by Moris Farhi
So I also kept watching Adem until I, too, took him into my heart limb by limb. He was a stocky fellow. Yet his face was so delicate, it could have been embroidered by a lace-maker. And, yes, his hands, as if magnified several sizes by a distorting mirror, kept filling my eyes. I thought they could hold not only the sky but the whole earth as well. No wonder Osman drooled over him. A trapeze partnership must be like walnuts and dried figs, a near-perfect pairing. The best pairings are made in heaven.
Mama Meryem told us what Hacι Turgut had said about Adem.
He was from the Caucasus, an Abkhaz. Not Muslim, but Christian. Many of them are. His father, a beekeeper in Sukhumi, had been so overjoyed to be blessed with a son that he had become a man of the church in thanksgiving. In Stalin’s godless USSR that had been a foolish act; both he and his wife had been executed.
Close relatives had somehow managed to save the child – christened Vladislav. They had smuggled him into Turkey and entrusted him to an Abkhaz family in Rize who owed them a debt of honour. But this family had played false and had worked the boy like a slave on their tea-plantation instead of treating him as one of their own.
The boy had eventually run away. After countless menial jobs, he had reached Istanbul. There he had found employment as a groom in Sirk Karelya, a circus owned by a White Russian refugee, Pyotr Nadolski. At some point, this Nadolski, having noticed the size of Vladislav’s hands – beekeeper’s hands like his father’s – had tried him on the trapeze. The youth had proved to be a natural. Thereafter, Nadolski, changing Vladislav’s name to Adem – a good Turkish name that also conjured strength – had trained him until he became an outstanding catcher.
But since to attain his full potential a catcher needs an equally gifted flyer, Nadolski had started searching for such a prodigy. Adem’s growing reputation had brought many hopefuls to his door, but they had all been either average or past their prime.
Then one day, a Greek youth called Yorgo, from a small Aegean circus, had walked in and asked for an audition. Something about the youth’s blend of shyness and eagerness, doubt and certainty had appealed to Nadolski. He had tried him out. Old-timers who had witnessed that trial swear that when Adem and Yorgo had locked hands, there had been a sound like Allah taking to nature’s breast.
Thereafter the two men, calling themselves Kartallar, ‘The Eagles’, had perfected not only the triple somersault, an act achieved by only a handful of trapezists, but also proceeded to train for the quadruple – a feat believed to be impossible.
Then tragedy had struck.
During one performance, Yorgo had mistimed his take-off and had dropped towards his partner a moment too early. The two had brushed fingers but could not lock hands. Yorgo had plummeted down, crashed on to the side of the safety net, bounced off it, fallen into the ring and broken his neck. He had died instantly.
Though all the witnesses at the inquest had attributed Yorgo’s mistiming to his indulgence in opium the night before, Adem had refused to believe it. Instead he had blamed himself, claiming that having brushed fingers with Yorgo, he should have been able to hold him; he had failed because his hands had failed. And so, immediately after Yorgo’s funeral, he had left Nadolski’s circus and has been drifting ever since.
When Adem stirred and seemed to be waking up, Babacιk sent us out. People should emerge from their nightmares alone, he said. That pleased me. It wouldn’t be Osman that Adem noticed first.
We brewed some tea and sat outside the tent. We had a couple of hours before the evening performance. That’s a magical time in a circus. We had watered the ring, cleaned up the seats and the bandstand and checked that all our gear was securely fastened. Except for those who had to groom the animals, it was the time to unknot muscles, have a smoke, catch up on our lives, hear the latest gossip, smooth out any butterflies in the stomach and think of new feats. We’re a good outfit even if we don’t have a high rating. (For that we need a trapeze act. Easier said than done when good trapezists are like snowdrops in a desert.)
Babacιk put on his costume and make-up then indulged in a narghile with our neighbour, Fevzi, the Syrian acrobat and father of The Ziggurats. Then the ‘little people’, Ekrem and Esin, came and passed round the pastries Esin had baked that day. (Had she not been a midget Esin would surely have been a famous cook.) Before long, as they did every evening, the whole troupe gathered round and all, except Mahmut the Simurg – who always stayed silent to keep his throat well lubricated for his fire-eating act – babbled away.
