by Selcuk Altun
Hesitantly he announced Dvořák’s ‘Songs My Mother Taught Me’, and began to sing in a high voice. When I realized the depth of love and yearning in those melancholy lines, of which I understood not a word, my heart grew sad. For the first time listening to a song, I felt I must close my eyes. Maybe because I didn’t know how to laugh, I knew I wasn’t going to cry. The damned train arrived before the song ended and Pavel and I got into the same carriage. I gave him another twenty and asked him to keep on playing the same piece till we reached Piccadilly Circus. Through this old melody which lasts only three minutes, I realized what had been missing from my whole life.
With a lighter heart, I got off at Piccadilly Circus. I wasn’t surprised when I lost my footing and slipped and fell at the bottom of endless stairs. As I fell to the ground I was embarrassed to hear screams. I landed on my left palm and knee and closed my eyes to avoid seeing the crowd around me but when I heard a friendly woman asking, ‘Are you all right?’, my pain seemed to increase. Dragging my left foot and blowing on my hand, I reached a bench at the end of the platform, sat down and began to cry. I threw my sodden tissue towards the noisy mice on the tracks before heading for the main exit. I thought I was able to walk better in spite of the pain in my knee, and just as my uncle would have advised, I kept my shoulders back, my head up, and looked fifty metres ahead. I was almost free of the hazy veil over my eyes. When my grey blurred surroundings began to appear in their true colours, it seemed as if my chemistry had changed. I headed for my room with hope. The more I walked the better I felt. I multiplied two six-figure numbers in my head and checked the result with a calculator. (Unfortunately I wasn’t wrong.) I took refuge in Any Human Heart, but lost interest when the narrator met the Prince of Wales, who abdicated for love of the woman he eventually married. Wasn’t my father’s book that I had found amongst ‘Songs My Mother Taught Me’ an autobiography of the confused king? I felt uneasy as I realized the meaningless connection and rushed out. You probably thought I would go to the Down Down and plant a £5 note on Tiffany. But turning into a deserted New Bond Street, where I used to die of boredom walking with my mother, I was about to take a momentous decision: I was going to find my father’s killer!
B
‘Allah loves those who have been cleansed.’
Tevbe:108
‘The man who was so good he forgot his own name.’
‘Don’t tell me who you are. I want to worship you.’
‘We are hypocrites because we cannot forget the things we have acquired.’
‘Is it not sadder to be renewed than to disappear?’
‘Words used once a lifetime. Which ones?’
‘Eternity as a comet ...’
‘All that is written is out of date before the ink is dry.’
On my three-hundredth visit to Gürsel Hodja he greeted me with, ‘Choose seven aphorisms of Elias Canetti, translate them into Turkish, write your own paraphrase of each, and bring them to our next meeting.’ (Yours truly struggled hard with the lines above.) He wanted me, God bless him, to invent comic and epic stories from his depressing sketches. (That was how your humble servant realized that writing is harder than pulling the trigger.)
I noticed he was trying to give me guidance without undermining my knowledge. My Hodja wanted to think that every meeting had some influence on me, otherwise I wouldn’t come. While time was erasing my impetuous tendencies, my secret cells were coming to life. If I glimpsed an erotic poster from the corner of my eye I would dream I was descending into the vaults of the unclean. One evening, tired of reading, I found myself unable to turn away at the last minute from the front door of a brothel, God be praised!
Is it because I can’t swim that I respect the sea? If there was no threat of rain or whiff of snow, I walked to the wharf and on the crossing between Üsküdar and Beşiktaş my eagerness to meet my Hodja grew stronger. Ottoman postcards of the old ferry-boats still conveyed the grave forgotten dignity of our forefathers, and journeys of fifteen minutes began and ended with the splendour of a transatlantic crossing. On my last visit to Gürsel Hodja, while I was concentrating on a newspaper article by Taha Kıvanç, I was distracted by a large book left on the bench to my right. The title of the work was The People’s King, and it examined King Edward VIII’s wish to abdicate for love of the American widow he wanted to marry.
‘Since he was king and wanted to marry a widow, why didn’t he trust to the people’s support?’ – this was the question I wanted to put to the Hodja.
