It was the day the women made depilatory wax. Early in the morning they gathered in the lower floor of the house the colour of salted green almonds, and placed the little pans with blackened bottoms on the stove; as they breathed in the heady smell of the wax, they gossiped a great deal to help the wax maintain its consistency. Towards afternoon the women would sit in a row and wince as they peeled the thin layers of wax off their legs; as for the child, she would wander around, licking at a pencil that she had dipped into the wax. She was restless. It was understood that until waxing day was over, she was not to touch anything in the house. As if her fingers would stick even to the wall if she touched it by mistake. The only solution was to sit by the window. It had been raining since morning. She watched the raindrops caress and freshen the back garden as they buffeted it and knocked it about. Soon, the women would wash their hands and legs with soapy water, and turn their attention to the dumplings. The child made an effort not to look in their direction. She knew that there was something shameful about waxing; she didn’t want to be party to an unpleasant secret.
When the rain grew much heavier, she got up and walked lethargically into the kitchen. That was when she saw the glass teaspoons. The glass teaspoons were only taken out of their ribboned velvet boxes when guests came. When there were no guests, the child stirred her tea with tin spoons that bent easily.
She leaned against the kitchen counter and looked closely at the glass teaspoons. She hadn’t seen these ones before. There were little butterflies made of dark glass at the end of each spoon. It was as if they could take wing and fly off at any moment if they wanted. But also as if, for whatever reason, they had no intention of flying. Right next to the spoons there were two big, round trays covered with newspaper. The women were going to make dumplings. Little pink balls of meat stood on little squares of dough. The mouths of the dumplings had not closed yet. But for whatever reason it didn’t seem as if they had any intention to speak.
First the child broke off the wings of the butterflies and put them aside. Then she put the glass teaspoons in the mortar and crushed them thoroughly.
The glass made a crunching sound as it broke. Taking care not to cut her fingers, she placed each piece of glass in the middle of one of the pink balls of meat. The dumplings swallowed the glass as hungrily as dry earth swallows raindrops. In the blink of an eye, all of the pieces of glass had disappeared into the balls of meat. So much so that, even if you looked at them very closely, nothing strange was apparent. The meat and glass dumplings were ready to be cooked. The child didn’t feel it necessary to close the dumplings’ mouths. Whoever had opened them would close them.
She didn’t know why she had done this. But she was aware of what she had done, and of what could happen. If she had wanted she could have stopped what was going to happen. She could have returned to the sitting room right away and told these women who had been hungry for a long time that they were not to eat the dumplings, or else their tongues would bleed. She could have stopped this maddening humming so that no one’s tongue would bleed; she could have informed on herself.
As she took another step towards the door that opened from the kitchen into the sitting room, she saw her grandmother’s long, thin shadow on the ground. She must have been on her way to close the dumplings. She hadn’t noticed the child yet. The kitchen had a back door that opened onto the back garden. The child slipped silently out the back door.
It was raining outside. It was raining as if a plastic bag had been filled to the top with water in order to wash fruit, and then holes had been pierced in the bottom, falling from countless fissures in the grey sky. The child ran about in the mud, falling and getting up again, and stepping on the worms that the earth vomited every time it rained. She ran and ran, and just when she thought she had left the back garden behind, she ran into the coal shed, and fell flat on her face on the ground.
Coalshedevilevilcoalshedcoal.
She looked anxiously at her bleeding knee. She had always feared catching germs. For this reason, she imagined she had a bottle of iodine in her hand. As she poured the imaginary iodine on the wound, she winced exaggeratedly and blew on the place where it hurt. The wound was covered with coal dust. She didn’t mind. No harm could come from coal dust. The wind would blow it away, and the rain would clean everything. There wouldn’t even be a trace left behind. Coal dust was not like cherry pits, which put out roots wherever they fall.
