The Aziz Bey Incident

by Ayfer Tunç

  It was crowded in front of my door. A police car stood there, blue and red lights flashing, and an ambulance. I approached rather puzzled; the sun had set, the streetlights had come on and the revolving lights of the police car and the ambulance reflected in the windows. There was a stir, and when the opposite neighbour saw me she called to the police, Her husband’s here! Her husband’s here!

  I felt dizzy, and can’t really remember what happened next. Through the door they brought out a black bag on a stretcher, which they loaded into the ambulance. They wouldn’t let me go home. When I went home a few days later I saw the cracks in the plaster surrounding the chandelier hook in the ceiling. My wife had hanged herself. With a clothesline. Left the children with her elder brother. The way she just swung on the rope reflected in the window of the flat opposite each time the sun shone. It had attracted the attention of the people on the top floor. On the dining table had been the red tie with blue hearts and my photo with Cansev. The police had taken the lot.

  My wife was a bony woman.

  No, she wasn’t beautiful, but she had a heart.

  I never knew.

  A COLD WINTER

  Despite putting on many layers of clothes and laying his old overcoat on top of two mouldy quilts and a blanket riddled with moth holes, Semavi Bey had been unable to sleep the whole night from the cold. Yet he’d been prepared for this cold winter. In the days when autumn’s mellow freshness first began to make itself felt, he’d stared at the creeper that for years had patiently spread over all the walls of his house and had suddenly, foolishly turn red, and murmured, ‘This winter will be very cold...’ He had started to take precautions even then.

  He had taped draft excluder around all the windows of the ground floor where he lived, stuffed newspaper under the balcony doors that were rotten from damp and poked old sheets into the cracks in the wood with which he’d closed off the stairwell that led to the first floor. But in spite of all his efforts, he had been unable to stop the wind virtually roaring through the house, and the walls almost icing over. This winter was bleaker and harsher than previous ones.

  To be honest, seasons held no importance for Semavi Bey. Neither the first buds of spring, nor the autumn clouds that gathered over the Bosphorus, lending its waters strange colours, moved him. But his body grew more sensitive to hot and cold as it grew older. The yellow beams of summer’s sunshine warmed his insides, and winter’s cold froze his bones more than they did anyone else. Since the day he felt he’d grown old, he regarded his body as a dog following him wherever he went, desperate to offer him pointless love. He quarrelled with his own body every time he became hungry, thirsty, or cold. Not that this body showed any sympathy for his wretched soul dried up from years of suffering.

  Now, with his eyes half open, he listened to his body as it continued to shiver. Taking his arm out from under the quilt that exuded an oppressive smell of damp, he touched the eight-segment electric radiator that failed to heat itself, let alone the room, despite being on all night long. All it managed was to form a small, lukewarm area around itself. He knew these eight feeble segments wouldn’t suffice all winter. Taking his arm back inside, he pulled the quilt over his head. He tried hard not to cry. Because he couldn’t look at fire, he suffered terribly this way every winter, as he did every year of the life he’d frittered away like running water. He lived an unhappy and resentful life, left to the cruelty of his own destiny, a man politely driven from familiar doors for his eccentric disposition and peculiar fears. He was amazed that his body still functioned more or less in spite of the death of his spirit, and at every cell carrying on life as a faithful representative of the natural instinct of living. He had virtually numbed his mind and had banished that incident that had brought his life to an unnerving state of slavery to the most secret corner of his memory. As long as he did not look at fire, his spirit could be as peaceful as a calm sea. But this inability to look at fire turned winters into terrible torture for him. All because of fire.

  He lifted the quilt and stared at the light filtering into his room through the magnificent creeper that, having completely enveloped his bedroom window, had climbed to the balcony of the first floor, a great part of which had burnt years ago. Because it had never been touched again, it had turned into a mound of black ashes and a tip full of memories.

  Such a long time to go before winter ends, he thought to himself. The snow had stopped for the moment. The rays of a deceptive winter sun were filling the room in lines, and the shadows of leaves were playing on his face. He closed his eyes tight, utterly miserable.

