As Yunus and I stood in front of the door that led to the fire escape, I was thinking about how I’d get back up onto the top of the wall. Perhaps I too should pop a pill to give me some courage?
Yunus was pondering it all. Just like me. He ushered his thoughts toward others as a way of avoiding thinking about his own issues.
“Ushered!” Just look at that choice of words. Come to your senses, girl!
“I like to use awkward words like that.” My friends had decided to talk with me about my writing.
“That’s how my main character prefers to speak.”
They laughed. The guy playing guitar in the tent next to ours suddenly started strumming a different rhythm, as if he wanted to chime in with his own musical laughter. The couple so deeply in love smiled at us.
“You idiot, you are the main character, aren’t you?”
They were falling into the trap so many readers fall into: thinking this or that character is actually the writer. That is the critical error of people who cannot write anything about themselves beyond a CV: the notion that, if people write, they write about themselves. Because that is simply what they do. You dream when you’re asleep—right? But what if life itself, this life, is a dream . . . ? I’d made a mistake by asking Pembe and Derin if they read my writing. They didn’t like it. I thought that if Yunus read some of the things I’d written, maybe he’d think the same way, but for now, he was making my life easier. He’d found a ladder leaning up against the wall along the fire escape. He took my hand as he led me there, looking back over his shoulder at me. And I kissed him. He was surprised. We gazed at each other. And he kissed me back. He even French-kissed me, holding my face with one hand.
“See you later, princess.”
I was flattered that he’d addressed me in such a way, because at school, some girls had been called “princess.” For example, Pembe was a “princess,” but Derin and I weren’t. In the past, our school had been a girls’ school. Probably because of that, boys were the minority. There were girls who had permanent makeup on their lips and eyebrows, and on the way to school they would apply some Shiseido BB cream and clear mascara: “Teacher, I swear I’m not wearing any eyeliner. This is natural.” The only issue that the school administration couldn’t make a final decision about was permanent eyeliner. Those girls, who never failed to apply a dab of Chanel Coco Mademoiselle to their necks and wrists in the morning, would show up on the first day of school just having completed a full epilation. They were the ones who got called “princess.” Not me. Pembe didn’t do herself up as much as them, but she was very careful about her appearance. She even got smooth breast implants: “It’s obvious that I’m completely flat. My mom and I decided on this together. I needed to get them for my spiritual well-being and to keep up my self-confidence.” In spite of everything, she was the best student in the class on Proust and at the top of our class in chemistry and mathematics. Also, she was the one who had convinced Derin to go on that trip during which their bus was bombed. What I’m saying is that she was the last person on this planet who should have been blown to pieces for supposedly being a part of anarchism, separatism, or terrorism. She may have had fake boobs, but her conscience, mind, and acumen were all natural.
I thought about that while having that wet kiss with Yunus. If I was going to live in the moment, what business did I have up in the trees? Kissing him was so wonderful—even if I don’t know much about the arts of pleasure . . . We pulled apart. Stopping that kiss was so hard. I felt as if there were magnets in our lips, pulling them together. Yes, so while I may have not known much about pleasure, I liked how he desired me, liked me, and showed an interest in me. As we were heading toward the ladder, I caught sight of a surveillance camera glaring at us like an inauspicious eye. I froze for a moment, but didn’t let on to Yunus about what I’d seen. He was just concerned about the fact that I was sockless and shoeless.
“What size do you wear?”
“Don’t worry about that. Look, you’d better get going before someone sees you.”
He smiled ever so sweetly.
“Shouldn’t I be the one worrying about you?”
The cute little blockhead! He hadn’t noticed that I was suddenly nervous about something. He was so innocent that way.
I thought he should’ve known about the camera.
In fact, he had known, but he’d forgotten about it. Forgetting and being caught off guard always lead to strife and regret. Meaning? Meaning that the camera records would wind up getting Yunus into trouble. But not just him—me too.
So that was how things went the day I returned to civilization, took a shower, put on fresh clothes, bore witness to a surprising event (the couple making love), ate some chocolates, sat on a soft bed, walked on a fuzzy rug, and yet in the end it was the surveillance cameras of the world of civilization that caught the two of us sneaking in and out of the hotel through the emergency exit. It also recorded our kiss.
Back in my nest, I sniffed the new clothes that didn’t belong to me and noticed that the sleeves of the new hoodie were too long. I curled up, feeling angry at myself for having snuck into the hotel and giving in to the creature comforts of life, even if just for a little while. I concluded that I was up there in the treetops because I was desperate in spirit. I was there because I wanted to create a new life without a past. I had revisited my entire past countless times, but in the end, there’d be nothing to remember after my life in the trees, which would be the same day in and day out—days without a past. Then I would be happy.
As I sat there with my head full of such silly thoughts, I suddenly realized something. I was now able to scrunch into the nest with the greatest of skill and ease. The hot shower had relaxed my body. I pulled the hood over my head and squeezed my hands between my knees. Looking around, I couldn’t take my eyes from the trees and their branches. I watched them. The trees. And as I lay curled up there watching them, I fell asleep.
