Marko Heskiya, a Sephardic Jew, was another of Tomas’s friends. The tall youth with the permanently curved posture, long curly hair and quirky personality was six months older than Tomas. He came from Ayvalιk, Turkey’s olive state, where the family owned oil presses and extraction works. Tomas couldn’t make up his mind whether to like him or not; besides their political views they had little in common. Marko was obsessed with the potential establishment of the State of Israel but nobody else was interested. Furthermore, whenever he broached the subject of the Holocaust, however discreetly, people refused to discuss it. The majority of Turks were still close allies of Germany and it triggered clashes and racial remarks.
But Marko wasn’t deterred. He behaved like he was on the campaign trail, reiterating his slogan: Palestine is the birthplace of the Jewish people. Eretz Israel, Land of Israel!
Tomas warned him that his obsession would get him into trouble but it was like talking to the wall.
One afternoon between classes another of Tomas’s friends, Ali Haydar, a history major and professional wrestler, mercilessly beat Marko up in one of the student lavatories. Friends found him on the marble floor, lying face down in a pool of blood. Marko spent three days and two nights in the college infirmary and that was the end of his campaign for the establishment of the State of Israel.
Haydar was expelled from college three months before he became the light-heavyweight oil-wrestling champion at the Kιrkpιnar games.9
Marko slept with a baseball bat beside his bed until the end of term. He didn’t return to college after the holidays. Tomas learned from another student that he had left for Israel. The Jewish State had been established. Hundreds of thousands of diasporic Jews returned to their homeland. And Marko’s name was forgotten for a long while. Some years later, there was a short announcement in the college quarterly: ‘Major Marko Heskiya, a former Robert College student, was killed in action on the Golan Heights during the Six-Day War.’
*
Anya spotted Tomas from afar. She opened her arms to welcome him.. He waved at her with the letter in his hand. He was the wraith of Pheidippides carrying the tidings of the Greek victory at Marathon to Athens.
He was gasping. Not because of the long run, but because of his desire to hold Anya tight in his arms – so tight that she would dissolve into him.
‘You’re six minutes and twenty seconds earlier than usual,’ Anya managed to say as soon as Tomas let her go. ‘You’ve improved your speed by two centimetres per second. You’ll make the Olympic trials.’ She had a naughty look in her eye.
‘Stop bullshitting me!’
‘I like bullshitting,’ she chuckled. ‘Tell me, why do we always say bullshitting and not lion, tiger, or camelshitting?’
‘Don’t you know the story?’
‘What story?’
‘About the pheasant chatting to a bull: “I’d love to be able to get to the top of that tree,” says the pheasant, “but I don’t have the strength.” And when the bull replies ...’
‘What kind of horseshit is that?’
‘It’s not horseshit, it’s bullshit. Let’s go. I’m cold.’
They walked hand-in-hand towards the abandoned guardhouse, which was now used as a woodshed. Anya’s friends were at their observation tower, watching them as always. There were three of them: Zeliha, Inji and Hülya, known as the voyeurs. They spent their time shadowing the popular boys and girls of the college. Of course, news that Anya and Tomas were making love in a woodshed was more precious than ordinary happenings such as couples breaking up or cheating on one other. And within a matter of hours the news reverberated around the college. They were good friends of Anya’s, but her academic achievements and comeliness made them a little jealous. After graduation the three of them were going to a reputable school of journalism in the United States. Their current interest in rumours and scandals was in line with their ambition – to become Turkey’s top society columnists.
*
The stacked wood was damp and smelled of pine and plaster.
‘Your letter was beautiful,’ Anya said.
‘I don’t think you’ll like this one.’
Tomas drew her closer. Her jewel-blue eyes were shimmering. The sun was just a pale reflection of them ... and of her hair ... He kissed her. He bit her lip, as if blood must be drawn. She kissed him again and again with equal fervour. Tomas remembered his excitement as he had run through the fields a few minutes before: his eagerness to get hold of Anya, to carry her to the woodshed and possess her completely. It frightened him sometimes. How could he keep her forever, this beautiful, bright student with a prestigious scholarship to study in the States?