  He thought how this fraudulent sun that scattered small, false crumbs of hope within him would soon vanish between the clouds, and the skies would suddenly darken, making his wounded spirit ache once again. All day long he’d wander about warm places where he wouldn’t see fire, drinking something hot in an effort to comfort this body that refused to warm up unless the golden rays of the sun were visible. Then, at the hour when everyone withdrew home, he would return to this splendid ruin, bemoaning the fact that he’d pass the night to come shivering again under mouldy quilts.

  The coldness of the walls that had at one time been adorned with expensive paintings and gilt mirrors was almost palpable on his own skin. He felt so cold. He must leave the house immediately and go to the coffee house where he had his daily breakfast of tea and a fresh bread simit straight out of the oven; he must sit with his back to the stove and, staring at the dirty foamy waters of the Bosphorus, he must sit until he warmed up his bones, pursuing the numerous thoughts that went through his mind. And then he must use up the remaining hours of a day here and there.

  He put on his clothes over his pyjamas. When he came to the door, he checked his key, turned and glanced back at the house. The house was like a rotting body. He took an insatiable delight in the groaning deterioration of this place that his father had given a lifetime to build and furnish. The sad state of this house, that was the signature of a life spent with despotism, cruelty, and rage. It seemed to be a revenge for his wasted life. He stood for a moment at the door. It was as though the damp patches had perked up, as though one more rusty wire had snapped from inside the wireless, as though the mould that had totally invaded the back rooms of the house had advanced to the drawers of the desk at which that man – always angry – put on his reading glasses and occupied himself with money matters to forget himself during the times he didn’t go to the office. These sounds, that nobody else but he could hear, pacified his spirit pleasantly. He shut the door and went out. The state of the garden that his father had created, looking at pictures of English gardens and continually reprimanding the gardener, was even more tragic. The trees that he left to their own devices seemed to be in mourning: sombre and withered. Snow filled the empty, broken flowerpots. As he exited the garden, the iron gate with the broken hinge swung behind him with all the aimlessness of his life.

  He felt warmer, more cheerful as he went down the icy slope. Going out was good for him. Exactly like the trees in the garden, he withered in the descending gloom of the house. He sat in a sagging armchair in front of the window overlooking the Bosphorus, staring at a distant spot for hours, crying, feeling cold and remembering his wife. At times he’d take his eyes off the shimmering lights of the Bosphorus, and ask himself, ‘Am I mad?’ He could not stand even the striking of a match or the flame of a lighter, and even the sight of a roaring stove took him to his bed, feeling ill. He knew very well the reason for all this, but never made the slightest effort to rid himself of this obsession. He was desperate and silent like a bird without wings, a blind dog, or a beached and forgotten boat. Tedious days followed one another, all very similar and all very far from any emotion.

  It was only on days he ran out of cash that he cheered up. On such days, because he spent his life in one bedroom and a sitting room, he’d begin wandering around the other rooms, those he never used, and whatever there was of his father’s favourite things – a spiral striped piece of glasswa
re, a piece of Meissen porcelain, a music box, a valuable picture or a mantel clock – whatever he came across, he’d tuck under his arm and immediately make for the antique dealer and peddle it. However, those things that he could tuck under his arm and cheerfully see the back of had been exhausted; the time had come for the big pieces. Because of the valuable antiques he brought along, the antique dealer would greet him at the door and go out of his way to please him whenever he went. So now, he go out to one of the kiosks on the coast road (he had never reconnected his own phone, cut off years ago) and the antique dealer would come to the house within half an hour. No matter how many times the dealer had offered to buy the whole lot, Semavi Bey wouldn’t relinquish the pleasure of selling whatever his father had valued, and selling it all piece by piece; these possessions of the man who’d poisoned his own life with his cruelty and cold heart.

  And today was one of those days when he’d have to telephone the antique dealer, when a small lorry would come to the gate, and when he’d eye the objects in the house one by one, wondering with pleasure, Which one should I sell? While he was thinking about all this, it suddenly grew dark, and a blizzard began. He realised he must go to the coffee house right away. He liked this coffee house because the stove was far inside, and where he didn’t have to see the owner open the lid, throw on coal, and watch the flames virtually swallow the black pieces of coal, lick the lid and escape outside. He went down the slope, came to the coast road and walked with purpose. The blizzard made it almost impossible to see in front of him.

