At the risk of making myself look the fool, I blurted, “I don’t think I’m going to keep writing.” Of course, I couldn’t bring myself to say, “I’ve been working my ass off trying to be a writer,” because it actually came quite naturally.
Our teacher turned to the twit who won the competition and said, “As the winner of the competition, what would you like to say to your classmates who didn’t win? What critiques can you offer?”
She replied, “In my humble opinion, real writing shouldn’t come across like a bunch of tweets. Writing on your Facebook wall and writing a book are two completely different things.”
“That’s exactly what I was going to say.”
Özlem Hanım was pleased. The class discussion had shifted from writing to me. To put it more correctly, it was about chewing me up and spitting me out, along with that damn book I wished I’d never written!
“What you wrote was a bunch of tweets, not a novel. In some places, it is meticulously written, but in others it goes way off topic. The narrative jumps around like a bird flitting from branch to branch. You shouldn’t confuse your readers so much. It’s exhausting. That’s why your classmate’s comment is so spot-on.”
Then she turned back to the class, a murderer trying to exonerate herself for her crimes. That woman murdered my book. She murdered my dreams.
“The best approach is to focus more on the parts that don’t work than the parts that came together well. That way, you can see what works and what doesn’t.”
Fuck your approach, I thought.
I didn’t dare say, “I wrote that book so I could prove my existence to the world.” Even up in the treetops, I still felt a need to show that I existed. That’s why I decided to throw one of my pine cones at the head of the mustachioed lover down below. Afterward, I settled deeper into the nest and continued watching the couple at the foot of the tree.
“Where did this come from?”
“It must’ve fallen out of the tree. Why, did it scare you?”
“Of course not. Why should I be scared? But it seemed like someone threw it.”
It should come as no surprise that the guy was able to juggle two relationships at the same time. Mr. Mustache was as sharp as a tack.
“It’s creepy. They say that ghosts and ghouls live at the foot of old walls that stink like piss. Maybe we woke one of them up?”
“You’re a big government man now. Don’t tell me that you believe in stuff like that!”
Ha! The state that fired my father and made it impossible for my aunt to work as a reporter was now run by people who believed in ghosts and ghouls. I threw another pine cone at him, and then a third.
“Bismillah, I swear that something weird is going on here.”
Muttering a prayer, the young woman started pulling her lover away, but he kept looking back at the tree and the nest. Even though he couldn’t see anything, he said, “I know something’s up in that tree.”
Now fairly frightened, the young woman started running, stepping on the plastic bottle of peroxide that I’d sent tumbling to the ground the other day like a backflipping pigeon. I could hear the swishing of her long overcoat as she ran, so I wondered if they could also hear me giggling to myself. The man kept turning around to look back as he was pulled away.
It was childish fun.
I peed myself in the process. Let’s say it was an accident. It happened by mistake. Involuntarily.
I took a few steps on the branch of the plane tree so that I could spread my legs more easily. I let myself swing down a few meters from the eucalyptus tree with the help of one of my slackline straps. Then I slept the rest of the day away. I wasn’t very hungry anymore. When I noticed that my teeth were yellowing like leaves in autumn, I rubbed them with my index finger and rinsed out my mouth with a sip of water.
Would a person who wanted to experience death before dying actually do such things?
Despite my efforts to stay clean, by the fourth day I realized that my face was slowly starting to resemble that of a wild animal. I’d longed to be driven from society, but I was still a part of life, though my only journeys were explorations of the past. I’d go to the park and the days of the protests, and I’d think about that chandelier glowing like the sun above me as I lay wounded on the floor. Then there was the young man beside me who touched my hand and how I turned to look at him, smiling in pain, finding the strength to go on living. I’d like to go back to that moment. But not in my mind. For real. In reality.
I wondered if it actually had been Yunus who infused me with life through his fingertips.
People in love find each other.
I listened to the birds, hoping that one day I’d be able to hone my skills to the point that listening to them became an art. As soon as I heard that strange chirping, I raised myself in all my lightness from the nest, which truly was a wicker cradle, and made my rounds of the branches of the plane tree, eventually stepping out onto one of the stronger branches of the neighboring pine. When I placed my foot on the branch, I felt as if I’d stepped onto firm soil that crackled under my feet. My sense of balance up in the trees was now almost flawless, but I always tread carefully, just in case. I didn’t want to fall to the ground below because then I’d never be able to climb back up. It occurred to me that I was playing a game that wouldn’t start again after a flashing “Game over.”
I made my way over to the wall. Yunus was there.
He whispered, “The room’s ready for you.”
He was looking as adorable as a monkey in a pen as he stood behind the railing of the fire escape. The other day he’d even done an imitation of a monkey, which made me double over in laughter. For the first time, I was about to step off the wall into his world.
“Watch your step,” he said.
I felt like I was traveling to the moon, or stepping out of a spaceship into the unknown. Or it could also be described as going through a critical operation, in the course of which your internal organs are removed and placed on a surgical table. A moment of momentous import.
All the same, I made the leap without a moment of hesitation.