17
THE FLOW OF TIME
I was one of the first to set up a tent in Gezi Park. I know that it sounds funny for me to say it like that. Or maybe it just seems that way to me. In those days, I always walked to school. The graffiti that read “It is the destitute who will shake up the world!” hadn’t been painted over yet. After the protests, however, the municipality itself took over that role of creating a new order. I sensed unease among the people camping out in the park. The government’s plan was to cut down all the trees and reconstruct an Ottoman army barracks that had once existed there, which was the childhood dream of the prime minister. If only it had remained nothing but a flight of fancy. Look, buddy, wouldn’t it be better to have a dream of bringing freedom, love, equality, camaraderie, justice, rights, and law to the country? Isn’t it a shame that all your dreams are about concrete and more concrete?
It was in those days that I started asking myself, “Do I have any dreams of my own? And if I do, what are they?” My dream at the time was for the trees and park to stay just as they were. I had a dream, and it consisted of the greenery and the view. Why? Because I was walking to school, and when I stepped into that park, I felt like I was in a forest, like the children in the Chronicles of Narnia who stepped through the wardrobe into an enchanted snowy forest. I was so moved by that part, where the little girl pushes past the fur coats and suddenly finds herself in an entirely new realm. Explaining things is like that in a way.
My grandma used to take me to Gezi Park. It’s like a tiny island in the center of the city. A small jungle. It didn’t matter if it was summer or winter, she’d buy me ice cream. Each and every time my grandma would say, “Don’t stick out your tongue like a donkey when you lick your ice cream.” Apparently, I was so thickheaded that I needed the same warning over and over. We’d sit on a bench and watch the people going by. My grandma would have the same little purse that she took when she went to the shop, grocer, or butcher, and there were always tissues in there, sometimes even wet wipes—the ones she’d take from the neighbor
hood restaurants. When we were done with our ice cream, we’d give our mouths a thorough rubdown. “Wipe your mouth well,” she’d say. “Keep it clean.” Then we’d lean back and go on looking around. I never got bored. That’s where I learned how to spend time like that and not get bored.
Once, my grandma told me that she’d go to the park to think to the end those things she didn’t need to be thinking about. I know that sounds ridiculous, but that’s exactly what she said. As if thinking is something that comes to an end, that can be concluded. Her coping strategy probably went something like this: When I’m at the park, I’m going to think about the things that have befallen me in my life and those past days that still haunt me. But once I step out of the park, I’m going to push all those thoughts from my mind . . . That’s fine, but how did she banish those thoughts? I’m sure she had a system. She got through that which had driven Efrosa to suicide by sitting in that park. I’m not sure—have I been able to explain why Gezi Park is so important for me?
Then that politician came along, bent on laying the foundations for his childhood dream, ignoring what the people thought about the matter. Here’s how it all got started: I was sitting in a small restaurant in Cihangir, having a plate of baked eggplant with a side of yogurt. The television was on. Sometimes on my way home from school, I’d stop there and get something to eat. On my way home that day, I saw that some people had pitched tents in the park and that there were some protesters. “What are they protesting?” That’s what the politician on the television was asking. As one of the diners was getting up to leave, he pointed at the politician and said, “This is bullshit!”
“Shush, you,” said the owner of the restaurant.
A few people laughed.
“They’ll pack you off to prison for talking like that.”
“Let them!” the man said rebelliously, shaking his fist at the television screen. “Screw your damn Ottoman barracks! What are you talking about?”
A kind-looking man who was chewing a mouthful of food started tapping the edge of his knife against his water glass as a form of applause.
“Right on!” said another.
After swatting at an invisible annoyance a few times, the rebel walked out.
The politician on television was still talking, stating his points one by one. As if he was settling a deal with a peddler, he said: “It’s final. We’ve made our decision. Do whatever you want, but we’re not backing down.”
Those words weighed heavily on me. You might say, “Who do you think you are, at your age? Why did it bother you so much?” Because things that have been decided in the name of others are shit.
After the rebel left, I went out too. I saw him head downhill from Çukurcuma. As for me, I decided that I wasn’t going home. Instead, I went straight to the park, chose a spot for myself, and sat down, leaning against a tree. Drowsy after all that eggplant and yogurt, I fell asleep. I think the deepest, most peaceful sleep I’ve ever had was there under that tree—and also up in my perch in the treetops. I didn’t even notice how at peace I was feeling at the time, nor how long I slept.
I awoke to the sound of my phone ringing.
My family, it seemed, was worried about me. I told them something, but—and believe me when I say this—I can’t remember what it was. Perhaps I told them I was at the park. I may have even said, “I’m dreaming.” Who knows. If I told them that I was at the park, they probably asked which one, because the events that led to the outbreak of the citywide protests hadn’t yet occurred.
When I awoke, I was surprised to find that evening was settling in, so I knew I’d slept a long time. The couple sitting beside me was concerned.
“Hey, you’ve been asleep since five o’clock.”
“What time is it now?”
“Probably around nine.”
“Seems my folks were getting worried.”
“We were too. We even checked to make sure you were breathing. Then we figured that you were just tired after a long day.”
