Keramet Mumî Keşke Memiş Efendi loved to examine the different faces of the moon. And he used to say that the eastward-facing door of the cherry-coloured tent was the dark side of the moon.
He also used to tell a strange story about this. According to the story, what the dark side of the moon feared most was to not be loved; and also for his eyes to be seen weeping. And if anyone happened to see that he had wept, his male pride was inflamed. For years, he had kept two crystal marbles next to his testicles. He had stolen them when he was a child; at the cost of becoming a thief of his own possessions.
…so his intentions couldn’t be read in his eyes…head on the ground…heart in his mouth…with timid steps…he approached… the most troublesome in the neighbourhood…the biggest…the child who swore most…the truth…so cowardly…to hide…should have come out fighting…by one’s own efforts…should have taken it back…the crystal marbles…isn’t that so…this gift…a God never seen…or perhaps…at the head of the street…saints in their tombs… given to him…isn’t that so…the one under the pillow…two copper coins…however that happened…one multi-coloured morning… two crystal marbles…given…in any event…what to say…not to hold one’s tongue…the one who comes to the front…displaying the marbles…snatched from his hands…and for whom?…the most troublesome in the neighbourhood…the biggest…the child who swore most…who shouted at the top of his voice…without any shame…in front of everyone… ‘these are mine now’… ‘come take them if you can’…it wasn’t easy…the dark side of the moon was?…he waited…for how long…the troublesome child…went to urinate…and then…stole…what had been stolen from him…with his heart in his mouth…head on the ground…so his intentions couldn’t be read in his eyes…
The dark side of the moon ran for hours with the crystal marbles in his hand; he ran in the direction in which his fear chased him. He hid them in a place where that oaf would never get his hands on them. After thinking it over for a long time he decided that his own flesh was the safest place. He understood that he’d spent his manhood to get the miraculous marbles. Since, having held tight the mane of the horse of passion just like a woman, without thinking about or weighing what he was spurring, without even wanting to think, he’d galloped off at full speed to get back what had been taken from him; since there was no one with even an atom of courage to stand up to the neighbourhood bully, to win back what had been lost; in any event, after this he was never going to go out in the street, he wouldn’t run with his friends but would sit in the window just like a young girl. To give due credit, the one who had taken his manhood had to be part of his manhood. The crystal dreams of his first and last act of heroism, his first and last stand against injustice.
Since that day, he would piss his fear as far away as possible. And he was particularly afraid of not being loved; and also of his eyes being seen to have wept. Both of them led to the same result; loneliness. The reason he stayed completely alone was not being loved and his tears having been seen.
The story Keramet Mumî Keşke Memiş Efendi told about the dark side of the moon was something like this. And he wouldn’t tell this story for nothing. He knew that men were most prone to loneliness. Simply in order not to be alone, men would rush outside as soon as the sky grew dark, first to find the consolation of the company of others, and then of one another’s conversation; but as time passed, the broth of friendship was spoiled. Whenever they came together, especially if they were a little tipsy, gaining strength learning of their strength from one another, they would run after cheap acts of heroism.
So what if men could find the opportunity to prune the knotted branches of the tree of their childhood nightmares once in a lifetime. After the spell has turned copper into crystal, it’s gone and won’t return. Alchemy was a door that decided on its own who was going to look for it when. For this reason, missed opportunities were never to present themselves again. So when he didn’t get what he wanted, the dark side of the moon grew even darker. And if what he wanted belonged to someone else, he would seize the first opportunity to take it. Keramet Mumî Keşke Memiş Efendi knew that men mostly stole from one another; when they saw the opportunity, they wouldn’t hesitate to steal one another’s happiness. This was the reason they had to come separately. In order to enter the eastward-facing door they had to climb the hill by themselves, and to remain alone until they reached a certain cherry tree.