The child used to swallow cherry pits so that cherry trees would grow inside her. She was little then. She’s grown up enough now to know that such things are definitely not possible. She knew well now that no matter how many cherry pits she swallowed, no cherry tree would ever come out of her stomach, because a person had an inside and an outside, and cherry pits didn’t belong to the inside but to the outside, and cherry pits could only put out roots in places where they belonged. A cherry pit could never be chewed, but it could be swallowed by accident: even then it could not be digested, but would be brought back out. It was what remained after the flesh of the fruit had been enjoyed, and had to be thrown away. Just like a messenger who has to return to where he came from once he has delivered the letter that was entrusted to him, no matter how valuable the letter is. It was an unwelcome guest. Even if by chance it managed to enter your body, it would have to keep its visit short, and go back out immediately.
Suddenly the water in the plastic bag finished. As the last drops of rain fell into the back garden, the sun smiled lazily at an earth that shone like mother-of-pearl.
That afternoon, time was napping in the back garden. After the rain, it was as calm and quiet as could be. The bubbling of the dumplings in the pans mixed with the snoring of the women, who had become tired after the waxing. The floor of the neighbourhood had become a wooden cradle, swinging back and forth; the people of the neighbourhood had stretched out on a bed of lassitude, calmly and sweetly wandering through the wonderful forests of their dreams. While they slept, the child leaned her back against the cherry tree and ate the cherries on the ground. The more she ate, the more she wondered how the cherries managed to leave the tree behind.
Suddenly, time’s sleep was torn by a sound that resembled the transparent skin being torn off a sausage. It rose to a shrill scream; then another, and another. The screams were coming from the second floor of the house the colour of salted green almonds. K1ymet Han1m Teyze the landlady was leaning over the kitchen balcony that looked over the back garden, shouting at the top of her voice.
The child was seized by panic. Every spring, K1ymet Han1m Teyze gave the tenants on the bottom floor permission to gather three branches of cherries. Grandmother made jam from these cherries, and didn’t neglect to send some of it upstairs as thanks. It was forbidden to touch the rest of the cherries. Only K1ymet Han1m Teyze, and her sons, could eat these. In truth the child couldn’t be considered guilty because today she had only eaten the cherries on the ground. But as she thought this, she realized that she wouldn’t be able to prove her innocence. And even if she wasn’t guilty today, hadn’t she committed the same crime just yesterday? Hadn’t she secretly picked the cherries on the branches all day yesterday? Was it perhaps because K1ymet Han1m Teyze rarely went outside and usually only saw the tree from above that she only now noticed how few cherries there were on the branches? Was the child going to be punished today for yesterday’s transgressions?
K1ymet Han1m Teyze the landlady lived on the top floor of the house the colour of salted green almonds. She was the fattest woman in the world. Her feet were so fleshy, and so big, that she couldn’t wear shoes, and went about in slippers winter and summer. Each of her legs was as wide as two children, and covered with purple toned veins. Some of them were as rigid as laundry that had been left out on a cold night, and some hung down in shame like the elastic of a slingshot that had missed its target. The rest of the veins were reminiscent of telephone cables. Once, when the woman was deep in conversation with some of her neighbours, the child knowingly took the opportunity to examine these veins up close. And this was when she understood without a doubt that K1ymet Han1m Teyze was a robot. The veins on her legs weren’t real, they were toy veins. The important thing was that they weren’t veins, and what looked like veins were clearly cables. And as long as these cables were not cut, there was no possibility of stopping K1ymet Han1m Teyze. Because she was a robot. If she wasn’t a robot, how could one explain how, despite her being so fat, no one had ever seen her eat? She might have fed them with oil from her sons’ cars or even with grease from the sewing machine. On top of this, she was probably a sleepwalker. And if she walked in her sleep, then a giant robot, with its cables tangled and its eyes hanging out of its sockets, might be wandering the deserted streets everyday while the morning call to prayer was being recited, looking for its creator.
When K1ymet Han1m Teyze climbed the stairs of the house the colour of salted green almonds, the child would stand waiting silently below. Every time, she imagined that when she reached the last step, she would roll back down the stairs. When that huge body came down on her with such speed, she would have to get out of the way at the last minute or she would be crushed like a bug. But K1ymet Han1m Teyze never fell. Every time, she managed to climb the steps, even though it was with a great deal of huffing and puffing and perspiration. And she rarely went outside. She only left the house the colour of salted green almonds at the beginning of the month when she went to collect rents in the upper neighbourhood; and also when Elsa was out of liver.
