Silent House (22 page)

Sometimes I wonder if a person could remain a little girl all her life. If she doesn’t want to grow up and sink into sin and her only desire, like mine, is to remain a girl, she should be able to do that, but I wonder how. When I was still a child in Istanbul and I went to visit my friends, I heard the French novels translated into Turkish that Nigân, Türkân, and Sükran read one after the other: Christians have monasteries; if you don’t want to be sullied by sin, you climb up into one and you wait; but as I listened to Nigân read that book, I thought it was a strange and ugly arrangement, all of them cooped up in there next to one another, like wretched lazy chickens refusing to lay eggs. Then when I thought of how it would be when they grew up and got old and shriveled I was disgusted: the Christian thing, the cross, idols, the crucifix; they’d rot inside cold stone walls like priests with black beards and red eyes! I didn’t want anything like that. I wanted to remain just as I was without anybody seeing me.

No, I can’t sleep! I’m staring at the ceiling in vain. I turn, get up slowly, walk over to the table, and look at the tray as though I were seeing it for the first time. The dwarf left peaches tonight and cherries. I take a cherry and put it in my mouth; it is like a huge ruby; I
hold it between my teeth a little, then bite down and chew it slowly, wait for the juice and the taste to carry me off somewhere, but I waited for naught. Here I am, still. I spit out the pit and try another one, then a third, and three more, and as I look at the pits in my hand, I’m still here. By all evidence, this is going to be a long night.

W
hen I woke up, the sun had risen all the way up to my shoulder. The birds in the trees had already begun twittering, and so had my mother and father in the next room.

“What time did Hasan go to bed last night?” said my father.

“I don’t know,” said my mother. “I fell asleep … Do you want more bread?”

“No,” said my father. “I’ll be back at lunchtime to see if he’s here.”

Then they were silent, but the birds weren’t: lying there, I listened to them and the rush of traffic to Istanbul. Then I got up to get Nilgün’s comb from my pants pocket and got back into bed. Looking at the comb in the sunlight that came in the window, I stretched out a little and got to thinking. When I thought how this thing I held in my hand had been in the deepest corners of the forest of Nilgün’s hair, I felt a little strange.

I silently climbed out the window, splashed my face with some water from the well, and I felt better: I’m no longer going to think the way I did in the middle of the night, that there’s no way it can
work out for me and Nilgün, that we live in different worlds. I went inside, put on my bathing suit, pants, and sneakers, put the comb in my pocket, but just as I was about to head out I heard a noise at the door. Good: my father was leaving, which meant that along with the tomatoes, cheese, and olives, breakfast wouldn’t include a speech about how hard life is and how a high school diploma is so important. They were talking at the door.

“Tell him that if he doesn’t sit down and study today …,” my father was saying.

“Well, he was studying last night,” said my mother.

“I went out into the garden and looked in his window,” my father said. “He was sitting at his desk, but he wasn’t studying. It was clear his mind was somewhere else.”

“He does study, he does!” said my mother.

“Well, he knows,” said the lame lottery-ticket vendor, “that if he doesn’t I’ll give him to the barber as a helper.”

Then I heard the unequal step of his two feet, one of them strong and one of them weak. When he had shambled off,
tak-takir, tak-takir
, I came down to the kitchen.

“Sit down,” said my mother. “Why do you eat standing up?”

“I’m going out,” I said. “It doesn’t matter how much I study anyway. I heard Dad.”

“Don’t pay that any mind,” she said. “Come sit down and have a proper meal! Should I make you some tea?”

She looked at me tenderly. All of a sudden I thought about how much I loved my mother and how much I didn’t love my father. I felt sorry for her; it was because he used to beat her at one point that I didn’t have any sisters or brothers. What was he punishing her for? But my mother was my sister, I thought: We weren’t like mother and son but more like a sister and brother they’d forced to live with this crippled man and, as part of the punishment, they said, Okay, let’s see you live on what he makes selling lottery tickets. True, our situation wasn’t really bad, there were kids in my class a lot poorer than us, but
we didn’t even own a shop. If it weren’t for the tomatoes, beans, peppers, and onions in the garden my sweet mother wouldn’t have a cent for something to throw into the stew pot, not from what that cheapskate so-called lottery peddler brings in, and the both of us would probably starve. Just the thought of it made me want to explain to my mother everything about how this world works: how we were all the playthings of the great powers, the Communists, the materialists, the imperialists, and the rest, and how we were now reduced to begging for help from nations that used to be our servants. But she wouldn’t understand: she just complains about her bad luck, but doesn’t ask why it’s that way.

She was still gazing at me, and I got annoyed.

“No, Mother,” I said. “I’m going right away. I have things to do.”

“Fine, son,” she said. “You know best.”

My sweet mother, so good hearted! But then …

“Just don’t be gone long, come back and study before your father comes home for lunch,” she added, but it doesn’t matter.

