I needed to feel loved. I needed dialogue, conversation. I Googled Britney on my iPad to find out more about her return to society, but I couldn’t find out anything about her dietician. So, I thought, why couldn’t the dietician who’d worked such wonders be a woman from Istanbul?
That was just the beginning.
With my help, my mother knitted her story of success knot by knot. Here’s how it proceeded: My mother had supposedly gone to Los Angeles in order to hone her skills, and while she was there, destiny led her to Britney. Or maybe it led Britney to her. Or maybe their fates collided. I don’t know, but it was something along those lines.
The Turkish woman who helped Britney lose weight.
How did Britney lose weight on a diet of Turkish cuisine?
In no time at all, my mother was invited on five television shows and she was interviewed by countless newspapers. The Britney diet became a smash hit.
“This is all great,” my father’s sister said, “but you’ve never been to Los Angeles. So, what gives?” Actually, she didn’t say that, she snarled it. Why? Because she knew right off where such a story would land my mother. We were in the largest room in our place, which was the kitchen, and as always, whenever we talked about important, stressful things, we were standing, not sitting. My father’s sister was smoking a cigarette next to the exhaust hood, which she’d turned on (normally, no one was allowed to smoke at our place).
Matters unfolded at breakneck speed.
My mother rented an office in Cihangir and started a website, and I helped her compile some pictures of her and Britney. Ultimately, that turned out to be our undoing, as the guy who created the images of my mother and Britney side by side through the miracle of Photoshop gave us up. I was going to say that he “gave up the ghost,” which would’ve been much better. I wish that he’d died. So in the end, it came to light that the photos were fake. In any case, there were plenty of people who wanted to see my mother’s balloon of fame pop, such as her old boss, that queen of dieticians. In summary, my mother’s story of stardom was short lived. She toppled down from that peak of success. Rather, she was pushed down. Shoved down. Went ass over teakettle. She enjoyed three brief months of fame and then slipped into depression as spring was approaching Istanbul. Spring is coy in this city. It seems like it’s coming and suddenly backs away, only to reappear like a gift. But let’s not stir the pot of that issue, as it’s been stirred enough. It really became a major embarrassment, to an extent I never imagined possible.
Britney made a clear statement on the matter of whether she’d lost weight on a diet of Turkish food.
How very, very clear!
During an interview, she said, “Not once did I ever work with a Turkish dietician.”
The journalist pressed her further: “So, you didn’t lose weight on a Turkish-style diet?”
“No,” she said, a blank expression on her face. It almost seemed as if she was being forced to make that statement. She seemed insecure, completely unsure of herself. Her self-confidence in ruins. Her self-confidence a wad of gum stuck to the sidewalk. Britney, be careful where you step. She added, “To tell the truth, I’ve never even met a Turkish person.”
The uppity reporter said, “Really!” and then gestured toward himself. “Well, you have now!”
Britney stepped out of her SUV as if she was climbing out of an eighteen-wheeler, slammed the heavy door, and gave the cameras a phony wave and lifeless smile, saying, “Bye, see you again!” as she clomped off in her Havaianas flip-flops. She must’ve been in LA at the time. That hot, scorched city. The reporter turned to the camera and said, “Well, there you have it, ladies and gentlemen. That Turkish dietician who claimed to have helped Britney Spears lose weight has been exposed as a liar.”
A photograph of my mother suddenly appeared on the screen. A photo that she’d never liked. But in the end, what difference did it make? She’d been shamed in front of the whole country.
“It’s over,” she moaned. “I’m ruined.”
That was the first time I saw someone really bottom out. I watched someone—what’s more, my own mother—go to pieces before my very eyes. She cried, hiccupping strangely. Or rather, she tried to cry. Her blood pressure soared and fell and soared like the dial of a bewildered scale, unsure of where to level off.
My mother fell so ill that eventually she had to be hospitalized.