According to the name-plate, the book on the ferry belonged to Selçuk Altun, whose novels Taha Kıvanç had recommended. The man whose works I swore I’d never read was said to be on the board of directors of a private bank.
Head louse Baybora’s latest announcement was as follows: ‘Chief gunslinger, we’ll meet in the Park of the Turkish Women’s Union at two o’clock tomorrow to bring about justice and take $100,000 and her prayers from a tearful but wealthy lady.’
After this final episode your humble servant swore that he would bump off this creep Baybora. (I ground my teeth every time I heard his voice.) As there is no word for ‘resign’ in our line of business, to break free I had to reach the boss glorified by the title ‘Executioner’– if he actually existed. Undoubtedly I was being taken for a ride! I never came across crimes like mine in the news. Instead of a gang, there were perhaps two crooks who took yours truly for a fool. Besides, I had lost my enthusiasm for the job, though not my discipline. After every episode the Hodja would greet me with, ‘You’re looking shifty again, like someone who has just cheated on his mate.’
Baybora chose the lonely hours of shady local parks to meet and confer. In the stunted little park of peaceful Acıbadem there was a sculpture of two young children and their sad, lovelorn mother. I was tracing the signature of the work when the louse suddenly appeared with a sneer: ‘I’m not surprised you’re looking at a statue with hidden thighs and breasts.’ He handed me a dossier as though he was awarding me a prize but I had no wish to examine it.
On this occasion I did not submit to the dossier’s information with a respectful prayer. As soon as I saw the photograph of my next victim Soner İlkin, I grew nervous. The doomed wretch, who seemed to be in his forties, had an arrogant bearing, as though he’d been his own sculptor. This would be the last time, please God, that my left hand looked for trouble.
I was expecting the parasite to be married to a wealthy businesswoman older than himself, but I was not expecting him to have seduced his wife’s two daughters, one by her first husband, and married, the other by her second husband, and a schoolgirl. The pervert was on the board of his wife’s export firm. Despite warnings, he couldn’t resist withdrawing massive advances from the company funds, losing money on the stock exchange and gambling. He used his trade secrets for blackmail, and for his divorce he demanded half the company’s main assets. His wife’s detective reported that her dissolute husband was with a couple of Ukrainian prostitutes on a yacht anchored at Göcek Bay in the Mediterranean.
I was sure that ‘trade secrets’ included falsification of documents, unregistered documents, tax evasion. (Once again I was thankful that I had nothing to do with the stinking business world.)
I flew to Dalaman and booked into the Seren Guesthouse, its entrance hall resonant with sad laments. Next morning my package was delivered to me, stamped ‘special tourist material’. Hidden between a prayer rug and decorative saddlebags were the dismantled parts of a telescopic rifle (SV99) and as I prayed and reassembled the piece, I was as happy as if I’d met one of my army friends.
I made lonely Göcek, twenty minutes away by minibus, my base. On the eve of the town’s tourist season it had retreated into a spring siesta. I was amazed that the miniature main road wasn’t filled with commotion. The gigantic yacht Sürtük was moored between Göcek Island and the strip of shore that belonged to the Forestry Commission. I kept watch for seventy-two hours, and from the grove of irregular pine trees that reached the summit my eye f
ollowed inch by inch the agent of sin. Every time my hand made a move towards the heavy field-glasses I saw the bow of the boat shaking. I won’t go into details about the lecherous behaviour of sinister Soner and the voluptuous prostitutes in the gunwale (I felt some sympathy for the one without sunglasses, because she took every opportunity to read a book).
The shameless Soner was videoing the naked love scenes between the two helpless girls as I clutched the SV99 with the silencer.
My left eye covered the telescopic sight. The rifle, your humble servant and the ground had all merged into one. With a silent prayer I marked the target, and as my arms seemed to lengthen and reach inside the yacht, I emptied the magazine into the head and chest of the dishonourable wretch. The prostitutes threw themselves screaming into the sea and I ran zigzagging to the shore, where I dismantled the gun and, as the pieces sank into the dark sea, leapt into the copse. Running to the town square, I remembered that the son-in-law of a media mogul had been shot in the same place last year. (I wondered if my fellow assassin had disappeared in the same way.)