Some of the men accepted these conditions from the start. Most of them were of noble birth, or wished to appear so. They’d climb the hill like princes. Starting out at the bottom of the hill alone, they arrived at the mouth of the tent by themselves. And some, knowing full well that they would have to separate, climbed together until the last possible moment. Most of these were of the masses, or wished to appear so. They preferred to bend their necks together rather than start out alone. No matter how much they delayed, what they were postponing was waiting for them at the fountain on the hill. When they arrived at the fountain, they would distance themselves from their travelling companions as if they had a contagious disease. The fountain was very pleased with itself; it sprayed water about enthusiastically. The men would lower their lips to the ice-cold water, and drink deeply. When their sweat dried and they started off again, each one remained alone. As their legs shook with the effort like the legs of new-born animals, those who had accepted solitude at the bottom of the hill strode past them haughtily. Those now-alone imitated those who had already been alone; though without letting on that they were doing so.
From here on everyone was by themselves. Thus the lips of conversation between old friends and strangers were sealed. An indistinct fear would seize the shore of their hearts. Keramet Mumî Keşke Memiş Efendi’s orders were categorical; since each man had to arrive alone, not even fear could keep him company. For this reason, those who were climbing the hill would loosen the fingers of fear one by one. When they’d dissolved the last finger, fear would roll over a bottomless cliff; taking part of their courage with it. The men, with the cries of their courage as it crashed down the cliff ringing in their ears, thrust themselves with difficulty through the eastward-facing door of the cherry-coloured tent. Even at that moment the men, who acted as if they wanted to prove that they were there by coincidence, and had come to the tent not out of curiosity but to see what everyone else was curious about, wearing indifferent expressions as if they were just going to take a quick look and leave, entered the eastward-facing door of the cherry-coloured tent with casual steps.
Most of them were on foot. Yes, those who insisted on climbing the hill in a carriage could become the victims of unexpected accidents. One never knew. Sometimes everything went smoothly, and the horses succeeded in reaching the top of the hill covered in sweat. Sometimes the carriage would slip on the ice and overturn. It would tumble and slip back down to the starting point of the voyage. Having seen many incidents of injury from this kind of occurrence, most of the men would get out of their carriages at the bottom of the hill and struggle up by their own efforts. Sometimes, pretty gentlemen would be seen in litters. They would climb the hill with dignified expressions on the shoulders of their strong powerful servants. But as is the way of the world, these too overturned from time to time.
Those who turned and looked back when they reached the top of the hill could see the sea. The sea was blue, bluer than blue; it was hostage to its own clear stillness. Once in a while some men got a crazy idea. To their eyes, the sea looked like a still and silent womb. Now…neither complaining about poverty nor earning their living; as if…only but only existing within was enough for all they’d desired, to set out on journeys not taken, to go back and forth between different lands. In any event, the ball of wool that was their common-sense waited in alarm. The loosening thread was soon re-wound. Those who held unrealistic dreams remembered that holding unrealistic dreams was not appropriate. As Keramet Mumî Keşke Memiş Efendi often said: if the ship of men were to sink, it would sink by breaking up in shallow water thinking that the brightest light was a lighthouse.
Even though in time this area came to be called a swamp, no one who had once smelled the heady fragrance of the fig and lemon trees, or seen their delicate purple buds would want to believe this. It is said that the reason the cherry-coloured tent was erected here rather than somewhere else was Keramet Mumî Keşke Memiş Efendi’s mulish stubbornness. He would do things out of stubbornness; and hide the reason within himself. And no one interfered too much in the matter. More important than the outside of the tent was the inside. If anyone knew the truth of this, it was Keramet Mumî Keşke Memiş Efendi.
It was possible to meet endless types of men here; speakers of every language and pliers of every profession. There were notorious womanisers, famous toughs, swaggering losers, gentlemen with inheritances, gentlemen who’d spent their inheritances, antique dealers who hid shops within their shops, spies from rival firms, official interpreters from Genoa or Venice, Galata money-lenders, elegant dance-instructors from Pera, tailors who could make whatever was being worn in Paris, purveyors of glazed fruit, impoverished noblemen, decorators, Circassians with fur-hooded black kaftans, Greek taverna-owners with large bellies, English dentists, hard-faced Bedouins, pale-faced Persians, bakers who were now giving their customers Viennese cakes, importers of wine, those who were regularly invited to magnificent balls, those who behaved as if they were regularly invited to magnificent balls, Russian musicians, French photographers, Armenian printers, Italian architects, Albanians wearing pistols, Jewish merchants, Abkhaz, Serbs, well-known pillars of society, experts in Eastern languages, consular attachés, procurers, treasure hunters running after the legends of Istanbul and the dream brokers who ran after them, professional letter-writers, second-hand booksellers who could read the language of the book, gold merchants who could speak the language of gold, calligraphers who adorned the language of letters, ship’s officers, opponents of the regime, supporters of the regime, and, finally, everyone else.
