Labyrinth

by Burhan Sonmez

  5

  Bek, what was I like before, what sort of person was I, what did I look like? If you’re talking about your weight, you were always this size. Your hair used to be shorter, then you started growing it. We can go to the hairdresser’s today if you like, then I can get a haircut and shave as well. Okay, didn’t I have any distinguishing scars, or illnesses, or did I ever have any plastic surgery…? What are you on about Boratin, you’re the envy of everyone in town. Didn’t you see the way the woman serving you at the bank was looking at you? Even though I was the one talking to her, she couldn’t take her eyes off you. When she asked for your phone number I don’t think she was interested in adding it to your account details, she looked as though she was planning to phone you after work. If she doesn’t you can always go back to the bank one day.

  Boratin’s face remains expressionless. Shall we go and get a drink, he says. Okay, but let’s sort out your business first. What business? Don’t you remember you said you wanted to buy an alarm clock? Don’t worry if you’ve forgotten, we all have our little lapses. I don’t know what you want it for anyway, the last thing you need is an alarm clock. Right now you don’t need to wake up, you need to sleep. Pull yourself together a bit first, then I’ll buy you one. Boratin looks at the watchseller’s shop on the other side of the square. He makes no move to cross over. He turns his head and glances at the buildings on the right. Their facades are painted in different colors. Which one looks the best? The ice-blue four-story building reminds him of the color of one of the guitars at home. On the ground floor there’s a café with tables spilling out into the square. Boratin starts walking towards one of them. As he sits down, he realizes he’s tired. From trudging up streets. It’s going to take time to acclimatize to the city. I mustn’t rush, he thinks. Like the spider in the book dealer’s shop window, he should wait for everything to come to him without leaving his web, the past included. People look at life in the same way as they look at books in a book dealer’s shop. New books are cheap, old ones expensive. In life too, old time is important. It’s yesterday that’s valuable, not today, and the day before that even more so. That’s why they’re trying to give Boratin a past. If he said, I don’t understand. If he asked, if I’m here today I may also be here tomorrow, but how can I exist yesterday? They would look at him with pity. They would offer him explanations. Their coffees arrive quickly. As Bek adds sugar and stirs his coffee, he examines him out of the corner of his eye. Boratin doesn’t touch the sugar, he raises the cup to his lips slowly and takes a sip. He likes the strong taste in his mouth, he takes another sip. Does it matter how he drank his coffee in the past? Today he likes, is able to like it, like this. If he used to take sugar in his coffee but now prefers it without sugar, what conclusions should he draw from that? He can’t make any sense of his mind. Do we have any other errands left? he asks Bek. We’ve bought you a new phone, we’ve applied for a credit card, we’ve got you a new ID to replace the one that got damaged in the water. Bek counts the completed errands on his fingers. When he gets to his fourth finger, he says, Your driver’s license is unusable too, we’ll sort that out tomorrow. Why do I need a driver’s license, have I got a car? No, but you sometimes borrow my motorbike and go out for a spin. It’s only then that Boratin notices the two boys and two girls standing beside the motorbikes parked on the other side of the square. He imagines himself as being like them. Maybe he used to jump on his motorbike and come here with his friends. Maybe he used to drink standing up, like them, rest his head on the shoulder of the girl next to him, grab the bottle out of her hand and take a swig. He was getting ready to hit the road. In a moment he would put on his sunglasses, sit the girl behind him on the motorbike, bow his head slightly and drive into the wind. Nothing would matter, except experiencing that moment. The girl with her arms around his waist would lean her body against his. They were being transported by pure speed. The world would flow by them on both sides, painted in hazy colors.

