by Derek Hayes
The large Turk laughed at Izzie’s response. After we’d walked away I asked him what he’d said.
“I told him we’re just poor English teachers and that we don’t have any money.”
We wriggled through the crowd in tandem. His cowboy boots didn’t slow him down. His tight pants gripped his thin legs and when he ran or shifted gears he couldn’t bend his knees properly. He looked like a diminutive doll as he squeezed between heavy Turkish women, jumped over pots and pans and avoided pushy vendors. From time to time I lost sight of him. He led me through a myriad of narrow cobblestone streets and, with one eye on the terrain, fed me a wealth of information: Atatürk; the histories of various mosques and the meaning of “call to prayer”; the indignities perpetrated by the local police; the little drummer boy in the month of Ramazan; the joy of invitations for dinner from genuinely curious students; the locations of remote candle-lit pubs. He introduced me to iskender kebab, manti, ayran and the generosity of the people, the beauty of the women and the hot-headed nature of the males. That night I lay in my room, thoughts of Istanbul in my head, everywhere the dark-skinned, dark-eyed beauties contrasting with my paleness. Like Izzie had said, the North American birds just couldn’t compete here. I agreed wholeheartedly, their faces spinning in my brain until I finally fell asleep.
A few days later Seda brought home her cousin, a stocky young man. Izzie got up, went to the kitchen, chopped some apples and then served them to their guest, who wore a Rage Against the Machine T-shirt and, aside from the initial greeting, had had nothing to say to Izzie or me. He observed us disdainfully for a while, and then got up from the sofa and wandered through the apartment.
Seda, Izzie and I shared a cigarette on the balcony. Heat from the living room escaped into the cool night air. I took a puff from the cigarette, passed it to Seda and said, “You and your cousin — are you guys close?”
Seda looked at me. “What do you mean? He’s my cousin.”
“Right.”
Fifteen minutes later Seda grabbed her cousin’s arm and they left. That night Seda came home at six o’clock in the morning. “Başka erkek arkadasin mi var?” Izzie asked.
“Leave me alone,” Seda said. She showered and then left again for another eighteen hours.
Over the next two weeks Izzie wore the same gray pants day after day. His hair was unkempt. Particles of fluff stuck to the grease that plastered the side of his head. He arrived to class just minutes before the bell. His writing on the board was sloppy and one morning he was reproached at break by a colleague for misspelling the word ‘where’. Izzie had written ‘whore.’
My own class was in turmoil because, in the middle of a fascinating lesson on the past perfect tense, Jülide, a sprightly checkout girl at the Koç Bank, completely unaware of my attachment to Gülsev, chose this sentence, grammatically spot on, to write on the whiteboard: Brian had already taken off his shirt before I walked into his apartment. She highlighted the past perfect construction, ‘had already taken’ in red marker, to contrast with the standard black. She, of course, found this funny (evidently, “Let’s have some discretion about this, honey” didn’t translate well into Turkish), as did sixteen of the other nubile bank clerks, but unfortunately Gülsev, the eighteenth, took exception, precipitating a battle in Turkish between the two women, all verbs at the beginning of sentences, nouns with suffixes. Though I’d mastered the twenty most-used words in the language, I didn’t understand what was being said, so I was completely caught off guard when Gülsev maneuvered around the desks to the front where I stood. It was there that she unpredictably took off her shirt, and flicked it at me. Her bra was twisted, pushing one of her boobs in a downward direction. She walked out without her blouse — just a little dramatic, I thought, but I also wondered why I was so turned on.
On a Friday morning I woke up and heard Seda outside my door. “Izzie’s things are missing,” she said. “Where is Izzie? Did he tell you where he was going, Brian?”
“No. Is he not here?” I got up and looked into their room. Izzie’s clothing and belongings were all gone. I went back to my mattress and tried to rest for another hour. Finally, I gave up and put the kettle on the stove. Seda sat on the sofa with her head between her hands. She cried softly. “Where is he? Where could Izzie go?” Her shoulders gently shook. When she said his name, saliva sprayed from her lips. I tried to console her but she didn’t listen. Eventually she got up and left. She came back a couple of days later while I was at work and collected her things.
