The Lamppost Diary

by Agop J. Hacikyan

  Tomas thought the judge was waiting for them to say something.

  ‘Very well said, Your Honour,’ Tomas smiled indulgently.

  Judge Pulat was keenly conscious of his power and was pleased, as long as there was an envelope waiting for him in his chambers.

  ‘I’m sorry, I’ve got to rush now.’ He stood up. ‘I wish you every success, but no revolutions!’

  ‘Of course not!’ Shato and Tomas said in unison.

  They watched until the judge was out of sight and then burst into laughter.

  *

  It had been raining since ten o’clock. The editorial team was working to complete the first issue. They hadn’t slept for almost two days and couldn’t bear the prospect of another sleepless night. They needed another story in Turkish, to maintain a reasonable balance with the Armenian pieces.

  Kamer was reading the story he had written for the forthcoming issue. In spite of his fatigue, he read with a certain homely energy and, encouraged by his own voice, continued, ‘ ... I remember once pissing on the tombstones of my ancestors, in a public lavatory in Smyrna. Treading on those tombstones was like treading on a buried civilization: it had a mournfulness of its own ... these stones didn’t merit the extravagance and dignity of standing upright like others ...’

  Tomas wheeled on him and pounded the table with his fist. ‘Are you out of your mind? How can you expect us to publish stuff like that?’

  The colour rose feverishly to Kamer’s thin cheeks. ‘What’s wrong with it ... tell me.’

  ‘Oh, no, no! There’s absolutely nothing wrong with it!’

  ‘Tell me, what’s wrong with it, eh?’

  Tomas didn’t answer him.

  After a while Kamer said, ‘You’re afraid of what the Internal Bureau will say.’ He was close to tears.

  Tomas looked at him. It was impossible to be impervious to his disappointment. ‘Why did you write this story?’ he asked.

  ‘It’s the story of this lieutenant. It’s a real story. The lieutenant is my cousin. He actually saw it with his own eyes, during his military service in Izmir. Even the Guardian in London has written about it.’

  ‘I wish we could publish it, but we’re not the Guardian, and besides ...’

  ‘I realize it’s too dangerous. Stupid of me. There’s the fucking censorship.’ He looked at Tomas, as if with someone else’s eyes.

  Tomas asked if he would like another cup of coffee but Kamer refused. ‘I wonder,’ he said, ‘if we’re all going crazy.’

  At that very moment Tomas felt his life stir. The first issue had to go to the printers before the end of the month.

  When Arek arrived he seemed to have something important to say.

  ‘Do you know how many we have?’ he asked out of the blue.

  ‘How many what?’

  ‘Readers, subscribers?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘Because I worked it out. I counted them over and over. We have barely one hundred readers, and three subscribers, Aram, Bebo and Haig.’

  ‘We’ll do all we can to improve on that,’ Tomas said.

  ‘Damn it, Arek,’ Kamer said. ‘It’d be better if you showed some faith in what we’re doing instead of discouraging us.’

  ‘Let’s go and get some sleep,’ Tomas suggested.

  *

  Before heading home they went to Fikret’s joint to eat some tripe soup. Drinkers in Istanbul swore by the hangover and fatigue-eliminating powers of this steaming soup made with pungent sheep’s tripe liberally doused with garlic and vinegar. Fikret’s was a tiny basic restaurant, complete with fluorescent lighting and grey Formica tables. Other offal choices included pacha, steaming chopped sheep’s trotters in broth, and bash, roasted sheep’s head, served with or without the brain but with the eyeballs intact.

  Fikret had fathered twenty-eight children with seven different wives. He didn’t know all their names but he claimed that they were angels from heaven and could lighten the last hours of the dying.

  The aroma of garlic and vintage vinegar hung in the air. The editors swilled down the soup. Daktilo Sabri (Typewriter Sabri), the fastest typist in Istanbul, was also there with his friend Emin Alkan, the youngest son of barber Ali. They were jabbering and laughing as they gulped down their soup.

  ‘I hear they’re publishing a magazine,’ Daktilo Sabri said to Alkan, loud enough for the others to hear.

  Daktilo Sabri smiled at them. ‘May it go well, my friends, good luck!’

