While the ones in the back were trying to get the woman under control, the one in the front lit a cigarette with shaking hands, and with a couple of puffs filled the taxi with smoke, the windows were closed tight, they wouldn’t open them, but the man was getting his troubles off his chest, ‘This is my sister-in-law, my sister-in-law, she left her house and has been staying with us since last summer, insisting she wants to get divorced, she has three children as big as herself…as if at her age it will be easy to be divorced, these women have never provided for a household, they’ve always been looked after by their husbands, they think it’s easy to make it to the end of the month, they’ll have nothing to eat or drink when they divorce, I told my wife they deserve whatever befalls them, I couldn’t explain it to her, anyway that’s what happened, day and night they talk and talk, my sister-in-law cries, my wife cries, my sister-in-law cries, how many times have I told her, don’t do that…you’re not helping, look, your sister is getting worse, talk to her about something else, why don’t you go out to the spa, you can bring your mother, it will do the poor woman’s rheumatism good, whatever I said I couldn’t get her to listen, day and night the house is full of women and girls, talking away, these women have more relatives than you can count, turning it around, bringing up the same subject again and again, no one could convince her, she insisted on getting a divorce, in the end she went to a lawyer, this morning a paper came from the court, good I said let’s celebrate, she looked at me as if I’d crawled out from under a rock, my God I understood then the woman was going mad, but if I told my wife she wouldn’t have believed me, her older sister can do no wrong, I said I hope nothing goes wrong tomorrow, I saw that my sister-in-law had calmed down, after dinner she washed the dishes and went off to her room, her favourite television show was on, she never missed it, she didn’t even glance at it, she drank glass after glass of warm milk for her upset stomach and went to bed early, anyway she hasn’t dreamt at all since she was a girl, she used to fall asleep the moment her head hit the pillow at our house too, she always got up earlier than anyone, she prepared a flawless breakfast, eggs with yolks like apricots, I mean even tea tasted better when she made it, she did it perfectly, no one could do things in the kitchen the way she did, my wife never had anything resembling that kind of proficiency, she doesn’t take after her older sister at all, but what good is proficiency to someone so unlucky, of course my brother-in-law is very much in the wrong, you don’t do something like that after so many years, honestly I’m embarrassed to talk about it, a girl her age, he set her up in a fully furnished house, the girl was a dancer in a sleazy night-club, her name is Sinem, he introduced her to us last year, she’s just a little slip of a thing, I didn’t say anything because I thought it was just a fling and it would pass, how could I have known then that it would become so complicated, that it would go as far as divorce, when the television show was over we went to bed, I didn’t know my sister-in-law wasn’t asleep, that she was waiting for us to go to bed, the moment we were in our bed she jumped out of hers, threw on her night-gown, put on the slippers with the pom-poms, opened the door and went out into the street, a passer-by might have thought she was a slave in our house, we were woken by the commotion, we looked out and saw her in the middle of the street shouting at the top of her voice, and as if that wasn’t enough she was doing a belly dance at one point, we didn’t know what the hell was going on, what had happened to her, just drop us off at the nearest hospital, how humiliating this is for us, in all that panic we didn’t even bring any money with us, I’m sorry about that brother, with everything happening at once, all of us tumbling out in our pyjamas, I didn’t bring my wallet, they’d driven me out of my wits, I’m going to get a divorce too, let her keep her crazy sister and her rheumatic mother, let them do whatever they want from now on, my life is finished, these women have squeezed the life out of me drop by drop.’
‘Don’t worry about the money, brother, no one is going anywhere! After all, we all live in the same neighbourhood,’ said the taxi driver.
Colours are fa-ding, movements are slow-ing. The man is chewing something. The words tumble out of his mouth: ‘You’re always in this neighbourhood, but, after this humiliation are we going to be able to continue living here?’