‘Do you love me, Anya?’ He knew she had been in love with him since she was a child but he suddenly needed reassurance.
‘I love you like I breathe.’
That’s what Tomas wanted to hear. He believed her. He trusted her. She was exactly what she was; she couldn’t be anything else.
‘My friend Oktay’s going away this weekend; he’s letting us use his room.’
‘I’m going to see my parents this weekend.’
‘So you won’t be here?’
‘I told you I wouldn’t.’ She paused for a moment. ‘Do you want me to lie to them ... again?’ She didn’t expect a reply.
The familiar lovers’ dispute; they had played together all their waking hours from about the age of five but it made no difference. They heard footsteps. Through the window they saw a man approaching the shed. They quickly hid behind a pile of logs which hardly concealed them. The door opened and the man entered. He was one of the gardeners who tended the college grounds. He dumped his shovel and a couple of garden tools in the middle of the shed and walked out.
‘That was close,’ whispered Anya.
‘Let’s get out of here.’
‘No, I want to talk.’
Their passion, which usually found expression in lovemaking, had found another outlet: they wrangled first about the coming weekend and then about their rendezvous in the shed.
They were saying too much and yet saying nothing. Anya approached and covered Tomas’s mouth with her hand.
‘Just shut up,’ she said. ‘I sneaked here to be with you, not to fight.’
She went to the door and dropped the latch.
17
Anya was sure that Tomas’s Olympic trials would go successfully. He had set a new 10,000-metres Turkish record only three weeks before the Olympic trials. They had celebrated in the woodshed, outside the woodshed, in the streets, in their dreams. The press had already selected him as the only candidate to run the 10,000 metres for Turkey in Melbourne. How she would like to be there to watch him sprint to the finish line!
She was sitting alone, close to the track. Tomas’s mother could never watch her son compete; she got too nervous and suffered palpitations. His father wasn’t there either. They say that time heals all, but there hadn’t been enough time. Tomas could never forget that night he had discovered Papa and Noni making love while Mama lay in a hospital bed.
The Dolmabahçe Inönü stadium, named after the second president of Turkey, had the most beautiful view. Spectators could see Europe and Asia beyond Topkapι Palace, separated by the Bosporus. Anya normally had steadier nerves than Tomas but not today. She checked the time on the clock tower. It was exactly four o’clock – another forty-five minutes until the 10,000-metres race.
It was a perfectly warm, sunny afternoon. Anya had jabbered nervously throughout their thirty-minute bus ride to the stadium, distracting Tomas. He wasn’t good at hiding his nerves. To be the favourite in the race was just added pressure.
Tomas came out to warm up before the race. He spotted Anya in the crowd and waved at her. She threw him a kiss with both hands. Tomas smiled. He looked a little pale, Anya thought. Perhaps it was her imagination. How could she tell from that distance? The nervousness Tomas had experienced was gone. He felt like a man whose worries had been lifted – the worst that could ha
ppen was he would lose the race. A strange sensation, this defeatism.
It was just then that Aram arrived, kissed Anya and sat down next to her.
‘How come you’re sitting here, instead of ...’
‘I changed my seat because almost all the stands where I was supposed to sit were invaded by a group of Atilla fans. They looked as fierce as the Hun himself.’
‘Oh him!’
‘Do you know him?’
‘He runs for Galatasaray. He’s their favourite – ever since he won the 10,000 metres at the intercollegiate competition last year. He’s a good runner.’
Tomas was walking to the starting line.
‘Bebo has a final, and Haig is still in Ankara,’ Aram said. ‘They both sent telegrams to wish him well.’
Haig was in Ankara for his visa. He was soon leaving for France, where his parents would join him shortly thereafter. Bebo never understood Tomas’s passion for running. ‘It’s self-inflicted torture,’ he used to say, half serious, half joking. He who spent nights and days tormenting himself with differential calculus and advanced variational principles. ‘It’s like hearing voices from the dead when I solve these problems,’ he explained, trying to justify his obsession.
