*
The following day Aram met him at the Express, a fashionable beer parlour in Beyoğlu. Good old Aram always had a special loyalty to Tomas – perhaps not loyalty so much as profound affection. He looked happy. He had at last been able to find a better-paid job with a sheet glass firm in Kuruçeşme, a suburb of Istanbul.
‘I’m worried, Tomas,’ he said.
‘That’s why I wanted to talk to you.’
‘The police will keep on investigating.’ He narrowed his eyes, ‘The moment you feel you’ve accomplished something, bang! The unexpected happens.’
‘What else is new? Listen, Aram, I’ve made up my mind; I’m leaving the country.’
Aram lit a cigarette.
‘I’m leaving as soon as I can get a visa.’
‘Where for?’
‘I don’t know exactly.’
‘What do you mean you don’t know exactly?’
‘For the States or Canada.’
Aram remained quiet, breathing deeply, as if to allow time to take in what Tomas had just said.
‘And where will you find the money?’
‘I already have it.’
He frowned. ‘You already have it! Damn it, Tomas, stop it. Tell me what’s going on. I can’t stand the idea of you ...’ After a brief hesitation he added, ‘leaving.’
Tomas’s voice trembled, ‘I’ll use the money Shato gave me for the next two issues, before he asks me to give it back.’
‘Jesus!’ Aram perked up. He called the waiter for two more beers. It seemed to Tomas that he was getting ready to blow up the taxation chief’s De Soto for a second time. ‘What do your parents say?’
‘I haven’t told them yet.’
‘That’s nice of you ... Very nice ... I see.’
‘What, what do you see?’ Tomas asked as if he were no longer of this world.
‘I know this guy, Tatoul, an Armenian Catholic, a pimp and part-time middleman. He can get you a visa. He’s not cheap, but I can always make a deal with him.’ His eyes sparkled. ‘So you’re going to Anya?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘You’re an idiot, Tomas. You wouldn’t have become a writer if you weren’t such an imbecile.’
Tomas smiled. The waiter brought the beers.
‘I’ll miss you terribly,’ Aram added.
Tomas noticed tears in his friend’s eyes. ‘I’ll miss you too,’ he said, and felt as if he were falling backwards into blackness.
‘In a way, you should leave. Sooner or later we’ll be called up. Fortunately, the Korean War is over; if it wasn’t you’d be leaving for Kunuri or who knows where instead.’
Tomas was deep in thought. For the rest of the afternoon Aram tried to persuade his friend to go directly to Baltimore and join Anya. ‘It’s never, never, never too late.’
‘I don’t think she wants me to.’
‘And I’m telling you you are an idiot.’
‘If you say so.’ Tomas wondered if it was because he had masturbated too much when he was young.
They both laughed and ordered two more beers.
*
The following afternoon Tomas and Aram went to see Tatoul the pimp. His office was over Sultan Muallebijisi, a popular Oriental pudding shop in Topkapι. The shop was a popular hangout for people from neighbouring commercial establishments. Tomas and Aram walked to the back to take the stairs to the second floor. A group of six women huddled tightly around a square table near the stairwell. They were all young, heavily made up and well dressed. They turned their heads simultaneously towards the two young men.
*
The upstairs floor was altogether different. It looked like an abandoned warehouse, with broken windowpanes and pigeons cooing on the windowsills. Tatoul’s office door was open. They walked right in without knocking.
He sat behind his desk, which was almost buried beneath an assortment of unwashed plates and glasses. Behind him was a full-length portrait of Atatürk.
‘Come on in,’ he said, without bothering to get up or pretending to smile. The pale lengthening rays of the afternoon sun made his face look even more pallid, and thinner, like a sketchy El Greco portrait. His office was partitioned off from the rest of the floor by four plywood walls. He shared it with another middleman, who specialized in customs clearances of smuggled goods.
Tatoul was about fifty years old, with greyish-green eyes and curly grey hair. He was dressed like a regular businessman in a grey three-piece suit and red tie.
Aram got right to the point: they needed a visa for the United States.
‘It’s terribly difficult nowadays,’ Tatoul replied. ‘Everybody wants to go to America.’
Aram raised his voice. ‘There’s no such thing as difficult; I know you can do it.’
‘Believe me, it’s really tricky. Only recently the bastards refused me, three separate applications. I can easily get you a student visa, an F-visa, that is to say, but you’ll need to get accepted by an American college or university for that.’
‘I haven’t got time for that,’ Tomas said.
‘What happened to all your connections?’ Aram asked
Tatoul didn’t reply. He shifted the conversation to his favourite topic: women.
‘Before we discuss that, tell us if there’s any other way,’ Aram said.
‘How about through Canada?’ Tomas suggested.
Tatoul was fired up. ‘Yes, yes, of course.’ He pulled open his desk drawer and took out a bottle of cognac. ‘Let’s drink to our friend’s brilliant idea,’ he said, and he fetched three glasses from a copper tray on his associate’s desk.
They drank to the Canadian contingency. ‘Once you’re in Canada, it’s a breeze to get a visitor’s visa for the States.’
Aram didn’t like the idea of Tomas leaving for Canada; it was a long way from Baltimore.
