“It seems we’re due for another vacation,” Fırat concluded with a laugh.
“I hope you don’t expect us to hit the road first thing in the morning like last time,” I said.
“No, no. This time, we’ll take a few days to plan ahead.”
“All right, let’s see,” I replied. “But for now we’ve got to get to the office.”
We each took a shower and had a quick breakfast, before dragging our tired bodies into work.
The office was bustling as usual. The novel still had my mind reeling, and this, combined with my lack of sleep, drained me of any motivation. I spent the morning wandering around aimlessly. Finally, toward noon, I gave in and curled up on the sofa in my air-conditioned office. I was startled awake by my phone ringing. I didn’t know how long I’d been asleep, but I didn’t feel at all rested. Fırat must have stopped by at some point, judging by the blanket covering me and the pillow beneath my head. Reluctantly, I reached out and picked up the phone from the coffee table; it was an unknown caller. I considered putting the phone on mute and going back to sleep, but the caller was insistent.
“Yes, hello?” I answered in a sleepy voice.
“Nermin, dear? Is that you?” It was the unfamiliar voice of an old man.
“Yes, it is. But I’m sorry, who is this?” I asked, curious.
“It’s Selim, from Finike. Your father’s friend, the fisherman.”
“Oh, right, Selim Amca, of course,” I replied. “I’m so sorry, I didn’t recognize your voice.” Now I was worried. Why would Selim Amca be calling me?
“I’m sorry to bother you, dear, but your father’s not doing so well, he’s at the hospital in Finike. It’s best if you come straightaway.” As soon as the words were out of his mouth, I leaped off the couch.
“What’s wrong with him, Selim Amca? Is it serious? Are you with him?” I asked, concerned.
“He’s not doing so well, dear. It’s best if you come, that’s all I can say,” he said before hanging up.
I could tell from his tone that it was serious, but I still didn’t want to assume the worst. I pulled myself together and called Fırat, who was out at one of the construction sites. I quickly explained the situation and told him to meet me at the airport.
It was almost midnight by the time we reached the hospital. Selim Amca and the other villagers were waiting for us out front. The sight of them standing there told me everything we needed to know. For a moment I thought I might faint, but Fırat held me by the arm. They sat me down on a bench while offering me their condolences. It’s true that my father and I had never had a conventional father-daughter relationship, but I never imagined his death would crush me in this way. Though we weren’t particularly close and didn’t see each other that often, he was my father, and now he was gone. There in the hospital garden, I put my head in my hands and wept.
When my father had failed to emerge from his cottage that morning, the locals had gone in and found him on his bed, stretched out peacefully, as though asleep. They called the ambulance, but it was already too late. The doctor had him sent straight to the morgue. Everyone was devastated. They all agreed what a good man he was. They had been a little wary of him when he first moved to the village, but soon enough they’d come to see him as one of their own. As the villagers sang my father’s praises, I sat there cursing myself. What would it have cost me to give him a little more of my time, a little more attention? Yes, perhaps he had shut himself off in some ways, but it wasn’t as though I, for my part, had made the slightest effort to get to know him, either.
Once they could see that I had started to regain my composure, the villagers asked me where he was to be buried. I was taken aback by the question, and it must have shown on my face. I’d never thought about it. Or, rather, it had never even occurred to me that my father might die one day. Worse still, my father had rarely crossed my mind over the past few months. After a moment’s hesitation, I answered, “I’m sure he’d have had no objection to being buried here. But if it’s all right with you, I’d like to have him buried in Isparta, next to my mother.” They all agreed it was the right thing to do. We discussed the funeral, and after arranging to set off early the next morning, everyone headed home. Only Selim Amca remained. “Come on, you two, you’ll be my guests tonight,” he said firmly.
“That’s very kind of you,” said Fırat, “but we wouldn’t want to put you out. We’ll stay at a hotel. Besides, we have to get going early in the morning.”
“I’ll have none of it,” Selim Amca insisted. “It would be my pleasure. Though if you’d prefer, your father’s house is empty, you could always stay there.”
We liked the sound of this better. “Of course,” I said, “that makes perfect sense.” Fırat nodded in agreement.
When we turned on the light in my father’s cottage, we could see the entire space from where we stood; it consisted of nothing but a small hallway at the front and a bedroom in the back, a tiny kitchen, and a bathroom. The first thing we noticed was a wooden desk in front of the window in the hallway, with a lamp and a wooden chair. The cottage had little other furniture to speak of: a wooden bench similar to those in the garden, and a coffee table, along with an old kilim on the floor. On the desk stood a stack of notebooks, the kind we used in elementary school, and some pencils. While Fırat went to look around the bedroom and bathroom, I picked up a notebook from the top of the pile and quickly flipped through it. Every page was covered with my father’s handwriting. There were eleven notebooks in total, each filled with his penciled scrawling. My father was either trying to improve his handwriting or…or what?