Anya was quiet, too excited to speak.
‘It’s strange,’ Aram said, ‘I’ve never felt so anxious about Tomas.’
‘What about?’
He made an effort to smile, ‘If he loses ...’
‘Stop it. You’ll bring him bad luck.’
A few third and fourth-year students from college, Tomas’s friends, were sitting a couple of rows below Anya’s. They waved at Anya but her mind was too busy to notice them. She heard shouts from the noisy group of Atilla fans as their runner went to the starting line. She crossed herself once, very discreetly.
*
After a false start, not charged to anyone, the race began. A veteran runner named Orhan, from the university of Istanbul, immediately moved into the lead, pulling Tomas and Atilla along with him. In no time the trio separated from the rest. The chase group, consisting of five other athletes, trailed the leaders by about twenty metres. Anya was extremely tense. They still had another twenty-four laps to go.
For the first 2,000 metres they remained in contact drifting along with the pack. They were racing fast but for Anya, for Aram, for the fans, time stood still. They shouted and screamed, egging Tomas on. Tomas made a planned surge just before the 4,000-metres mark. There were still fifteen laps to go. Orhan dropped behind. The race continued without any spectacular change – Atilla in the lead, followed by Tomas. The Atilla camp roared, ‘A-til-la ... A-til-la ... A-til-la ...’
Aram couldn’t resist: ‘To-mas ... To-mas ...’ Tomas’s college buddies joined in: ‘To-mas ... Mel-bourne ... To-mas ... Ten more laps ... to Melbourne ...’
Anya remained silent.
As they completed the twentieth lap, Tomas surged again, putting a gap between Atilla and himself. The pack of five was by then reduced to three. Orhan made a superhuman effort to close the distance between Atilla and himself.
For about three laps it was a two-way battle between Tomas and the athlete from the University of Istanbul. The spectators had begun cheering for Tomas, the record holder, when Atilla accelerated, approached Orhan and passed him on the curve. Tomas was leading the race. After another lap Atilla made another major surge, trying to pass Tomas and take the lead in the remaining four hundred metres. But Tomas quickened his pace and lengthened his strides.
Orhan was half a lap behind. The race was now between Atilla and Tomas who seemed to be in agony. At the sound of the bell Tomas leaped past the entourage in a single bound, but he couldn’t shake off his attacker. After another hundred metres Atilla sailed past. With only two hundred metres to go Tomas was lagging a couple of metres behind.
‘Knock him off, Tomas,’ Aram yelled.
Drums, horns, shouts, shrieks and yells drowned out Aram’s voice. As they approached the final turn, the crowd from the Atilla camp worked itself into a frenzy: placards waved up and down, left and right, as if protesting the outcome, part of the crowd howling wildly for Tomas, the other part for Atilla. It was evident that Tomas’s strength was drained. Then the howls conjoined. The crowd was screaming A-til-la! A-til-la! From deep within Tomas made an impossible effort, poising himself for his classic devastating sprint, pummelling the track. Panicked by Tomas’s fury, Atilla ran for his life. Tomas was still behind him, glaring angrily, his top speed not gaining him much ground. A-til-la! A-til-la!
And Atilla broke the tape.
It was the last qualifying event. The stands emptied slowly. Anya remained sitting next to Aram. They said nothing. Their eyes were fixed on the finish line. Tomas had already gone in quietly.
‘That’s what I was worried about,’ Aram said.
‘Me too,’ Anya replied.
‘I’m afraid he’ll stop running.’
*
Anya and Aram were out in the street.
‘I’ll call him later, Anya,’ Aram said and climbed aboard a passing bus.
Anya was waiting for Tomas at the athletes’ entrance. During the long wait she tried to think of what she’d say to alleviate his disappointment.
‘Hello,’ Tomas said. Anya hadn’t seen him come out.
She ran to him and kissed him. ‘Here’s a little gift.’ Anya put the package in his hand. ‘It was such a magnificent race.’ She had prepared the gift to celebrate victory.
‘Was it exciting at least?’