  ‘Where did you hear it, Sabri?’ Tomas asked.

  ‘I was at the courthouse when you came to get your permit. Didn’t you know that I type up the court records?’

  ‘No, I didn’t,’ Tomas replied.

  The middle-aged, sand-coloured man, who resembled a discarded mannequin, got up and approached their table.

  ‘It’s very laudable, what you’re doing, bravo!’ he said, and shook Tomas’s hand.

  ‘Thanks, Sabri.’ Tomas introduced Kamer and Arek as his associates.

  Sabri shook their hands with exaggerated enthusiasm and turned to Tomas. ‘Would you be interested in a short story?’ he asked in a whisper, as if afraid that Emin Alkan might hear.

  ‘I didn’t know you wrote,’ Tomas was surprised.

  ‘You don’t seem to know much. What do you think I use my typewriter for, to chop tripe?’ He doubled over with laughter.

  ‘I mean I didn’t know you were a creative writer.’

  ‘Creative, inventive ... screw it all: I’m sick and tired of typing for others. I’ve decided to type my own stuff ... write my own stories.’ From an inside pocket he produced a neatly typed script and handed it to Tomas. ‘Please read it and let me know if you like it.’

  Tomas unfolded the manuscript and read the title out loud: ‘The Trial.’

  ‘Kafka has already used this title,’ Tomas said.

  ‘Never heard of Kafka.’

  Tomas decided not to comment.

  ‘Change it to “The Judgment” then,’ Daktilo said.

  ‘That’s Kafka again. Are you pulling my leg?’

  Daktilo’s voice became high-pitched and feverish. ‘The fucking bastard has written quite a lot, eh?’

  ‘Apparently,’ Tomas said calmly. ‘I’ll read it and let you know.’

  Sabri shrugged briefly, as if satisfied with the reply, and went back to his table.

  Daktilo Sabri was well known in the neighbourhood, mainly because of his father, Muammer Usta, the master craftsman who, with Sabri, had restored the stained glass windows of the Armenian church in Feriköy many years ago. At the time, Sabri was a young man of twenty and was having a hard time deciding whether to become a typist or a master artisan. Following a major mishap during another renovation project at one of the tallest mosques in the old city, where he broke a couple of vertebrae, Sabri opted for a sedentary career and became the best typist in Istanbul. Immediately after when he won the provincial typing championship, he was offered a lifetime career in the municipal courts. It was said that he typed faster than a tommy gun. Others found that a little exaggerated, but insisted that his typing could keep pace with any court wrangle, no matter how heated.

  When Tomas got home he was unable to sleep. His mind was preoccupied with Anya and her last letter, which persistently repeated how his idle doubts hurt her. It was nearly two years since her departure, but time hadn’t helped him get used to her absence. He picked up Daktilo Sabri’s story and began to read. He was surprised. It was an exceptionally well-written piece, just what they were looking for to complete the first issue. It was a complicated spy story involving a young Turkish Airlines stewardess who was spying for the Russians, filled with suspense, convoluted twists and bizarre effects, all related in dry, factual prose.

  *

  The next day Tomas asked Muguet, his Turkish consultant, to read Sabri’s story. She was fascinated. She had exactly the same reaction as Tomas, as had Kamer and Arek.

  Sabri graciously expressed his gratitude.

&nb
sp; ‘What about the title?’ Tomas asked.

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘We can’t use Kafka’s title.’

  ‘Then call it “Kafka”,’ he said, and handed him another manuscript.

  ‘What’s this?’

  ‘For the next issue.’

  Tomas smiled. He was still trying to find a title. ‘Let’s call it “The Sentence”.’

  ‘Call it anything you like, but I still think “Kafka” would be a great title.’

  Tomas ended up naming it ‘The Secret Route.’

  Before Sabri left, Tomas looked at the new manuscript: ‘Nausea.’

  ‘Do you like Sartre?’ Tomas asked, disheartened.

  Sabri looked at him with a sly smile. ‘Sart, Fart, never heard of him.’

  Tomas sighed despondently, regretting having accepted his story.

  *

  The magazine was distributed at seven different news-stands. The editorial board celebrated it rather modestly at a fish restaurant with Mr Shato. They had sold one-hundred-and-fifty-three copies by the end of the first week. They were convinced they would sell the rest by the end of the month and double the circulation after two or three issues.