Should I ask for money? I thought about it for a minute, but I didn’t, I walked out and headed down the hill. She gave me fifty liras yesterday. Uncle Recep gave me twenty; I’d made two telephone calls, that was twenty there, and fifteen for a
lahmacun
leaves thirty-five liras. I pulled them out of my pocket and looked, yes, thirty-five liras, and I didn’t even need logarithms or square roots to figure it out, but giving me what I need, that’s not the aim of the people who left me behind, all those teachers and gentlemen: what they want is to show me up, make me grovel, grind me down until they’ve taught me submission and gotten me used to being happy with very little. I know that the day they see I’ve grown used to it, they’ll be so pleased, and they’ll declare with satisfaction, He’s finally learned how it goes in life, but I’m not signing up for your life, gentlemen, I’ll get a gun and teach you how it goes. They were passing by me quickly with their cars, going down the hill. It looked like there was a strike at the factory across the way. That irritated me, and I wanted to do something, I felt I should at least go to the Association, but I was afraid of being
all alone there; what would happen if I went without Mustafa and Serdar? I thought: I could even go to the headquarters in Üsküdar on my own. Give me an important assignment, writing slogans on the walls and selling invitations, that isn’t enough for me; I need something big, I said. The television and newspapers will talk about me one day, I thought.

When I got to the beach I looked through the fence. Nilgün wasn’t there. I walked on a little and thought some more, then I started wandering the streets and did some more thinking. They were sitting on the balconies and in their little gardens, having breakfast, mothers, daughters, and sons; some of their gardens were so small and the tables so close to the road that I could count the olives on the plates. Suppose I gathered them all together on the beach—Line up, you slackers—and I stood on something and explained it all to them: Aren’t you ashamed, aren’t you ashamed. Fine, you’re no longer afraid of hell, but don’t you have a shred of conscience, poor wretched corrupt creatures, how can you live thinking about nothing but your own pleasure and the profits from your shops and factories, I don’t understand, but now I’m going to show you. Fire! The machine guns
rat-ta-tat!
A shame they don’t bring in historical films anymore. I’ll do something to turn this dump upside down; they won’t forget me.

I passed by Nilgün’s house; there wasn’t anybody there. What if I called on the phone and explained everything to them: You’re dreaming! I went back to the beach, and she was still not there. A little later I saw Uncle Recep, carrying his string bag. When he saw me he changed course and came my way.

“What are you doing around here again?” he said.

“Nothing!” I said. “I worked hard yesterday, so I’m taking a little time off today.”

“Okay, go on home, son,” he said. “This is no place for you.”

“Haa,” I said. “I didn’t spend the twenty liras you gave me yesterday. For twenty liras you can’t get a notebook. I already have a fountain pen, so I don’t want one of those. A notebook is fifty liras.”
I stuck my hand in my pocket. I dug out his twenty liras and handed it back to him.

“I don’t want it,” he said. “I gave it to you so you would study. So you would study and make something of yourself.”

“Making something of yourself isn’t free,” I said. “Even a notebook is fifty liras.”

“Fine,” he said. He took another thirty liras from his pocket and gave them to me. “But don’t go off and smoke cigarettes!”

“If you think I’m going to smoke cigarettes I shouldn’t take it,” I said. Then, after a pause, I took it. “Thank you. Say hello to Metin’s folks, to Nilgün and everybody. They’re here, right? I have to go and study, English is really hard.”

“It’s hard all right!” said the dwarf. “Do you think life is easy?”

I walked on before he could start with the same crap I get from my father. When I looked back, he had continued the way he’d been headed, walking slowly, swaying from side to side. I felt sorry for him. Everybody holds the net bag from the top, but he holds it by the middle, so it doesn’t drag on the ground, poor dwarf.… He said, What are you doing here? This is no place for you. They all say that. As though I might disturb the people here happily committing their sins, and seeing me would somehow ruin it for them. I walked on a little more so as not to meet up with the dwarf again, then I stopped, waited a little bit, and when I got back to the beach my heart started pounding: Nilgün had already been there for a while and was lying out on the sand. When did you get here? Just like yesterday she was looking at the book at the end of her arms without even moving her head. I watched in amazement.

“Hey!” somebody shouted. “You’ll fall in!”

I was startled. I turned and looked. It was our Serdar.

“What’s up, buddy?” he said. “What are you doing around here?”

“Nothing.”

“Spying on the girls?”

“No,” I said. “I’ve got something to do.”

“Don’t lie,” he said. “You’re staring at them like you’re going
to eat them. Isn’t that rude? I’m going to tell Mustafa this evening, you’ll see!”

“No,” I said again. “There’s somebody I know that I’m waiting for. What are you doing?”

“I’m going to the repair shop,” he said. He showed me the bag in his hand. “Who is it that you know?”

“You don’t know them.”

“And you’re not waiting for somebody you know,” he said. “You’re just staring at the girls—shameless. Well, which one is the one you know?”

“Fine,” I said. “I’ll show you which one, but don’t let her know you’re looking at her.”

I showed him with the tip of my nose, and he looked.

“She’s reading a book,” he said. “So where do you know her from?”

“I know her from here.”

I explained how a long time ago, before a single concrete house had been built, and our stone house was the only one on the hill, their strange old house stood, too, and also the little green shop in what’s now the market. There wasn’t anybody else around. The upper neighborhood didn’t exist, there were no factories. Yenimahalle and Esentepe weren’t there. None of these summer houses or the beach. In those days the train passed through gardens and orchards, not factories and store yards.

“Must have been pretty then?” he said, dreamily.

“It was pretty,” I said. “When the cherries bloomed in the spring it was nothing like today. You could slip your hand in the water, if you didn’t pull out a gray mullet it would be a sea bream that would swim right into your hand.”