‘I know this guy, a powerful man in Ankara, and he’s on very good terms with the immigration officers at the Canadian Embassy. I’m sure I can get you a visa fast enough.’ After a long pause he added, ‘But it won’t be cheap.’
‘How cheap?’ Aram asked.
‘How expensive, you mean, Mr Aram.’
‘How fast?’ Tomas asked.
‘That depends on the size of the present we offer them.’
Tomas could tell that the man was getting ready to propose an astronomical figure, which (as they found out later) required neither a great effort nor exceptional connections.
‘$200.’
To which Aram replied, ‘Shit! You must have forgotten how to count, Tatoul.’
And with that Aram and Tomas got to their feet, without even bothering to reduce the exaggerated sum. They were all set to leave when the man insisted that they stay and try to come to a friendly arrangement.
‘Okay, 50,’ Aram said.
After a long silence the man sighed, ‘100.’
Aram and Tomas again stood up to leave.
‘Please, don’t be so impatient.’
Although Tomas was anxious to get a visa, he couldn’t bear to listen to the man any longer. A sudden irrational thought caught him unawares. ‘Do you like gambling?’ he asked Tatoul.
Aram stared at Tomas, bewildered.
‘I love gambling as much as I love breathing.’
Tomas took a coin from his pocket. ‘Heads or tails. If you win, I pay you 100, and if I win you’ll accept 50.’
‘Agreed.’ Tatoul’s brow wrinkled.
Aram was wondering if his friend had lost his mind. But Tomas’s situation was so tangled, so surreal, what did he have to lose?
Tomas gave the shiny Turkish lira to Aram.
Tatoul stood up. ‘Tails,’ he said, adjusting his spectacles.
Aram flipped the coin. It was heads.
‘You’ll get your $50 when you produce the visa.’ Tomas smiled smugly.
‘Yes, of course.’ Tatoul looked dejected. ‘Hopefully I’ll have things ready for you in three or four days.’ Then he lowered his voice, ‘Did you notice th
e young women sitting downstairs in the shop? They’re all exceptional in every way, especially the Levantine, the tall brunette. She’s very choosy. She sleeps only with men who aren’t circumcised. Christians.’
‘I don’t think we’d qualify for her,’ Tomas said seriously.
‘Why do you say that? You’re both handsome young Christians.’
‘We are, but not below our belts,’ Tomas replied.
Tatoul sank deep into thought as Aram and Tomas made their way to the door.
*
Tomas got off the tram at Harbiye and headed home through the feverish activity of the afternoon. He dreaded telling his parents that he would soon be leaving. They would certainly want to know how he was going to finance his trip. His father then would advise him to to discuss it with their lawyer friend, Leonidas.
He noticed an ambulance parked in front of an apartment building as he turned on to Valikonağι Boulevard. A string of obscenities floated down from above and the naked shoulders of an elderly man appeared at a window. In the midst of the confusion, a cab screeched to a halt beside Tomas and someone called his name. One man opened the car door while the other two bundled him into the back seat.
‘Keep your mouth shut,’ one of them said.
Tomas was squeezed between the two ruffians.
‘What’s going on?’
‘Shut up,’ the same man said brusquely.
‘What’s all this about?’
The car moved on at top speed.
‘Don’t go over the speed limit.’ It was the same man, who was wearing dark glasses.
Tomas’s mind raced over the past few days: New Signatures, Sabri’s story, his murder, the interrogations ... Twenty minutes later the car stopped in front of Inönü Stadium in Dolmabahçe. The man with the ruddy face and a deformed arm had the key to the athletes’ entrance. The three of them dragged Tomas inside. The showers, the locker rooms, the hallways were deserted. There was a faint lingering odour of urine. They were in the long hallway that led to the toilets. How strange, how haunting: the last time Tomas had crossed the same long hallway was after his defeat by Atilla, the Olympian, almost three years ago. ‘Make it quick,’ the man in the dark glasses said, then, approaching Tomas, ‘I know you’re wondering what’s going on.’
Tomas attempted a half-hearted protest but they punched him and kicked him to the ground. What they wanted was to find out if Daktilo Sabri had given Tomas any other stories, but Tomas denied any knowledge. This time they attacked him even more violently. He had no doubt that they would kill him. After another savage beating and a kick in the groin Tomas lost consciousness.
When he opened his eyes they had gone. He felt a severe pain reeling in his chest like a steel wire. His entire body felt twisted, like the thousands of ideas that kept rushing into his head. After lying there for a few minutes he forced himself to his feet and headed towards the entrance. The door was unlocked. If only he could persuade himself that all of this was a nightmare. He saw his reflection in the mirror next to the door. There was blood at the corner of his mouth. He wiped it off with his handkerchief. There were bruises around his left ear. Sons of bitches! What was so special about the second story? In all likelihood it heralded another homicide, this time his own.