  Like the majority of the Istanbul population, Tomas lived on dreams: he thought the review would change his life for the better. Dreams, though, lasted only while one dreamed, and he woke up prematurely. He sent a copy of the first issue to Anya. She replied at once:

  Congratulations, My Darling Tomas,

  Better late than never! I knew you’d do it, and you did it superbly, with flying, blazing, dashing colours, brighter than the kites we used to fly behind the Café Akropol. Do you remember how excited we were?

  Tomas remembered how thrilled Anya had been whenever their homemade kites floated high in the air, racing for the sun. She went on:

  I’m so delighted for you. I’ve read everything three times, from beginning to end, and now I miss you three times more. Still waiting. Time is running on.

  He was tempted to think it was all bullshit but her lines brought tears to his eyes. She continued:

  I have a great deal to tell you, but the best is left unsaid. Do you remember that you used to write me that when we were in college? Your silence is unfair, Tomas. I’ll always love you.

  Yes, Tomas used to write that the best was left unsaid. Only lovers’ silences have the cruel exactitude of truth. He just couldn’t believe that she would always love him.

  What Anya resented most was Tomas’s silence – a maddening rage rose up within, choking her. She had given herself to him totally, and she knew he still loved her. He was just proud; it was almost impossible for him to put aside enough money to join her in America.

  A month later Tomas received another letter:

  Why don’t you talk to me anymore? I have classes, labs almost every afternoon, zillions of books to read, thousands of tests to take, and by the weekend I am so tired all I want to do is sleep. Maybe you can figure out how I can ever find time to have fun on the side – maybe a little fooling around with those all-American boys wouldn’t be a bad idea! I can’t say I’m not tempted. Besides, I have to stay in shape for when I see you again. They say it’s just like riding a bike: you just have to jump back on to the saddle! There is this one handsome sprinter – but I don’t like it when people rush. I prefer long distance runners! Hope you’re jealous! So much and no more. You deserve no more!

  Tomas didn’t reply. But as the weeks went by he couldn’t put her letters out of his mind; he thought of her endlessly as he sat at his typewriter or lay on the couch in the living room, which still seemed to smell of her. He worked hard to justify his silence. He tried to create a barrier to block out the past and rid himself of his impossible dream.

  Now and then the telephone would ring, but he wouldn’t answer it. All he possessed were fragments of memory, blurred but at times so clear that they hurt his eyes. There were times he felt like going to the airport to watch people arrive: to watch them hug, clasp, embrace their loved ones with fervent kisses. But such scenes could only bring him sadness. He wished he was a traveller, arriving from nowhere, blending into the crowd and embracing everyone.

  25

  Tomas bought his morning paper at Ekrem’s news-stand and scanned the headlines. One of the stories caught his attention:

  Puzzling homicide

  Sabri Atasu, 56, known as Daktilo Sabri, a typist at the Galata municipal courthouse, was murdered in a back alley of the old city in the early hours of this morning. He was killed by a single gun shot to the chest and his body was dumped on a construction site. Police have searched Sabri’s apartment in Tarlabaşι and have seized documents relating to an in-camera lawsuit against an airline stewardess.

  There were no other details. Strangely enough the news didn’t really shock Tomas; it was as if he had been expecting it. Only minutes later, as he approached the community centre, he panicked. A thousand possibilities flickered through his mind, including sex, drugs, counterfeiting, blood revenge, the settling of accounts ...

  ‘I saw him last night; he was here, eating,’ Fikret, the owner of the tripe soup joint, was explaining. ‘What a shame. No one is safe in this city anymore. How can a quiet man like Sabri be murdered? He came here to have supper after he finished work at the courthouse. He sat alone; that was his time for himself.’

  Tomas grabbed a cab and went directly to the Grand Bazaar, to see Shato. The old man was busy with a client. He signalled Tomas with his hand to wait at the back of the shop. Avedis wasn’t there.

  Without even greeting Tomas, Shato said, ‘I don’t like it. The police are sure to interrogate us.’

  ‘Let them,’ Tomas said. ‘We have nothing to hide.’