There was one only reason these various men, who did not greet each other in the street and who did not pity each other in a fight, gathered at the eastward-facing door of the cherry-coloured tent: to see La Belle Annabelle!
Keramet Mumî Keşke Memiş Efendi was responsible for all of these things. After all, he was a very clever and agile man. Since his birth, this world had considered him strange. He was like this as a child and he’s still like this today. He was always in motion, and couldn’t sit still. He was quick to develop a thesis in his mind, but once he had developed it he grew bored with it. He liked to surprise people, but grew cold towards them when they were surprised by unsurprising things. He would involve himself in things that harmed the mind, wake from every sleep with new curiosities, talking constantly, always running around. In spite of this, those who looked at him usually thought they saw him motionless. Because his glances were expressionless. His thinly drawn eyes were without feeling, and seemed far removed from any emotion.
When the time came, his six elder sisters saw to it that a suitable wife was found for Keramet Mumî Keşke Memiş Efendi. The bride was more beautiful and proficient a girl than all of the matchmakers in the city could have found. She had only one fault: she was as silent as a stone that had rolled to the bottom of a lake. She was deaf and mute from birth.
On the wedding night, they saw each other for the first time. The bride, her eyes as big as saucers from amazement, looked for a long time into the eyes of the man opposite her. These eyes had neither happiness nor mercy; neither rage nor beneficence. The eyes to which she would wake up every God-given morning were as empty as this orphan girl’s trousseau.
The young woman suddenly started crying. She allowed three teardrops to fall from her two eyes. Keramet Mumî Keşke Memiş Efendi lined up the teardrops and read in them what his wife’s still mute tongue related:
‘My dear sir. Allow me to leave. I have neither a tongue nor ears. I live through my eyes. I hear with my eyes and I converse with my eyes. I read with my eyes, and I write with my eyes. Your eyes, however… I’ve never seen eyes like yours before. It’s as if your eyes are closed. And if they’re closed, they can’t say anything. My tongue doesn’t speak, and neither do your eyes. How could it work, tell me? How are we going to spend a whole life together, husband? I’m still young. My dear sir, release me and let me go! Otherwise your eyes will be my grave.’
Keramet Mumî Keşke Memiş Efendi rose from the bed without uttering a word. He took a mirror. He looked into his eyes.
Without uttering a word, Keramet Mumî Keşke Memiş Efendi broke the mirror.
As day broke, he helped his wife gather her things. The young woman got up and left without a sound or a gesture of farewell. The outer door closed gently.
And it always remained closed. From that day onward Keramet Mumî Keşke Memiş Efendi didn’t set foot out of the house. He didn’t want to see anyone, he sent back all invitations, he didn’t open the door for his worried friends. His six elder sisters were miserable with grief. They worked to get him remarried for fear that his condition would worsen. Each matrimonial candidate they found was more beautiful and more talkative than the last. But to no avail. Keramet Mumî Keşke Memiş Efendi didn’t want anyone.
Finally, one day, his paternal aunt knocked on his door. She’d aged a great deal. When she came in, half of her strength was left hanging on the doorknob.
‘I didn’t know, son,’ she said quietly. ‘If I’d known, would it have turned out this way? When you were born your face was a drop of wax, I thought that whatever I drew before it hardened would be for the better. I made you a face, even if it’s rigid. But the eyes… Time was so short…after all it was about to harden. In my panic it was the best I could do. That’s why your eyes are such narrow slits. I drew your eyes, but I didn’t have the presence of mind to open them. A curtain of wax remained over your eyes. I didn’t know, son. Forgive me. Otherwise I’ll die with my last wish unfulfilled.’