(Osman, I observed, drank in the atmosphere enviously. And I realized how difficult life must be for a flyer without a partner.)
Then, just as everybody started leaving to get ready for the show, Adem stumbled out of the tent. He looked bewildered. ‘Where ... is this ...’
Osman went up to him. ‘Circus – where Kudret Reis works ...’ He extended his arms, hands down, as trapeze artistes do. ‘Welcome ...’
Adem stared at Osman, then at Osman’s hands. His voice cracked. ‘Yorgo ...?’
‘Osman.’
The two men could not shift their eyes from each other. Though they had only just met, they looked as if they felt compelled to create something together – were creating it. I used to think that was how people made babies, by making love with their eyes.
My jealousy took over. I jumped up. ‘I’m ...’ I tried to think of a good name, then decided on the old one. ‘Emanet ...’
That broke the spell. Adem turned round. ‘You ... I remember ... The old man – your father ...’
I pointed at Babacιk who was drawing on his narghile and gazing at him.
Adem stared at Babacιk’s costume. ‘A clown?’
Babacιk waved a hand. ‘How are you feeling?’
Adem, recognizing Babacιk by his size, snarled. ‘Why did you bring me here?’
‘This is where I live.’
‘Why me?’
‘You need help.’
‘From you?’
Babacιk’s arm encompassed the circus. ‘From all of us.’ He indicated the spectators who were trickling in. ‘From the punters.’ Then he pointed at Osman. ‘Mainly from him.’
‘Who’s he?’
Again Osman proffered his hands. ‘Osman. I’m a flyer.’
Adem started shuddering. Then suddenly he punched Osman viciously. ‘Bastard!’ He turned on us. ‘Bastards! Bastards!’
And he ran off.
A long time ago, when Babacιk was a lad in his village, a man called Veysi, who was blessed with a good wife, several children and a fertile plot of land, suddenly disappeared. Since he was much liked and since, in those days, people never disappeared – even when they got killed in an accident or by brigands or wolves, some remains were always found – villagers from all over the region went searching for him. To no avail. Then one of the old women remembered that Veysi was of Armenian descent, that he had a twin brother and that, being born in 1896, at the height of Sultan Abdülhamit II’s brutal persecution of the Armenians, both he and his twin brother had been given up for adoption to different Muslim families. On hearing this they started searching for this sibling; for ancient wisdom says that if we know where a person wants to return to dust, then we will know where to find him. Ancient wisdom also says that twins, even if separated at birth, communicate with each other in inexplicable ways. And so, after much searching, they found Veysi’s twin in Kastamonu. He had been buried a short time ago. When they visited his grave, they discovered that Veysi was buried next to him. And the story unfolded: Veysi, having had a premonition that his twin was ill, had somehow traced his brother and appeared at his side. In the excitement of the reunion both had suffered heart failure and died.
So, with this story in my mind, I went searching for Adem at railway stations. I quickly scoured Sirkeci. Since that station serves only Thrace and Europe and since Adem had had no links with those lands, I did not expect to find him there.
Then I went to Haydarpaşa, the mainline station to Anatolia and o
n to Asia and Arabia.
And there he was, swaying because he had been drinking again, and trying to read the timetables.
I went up to him. ‘Come back.’
He stared at me, his surprise mixed with hatred. ‘Who sent you? The old man? Or that squirt who calls himself a flyer?’
‘I came on my own.’
‘And they let you – a child – run around in this merciless world by herself?’
‘I’m not a child. I’m sixteen. I can look after myself!’
‘Then go look after yourself somewhere else!’
‘Where is Yorgo buried?’
He raised his hand, ready to hit me.
I stood my ground. ‘Tell me.’
He snarled. ‘You look like a tart!’
‘What?’
‘All that make-up ...’
‘It’s not make-up. It’s henna.’