I scooped up the pile of notebooks and sat down on the bench. I took the first one from my lap and opened it to the first page. I was dumbfounded. It took me a few moments to pull my wits together and call out to Fırat, who came and sat down next to me. I handed him the notebook.
“Read this,” I said to him, still in shock.
Fırat read the title and the first few sentences out loud.
“ ‘As Lonely as History. There are times when, even in the busiest of crowds, you feel completely alone, as though you are the only person in this entire universe aware of your own existence. If this means that every stone on the path to loneliness has been laid by nobody else but you, then…’ ” Fırat continued reading silently for a while. After flipping through the rest of the pages, reading the occasional paragraph here and there, we realized that Hasan Vefa Karadağlı’s novel had been carefully transcribed, word for word, into this notebook. It continued in the other notebooks, too. And it wasn’t just this novel; we soon saw that his next, It’s Love That Stays with You, had also been copied down word for word. We couldn’t believe it, what a strange coincidence. It seemed that over these last years, my father had been reading the same books we had. And clearly the books must have had the same impact on him as they had on us; so much so, in fact, that he had decided to copy them down into these notebooks in order to truly absorb them. The truth was, I never would have believed my father capable of reading such books. Once again, I felt a stab of regret as I thought of how little I had known him. Fırat scoured the entire house, searching through the books in the bedroom, but couldn’t find a copy of the novels anywhere. To think that my father had spent the last five years of his life here, but it was only now, after his death, that I was finally setting foot in the place myself. Yet no matter how great my remorse, there was nothing I could do to make up for it now.
Several of the villagers accompanied us as we set off early the next morning to take my father’s body to Isparta. It was midday by the time we reached the graveyard. After the noontime prayers, they performed the burial rites. More people had come than I expected. All of my parents’ relatives, near and distant, were there, and their friends, too. Many of them I didn’t recognize, it had been so long since I’d last seen them. But they all came up to offer their condolences. Faced with their ge
nuine sorrow, I couldn’t help but feel ashamed.
Once the funeral was over, the mourners began to make their way out of the cemetery. I told Fırat that I wanted to stay a little longer. Linking his arm in mine, he stood with me before my parents’ graves. The cemetery was deserted except for one old man who stood quietly beside us. I turned and looked at him, studying his face. He seemed familiar, but I couldn’t quite place him. He solemnly approached us and offered his condolences. I thanked him. I was certain I recognized him from somewhere, but under the circumstances it seemed rude to ask him who he was. Sensing the reason for my hesitation, he explained.
“You wouldn’t know me, but your father and I were childhood friends. We went to school together. He dropped out after middle school, but I kept studying and went on to university in Izmir. I had to move around a lot because of my job, but your father and I never lost touch. A few years ago I retired and moved back to Isparta. I’d go down to Finike to see your father every now and then, and stay with him for a few days. We’d go fishing together and spend all night talking. We were very close, you see.” He sighed.
“It’s so good to meet one of my father’s friends,” I said warmly. “I only wish we’d met earlier.”
He handed me a business card. “We run a foundation in Istanbul. Come by sometime if you can and I’ll tell you a thing or two about your father.” He smiled.
When we read the name on the business card, Fırat and I cried out almost in unison: “My God, I can’t believe it!”
The old man standing before us was none other than Hasan Vefa Karadağlı, our beloved author.
“Of course, that’s how we recognize you,” said Fırat. “From the photo on your books.”
“It’s truly an honor to meet you,” I gushed. “Honestly, though, it’s hard to believe that you and my father were childhood friends. We’re huge fans of your work. I have to say, your novels have touched our lives. Now I understand why my father copied them into those notebooks.”
The man was older than he appeared in his author photo; they must have used an earlier picture of him for the book jacket. Looking at his face, I could tell how deeply my father’s death had upset him.
“You’re wrong about that, dear,” Hasan Vefa said, drawing closer to me and looking me straight in the eyes. He took a deep breath before he continued. “Your father didn’t copy my books into his notebooks. On the contrary, it’s his words that fill those novels.”
At first we thought he was joking, but his demeanor suggested otherwise. “These last few years, your father poured his heart out into those notebooks there in that house in Finike. Whenever I stopped by, he’d read me what he’d written, and I found his words to be so touching, so true. I kept trying to get him to publish them until eventually he agreed. But on one condition. ‘I don’t want anything published under my name,’ he told me. ‘The last thing I want to do is ruin the peaceful life I’ve made for myself here. So if you really want to publish them, do it under your own name and then you can deal with all the hassle that comes with it.’ ‘That’s fine,’ I told him, ‘but I have one condition, too: If they sell, all the money will go toward helping young writers, we won’t touch a single kuruş.’ We agreed, and in just two years, we had both novels published. Just as I had expected, they became bestsellers, and as promised, we used the money to set up a foundation in Istanbul. It’s already done so much to help young writers,” he said, beaming.