Just as my eyes were growing accustomed to the dark, the lights in the park came on. I must have glanced questioningly at the blanket tucked around my knees, because the couple who had taken it upon themselves to look after me gave me a compassionate glance. Had I awoken from a drug-induced sleep, or had it been the innocent slumber of a weary teen who had drool running down her chin?
“It got a little cool when the sun went down, so we put the blanket on you to make sure you wouldn’t get cold.”
As if it wasn’t enough that I kicked off the blanket like a savage, I didn’t even deign to thank them.
“I’m Hande.”
“I’m Özgür.”
A feeling of brusqueness still hung over me, and I didn’t tell them my name. Then I pulled myself together a little: “I was so sound asleep that I think I might still be trying to wake up. Now I’m not even sure if this is a dream or reality . . .”
They smiled.
“Would you like some coffee?”
I saw that Hande had a Shaun the Sheep thermos, and I caught the scent of hot coffee. Let me just say here that a beautiful, gentle spring air hung over the park. I was trying to piece it all together and clear the cobwebs from my mind. Thinking that some coffee might help, I accepted a cup, but it didn’t. Sometimes my grandma would bring a thermos like theirs along with her, filled with coffee instead of tea, which she said lost its flavor in no time at all. We had some turquoise plastic cups that my aunt had swiped on her first and last plane trip with my grandma. There were four of them. They’d flown on THY on both legs of the journey, and my aunt had tucked two of the cups into her purse on each leg. She said that four was enough to make a set with the thermos. The cup I was holding in the park was exactly the same, except that it was red. You can’t help but remember things during moments like that, right?
“My grandma died two months ago,” I said, and then broke down in tears. The coffee in my cup from that Shaun the Sheep thermos, the image of which seemed to be leering at me, rippled like a dark sea.
“She and I used to come here together. We’d sit here and look at the trees. She had a thermos filled with coffee and cups like these, which made it seem like we were kids playing house . . .”
“You poor thing,” Hande said.
I know that she wasn’t really sad for me, but she was compassionate. Her hand on my shoulder, she was looking at me with an expression of sadness that I knew was fake. If you ask me, Özgür was the more genuinely upset of the two. His look was one of a conscientious person worried about someone in pain. He had a mop of unruly, curly hair, which left half of his smallish face in shadow. I got the impression that he was the kind of person who made you think, “I’d put my trust in this guy,” and I would have done exactly that.
As a teenager, when I’d started acting out and veering from what my aunt deemed proper, she’d admonish me, saying, “Watch your mouth. You’re starting to talk like a man.” And from my mother I heard, “Watch your language.” In turn, I wanted to say to her, “And you stop lying!” but I couldn’t bring myself to. When a child treats its mother cruelly or a mother treats her child with wicked intent, it’s all over. Life is over.
As I was wiping away my tears, Hande gave me a piece of chocolate. I guess she had the rest of the bar with her.
“Here, have some chocolate with your coffee, it will do you good. So, you used to come here with your grandma?”
I nodded and sniffled. Just then, they suddenly showed up. Speak of the devil! When I say “they,” I mean my mother and my aunt. What timing! I’d just been crying, and now I’d have to be all smiles for them. You should have seen how they approached . . . Jaunty steps that set their purses swinging on their shoulders and their skirts swishing, talking with anyone and everyone who crossed their paths.
When she saw me, my mom exclaimed, “There she is!”
“What are you doing here?” my aunt asked, a hint of pride in her voice.
“They’re going to raze this park . . . Comp
letely tear it down.”
My mother and my aunt looked at me affectionately. They put on expressions of gentle sympathy, nodding all the while. “Oh really . . .”
“I’m here to protest,” I said.
“That’s very good of you,” my mother said, as if she wanted to calmly dissuade me. “But you’re just a girl. You have to go to school.”
Hande and Özgür were listening in on the conversation as observers.
My aunt asked, “So, you want to stay here?” There you have it. Of course she would ask the most spot-on question.
“Yes,” I replied.
The truth of the matter is that I didn’t know what to do. All the same, like the trees in the park that my grandma and I used to enjoy sitting under, I had a desire to stay there and send down my own roots. I wanted to protect the trees. But even more than that, I wanted to cut down to size the politicians who had taken so much from us. The trees were a symbol of life and all that was beautiful, and as such, we should never lose them. If we lost the trees, it meant we’d lost everything. My grandma, her thermos, her plastic coffee cups. Everything. What was going to be lost wasn’t just the trees, but our very lives. Our freedom. I think I made my decision as I thought over those things. Clever as always, my mother immediately picked up on what I was thinking.
She shouted, “Don’t be ridiculous!”
The days when she’d been reviled were behind her, but now she was leaving behind a new trail of wreckage. She’d really let herself go. Her belly bulged, as she’d put on a bit of weight, and she’d given herself over to the idea that she’d passed the point of no return. Her jowls were sagging as well. So be it. She was alive and well, which was more than enough. She’d changed her style as well, as if she didn’t want to be recognized.
The Girl in the Tree Page 21