When I saw the look of horror on Yunus’s face, for a second I thought I must be plunging into the chasm between us. Even if I wasn’t falling, I felt like I was. But then I landed softly on the other side. Turning around, I realized that it was going to be quite difficult to get back—the landing of the fire escape was much lower than the top of the wall.
I asked Yunus, “How did you make it across the other day?”
Pointing to a branch of the plane tree that extended over the wall like a helping hand, he replied, “I grabbed on to that.”
“Why were you so nervous? As if you weren’t the same person who’d done that before, crossing over and then coming back?”
“I wasn’t the same person.”
He spoke those words with such earnestness that I stopped in my tracks. Yunus had a good heart. I knew that he didn’t want to needlessly confuse me. And he was so innocent. He kept nothing hidden.
“That day, I was high.”
“Do you get high a lot?”
“No. But I got high so I’d be able to jump to the wall. I’d never taken those pills before.”
“Where did you get them?”
“The pills? From some of the guys who live in my neighborhood. They’re part of a gang. They steal things. But don’t worry, they don’t steal from the poor. They only take from the rich, swiping money that hasn’t been made through hard work.”
“How can they tell the difference?”
“They know which apartment complexes to hit. Those are the hardest jobs. That’s what they say, anyways.”
“Have you ever thought of joining them?”
“Yes.”
“Why didn’t you?”
“Because, even if she’s not around anymore, I knew it would upset my mom if she found out.”
We were still going down the fire escape. It was a beautiful Sunday. My grandma would say, “
You can always tell what day it is by looking at how the sun is shining.” She was right. Sunday is always different. Even if it’s cloudy and rainy, that day is unique to itself. Friday night always marked the start of the good times and Saturday only got better. Winter Sundays were my family’s favorite. We’d sit around all day in our pajamas, not caring if we spilled anything on ourselves, feeling safe and secure in the coziness of our home. And we always had wonderful things to eat, even if it wasn’t a fancy spread: cold cuts of chicken, pastries, pasta with ground meat. My grandma would turn up the heater, saying, “Being warm is happiness.”
Yunus stopped.
I stopped.
There was a door in front of us.
The fire escape was swaying gently under our weight.
A dove cooed, fell silent, and cooed again.
Yunus’s back was broad. A good, strong back. He wore his bellboy uniform with the dignity of a general. I swear, it could’ve walked off without him. When he was wearing that uniform, he looked more handsome than usual, nothing at all like a timid young man. He paused for a moment before reaching for the doorknob. Autumn is the best season. A few brazen tendrils of ivy had grown over the steps of the fire escape; it would only be a matter of time before they engulfed it completely.
There wasn’t anyone in the corridor.
Yunus said, “I’m going to take you to the room now. It’s empty. And clean. The air conditioner doesn’t work, though. The repairmen are coming in about two hours to fix it. So that’s how much time you have. Don’t hesitate to use anything you want. The robe, towels, shampoo—you can use all of it. If you want, you can take everything from the minibar, except for the alcohol. Well, you can take a bottle of the cheap stuff. There’s a video camera in the hallway, so I’m going to slip out in this blind spot here. The door is unlocked. Act like you’re any other guest. Room 116. I left some clean clothes for you there, so leave your dirty ones and I’ll have them washed.”
I slowly made my way down the corridor.
My bare feet sank into the deep, soft carpet.
There were odd photographs on the wall.
The place was thoroughly Turkish in style. The building, which had originally been constructed toward the end of the sixteenth century, had been fully restored, and then a family started running it as a hotel. There were photos of the opening ceremony, which were fine, but there were also others depicting the disgraceful process through which the historical mansion had been transformed into a commercial enterprise. In the end, people can’t resist the temptation to show off. Personally, I think it would’ve been better if they’d hung up cheap reproductions of Ottoman miniatures.
For a moment I was overcome by doubt. Perhaps it was a trap? The whole country had been transformed into a living hell. While that statement may seem trite, it was true, and you didn’t know whom you could trust anymore. But the heart knows best. If you want to be duped, that’s precisely what will happen. If you want to be tricked, you’ll get tricked. If you don’t want to see something, you won’t. After thinking it over, I decided that I should have faith in Yunus’s intentions. If I was wrong, I knew that I could look after myself. As my grandma was fond of saying, “If there’s a hell that is better than this world, I’d rather be there.”
I stopped in front of room 116.
Hell had found me. Right next to the door was a photograph of some of the corrupt politicians who’d taken part in the opening ceremony. How many politicians does it take to cut a ribbon? I spit on the face of the most well known of them, and my saliva started slowly dripping down the glass over the photo. Ah, what a wonderful feeling! Just what I needed!
I walked into the room.
It was shadowy inside and smelled clean.
The curtains were billowing in and out in the breeze. I could’ve sat and watched them for hours.
“Don’t do that,” my mother would say whenever I gazed at something, lost in my thoughts. “It’s creepy.”
There was a phone. If I’d wanted, I could’ve called her.
There was also a computer, which suggested that the room was for people with a long stay in mind. If I’d wanted, I could’ve peered into the happenings of the cyber world or sent out a message indicating that I was still alive.