Some teachers from school and I sat around a small round table in a pub in the centre of Kadiköy, a plate of dolma between us. I’d found one of Izzie’s sweaters and was passing it around to teachers, who marvelled at how cute it was. With a hammer and some nails borrowed from the bartender, I nailed the sweater on the wall. Each teacher in turn then bowed in mock reverence to it. There were rumours of his whereabouts: he’d turned female impersonator, working for an old-school theatre company that only employed men, giving him access to the best parts. He was in Izmir, studying to become a chess grandmaster. He was in a stall in the bathroom, biding his time, waiting to spring out at the first ex-pat that he recognized.
A few weeks later Seda returned to our flat in Moda. She had sunburned cheeks, a musty fishy smell and her hair stuck damply to the back of her head. She looked like a lost kitten. Had she been running through the Istanbul sewage tunnels? She sat on the sofa and I got her a cup of tea. She said, “Do you mind if I stay here for one night? I’ll get out of your hair tomorrow. I promise.”
I put two cups of tea on the night table and sat next to her. Off came my shirt — always a sure thing, though eight months of nightly pide had taken its toll. My paunch was distended over my belt and wobbled when I moved. (The pide stales over night, so you must finish it completely in one sitting.) I leaned across her body and held her left elbow. There was a fearful look in her eyes. She shuffled back on her elbows and like a mangy street cat inched towards the end of the sofa. I backed off and without turning to look at her I hastily retreated to my bedroom. I woke up at five-thirty in the morning. The shower was running. By six o’clock she was gone.
Over the next month I made new friends. From time to time talk of Izzie and Seda surfaced but for the most part I’d forgotten about them. A new teacher had failed to report and so Izzie and Seda’s old room remained empty. I ventured to the Blue Mosque again, this time by myself. On the ferry ride across the Bosphorus — misting, seagulls swarming the polluted seawater — I bought a miniature-sized cup of tea from a young vendor and was mesmerized by her raw sex appeal. I offered to help her with her business, and tried to sell the cups of tea to other Turks, who ignored me. In case you are wondering, I did take off my shirt, not to seduce the dark-haired vendor, but rather to soak up some rays. None of the other males on the ship stripped themselves of even their dark suit jackets. I never made it to the Blue Mosque, which is a pity because from a distance it looked impressive in the setting sun. I spent the return trip trying to find the vendor and, arriving back in Kadiköy, I gave up on all cultural sites.
In September I came home one day and heard a noise in the kitchen. I stopped in the hallway. A head of long black hair bobbed in the doorway of the kitchen. I said, “Who’s there?” It was Seda. She disappeared into the kitchen, then re-emerged with a small person pinned between her white T-shirt and her chest. She had pulled her shirt over his head and torso. Tufts of black hair curled over the collar of her shirt and his nose looked as if it might penetrate the cloth. With a flurry, she pulled back her shirt and I got a brief glimpse of her brassiere.
I clapped the little Australian on the back.
“Couldn’t be away from my girl for long,” Izzie said. “Don’t mind if we move back in, do you?”
That evening Seda cooked dinner. Jülide was over. We were playing our favourite game, the one where she mounted my knee — always her initiative, God bless her — and I jauntily bounced her up and down like she was a professional jockey. I whinnied i
n her ear and she gripped my pants so tightly I thought they might tear at the seam. Seda came into the living room and looked at us disapprovingly. “I’ve got two knees, Seda.” I said.
“We need gas,” she said.
Izzie gave me a wary glance and got up from his seat.
Seda motioned for Izzie to sit down and said, “You don’t need to go, Izzie.” She gave me a penetrating look.
I got up from the sofa, unable to look at Izzie. I got the empty tank of gas, hoisted it to my hip and descended the stairs.
THE RUNNER
CAROL AND I ARE COMING UP THE stairs at the Eglinton subway entrance. A sweater is tucked under my arm. People are cheering and whistling. Horns are sounding. I grab Carol’s hand and guide her to an area on the sidewalk where we can see the race. A young, thin Kenyan marathoner is running effortlessly down Yonge Street. This gives the event an immediate, authentic feel. Like when I was up north camping and saw an owl. Another Kenyan, taller and with a high forehead, is behind him. These two are way ahead of all the other marathoners. A middle-aged man, short and pudgy is jogging by with a woman in her late twenties. She’s got a thin upper body and is congenitally heavy from the waist down. They’re obviously in a different event.