I was sure that the swaggering Baybora would hand over his final payment with the words, ‘Has it ever occured to you how many thousand girls you could pull in for sex with this money?’ (Yours truly sent one third of his earnings to the Society for the Protection of Historic Works in Üsküdar.)
For the first time in my life I set off on a very long journey. I took in Master Ahmet Hamdi Tanpınar’s favourite cities (Ankara, Bursa, Konya and Erzurum) and, tipped off by Ibn Battuta, I included historic Alanya. When I returned I felt as if I’d made a pilgrimage to Mecca before dying.
At the conclusion of our meetings in the lonely parks, Baybora would expect me to leave first so it would be impossible for me to follow him. But for this last commission I brought along the driver, Hozatlı Veli, as my assistant. I had rescued him from three religious fanatics who attacked him for smoking during Ramadan. Cross-eyed Veli, lurking in the shade, followed Baybora to his headquarters in Üsküdar’s Fıstıkağacı district, and from the meeting-places Baybora chose I guessed he lived on the Anatolian side. I decided to set up base in Müneccimbaşı Street, which had no Ottoman legacy and was luckily not frequented by wealthy people dressed up as dandies or thieves. While we have so many splendid streets with forgotten names, I was pained to see neighbouring streets named ‘Yapma Bebek’ (Baby Doll) or ‘Su Deposu’ (Water Depot).
I knew I would dislike Baybora’s house. The façade looked as though it hadn’t seen a coat of paint since it was built and in the claustrophobic courtyard a stunted cedar tree and an old car passed the time together in harmony. Once I learned his real name I didn’t think I’d need to inspect his life closely. While Veli and his gaudy taxi were on the lookout on the hill next to Nimet Doughhouse, I was remembering how my mother had never managed to fry the meat pasties to the right consistency. I ordered Veli to get out of his car and called Baybora on my mobile.
‘What’s up, chief, were we partying in your dreams, or what?’ he said.
‘A guy called Tufan rang me on this phone and asked me to join a new gang they’re setting up. They’ll pay a transfer fee of $500,000 and thirty per cent higher wages. Perhaps you’ve had wind of this?’
‘I hope you can hear yourself. So what did you say, Bedirhan?’
‘I didn’t have to say anything. He said he’d call in forty-eight hours to get my answer. He spoke as if your gang was breaking up anyway.’
‘And where are you now, my brave friend?’
‘At home.’
‘Take care – don’t move. We’ll meet up in three hours at the latest.’
I knew he would immediately pass on my mischief-making message to the Executioner and that it would explode before him like a hand grenade. My aim was to make Baybora suspicious of his boss. We crossed to the European side, pursuing the grey Audi that Baybora mistreated like a poor old mule. Climbing the outskirts we reached the hills of Arnavutköy. He parked his vehicle on Beyazgül Street sloping down to the Bosphorus under a banner headed, ‘Third Suspension Bridge: Hayır, No, Nein, Non.’ I laughed at his comical hopping walk and thought he might roll over. I sent Veli off and tailed Baybora.
I felt at home in the quiet street, as charming as market-places in the old Turkish films of the sixties, recalling a time long gone when life was relaxed and unhurried. Among the competing shop signs, the kebab shops clearly won the day. But as I approached the shore the Anatolian character of the market diminished, and it angered me to see a man from the Black Sea swaggering into the bakery.
Baybora turned right into the deserted Dubaracı Street, which was more beautiful than a dream. A narrow lane led uphill and was embellished with tall, well-kept timber houses, their balconies overhanging the street. I shivered in the name of my unresolved loneliness. The climb came to an end when I reached the turquoise-painted narrow façade of a tiny mansion. Baybora looked around, then leant on the doorbell. He entered, pushing aside the sturdy woman in an apron who opened the door. (I had four candidates in mind as Executioner.) Respectfully checking the Walther XIV hidden in my parka, I gave myself ten minutes to plan a raid on the mansion. Then the main door flew open, and a maid in her burgundy coat ran towards the side street. Did the Executioner prefer to meet his assistant alone? I approached and settled down to wait until the door opened and I could jump in. A little later, when I had raped the tired old lock with a pick, as Baybora would have put it, I found myself in a spacious living room. Baybora’s angry voice penetrated a crack in the half-glazed door and as I approached I pricked up my ears.