*
Tomas breathed the fresh air that rushed from the sea. As he staggered towards the steep road going up to Taksim Square, the lights changed from yellow to red, and then to purple. Every sound echoed balefully. The pavement under his feet cracked, unveiling more malice, more retaliation, more intimidation. A few pigeons accompanied him, crossing his path as he struggled uphill. He clapped his hands together and stamped his feet in an attempt to scare them away but they stayed, strutting their indignation. He clapped his hands again and they at last took to the air. Were they just pigeons or his dark, adhesive thoughts? Was it his heart or the clock on the square that ticked in his chest? A crowd was waiting at the bus stop at the top of the hill. Tomas wished he could shout to them, tell them what had happened to him. He made his way to the nearest police station.
*
It was nearly nine o’clock before the police finished taking down Tomas’s account on an old typewriter that reminded him of Sabri. He said nothing about the second short story, not exactly out of respect for Jean-Paul Sartre but simply out of prudence. He would one day use it, perhaps, to write his first bestseller.
Clouds of dust rose as the cab began to move. From afar Tomas spotted the same crowd at the bus stop, increased in size. They had probably been there when he lost the race that ominous Saturday afternoon. Anya’s face, waiting for him outside the athletes’ entrance ... He asked the driver to stop. He got out of the cab and walked slowly, aimlessly, as survivors walk about the streets after an earthquake.
Part Four
26
For Tomas departure was bitter and painful. He was unlikely ever to return. He may never see his mother and father again. They had insisted that he waste no time in leaving. Moved by what they had been through when they were young, they were painfully aware of the danger that awaited him if he stayed.
A week before leaving he visited Anya’s parents to say goodbye. When he told them that he was going to Canada instead of the United States, they were more than a little surprised.
‘God willing, Anya will soon finish med school,’ Mrs Novotni said.
‘Anya wants us to sell the supper club and go live in the States,’ said Mr Novotni.
‘It’d be wonderful if you could,’ Tomas said. ‘I’m sure she misses you terribly.’
Mrs Novotni intervened. ‘She’s got so many friends; I wonder if she has time to miss us.’
Tomas tried to hide his disappointment with a smile; he wondered if there was a message behind her remark.
*
His departure had to be sudden enough that Shato wouldn’t have time to discover his editor’s crooked scheme. He packed as hurriedly as possible. He couldn’t figure out if he should call Anya and tell her that he was on his way to join her (risking rejection) or wait until he landed in Montreal before getting in touch with her. He felt like a shy teenager calling for a first date.
In one of her recent letters, to which Tomas didn’t reply, Anya had written:
I think of you often, but not without anger. You have decided to withdraw into your crazy speculations and bring me to judgment in your mind, as writers do, and the verdict: your absurd conviction that I love someone else. Weeks have passed and you leave my letters unanswered. The usual blessed hush, which suggests only that you’re still busy hatching your bloody scenarios. If I wanted to find someone I’d have done it a long time ago, for here men are more obtainable than hotdogs, all dressed, dressed – with or without mustard and relish. You’d better go to your lamppost and turn around it not three but thirty-three times; perhaps that’ll bring you back to your senses and allow you to see things clearly. But if you have changed your feelings about me, that’s a different story.
Tomas had memorized the letter. He pictured Anya glowing with rage. Her jewel-blue eyes, her hair shimmering like gold, her smile, her impetuosity – his little Russian neighbour whom he still loved so much. Thoughts crowded his mind like clouds of fireflies. Not too long ago they had been part of the fabric of each other’s lives and now – how strange – he was afraid of picking up the phone and asking the operator to connect him to Baltimore.
*
Tomas received a call informing him that his passport and visa were ready. He went with Aram to see Tatoul that same afternoon.
‘I’ve got everything,’ Tatoul said and handed Tomas the brick-coloured Turkish passport with the ubiquitous star and crescent on the cover.
Tomas gave Tatoul $50. ‘As we agreed.’
‘Thank you, Mr Tomas; it wasn’t easy. Just be grateful to my friend. I can’t tell you his name.’
‘It must have been really very difficult to get everything so quickly,’ Aram fired sarcastically.
‘Don’t assume that ju
st because it was fast it wasn’t difficult. Speed requires agility, and difficulty needs to be challenged.’
‘I didn’t mean to trivialize the role you played,’ Aram replied just to shut him up.
Tatoul was in the same grey suit and pimp’s trademark red tie he’d been wearing that first morning they met.
With his crooked, diffident smile Tatoul asked, ‘Are you in the mood to flip a coin again? If you lose, you pay for the services of my beautiful Levantine, and if you win I’ll throw in my Florentine, a delicious Italian, a queenly beauty, almost a virgin. Two for the price of one.’
Tomas’s mind was too busy to respond coherently to such a generous offer. He only managed to snap, ‘I couldn’t even handle one.’
Tatoul’s friendly expression faded. He raised his voice, ‘You said you’re not Christian below your waist, from which I gathered later that you’re circumcised, and now you say you can’t even handle one ... are you a queer or something?’
Aram couldn’t resist, ‘Don’t be an idiot, Tatoul. We could take care of all of your girls. The only fucking problem is that we don’t have the money, understand?’ And with that they walked out, not wishing to dishearten their friend any further.
*
Tomas’s parents, Aram, Kamer, Arek and Bebo had come to see Tomas off at the airport.
‘You go see Anya, my son,’ his mother advised.
The Lamppost Diary Page 19