The weather is sunny and it’s a few degrees above zero on this October morning. At the corner of Yonge and Eglinton, the seven-km mark, Carol and I wait near Chapters for Jeremy, Ross and Wendy — all from my office at INCO — to come down the hill. They’re in the 10 km race. I observe the runners with reverence, thankful that I’m watching from the sidewalk. The last thing I’d ever want to do on a Sunday morning is run. It’s still early, and the pack of front-runners is tight. I don’t expect to see our friends for a while. Two speakers the size of closets boom in the background. Mad Dog and Billie, local DJs from Mix FM, are in front of Starbucks. Mad Dog yells into the microphone, “Go 103! Go 103!” Number 103 tilts his head toward the ground as if he doesn’t want the attention.
I was in Chapters last Monday at the Health and Medicine area. It was pleasantly empty of people and the chest-level shelves meant that I could see anyone coming toward me. The Oxford Encyclopedia of Medicine, page 276, had unpleasant images of electrolysis, skin grafts, pink flaps of skin, and discussed the removal of unwanted hair follicles. After three hours, I put the book back on the shelf. My leg was asleep, so I stretched it. I was walking to my car when I thought, “Wait a second,” and turned around and headed back up the escalator to look up the cost of the procedure. It was reasonable, about a month’s salary. This could happen.
The second tier of marathoners is going by — a mix of Africans and Mexicans, all slightly built, and running easily. I’m surprised to see Randy with them. He’s struggling like a wounded antelope trying to keep up with the herd, scanning the crowd like a small child at the zoo, turning his head in all directions. Has someone called his name? He’s wearing a Dri FIT pullover top and Clima-FIT overlay and Air Pegasus shoes. In front of Starbucks, he slows to take a small cup of water from a volunteer.
He pitches the cup on the street and stumbles, quickly regaining his balance. He runs another block until he’s reached Berwick Avenue. Beyond this point the crowd thins. Two blocks further there’s no one watching or cheering. On this lonely stretch two marathoners pass him and he steps off Yonge Street onto the sidewalk. “Why has Randy stopped running?” I ask Carol.
“I’ve no idea,” she says. “It’s strange.”
We watch him walk the sidewalk parallel to the runners, but in the opposite direction. He walks by Hansa Language School, past Canada Square and The Mandarin Restaurant, through the Yonge-Eglinton intersection, past Mad Dog and Billie and the Mix FM crew. He’s pulling a tank top over his number, concealing it. He’s behind the crowd now, walking near Carol and me. “Hey Randy,” I say, but he doesn’t hear me. He’s strolling aimlessly, but he’s careful not to get too close to the street. He keeps going up the hill, past Pizza Pizza, past a sushi restaurant.
The sun is shining, which makes me feel good. I lean against Carol, breathing on her neck, but then I’m aware that my breath might smell, so I bury my nose in her scarf and hug her tightly. “Do you want some pizza, honey?” I say. “I can get us some pizza.”
“No thanks, Alan,” she says. “I might get something a little later. It’s only eleven o’clock.”
“Right. Later,” I say. “Tell you what — you should run in one of these next year.”
“Yeah, right.”
“No really. You’re a great little athlete. I’ve seen you play volleyball. You’re great. I could be your coach. We’ll start training tomorrow.”
“I don’t think it’s really my thing,” she says softly.
“I think you’d be great at it.”
I remember a recent morning, Wednesday or Thursday, around seven o’clock. I was in bed, not wanting to get up. Carol put on a Dido CD then came into my room — our room — with a bowl of corn flakes in her wholesome hands, sugar dusted on the cereal, and a tiny cup of orange juice nestled between her elbow and ribs. She was trying to conceal her cheery, no-need-to-thank-me look. I said, “Oh, thanks, honey. It’s time for me to get up for work.”
She sat on the side of our bed in her blue flannel pyjamas, near a Nike print of a black Labrador wearing running shoes. “I think Dido has to be my favourite band. If I could only take one CD to a deserted island it would be Dido.”