‘Faking or not, for the last five years I’ve been telling you to get rid of this half-wit. Just give me the word and I’ll take out this melancholic faggot ...’ I could hardly wait till he finished his sentence. I plunged into the room and fired four bullets into the neck and ugly head of this vile fellow, whose real name I had never known in twelve years. I was astonished to see that the trembling man behind the antique table was Baki Kutay, my old master, the retired colonel and book restorer. He began to sob. I was embarrassed and sat down to wait in the seat Baybora had just vacated.
My finger was still on the trigger as Baki wiped away his tears with the sleeve of his stylish jumper and started to breathe thro
ugh his nose.
‘It’s shame that made me cry, Bedirhan, not fear,’ he said. ‘Even if you’re not curious to know how I ended up like this, I’ll tell you anyway. Then you’ll put an end to my pain with a single bullet, all right, son?
‘Though they call me “Colonel” I was actually a major when I was thrown out of the army. My wife died of a brain haemorrhage while we were on manoeuvres at sea. They said she would have had a chance if I’d been with her, and when my handicapped daughter, who was very attached to her, fell into a deep depression I gradually began to lose my mind.
‘I was discharged from the army on grounds of unsuitability. No sooner was I free to enjoy rare books and Sufi music than I had news of the death of my naval officer son at sea. I’d always objected to his profession. Now I had to be strong and fight for the well-being of my grandchild. You yourself witnessed how I didn’t give up even when my right arm was put out of action. But when I heard that Dalga, whom I’d nurtured so carefully when she was a young schoolgirl, had become the lover of a professor old enough to be her father, I gave up. I kicked her out with her flirt of a mother and took refuge in alcohol. The paedophile professor’s wife was a close neighbour to me. Three months later she came to my house sobbing bitterly. She said that now Dalga had started an affair with her husband, we must find a way to at least save her son and my grandchild.
‘She was seething with hate and when she said she was prepared to pay $1 million to free herself from Mürsel forever, I asked for forty-eight hours to think about it.
‘People who are keen on books and materialistic never have any problem finding an excuse. Ada Ergenekon’s proposal could be my first and last chance to combat the series of misfortunes that were des
troying me. You and Emin, whom you know as Baybora, came to mind. I’ve always sensed a natural killer in your introverted personality, which may be genetic. Emin was my wife’s cousin, may she rest in peace; when he was shot during an operation he couldn’t accept minor police duties. He was unreliable and ambitious but while he waited to retire he had made crucial contacts in the underworld and the security forces. While investigating you we heard about the Tarlabaşı raid and our appetite was whetted. With the money I made from shooting the professor, I bought this mansion and Emin set out at once to furnish it properly. Hale committed suicide when she learned of the filthy business I’d got mixed up in, but still we wouldn’t come to our senses. Thanks to your mother, I could achieve some of the things I’d been unable to for lack of money. For the last five years, Emin has been warning me to put an end to the business, but if I’d agreed I would have been signing your death warrant too. Believe me, I couldn’t do that to you. Besides, I was curious to know where all this would lead.
‘And you turned out to be smarter than we thought, Bedirhan. I’ve lived a life of ups and downs and I’m exhausted. Today is my seventy-seventh birthday – whatever bullets you’ve left me as a present, son, I’m ready for them ...’
‘Listen, master,’ I said, ‘although I’ve realized for years that I was being manipulated by one or two smart people, I’ve never reacted. We staged a play in thirteen acts and I believe I’ve had the most fun. Last month when I reached my thirty-seventh birthday and failed to celebrate it, I vowed to get to you for the final act. In spite of our forty years’ age difference I don’t feel any less tired or less guilty than you. There are enough bullets for both of us in this gun I’m putting in front of you. I’m giving you the chance to rid this planet of one or two filthy parasites ...’