My grandma said, “What else would you expect?” She hadn’t yet been laid up in the hospital, even though she was convinced that her liver was little more than a firebrick, but thanks to her daughter-in-law, soon she too wound up in the hospital, not knowing that she had so little time left.
Sedatives, tranquilizers, fits of crying that couldn’t be stopped.
“What happened to this poor lady?”
“My dear nurse, she screwed her life with a donkey prick—that’s what happened.”
You couldn’t have expected anything else from my grandma, sitting by my mother’s bedside.
I came across other reports about the Britney incident.
Such as when I was having some soup at Lades one day. Most likely, the denizens of Beyoğlu wouldn’t have even considered the possibility that I was somehow connected to that whole business as they slurped up their soup. Life’s strange, isn’t it? The person who that cock-mouthed reporter defamed and brought to ruin was none other than my mother, and she was now hooked up to a cocktail of sedatives at Medipol Hospital under the sponsorship of my aunt Hülya, as my mother’s insurance didn’t cover mental breakdowns.
And I was the one who’d given her the idea. Between news clips, the TV station served up as an appetizer the Britney video that had inspired the both of us, the one with will.i.am and Britney, bitch.
That’s so Britney. Britney bitch. What harm would it have done if you’d brushed aside the Turkish journalist who was following you around? Couldn’t you have just misunderstood that birdbrain’s English and replied, “I really like Turkish food”? Or merely replied, Britney-style, with an “Oh yeah!”
I completely lost it. But not in public—only after I’d left Lades and met up with Derin and Pembe. I think that was the first time I cried in front of them.
Afterward, everything happened so quickly . . . I was crying nonstop. My mother got out of the hospital, whereupon my grandma was admitted, and we lost her soon after that. I threw myself into rap and then that asshole threw himself at me. After all those calamities, which happened one after the other, as I was having dinner at a small neighborhood restaurant with a levelheaded maturity far beyond my years, that tree-hating politician said on TV, “It’s final. We’ve made our decision. Do whatever you want, but we’re not backing down.” You know what followed.
After Yunus had left and I was getting ready to slowly close the curtains of my mind, someone showed up at the foot of my tree like a wounded animal. It was a young man. And he really was like a wounded animal. Like a gazelle. As if he’d been shot. He sat down at the bottom of the laurel tree as if he was collapsing, falling, unable to catch his breath. I saw it all because I’d been intently peering down through the gaps in the stork’s nest. What else could I do? It was impossible for me to pull my gaze away from the world below. As soon as that scrawny young man—he may have been a little older than me—leaned his back against the smooth bark of the tree, he pulled out a cheap MP3 player. When he wiped his bony, swarthy wrist across his eyes, I realized that he was crying, and then I heard the muffled sound of music.
I’d heard bits of the song, but I’d never listened to it in its entirety. The man singing the song had a deep, throaty voice. Was it Ferdi Tayfur? As if he was saying, “And you, Brutus?” he sang, “And you, Leyla?” What had Leyla done? Was everyone in the world double-crossing each other? I’d never double-crossed anyone. Just then, his phone rang and he answered, explaining where he was and how to get there. I ascertained precisely where I was in the world. Ascertaining is a matter of momentous import; is it not, Grandma :)
&nbs
p; “What made you think it would be a good idea to put smiley faces in place of question marks?”
Ah, where were we, Özlem Hanım? I’ve missed you. Everyone in the classroom cringed when she asked that question. “So, a smiley face instead of a question mark . . . Do you think it bodes well that emojis are replacing punctuation?” Yet again, the text penned by the aggrieved party of the writing competition was subjected to scathing attacks with the intent to fuck it over even more thoroughly. The situation had reached the point where I could no longer bring myself to say anything in reply. I’d given up. Surrendered. At times like that, however, it is the other party who should be giving up.
Anyways, let’s move on.
The friend whom he had called found the broken-down fellow at the foot of my tree. Plopping down beside him, he asked, “What’s the matter, man? Why’re you crying?”