“How can it be your favourite?” I said. “I just bought you that CD two weeks ago.”
“Still, I love her music.”
“But how can you say it’s your favourite when you’ve only heard her for two weeks?”
“Yeah, but I’d heard her music before.”
“When I put it on you even asked me who it was.”
“But I’d heard it before,” she says plaintively. “I just wasn’t sure when you first put it on, but I’ve definitely heard it before.” She was quietly staring at the bed. She probably should have taken back the corn flakes. Especially since she’d been so sweet, and I’d been so rude. I could only think of one thing — not Dido’s music, not that she’d just made me breakfast (albeit a rather rudimentary one). I was thinking about the black wisps of hair on her upper lip.
A loud horn goes off. People are cheering loudly. A spectator on the street gives number 345, probably his wife or girlfriend, a small cup of Gatorade, and takes her picture. Another runner has to take a wide berth to avoid bumping into him.
“I think Randy dropped out of the race,” I say.
“I know,” Carol says. “I wonder why he stopped running. He didn’t look tired. That’s bizarre.”
“When you’re in it next year you won’t stop, will you honey?”
I sometimes feel that when Carol and I are in public, we’re just friends. That there is something fundamental, like a lack of passion, that differentiates our relationship from other common-law and marital relationships I’ve observed. For example, there’s a man and a woman standing by a mailbox, balloons in their hands, sharing an ice-cream cone. I’d never share ice-cream with Carol. She’d get her saliva on the nuts. She’s not the most delicate eater. Maybe I should share an ice-cream cone with her in public, just to prove something, but I’d likely be repulsed during the entire ice-cream-cone-sharing experience, so what would be the point?
Ice cream? I was eating ice cream and pie just last Thursday at Swiss Chalet. I recognized Randy’s voice coming from a booth in front of ours. He was facing a quixotic couple. From the tone of their voices and by the way they gingerly nursed their coffees, it was obvious that they weren’t there for dinner. The lady was saying, “I think young people today are very confused. It’s not always easy for you guys. You’ve got it tough.”
“I come to this place just to feel noticed,” Randy said. “Sometimes I come here just to have someone recognize me and treat me nicely. The waitress actually smiles at me. Becky is super friendly. Then, one day I saw her being nice to this old guy — not that I begrudged him. It�
��s just that I realized that I was looking for something a little more than to be treated well in a restaurant.”
I’d never say something that would leave me that vulnerable. This was manipulation — he was saying this so they’d pity him. I’d never want someone to pity me. I wonder, though, if the older man quietly despised Randy. From where I was sitting I couldn’t read his face. The lady touched Randy’s hand and told him that he’d done the right thing by calling them for help. The Lord would get him through this. Anytime Randy needed to talk he could call. She told him to take up something of interest — cooking, playing a sport, or maybe joining a church group.
“You have to let me pay for your coffee,” Randy said. “You people are so nice and I want to show my appreciation. I know you guys are just doing a bit of charity work today, but I really appreciate you spending the time.”
“We’re not doing charity work,” the lady said. “You’re a fine young person. You just need to find something in life that makes you happy — something that you find interesting.”
“I’ve got an idea,” Randy says. “Some of my colleagues at work are running in a race this weekend. Maybe I can join them.”
I’ve been at this stultifying race for thirty minutes now. After the Kenyans, everyone else seems like an amateur. I cheer for a young lad with a headband as he runs by. The kid is earnest, just like every other runner. Our friends should be jogging by soon, but that doesn’t excite me. The only interesting part of the morning so far has been Randy. Why isn’t he in the race anymore? He took a left at the Bank of Montreal, on Orchard View Street. The sun has faded behind some clouds and it’s getting chilly. I offer Carol my sweater. When she declines, I put it on. I tell her I want to see what Randy’s up to. I walk up the hill toward Pizza Pizza. My eyes are on the sidewalk ahead. There he is, just ten yards in front of me, at the Hero’s sandwich shop, trying to get back to the street. He taps someone on the shoulder. “Excuse me,” he says. “I need to get back in the race.” He edges his way between two large ladies and walks onto Yonge Street, almost knocking into an older marathoner. He’s stretching his calf muscles. I yell out his name. This time he turns his head and makes eye contact.