‘What for?’
‘To look good.’
‘For me?’
I saw no point in denying it. I was trying to look ‘feminine’, as the contortionist sisters, Halide and Pιnar, would say. ‘Yes.’
He sniggered. ‘You’re crazy.’
‘Where is Yorgo buried?’
‘I told you to shut up about that!’
‘Where? Tell me!’
He tried to move away from me, but collapsed on a bench. ‘Konya ...’
‘What will you do when you get to Konya?’
He stared at his hands, then at his wrists. ‘Oh, I’ll ...’
‘Cut your veins?’
He started weeping. ‘You don’t understand ... He was my soul ... Two wombs, from two different peoples – one Greek, one Abkhaz – produced one whole man. One whole body and soul ... That was the miracle. I was he and he was me ... Together we were one ... We completed ourselves and each other ... When we entered the ring, God came to watch us ...’
I sat next to him. ‘You and Osman could be the same ...’
‘You’re talking shit!’
‘Why?’
‘As Nadolski said – we’ve run out of lions.’
‘What’s that mean?’
‘The sun has died. The lions have stopped performing. They’ve left to find another planet.’
‘The sun will come up again. It always does.’
‘You still don’t understand! The lions performed because Yorgo and I were perfect. They copied us. Took pride in that. Then I dropped him. And they realized we were not perfect – body and soul not entirely together. Just another couple of useless humans. They decided they must be useless, too. Not the kings of the beasts they thought they were – just oversized cats. So they left ...’
‘They can come back ...’
‘How?’
‘I don’t know. Ask Babacιk. I’m sure he can make them come back.’
‘You’re really crazy. So is he! Must run in the family ...’
‘Give it a try ... What can you lose?’
He stood up hesitantly. Then he started laughing.
‘What’s so funny?’
‘You mean death can wait. I can always die tomorrow – or the day after. It doesn’t have to be today.’
‘Something like that ...’
He shook his head. ‘Crazier still ...’
I tried to hold his hand. ‘Come ...’
He recoiled from my touch and shoved his hands into his pockets. But he followed me.
As we descended the steps from the station to the landing stage, I caught sight of Osman and Hatice. They were trying to keep out of sight. Obviously, Babacιk had sent Osman to make sure I would come to no harm. And Hatice had tagged along. Protecting her man was Hatice’s aim in life.
We boarded the boat to Karaköy. No sooner had we sat down than Adem fell asleep.
I caught another glimpse of Osman and Hatice. This time, I also noticed Hacι Turgut. He was with a band of his trainees, including that nice young man, Rιfat, who has become one of our regular patrons because he loves Mahmut the Simurg’s stories. All there to protect me?
Osman, I noted, was smiling, mouthing congratulations. Hatice was as sombre as a grey day.
Adem refused to lodge with anyone. He wanted his own place. So Babacιk found him a corner in the stables. Adem welcomed that. Stables were where he had started his circus life. He and horses got on well. They even talked. I heard them: he told them stories about hidden prairies where horses lived free because humans couldn’t get there.
And every night, during the performance, I saw him standing in the dark, as far away from the Big Top as he could get, listening to the excitement of the audience, breathing in the gasps, the sighs and the applause as act after act rose to its climax. And some nights, I saw his eyes twinkle and knew that he was crying.
For several weeks, he kept away from the ring. That was where Osman was training and he didn’t want to see what Osman could do.
Osman was tireless. Hour after hour, he swung on his trapeze, performed twists, turns and somersaults. Every week he rigged his platform higher up the cone to give himself more space and more time in the air. He was training for the quadruple – ‘the impossible’. That had become his obsession since he had heard that Adem and Yorgo had been trying for it. He believed he would be the one to do it – providing he and Adem teamed up and providing also that he had a high enough Big Top to give himself sufficient space to execute the somersaults.
Though I feared that if he and Adem teamed up, I’d take second place, I had to admit Osman was truly astonishing. He had the grace and agility of a falcon in full flight.
