of responsibility. Our daily bread is suffering. He who avoids pain strikes humanity in its Achilles heel, the greatest betrayal is to shirk suffering. Can the fate of humanity be changed in a single stroke? Even if you do away with misery, if you provide freedom and liberty for all, you still have death, illness, lack of opportunity, and guilt. Fleeing in the face of suffering amounts to destroying the fortress from within. As for taking refuge in death, that’s horrific. That’s simply taking shelter in bestial irresponsibility.”
İhsan paused. He suffered as much as or more than Suad. Perspiration covered his face. He continued, slowly: “Mankind is the prisoner of fate. When confronted by it, humanity has no recourse but faith and, in particular, suffering.”
“You speak of faith, but you’re on the path of reason.”
“I’m on the path of reason. Naturally I’m going to take the path of reason. Socrates says that the intelligent lover surpasses the impassioned lover. Intellect is the defining attribute of humanity.”
“But doesn’t the murderer himself die with the victim in the act of murder?”
“To a certain degree that’s true ... but, you see, this death doesn’t ensure the rebirth that you seek. At least in every instance. Because such transgression removes us from the category in question. You aren’t properly situating humanity within the social world. That’s the crux of the matter. I’m not one to deny humanity its divine attributes! The soul of mankind is master of the world.”
Suad laughed: “Apparently I’ve come up against İhsan’s effusive side. But, Mümtaz, you go ahead and write this story anyway!”
Mümtaz entered the conversation: “That’s all fine and well, but why should I write it and not you yourself?”
“Quite simply because you’re the writer. You enjoy writing. Our roles are different. I simply live life!”
“Aren’t I living?” Mümtaz asked, in a soft voice, as if to say, “Or have I died?”
“No, you aren’t, that is, not the way I live. You’ve withdrawn to a particular vantage where you reside. You have vast and brilliant visions. You have the sense that you’ll vanquish time. You strive to seize anything that might be of use. You categorize things: ‘This is useful, this is not.’ You see what you want and turn away from what you don’t.” He was all but talking to himself. Often he coughed, and afterward he shook his head as if to say, “Pay no mind, it’ll pass.” “You sense a world that you want to possess at all costs. Even though it might be an illusion, you stick with it. Do you think I’m like you? I’m a wretched, materialist sot, who shirks his responsibilities. My existence is a shameless waste. I wander aimlessly like water. I’m ill, I drink, I’ve fathered children whose faces I don’t want to see. I disregard my own life to perpetually live in the hides of others. Whether a thief, a murderer, or a cripple who drags a lame leg behind him, each living creature I see becomes yet another invitation. They call to me and I run. Either they open their shells to me, or I open my body to them, and they settle within me furtively and seize my hands, arms, and thoughts. Their fears and anxieties become mine. At night I dream their dreams. I awake with their torments. But that’s not all. I feel the anguish of the rejected. I want to feel each and every downfall. Do you know how many times I’ve stolen from our bank, from the safe entrusted to me?”
Macide cried, “Suad, what are you saying? Don’t listen to him, for Allah’s sake. Take a look for yourselves, he’s covered in sweat.”
Mümtaz looked at Macide, her face stark white, her eyes wide. She’d succumbed to a bout of nerves. But Suad didn’t heed her anguish: “Don’t worry, Macide. It’s not what you think. I didn’t actually steal. But I’ve thought of doing so a hundred times. I didn’t just think it, I imagined stealing. Maybe a hundred times, I was the last person to leave the bank. I imagined I was being pursued by men who would soon arrest me as I left, receding as I went. I walked over roads I’d never traveled before.”
İhsan asked, “Okay, but why?”
Suad only ever responded to Mümtaz: “For the very same reason I lived my life in the most absurd way, for the same reason I gallivanted, caroused, and finally married. To kill time. To live. To avoid rotting away!” He shrugged. “How should I know? I wanted to feel the extent of myself, that’s why! To fulfill the need to declare ‘I am’ to the void at each instant. Now do you understand why I want you to write this story? So that a shudder of alarm might travel up your spine! Your minds house a slew of words like ‘love’ and ‘suffering.’ You live through words. Whereas I want to fathom the meanings of those words. That’s why I did it. You should write to discover that you don’t love someone to the degree that you would kill. But you’re not acquainted with death, either, are you?” He laughed and chortled. “I’m quite certain that for you death means waiting eternally in a more pristine and essential state, like objects conserved in a museum after being fired in a kiln. Is that not true? And you’re not disgusted by death, but rather you see it as sister to beauty and love. Did you ever consider how disgusting death is? A revolting decay and stench! Maybe some of you believe in Allah. I’m certain you’ve embalmed this topic in silence and uncertainty. Because you exist only in words! Haven’t you just once wanted to talk to Allah? Had I been a believer, I would have liked to speak with Him, to experience Him.”
Nuran protested. “Is all this necessary, Suad?” But he wasn’t listening. He was spewing as much as he possibly could. What Mümtaz had feared had come to pass. The crisis had begun.
Mümtaz asked in the same childish voice, “Do you believe?”
“No, dearest, I’m not a believer. I’m bereft of this joy. Had I been a man of faith, the issue would have been different. Had I known of the existence of Allah, I’d have no more claim against or quarrel with humanity. I’d then only struggle against Him. At every turn, I’d collar him somewhere and call Him to account. And I’d have assumed that He was obligated to provide a reckoning. I’d say, ‘Come. Come, and for a moment enter into the skin of one of your creations. Do what I do every day. Live twenty-four hours of one of our lives! There’s no need to select a particularly unfortunate specimen. You are the Creator; it’s impossible for you not to know or understand. Descend into the carcass of any one of them. Live your own lie for a moment along with us. Live as we do. Become a frog of small thirsts in this swamp for twenty-four hours!”
İhsan laughed. “Fine, but only a devotee could say these things. You’re a believer all right! And more than any of us!”
“No, I don’t believe. But, I am thinking through the thoughts of a genuine follower.” He shook his head. “And I’ll never believe, either. I’d rather die writhing on the ground from rheumatism.”
They laughed awkwardly together. Mümtaz’s face was in a state of rigid attention. Suad noticed neither the laughter nor Mümtaz.
“Yes,” he said. “I’d prefer to die writhing on the ground from rheumatism! If you like, let me tell the story. Among my relatives was a very naïve but decent man. A devout, earnest, saintly man. We loved him dearly. One couldn’t help being awestricken by his perseverance in life. He used to live around Topkapı. He’d come and go into the city by donkey. This donkey became one of the joys of my childhood. One day when we went to their house, we noticed that the donkey wasn’t in the yard as usual. ‘What happened?’ we asked. ‘The poor beast has rheumatism,’ they told us, and opened the barn door. They’d put the donkey’s saddle on upside down, suspending the animal from the ceiling by stirrups. In this way its fetlocks were eased from the humidity in the barn, and it no longer had to stand on all fours. You couldn’t imagine how comical the beast looked, its four legs hanging limply, its docile head lolling toward the floor. Pathetic and comic, the animal had effectively become humanized. At first I laughed considerably. But not afterward. Today every metaphysical system of thought reminds me of that animal’s pathetic and stupefied gaze from above.”