  ‘You can’t trust these bastards. In fact, I’ve also heard from Altan Bey, my next-door neighbour, that they’ve already arrested a thirty-year-old suspect, a woman. He wasn’t sure, though, if the arrest was connected with the murder of Sabri or the witch Afet – remember her?’

  ‘Yes I do, but drop such speculations.’

  Afet the sorceress was a well-known witch who got married men entangled with young law students. They said that women who chose the law as their future profession were much sexier than those in the faculties of medicine, dentistry or veterinary surgery.

  During this speculative conversation two policemen entered the shop: one tall and around forty years old, the other a little shorter and younger.

  ‘Mr Shato?’ The tall one did the talking.

  ‘Yes, that’s me.’

  ‘Are you the owner of New Signatures?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’ Then, pointing at Tomas, he said, ‘He’s the editor.’

  ‘You’ve published a story by Sabri Atasu in your new magazine.’

  ‘Yes, we have,’ Tomas replied.

  ‘Did you know that the story was based on a top-secret court record?’

  ‘It’s the first I’ve heard of it.’

  ‘I’m sure,’ said the tall policeman again. ‘We’d like you to come with us to the station, to make a written statement.’

  The young officer seemed more interested in the Turkoman and Kerman carpets that hung on one of the walls than in what Tomas had to say.

  Before leaving the tall policeman looked up from his notepad and asked, ‘Did either of you notice anything strange about Sabri?’

  ‘I’ve never met him,’ Shato said.

  ‘He was quite relaxed and cheerful when I met him at Fikret’s tripe soup restaurant a few weeks ago,’ Tomas added.

  *

  The next day the press was unanimous in its conclusion that ‘The Secret Route,’ which had appeared in New Signatures, had triggered the tragic incident.

  Tomas was troubled, as were Kamer and Arek.

  ‘We shouldn’t worry about such nonsense,’ Muguet assured them.

  ‘You should’ve come and worked for me,’ Shato said to Tomas, ‘instead of publishing such dangerous stuff.’

  According to the press, a yo
ung lawyer by the name of Ismet Anday had read Sabri’s story in New Signatures and found new evidence that could reverse the four-year-old court verdict which had gone against the Turkish Airline. According to the young lawyer, the court had camouflaged the real issue, arms smuggling, under false accusations. Both the press and the legal experts doubted this, insisting that if it was true, the lawyer wouldn’t have gone public with it.

  Tomas went to the Turkish press archives and read all the proceedings. Ismet Anday might have been accurate in his claim, but there was no solid evidence to incriminate anyone who was not already in jail. Tomas had no doubt that Sabri had made a colossal error in writing a short story based on confidential court records. The titles stolen from Kafka and Sartre should have been enough to warn Tomas to reject the story, but his lack of experience and the desperate rush to get the first issue out on time had dazzled him and his friends. He wondered if it had been a suicidal undertaking on Sabri’s part.

  Out of desperation Tomas went to Sabri’s address: a three-storey run-down apartment building at the hub of several similar narrow streets in Tarlabaşι. After locating the building and examining it for a while, Tomas went to a nearby café and met the owner, a man in his late thirties with distrustful eyes.

  ‘Are you a detective?’ the man asked Tomas.

  ‘Not exactly. I’m Sabri’s publisher.’

  ‘I’ve heard of him, but he’s never been in here.’

  It was a wasted visit. Tomas wasn’t even sure why he’d gone in. He was simply dazed by the turn of events, angry, frightened.

  He left the café with no further questions. Outside he noticed a police car parked in front of Sabri’s apartment building. He changed direction and walked to the next bus stop.

  He carried Sabri’s death within him. In a strange way, it actually helped rally him to plan the next move, filling his mind with all the deceptions on which he could suspend and conceive of his future.

  If anyone had told Tomas that he would one day find himself so miserably alone and in love, and so angry, with no money and no way to join Anya and no certitude that she was really waiting for him, and above all, if anyone had told him that publishing a literary magazine would put him in danger, he wouldn’t have believed them. The fact that it couldn’t get any worse provided him with the solution he needed, just as certain lethal poisons sometimes provide their own antidotes. There was only one thing to do: flee at any cost and join Anya.