‘You win some, you lose some; it’s all part of the game, darling.’ She threw her arms around him and kissed him again and again. Tomas merely looked exhausted.
‘It’s part of the game all right. I had a talk with Fuat Berker, the president of the Turkish Olympic Committee. He thinks I may still qualify, since I’m still the record holder.’
Anya’s eyes glittered with joy. ‘That makes good sense. That’s the way it should be.’ She sounded reassuring, like an experienced, knowledgeable sports lawyer.
Tomas opened the little package. It was a stopwatch. ‘Thanks,’ he said. ‘Do you think I still need it?’ He made an effort to smile.
‘More than ever,’ she assured him with charm and another kiss.
‘It’s time I put more energy into life instead of wasting it on the track,’ Tomas whispered to Anya before getting on the bus.
*
Three months later, before Anya and Tomas went back to college for their final year, he received a letter from the Turkish Olympic Committee informing him that Atilla, a fairly new name in the 10,000 metres, had been selected to represent Turkey in Melbourne. The Turkish record belonged to Tomas until Atilla broke it at the 1956 Olympics, where he finished in seventh place.
18
Graduation was only eight months away. Anya would be going to the States to continue her studies, leaving Tomas behind. The Ministry of Defence would be calling him up, like all the other healthy young Turkish men, for national service.
*
Tomas was at his parents’ apartment. He opened the envelope and removed a long sheet of paper, thin as onion skin. It was a copy of an old end-of-year trigonometry test – to select two outstanding candidates for a maths scholarship to MIT. Because of its extraordinary difficulty it had created serious stress among the students. In the end, the college administration, having no other choice, had invalidated the exam results. Copies of the test were left in the central library for anybody who wanted to try his hand at the challenge. Tomas would give a copy of it to Bebo, who was dying to see if he could complete it successfully.
Tomas scrutinized it for a long time, until the figures disappeared and he began to think about graduation again. He felt depressed. He replaced the exam paper in the envelope and picked up the phone to call Bebo.
‘It’s me, Tomas.’
‘I see Anya doesn’t let you come to see us anymore,’ Bebo chuckled.
Tomas ignored the remark. ‘I’ve a copy of the exam. Can
I see you tonight?’
‘Good. Of course. Come over.’ Bebo was delighted. ‘I’ll ask Aram and Haig to join us.’
‘Wonderful.’
Bebo was in his last year in the Faculty of Science at the State University of Istanbul. He was two years ahead of his contemporaries. The family’s financial means were too meagre for him to study in a non-Turkish institution. He gave private maths lessons to make a few liras on the side and help his mother, who was still sewing shirts and pyjamas at home.
*
Tomas was out in the street. He checked his watch. It was twenty past six. The days were getting shorter. A few pigeons fluttered down to scrabble for pieces of bread left on the pavement in front of Yani’s grocery shop. Anya had no classes on Tuesday afternoons but normally stayed on campus to study. He had hardly passed the stationery shop when he heard a loud blast, followed by blaring shrieks and agitated voices shouting slogans. He accelerated his steps in the direction of the crowd. They were scurrying towards Taksim Square. Cars had come to a standstill. A thick cloud of smoke and dust hid the sky. A couple of fire engines drove to the square at top speed. There must have been an accident, Tomas thought. By then he had passed the green lamppost.
The hubbub grew fiercer. A group of people waving Turkish flags and clamouring ‘Cyprus is Turkish ... Cyprus is Turkish ...’ as loud as a sizeable herd of livestock on its way to the slaughterhouse, sailed swiftly through a crowd of dumbfounded onlookers. Avaramu, an Indian song from the recent film of the same name, blared from a couple of loudspeakers outside Karnig’s family restaurant. Suddenly its glass door crashed open and a young man with a flag in his hand plunged in faster than a hurricane. A mass of others followed him in, vandalizing the restaurant.
‘A revolution!’ screamed a young woman standing next to Tomas, clasping his hand in a paroxysm of terror and excitement. He, like many others, looked on in astonishment.
The Lamppost Diary Page 13