He takes a cigarette pack from his pyjama pocket. He suddenly feels guilty. He wants to tell the taxi driver why it is that he brought cigarettes but not his wallet. He can’t speak, his throat is completely dry. He can’t find the lighter in his pocket. He must have dropped it in the taxi. Or else…he hadn’t had it with him from the start. He simply can’t remember how he lit his last cigarette. Or is this his first cigarette? This distresses him even more. While he’s waiting for the car’s cigarette lighter to pop out, he glances towards the back seat. His sister-in-law isn’t shouting any more; she’s just breathing heavily. Also, from time to time she moans as if she’s in pain. Without taking his eyes from the rear-view mirror, the taxi driver lights a cigarette from his own pack. He considers turning on the radio. He changes his mind, it would be inappropriate. The women are embracing their sister and crying silently. Little by little the night is becoming dark-er; step by step the road is getting steep-er. His chest has congested. He opens the window all the way. It’s cold enough out for snow. The cigarette smoke that has built up in the taxi pours out of the window like an ash-coloured kite swinging its tail back and forth.
Sounds are fading, the wind is dying down.
Sounds faded, the wind died down. As they were being closed, the curtains were blown here and there with a terrifying effect peculiar to the curtains in haunted houses in films, ‘They’re going to have to move at first light tomorrow. They’re not going to be able to bear it here,’ said B-C. He added with a twisted smile:
‘When your privacy is gone, you should leave at once!’
‘I was dreaming about a flying balloon. It was in the charcoal-grey sky, among the snow-white clouds, in the shade of the bright-yellow sun. I’d climbed up onto the roof. I’d been watching the flying balloon from below, when a violent wind suddenly blew up. All at once, we were shaken by the violence of this sudden wind. Pitch-black dust swirled up from the ground. The flying balloon was being swept away. I was running as fast as I could over the rooftops to keep it in sight. As I ran, roof-tiles were rolling down. I leaned over to look at where the tiles had fallen. Below, the avenues of the city were sparkling and crowded. Cars had crashed because of the tiles rolling along the road. A bright red, squeaky-clean car was swerving angrily down the middle of the road. The tiles had cracked its windshield. A huge spider had woven a web over the crack. The thin, transparent threads stuck to the glass were waving about here and there. The driver was looking for me, without knowing it was me he was looking for. He could see me, but he didn’t suspect me.
White snow was falling on the pitch-black dust. I started walking along the pavement. I walked very slowly in order to avoid stepping on the little threads. Suddenly, my eyes fixed on my feet. I was wearing woollen baby shoes with a bird design on them. I must have forgotten to put on my shoes when I left the house. I was embarrassed. I had to find shoes somewhere before anyone saw me. The window displays in the shops were lively. There were ballet slippers, shoes lined with fur, sandals, laced boots, high-heeled women’s shoes, round-heeled men’s shoes, gaudy children’s shoes. The labels described what they were. All of the shoes were made of ice-cream. I went into one of the bigger shops and bought mixed fruit flavoured shoes. When I came out, the driver of the car with the cracked windshield had narrowed his eyes, and was watching me carefully. I tiptoed in front of him. He didn’t follow me. As I returned to the pavement, I saw the flying balloon in the shade of the bright-yellow sun. It moved along half-heartedly. The bright-yellow sun came out. I looked at my new shoes with alarm. Drop drop, drop drop…’
‘Come on mother, say something to her!’
I jumped because of the pain in my knee. Again I’d fallen asleep, in a place where I shouldn’t have. I was sweating. As I tried to pull myself together, the smell of my sweat reached my nose. I looked around to see if anyone else could smell it. I was in the minibus. When I got on there was no one else but me. At this hour of the afternoon, it was rare for anyone to be going in that direction, and I knew it wouldn’t fill up easily, and that it wouldn’t leave until it was full. That’s why I was comfortable enough to fall asleep. It wasn’t enough that I’d overdone it at lunch, I’d had two portions of pudding on top of everything else, and I didn’t have enough strength left to walk. I must have slept for quite a while. When I woke, the minibus was completely full. There was only room for one more passenger. When that person came, we’d get under way.