  The thought something was amiss only occurred to him when he had already arrived under the plane tree in front of the coffee house. It was closed. He approached and saw that the door had been locked and sealed. He realised the owner, who allowed gambling at nights in the inner section where the stove burned, must finally have been caught. Suddenly he felt homeless. His face became tearful like a child who’s lost its mother in a large marketplace. He simply stood under the plane tree wondering where to go. Where would he warm this grumpy body, exhausted from shivering all night? And he felt so tired… He stood still, not knowing what to do. He couldn’t think of anywhere to go.

  A city bus rent the snowstorm that kept everyone at home, and left chain-tyre tracks on the snow-covered road as it clattered past. He began to walk, following the bus tracks. There was no one on the streets. When he saw that all the shops were closed, he realised that it was Sunday and also very early in the morning, and as always he felt very much alone in this very large city, this very large country, this very large world.

  A cold, keen wind cutting his face stifled the pain that this feeling gave to his spirit. He was freezing. He gave up following the tracks of the bus and turned into a side street. He’d walked quickly and was tired. His heart, stuffed for years with a deep, morbid love and a bitter hatred, was no longer able to stand these fast walks. He sheltered under the eaves of a building when he got out of breath, leaning against the wall and almost slumping to the ground. The thought of spending the whole day looking for somewhere warm seemed impossible. He thought about his distant cousins, about how warm all their houses were… He pictured the polite embarrassment on their faces. Their looks that said, You’ve sat long enough, off you go now…The loneliness in their warm, fancy houses, where the phone rang constantly, was bitterer than the one in his rotting house. While he was thinking of those people who had walked one by one out of his silent past and who were even then cold and distant, he noticed that the dilapidated building right opposite him was a bathhouse. A ‘For Men’ sign written in red gloss paint was hanging on the door. He couldn’t believe his eyes. He’d found somewhere he’d warm his marrow, his bones, somewhere where the delight of this warming would enrapture him.

  Pushing open the door of the bathhouse cautiously, he entered. There was no one about. He stood there timidly as though he’d entered a forbidden place. He couldn’t find the courage to call out, ‘Is anyone there?’ As he was about to lose himself in the dimness of the place and the smell of the steam and cheap soap, the bath attendant came, red-faced from the heat, and with his shirt wide open.

  ‘Were you looking for someone, uncle?’ he asked, because the likelihood of a customer arriving almost at the crack of dawn in such snowy and stormy weather was so slim. His manner may have been rough, but he meant well. Semavi Bey swallowed, and visualising the baths a few paces away, where boiling water flowed from taps into marble basins, and where hot steam rose into the air, he asked,

  ‘I was going to take a bath. The bathhouse is open, isn’t it?’ Although he was used to every type of customer, this strange and timid man who’d arrived in such weather amazed the bath attendant.

  ‘It’s open, but we’ve only just lit the boiler,’ he replied. ‘It’s cold inside. Go and come back in a couple of hours.’

  A couple of hours? Time is relative, life is a long, dark dream. A couple of hours just flew by in the coffee house looking at the shimmering waters of the Bosphorus as he tried to remember one or two pleasant days in the past; but how could he while away a couple of hours when his toes were about to freeze? Suddenly he felt faint and faltered. The bath attendant grabbed Semavi Bey by the arm, and stared at this poor man who was now murmuring, ‘I feel so cold…’ He looked at the fine features of his unshaven face, and at the clothes that, although old, reflected the refined taste of a few generations back. Drawing up a chair, he said, ‘Sit here until the bathhouse has warmed up. I’ll pull the chair near the stove, if you like…’

  When Semavi Bey heard the word stove he flinched. His eyes searched all around for the object in question. The colossal coal stove was smouldering in the entrance to the bathhouse, cheering up this wet place that smelt of soap. Turning his back to the stove and sitting on the chair, he looked at the bath attendant for a moment with grateful eyes. A touching smile appeared on his face, and then he turned his eyes down to the floor as though the burden of spending his life with such apprehension lay with him alone. He murmured in a voice barely audible, ‘It’s fine here…’ He wanted to vanish, to melt away like a continually lathering piece of soap in the bathhouse. He drew his body together on the chair and hunched his back; making himself look much older than he was.