She worshipped Elsa. She didn’t love animals, or even cats, but only Elsa. She’d choose Elsa’s liver herself, and cook it herself. Every day, the second floor of the house the colour of salted green almonds would be filled with the smell of liver. Whenever the pain of her varicose veins didn’t permit her to walk to the Far Butcher’s two streets away, and by using threat after threat she sent the children to buy liver, she suspected that they bought less liver and put the leftover money in their pockets. Sometimes she would think that the butcher, knowing full well who the liver was for, would give inferior meat; if by chance her suspicion increased and the pain of her varicose veins diminished, she would go up to the butcher’s and complain. Then the big, moustachioed butcher, while trying to stop the nervously twitching artery in his forehead with his hand, would make a thousand apologies and prepare a new package. K1ymet Han1m Teyze would put on a long face as she took the package, say a half-hearted thank you, and before leaving the shop would not neglect to make veiled threats. As soon as she had turned the corner of the street, the butcher, who had barely been able to contain his irritation, would throw the old package against the wall or on the floor. Then, for the rest of the day, he would tell every customer who came into the shop about his troubles. The customers were well versed on the topic. Every time, they would calm the butcher with a few words, and remind him that he had it all in his stride. Because the shop belonged to K1ymet Han1m Teyze, as did the houses on either side.
When, as always, time took a nap that afternoon, K1ymet Han1m Teyze, for whatever reason, did not sleep. After lying down for a long time, and tossing this way and that, she decided that since she couldn’t sleep anyway she would get up and prepare some food. She was going to prepare stuffed aubergines. Her middle son Nurettin had loved stuffed aubergines since he was little. The dried aubergines were hanging from the kitchen balcony. The kitchen balcony looked onto the back garden. After K1ymet Han1m Teyze had filled her apron with dried aubergines that were hanging from a string, it occurred to her that cherry syrup might go well with the meal. As she thought this she turned to look at the cherry tree just below her. She looked and was astounded. Suddenly, there was a sound that resembled the transparent skin being torn off a sausage. It rose to a shrill scream; then another, and another.
While K1ymet Han1m Teyze stood on the balcony screaming at the top of her voice, the people of the neighbourhood, whose sleep had been disturbed just at its sweetest point, and who had rushed out into the street to see what was going on, had long since crowded into the back garden. Not just the people of the neighbourhood, but also the itinerant peddlers who always show up whenever crowds gather. The back garden had never seen this many people. Everyone had gathered underneath the kitchen balcony, and was looking up with curious eyes. They continued staring emptily until finally a few of them thought to go up. Now, an endless conversation began between those wandering around on the balcony and those who had remained below. Those below asked endless questions in order to find out what was going on; those above, unable to gain any information from K1ymet Han1m Teyze’s paralyzed tongue and saucer-like eyes, used their imaginations to think up answers. A long time later, it occurred to one of the people on the balcony to look where K1ymet Han1m Teyze had been looking instead of looking at her. That was when everyone became aware of the bloody body hanging in the branches.
The dead body hanging from the branches of the cherry tree was the body of a cat. Once K1ymet Han1m Teyze realized that the others had seen what she had seen, she found her tongue again.
‘Ah, my baby! What have they done to you? May they break their hands!’
Those who had climbed up just a short while ago began clattering down. When there was no one left behind on the balcony except one or two women who were rubbing cologne on K1ymet Han1m Teyze’s wrists, no one could quite decide who was going to take the dead cat down. In the end, K1ymet Han1m Teyze’s little son Zekeriya was found to be the most suitable to climb the tree. The cat’s body was near the top of the tree, and the branches of the cherry tree were very thin. Zekeriya climbed quickly, but when the branches that couldn’t take his weight began to snap and break, he understood he could not proceed any further. He climbed as high as he could, and started hitting the cat’s body with a rolling pin. He hit the animal on the tail, on the nose, and wherever else he could. As he hit, the branches of the cherry tree shook wildly, and the cherries on the branches fell to the ground, and a cloud of dust from the leaves rained down on those waiting below, but somehow the cat’s body just didn’t fall.