At first, I assumed it was girl trouble. I suppose it was the doleful music he was listening to that made me think that way. But it turned out that wasn’t the case at all. His papers had arrived, and he was being summoned for military service. That’s why the poor guy was bawling his eyes out like a child.
The friend asked, “Are you scared or something?” I got the impression that he was more interested in giving his pal an earful than offering any consolation.
He scoffed. “Who’s scared of going into the military?” If you ask me, he was scared.
His friend surprised me by saying, “I wouldn’t blame you if you were. People die left and right doing their service.” He won a place in my heart when he said in all sincerity, “I’d be scared to death if I were in your position.”
Then the boy confessed what was really bothering him: “Who’s going to look after my mom when I’m gone?”
His friend fell silent, making it apparent that he wasn’t going to take up the responsibility. It didn’t take long for me to realize that the problem came down to money—or a lack thereof.
“When you do your service, they give you a kind of salary . . . You can send that to your mom. That’s what everyone does. When you’re there, you’ll have a place to stay and food to eat, so you won’t need any money.”
“Is that really how it works?”
“We can find out. Didn’t you ask?”
He made a sound like the cluck of a bird, meaning no.
I’d been mistaken—the guy hadn’t immediately sat down beside his crying friend. Rather, he was kneeling down in front of him, with a hand on his shoulder. Only later did he sit down.
“Don’t you worry about your mom,” he said. “Just make sure you make it back here in one piece. Keep your mind clear, and focus on coming home. Doing your military service is a real pain. Look, it’s a bit embarrassing to say that out loud, but that’s how it is . . .”
Both of them, it seemed, were local doormen. After a while they settled into conversation, talking about what they’d moved that day, from whence to where and how, who they’d met, and how much money they’d made in tips and wages. So, I mused, despite their skinny frames, they made a living through sheer muscle power. I wondered how such people could carry the weight of the world on their shoulders, and I considered my own position: I’d ended up where I was because it was too much for me to bear—high up in the treetops, I was out of reach of such burdens.
I noticed that the song “And You, Leyla?” started playing again. Maybe it had already been playing over and over, or perhaps it was just a never-ending song.
The two friends went on talking as the music played.
“Who knows, maybe you’ll see one of the enemies and shoot at them.”
I couldn’t help but wonder: Who was that enemy he mentioned? The answer to my question was lodged in the question that followed. Wait, here it comes: “How could someone who speaks the same language be my enemy? Is the Kurd Rıza our enemy now?”
“He’s different.”
“Why’s he different but the others are our enemy?”
“If you want my opinion, I think every Kurd is our enemy. Doesn’t he say that the PKK is this or that, not doing anything wrong? Doesn’t he pin the blame on others, saying the government is oppressing the Kurds?”
“Do they have to be killed?”
His friend lit a cigarette.
“Do they have to be killed?”
The smoke from his cigarette drifted up into my nostrils.
“Do they have to be killed?”
Both of them had close-cropped hair, almost shaved, and their clothes were worn thin. I could see their tattered shoes. It was obvious that they were wearing clothes that had been passed down to them. Clothes that were too big, cinched and tucked in to make them fit.
The friend apparently thought the only solution was to change the subject.
“Before you go, we’ll take you to the brothel. As you know, that’s the way things are done.”
But the boy didn’t seem to have the strength or desire to take comfort, have fun, or blow off some steam with a trip to the brothel. All his energy had been spent bearing the weight of the world, and his impoverished mother occupied his thoughts, stuck there as if with a safety pin. That was it, and nothing more. The day came to a close with their murmuring conversation. As I settled into the nest, one of them said, “I just heard a weird crackling sound,” and they got up to leave, but they didn’t know that the sound had come from above or that there was a person up there, the Girl in the Tree, or that the girl had given up on fighting and was now living in the treetops. How could they have known? If it had been you, would you have known?