“This,” I said to myself, “is nothing like fleeing the creature comforts of home only to rush back into their arms.” It was completely different. In life, there aren’t always clear explanations for everything. I hadn’t descended from the trees. On the contrary, I was continuing my life there—this was just a small break.
“Why does your main character do such senseless things?”
Özlem Hanım picked my novel to pieces. By the time she was finished, there was nothing left.
“Things like that don’t happen in real life!”
For the love of God, when do we ever get our way? Özlem Hanım, leave me alone! Please, forget that I ever wrote anything! If I want, I’ll write descriptions a hundred words long, or a thousand if that’s what I feel like doing. If I want, I’ll write about things that are mediocre and superficial, or I’ll tell the most grandiose, saccharine tales. Things can’t always be the way you want. They shouldn’t.
Looking out the window, I saw the towering trees in which I’d taken refuge. Only a few days before, I’d summoned the courage to climb up to their highest points, driven on by a state of tedium. As I gazed at their distant branches, which seemed to reach up toward the heavens in supplication, I mused, “I’m not really here.” The thought echoed in my mind: I’m not really here.
14
MENTION
I panicked as I confessed that to myself. It was as if I’d fallen from the tree. As if I’d never be able to climb back up. Trying to calm myself, I thought: Your feet never touched the ground. By mere artifice you went into that fancy boutique hotel. “Artifice.” One of the words deboned of my grandma’s curses, seeking to remind me of her. While looking at the photographs lining the desolate corridor, I thought of my grandma. There was a similar series of photos of the foundation being laid for our apartment building. The young developer from a town on the Black Sea. In the background, his Mercedes with its doors open, as though spreading its wings to take flight. My father. My aunt. And there was a funny picture of my grandma drawing the floor plans of the apartment with a long stick: this is where the kitchen will be, and here is the bathroom and the living room . . . Funny, isn’t it?
I really should have been there. Especially for such a brief, critical moment.
Now, I told myself, you’re going to install a quick update to toughen yourself up. I looked up again at the tops of the trees where I’d said, “I’m not here.” That side of the high wall was completely covered in vines. Birds were flying around in the greenery, immersed in deep shadows. While the trees hadn’t yet started shedding their leaves, a few gracefully plucked themselves from their branches and drifted down, coming together with the earth in a state of awe. The birds suddenly stopped chirping. Then I heard the mournful cooing of doves, and more leaves slowly cascaded down. I thought, I’m going to cry. Everyone else seemed to have disappeared, driven away like the leaves falling from the trees, and I was the only person left in the world. I felt so lonely and abandoned. Trying to console myself, I thought, But there’s Yunus. Then I found a more worldly way of consoling myself: I opened the minibar. There was a packet of chocolates, the round ones with nuts. Ten of them in a clear package, plump globules of joy wrapped in foil. I popped them into my mouth, thinking, You’ve got it rough. You can neither die nor stay where you are. You’re too scared to be in the world below, and you’re too bound to life down on the ground to be up in the trees. Sadly, there’s no middle ground. I watched a few more leaves slowly drift down. When you’re in nature, you can’t observe it. If you want to see nature’s grace and power, you have to take a step back. But isn’t that the case for everything?
I devoured the chocolates like a savage. A trickle of sticky brown saliva ran down my chin. T
hen I drank a bottle of mineral water and made myself a cup of espresso with the capsule coffee machine on the counter. At one point, I got the urge to put on some music, but I decided that I’d better stay as quiet as possible. I was an astronaut taking a break on a space station, satisfying my needs. At least, that’s how I felt.
I’d learned how to use those capsule coffee machines at the diet clinics where my mother worked. There was always one in the waiting room. She stole one once and brought it home. For a while I think she became a kleptomaniac out of loneliness and frustration, stealing everything that caught her fancy. Then her greatest fear came true and she got caught. “This is the last thing we needed,” my father groaned. She called me first to tell me she was at the police station, and I told him. She’d gotten caught stealing a knit dress, black leather boots, and a studded leather backpack at Zara. Before she got caught, however, there was no end to the things she’d steal. That little mouse had come up with a great scheme: she’d take whatever she wanted into the fitting room and cut out the alarm tag, which she then stuck to the bottom of the stool. For a while, she only stole things for me. But she never said that she was stealing. Rather, she’d say she got them on the cheap at a place that sold damaged goods. Most of the time, the alarm tags were easy to find, and she’d stitch up the slit afterward—you’d never even know it was there. Pants, sweaters, blouses, shirts, a cashmere jacket. I was ecstatic, jumping up and down like a child, because I hardly had anything to wear in those days. When my aunt came around, she’d take me shopping to buy a few things, usually a cheap pair of pants and an acrylic sweater from DeFacto. Just as I was thinking that I’d have to make do with those for the winter, my mother came home with her arms full of plunder several days in a row. “Where’s this store?” I asked. “Derin and Pembe want to go there too. What store has these damaged clothes?” The answer I got was evasive, not even worth mentioning. “Do they have shoes, boots, bags—things like that?” I was the one who’d laid the groundwork for that disaster by asking for the impossible. At the police station, she was sitting sheepishly on a bench. When she saw me, she broke down in tears.
The Girl in the Tree Page 16