  ‘Would you like some tea?’

  He nodded shyly. The forlorn sadness and fatigue in his smile shook the bath attendant. He went to pour out the tea without knowing why this tragic scene affected him so much.

  Semavi Bey sat on the same chair until the bathhouse heated up. Staring at the toes of his shoes, he quietly drank the two glasses of tea that the bath attendant brought him. When the bathhouse warmed up, he took the loincloth, clogs, bowl and soap, undressed in his room and entered the bath, which was now hot enough to soften his body, almost rigid with cold.

  He was strangely happy. The bath was hot but the inside of this body that had shivered in a room whose walls were iced over, was still frozen. He went over and sat beside a marble basin and poured bowls of hot water over his head. Somehow the shivering inside him wouldn’t go away. The moment hot water touched his skin, an odd shuddering shook his whole body. At last he grew warm, everything softened, and when he had no strength left in his arm from pouring hot water over himself, he lay down on the marble slab in the centre of the bath and closed his eyes. The bath was as hot as could be; steam obscured the polygonal dome windows. He’d surrendered all his muscles, bones, and nerves, everything that made up this worn-out body and this buffeted spirit, into the hands of heat and steam. How wonderful this was. What a wonderful thing to warm up without seeing the flames that savagely swallow a young body – to feel your body virtually numb.

  At some point, he’d begun to feel dizzy. So agreeable was this dizziness, that an expression of happiness no one had seen for a long time affixed itself to his countenance. The sound of the water dripping from the tap that he’d failed to turn off properly grew louder, echoing in the high-ceilinged marble place. This sound heightened his loneliness. He was on his own on a snowy da
y in a bathhouse, just as he had been throughout his life. Yet whatever he did, he had done to be loved. He’d believed he’d be alone if he didn’t love. That’s why he’d loved a great deal.

  ‘Mother!’ he moaned, ‘Mother, where are you?’

  He began crying plaintively like a child, while at the same time strangely enjoying this state. Like the times he’d cried for no reason in his nanny’s lap, the nanny whose bosom smelt like cloves and cinnamon, strange and exceedingly oriental.

  ‘Why do all children have mothers and I don’t?’ he used to ask, burying his nose in the soft neck of the dark-skinned woman. The woman, watchful of the firm footsteps of a perpetually angry man, sighed with a deep sadness in her dark, kohl-rimmed eyes, and then she’d tell him melancholy tales about beautiful women, loving but unloved. As he listened to those tales, his tiny child’s mind realised that his mother, whom his father had not loved enough, had left. The more he was berated on every occasion by his father, he thought about how this harsh, cruel man was incapable of loving a woman, and he promised himself again and again that when the day came and he got to know a woman he would love her very, very much, and never let her leave him.

  Now the heat of the bath seemed to him like the heat of a love that had eluded him. His heart beat as though he would suddenly see his mother. As he was trying to remember that maternal face of his childhood dream, the face of his wife floated into his mind out of the blue. His childish sobs mingled with the sound of water echoing in the steam-filled dome.

  His wife was saying, ‘Don’t love me! I don’t want you to!’ holding a gas lamp, a deep pain on her beautiful face like the gash of a knife.

  Yet he’d never go to sleep until she slept, and always woke up before she did; he’d gaze for hours at her face where pure beauty was united with an irresistible innocence. He was so lonely, and he so wanted to love his wife, that time just dragged by without her. He thought about her and wanted to be with her every minute. He even thought about her at the office where he went, every day. He had been incapable of finding the power to oppose his father and was constantly rebuked for his uselessness while his father showered someone with orders on the telephone in his angry, deep voice. Even there, he thought about his wife with a simple smile on his face: he was happy that he could love someone.