26
AN ERROR HAS OCCURRED: APOLOGIES FOR THE INCONVENIENCE
Would you believe me if I told you that the same thing happened again? Most likely, you’d ask, “What’s this about?” If you’re a frank person—we might even say judgmental—you could even sneer, “But don’t the same things keep happening?” So, to all those sneerers, I’d reply, “What else could happen up in the treetops?” Yes, I’d really stick it to you. As Pembe would’ve said, “Put a lid on it.” Is the lid shut? Sealed up good, snapped tight?
People slip off into the bushes to escape their fears. Take side roads. Veer onto wildly steep paths that lead to the sea. That’s exactly what I did, because dawn had broken, or it was about to break, and there was the same strangeness in the air. A stiltedness. I sensed it deep down as I opened my eyes. Still, that time, I knew as I looked out onto the world that it was a dream. Another one of the tricks my mind played on me. That sneaky mind of mine . . .
So, as I was saying, everything was buried in snow.
Again?
Yet again.
But I felt a deeper sense of peace. A sense of peace in the very marrow of my bones. I told you earlier about that morning when I poked my head out of my tent in Gezi. It was just like that. By the way, one of the girls at school had been spreading lies about me, saying that I was never actually in Gezi. Gossip is like an insect, scuttling around as fast as a cockroach. It glistens, and you feel repulsed when you happen to come across it. People who enjoy clicking their tongues are often gossipers. For them, it’s as enjoyable as popping their gum. But they’re sly about it, acting as though what they’re doing isn’t really gossiping. No, it’s just that you’re such a fascinating person, they simply can’t get their fill of gabbing about you and your life. I knew that the biggest gossiper at our school was always going around saying things about me. Which is understandable because, after all, I was pretty interesting. As Derin once grudgingly confessed, “There’s your mom, your grandma, the rapper, everything that happened at the park . . .” There’s no need to go on and on, but I could also add my aunt Hülya, my father, and my other aunt, as well as much, much more to the list.
All the same, in those days I remember asking, “What happened in the end? My grandma got sick, my mother fell prey to what we could call an ‘occupational accident,’ the story of my relationship with the rapper was anything but exceptional, and as for the park, weren’t we all there toget
her?”
I don’t have enough fingers on my hands to count all the issues, but it became clear that there was a general sense of unease about my very existence. It was chronic. One day, I stumbled upon that Gossip Queen in the school bathroom, where Pembe had once stood in front of her, unbuttoning her blouse with the audacity of Joan of Arc and saying, “I didn’t get a boob job! If you don’t believe me, look for yourself!” Open parenthesis, at this point, Pembe had indeed gotten silicone implants, but they looked so natural that she had no qualms about lying about the fact, close parenthesis.
When I saw the gossiper, I blurted, “What’s the deal with you going around saying that I wasn’t at the park?” The truth of the matter, however, is that I didn’t snap at or try to corner her, much less get in her face.
As confident as could be, she replied, “Well, it’s true. You weren’t there.”
One of her cronies flushed the toilet in another stall and stepped out, which meant I wasn’t alone with her. In fact, I was the one who was alone. Unlike our group of three, there were four of them. Soon after, the other two girls emerged from adjoining stalls, but it didn’t escape my attention that they didn’t bother to flush.
“I was there,” I said, flushing my own toilet with a flourish of self-confidence.
“You’re lying.”
She had these strangely curving lips that you couldn’t get enough of looking at. Like a flower, like rose petals. And they were always glistening with lip gloss. I hadn’t yet come to understand that, in some situations, the best thing to do is not to fight but rather to back down. While for a moment I did consider saying, “Yeah, whatever,” and walking away, if we’d done that at the park, those trees wouldn’t be there to greet us and those barracks would’ve been built right in the heart of our country. Because we held out, people saw what it means to resist and they found the courage to take up the cause too. They discovered the meaning of standing up for yourself, as we stood up for our way of life and the trees. At first, they had no intention of learning anything from us, but in the end, that’s precisely what happened.
The Girl in the Tree Page 29