During those weeks, Adem spent much of his time with Babacιk. I would watch him trying to keep away by busying himself in the stables or helping out with other animals, or even going to town. But he would soon trail back, sit down with us and help sandpaper the chess pieces Babacιk carved out of wood for a souvenir shop that specialized in reproductions of Ottoman sets – painstaking work given that the pieces comprised miniature sculptures of janissaries, siege towers, viziers, sultans and sultanas.
I relished those times because, except when I had to practise my juggling, I could sit with them. Mama Meryem, however, wasn’t happy to have me around. She had grown to dislike Adem. I’d heard her say several times that people who burdened others with their problems were tapeworms.
And she feared I would fall for him. I heard her say this also: ‘Women’s brains between their legs! They drop skirts for any ram!’
Me, fall in love? What next? And at sixteen? No. Infatuation – maybe! Just to make the blood run faster.
Fortunately, Babacιk did not take Mama Meryem seriously. And since she never disputes his wishes, she put up with my presence.
Adem did get talking about Yorgo. Often repeated the same things. How Yorgo was the greatest flyer of all time. How they had fused their bodies and souls. How they had joined the supreme band of entertainers that stretched all the way back to ancient Egypt. How they had perfected the triple somersault and were working towards the three-and-a-half and then the quadruple ...
Invariably, after all this anguish, he would wail, ‘Why couldn’t I catch him, Grandad?’
That’s what he called Babacιk – Grandad. (Did he foresee something I didn’t know?)
And Babacιk would say, ‘Why do children die?’
And Adem would always miss the real meaning of that answer. So he would wail even more. ‘Spread out like a broken doll, he was ... Blood – red like I’ve never seen, Grandad – trickling out of his mouth ...’
And Babacιk would try to console him. ‘We are weak. But we are also noble. We do what we must do – and do it always chest out, never by turning our backs ...’
And Adem would weep. ‘Why me, Grandad? Why did it have to be me?’
And Babacιk would look at him sternly. ‘Why not you? Why should you be spared? What’s so special about you?’
At this, Adem would stride off. I’d want to go after him, but I’d restrain myself. I’m not one to knife Mama Meryem’s tremb
ling heart, particularly when it trembles for me.
‘I’m a killer,’ Adem declared solemnly in his usual sunless way one Monday, our rest day.
This outraged Mama Meryem. ‘What nonsense you talk!’
We were having a picnic at Çamlιca, the pine wood on the Asian side of the Bosporus, the beauty spot nearest to our circus.
Adem held up his hands. ‘Look! Killer’s hands.’
‘I know killers. You not one of them ...’
Mama Meryem was sewing – a new outfit for Vahit, the tightrope walker. She made all the troupe’s costumes. Babacιk was carving his chess pieces. They were never idle – not even during a picnic.
I started laying out the food. ‘I hope everybody’s hungry. I’m starving.’
Adem dropped his hands on to his lap and stared at them. ‘What’s terrible is – it’s so easy ... to be a killer ...’
Mama Meryem cast a quick glance at Babacιk as if seeking his permission to speak. When he showed no sign of displeasure, she erupted. ‘You listen! Killers I know! That’s how met Kudret, our Baba! Like everything in world, they come two kinds: the mad and the not mad. The mad kill to cure some pain they have or because maniacs have poisoned them; and they kill until they dead themselves. Those not mad kill because guardian angels take eyes off them a moment; then rest of life they try repair world in atonement. Baba is second kind. You neither.’
Adem looked at me as if I shouldn’t have heard any of this. I smiled at him sweetly and continued sorting out the food. I knew the story – Babacιk won’t permit secrets in the family. Also I was enjoying Mama Meryem’s outburst. Her accent was so thick she sounded as if she was singing one of her favourite arias.
Adem asked Babacιk in awe. ‘You killed, Grandad?’
Babacιk’s eyes clouded as they always do when he’s reminded of the bad times. ‘Yes.’
‘How?’
Mama Meryem replied instead. ‘He hit man! One blow!’
I nudged Adem. ‘Ask why!’