The woman next to me was watching me out of the corner of her eye. She probably noticed the smell of sweat. The girl on her knee kept kicking my knee with the brass buckle of her strawberry coloured shoes. I have no doubt that the child is doing this on purpose. She’s doing it just to wake me up and get me to slide over a bit. And she is the one who keeps whining, ‘Come on mother, say something to her.’ And I had sprawled out in my sleep too. I had to pull myself together right away. I close my legs and slide over toward the window. I take my backpack from the seat and put it on my lap. When I lift the backpack I see a paper bag full of spiced, yellow roasted chickpeas. I’d bought them to nibble on while waiting for the minibus to fill up, and had forgotten them. When I pick up the paper bag, there’s quite a bit of room for the others. But they’re still not happy. Especially the woman, who makes exaggerated movements to show that she’s not going to be able to get comfortable; she keeps crossing and re-crossing her legs; makes rustling noises as she rearranges her packages, first on her lap then under the seat. She squeezes the child on her lap to her breast, saying, ‘Come, darling,’ as if there was anywhere the child could go. She keeps turning and eyeing the last narrow empty seat with worry, and as she does all this she keeps huffing and puffing in complaint. I know this type well. I know why they behave the way they do. I’m used to it. These kinds of things happen to me all the time.
Of course the best thing for me is to take a taxi, or to catch an empty bus. But going everywhere by taxi reduces my budget, and, as you know, it’s not really possible to find an empty bus. Usually I take a taxi to the first stop for the bus I’m taking. But this isn’t convenient for all routes. If the bus is crowded, I rarely get on. And whenever I climb up those stairs and push and shove my way down the corridor to find a place for myself, I regret it a thousand times. A voice within me tells me to get off the bus immediately and go home. As if that were possible. The force of the crowds moving back at the driver’s ill-tempered commands pushes me further from the exit. I see that there’s no escape, and try at least not to make eye-contact with any of the eyes that examine me with curiosity, and point me out to one another. To tell the truth, a lot of people offer me their places. But this doesn’t make things easier for me. Every time, my face gets flushed with heat. I sweat as I struggle into the empty seat. Naturally I always sweat at times like this. Whether it’s summer or winter, the moment I even get a little distressed, ice-cold sweat begins to pour off my back. As soon as I’ve sat down, I sit as straight as a ramrod, so as not to touch the person next to me if I’m in a double seat, or the people standing nearby if I’m in a single seat. At the same time, I try to ascertain whether or not the people around me can smell my sweat. Though there’s nothing I can do about it either way. Anyway, I always sweat more when I try not to sweat. I like sitting next to the window. Next to the window, I’m less aware of the other passengers, and can spend the trip watching people outside.
Sometimes no one offers me their seat. Sometimes it’s impossible to get near the windows either. Then, in order to escape the stares of the people surrounding me, in order not to guess what is on the minds of the people who are looking at me, I look for a spot that I can stare at vacantly until I reach my stop. As much as I can see through the window between their heads, the passengers’ shoes, shopping bags squeezed between legs, the covers of the books in someone’s hand, the bus’s warning signs, the buttons on the automatic doors, the levers to be pulled in case of emergency, folded newspapers, rings on hands grasping the straps…these are my choices. I’ll pick one of these, and won’t take my eyes off it until I reach my stop. Whether I sit or stand, it’s very difficult for me to take a bus from one place to another. But if you’re as fat as I am, minibuses are even worse than buses.
The child next to me is squeezing the money she wants to pass forward tightly in her palm; despite her mother’s insistence she’s determined to give it to the driver. This child, one of those children whose bedroom was flawlessly prepared when her birth was still just a distant possibility, who was born late and with difficulty, who was prayed for, who wore out the doors of fashionable clinics, the instructions of famous doctors being carried out to the letter, the subject of many tests, expensive treatments, boring arguments, on the threshold of divorce, ‘otherwise we’ll produce a child’, after their consolation, they succeeded only a moment before they lost hope, even a blood clot was considered cause for celebration, her mother didn’t take her eyes off her for a moment, more toys than she could have imagined, tens of photographs taken of her every moment, her every smile inspiring epic poems, her every remark recorded in notebooks, her photographs in every family album, decorating frames and wallets, constantly praised, constantly spoiled, never left alone, never lonely. To me this is an ugly child. On top of this her eyes bulge. She’s wearing glasses like the bottoms of jars, the kind that make a person’s eyes look three times bigger. The child keeps turning and looking at me. Both of us wearing sour expressions; examining each other as if we could turn to vinegar at any moment. In any event, the chirping voice of the schoolgirl reaches us.