Fırat and I listened, our mouths agape.
“Don’t forget to stop by the foundation,” he said as he shook our hands and bade us farewell. “And by the way, your father left those notebooks to you. He didn’t want me to tell you any of this while he was still alive, and he made me swear not to tell anyone but you. Those notebooks are precious. They’re much more than just words, they’re his final testament to you, and to people everywhere.” And with that, he turned around and walked away.
I looked over at my father’s grave and then at Fırat. Kneeling down, I scooped up a handful of earth, and as I ran it through my fingers, I made this promise: I would leave shame behind, and regret. From here on in, I would live my life differently.
A MAGNIFICENT ENDING
It had been a long city council meeting, but as he made his way home, he could barely contain his excitement. He stepped through the open gate to find his mother in her usual spot in the garden, tending to her vegetables. He threw his arms around her and planted a kiss on her cheek. She was so startled that she would have fallen to the ground had her son not been holding up her weary body.
“What’s gotten into you?” she asked. “You almost scared me to death. You certainly are in good spirits today!”
“I’ve got news for you,” he replied. “I’m going to America for a conference. The council chose me.”
Her eyes misted over with pride—the same pride she had felt when he had left for medical school and then again when he came back to work as a doctor. She had been pregnant with him when they killed her husband. It was only after years of hardship and persecution that things finally took a turn for the better. By the time her son was old enough for school, the city council and the neighborhood assemblies had established new schools that taught in Kurdish, their mother tongue. And it was in one such school that she herself had finally learned to read and write. Meanwhile, here on the banks of the Tigris, where ancient civilizations once flourished, residents had been encouraged to take up farming, with parcels of land allocated to any and all who wished to till the soil. New irrigation canals brought the waters of the Tigris directly to their fields and gardens. Each of the neighborhood assemblies had established its own cooperative, and through these producers began to sell their goods directly to one another and throughout the region as well. These same cooperatives had helped to revive animal farming and traditional crafts while also bringing more and more tourists to the area. As each of the towns in the district grew self-sufficient, residents began to hold their heads high, and rightly so. The whole community had been mobilized in the effort to end the legacy of corruption, bribery, theft, drugs, and prostitution that had cast such a dark shadow over their past. Great progress had been made. Determined that the younger generation should be raised with strong moral and political values, everyone had come together, introducing new measures for the greater good in the neighborhood assemblies. Knowing how hard it would be to rid themselves of their old habits, they cultivated patience, building their new lives one brick at a time. They were now on the verge of making unemployment and poverty a thing of the past. Their goal was to create a model of social economy that was fully democratic. They had already overcome a number of obstacles and, in this first half of our century, established a system that set an example for the rest of the world. Through an initiative that harnessed solar and wind power, they supplied the city with green energy and introduced urban development policies that respected both nature and history. Health services were free of charge and accessible to all, and the judicial system was fair and unbiased. People’s assemblies worked on the principle of direct democracy, adopting an open-minded approach to issues such as gender, faith, and lifestyle. All this had attracted international attention and brought in accolades from far and wide. These achievements had paved the way for social peace not only in their region but also throughout the land; and now, despite its painful history, the country had become a model for peaceful coexistence, earning it the admiration of the entire world.
After graduating from medical school, her son returned to his hometown, where he was appointed by the council to work at the public health center. Already a familiar face beloved by all, he soon proved an excellent doctor and gained a reputation for being helpful and hardworking as well as modest.
At the annual council elections, he was chosen first as a councillor and then as the council’s cospokesperson. Though he devoted himself to his civic duties, his enthusiasm for his work as a doctor was undiminished. All his life,
he had strived to live up to the example set by the father and uncle he had never met, and now, by serving his community, he was delighted to finally have the chance to do so.
Harvard University had invited the city council to send a delegate to Cambridge to give a talk about its successful model of local governance. And now, at today’s meeting, the council had decided that he should be the one to go.
Though the conference was not for another month, his excitement was palpable. For the first time in his twenty-eight years, he would be going to America. Other than a short stay in London to attend a language course, he had never been abroad. The idea of representing his people at such a prestigious university, to talk about all they had achieved, only made the prospect that much more thrilling. And since being chosen, he’d been crafting the perfect speech, one that was thorough yet concise. Before he left, he gave his talk in front of the city council and it was met with great applause.
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