  They order another coffee. Are we both the same age? asks Boratin. Yes, says Bek, we’ve turned twenty-eight. It doesn’t matter that you didn’t know how old you were when the woman in the bank asked. When someone asks me out of the blue like that I sometimes have to stop and rack my brain too. What would you do in my position, says Boratin, I mean if you forgot your past? I would trust you Boratin. As long as you were beside me I’d follow you and your memory. That’s what we normally do anyway. We listen to what others remember and compare it with what we know, and quite often we realize there are gaps in our mind and things we’ve got wrong. I’ve been thinking about your predicament for the past few days, and it doesn’t strike me as all that scary. Everyone goes out of their way to live without a past anyway. Look at all these people, sitting at tables, walking through the square. They live as though they have no yesterday, as though they only belong to today. Boratin looks at the faces in the square. He turns his head and examines the people sitting at the neighboring tables. When his gaze alights on the far end of the café, he meets the eye of a woman sitting by herself several tables away. They haven’t made eye contact by chance. He notices her unblinking eyes staring at him. She knows him, she’s staring resolutely, as though she’s been sitting there waiting for this moment from the start. Her hair is long, her eyebrows are long, the fingers holding her cigarette are long. She looks the same age as him. As she takes a drag from her cigarette and exhales the smoke, the expression on her face changes. Her eyes become more hostile. She exposes her teeth between her slightly quivering lips. There are things she wants to say. He can see that from the tension in her lips. Boratin averts his eyes and turns to look ahead of him. He reaches over to the packet in Bek’s hand and takes a cigarette. He flicks on the lighter. Is a person’s past like this woman? Its eyes bore into you night and day. Her face is attractive, her gaze is confident and, for some reason, angry. You know it’s there even if you don’t turn and look. You focus on the people and the sounds passing in front of you, but your mind is held by the gaze behind you. No matter how fast you move, it will be there behind you. When you surreptitiously turn your head, you see it, it’s there. While it is certain of what it’s going to do, you have no idea. Bek, you say, do you know the woman sitting at the back, at the table near the wall? You both look together. The woman has turned her face away, she’s talking on the phone. She’s twiddling a lock of her hair with one hand. No I don’t, says Bek, why do you ask? She was just looking at us, or maybe I just imagined it. Since the morning I had quickly grown used to nobody in the street seeing me, or turning and looking at my face. I found it bewildering now to come eye to eye with someone. I’d love it if no eye could touch me. If I never felt anyone’s gaze on my back. If I could walk into any street I liked and sit anywhere I wanted, when I wanted. If the perfume of the women walking past me smelled familiar, but none of them turned and looked at me. If they did I have no idea what I would do. If they greeted me and asked how I was, what would I say? I’m sorry, I’ve lost my memory, I don’t know who you are. Maybe I’ll remember you next time we meet. Until then you must bear in mind that, even if you haven’t forgotten me, I’ve forgotten you. Tell our common acquaintances. So they’ll realize how serious things are. I don’t want anyone to be offended by my blank expression, or to stare after me and make me uneasy. How did it happen? I don’t know any more than you do. I opened my eyes, I’m nobody. I have a body. That’s all. I read my name on my half-destroyed ID card. I watched my face in the mirror. I looked at the covers of the records I’ve collected. What did I feel when I looked at them before? What if I’ll never know? Or what if I thought it was all a dream. If, when I woke up, I told the people around me that I dreamed I was friends with someone who went by the odd name of Bek and that a woman with long hair was watching me, but I didn’t remember them. And we all laughed together. If I said I was a blues singer (blues?) and that I was just as famous for my good looks as I was for my voice and we laughed some more. There’s no past in dreams. In dreams people only live
that moment, they’re not aware of the past. This is me.

  I turn and look at the woman behind me. I try to look for some meaning in her eyes. She turns her head, raises her hand, and asks the waiter for the bill. She takes out her purse. She tosses her phone, her cigarette packet, and her lighter in her bag. It’s a bit hot here, I say to Bek, shall we go? We too pay our bill. We walk down the street on the corner of the square, going back the way we came. Yüksek Kaldırım has become even more congested. There’s different music blaring out of every shop. A child on a street corner is selling water from a bucket filled with bottles. Cold, ice cold water. A man who looks like a writer strolls through the crowd in an overcoat and felt hat. He walks along the cobbled road holding a book. He stops for breath when he reaches the book dealer’s I was just in. While straightening his hat he glances at the old books in the shop window. Then he looks at his watch. Unlike me, he has no trouble differentiating between one year ago and a hundred years ago. I bump into someone walking past me. I stumble. The pain in my rib smarts. I stop and take deep breaths. Are you all right? asks Bek. Yes, I’m fine. I’m trying not to lose sight of the long-haired woman walking a few paces ahead. I keep her within range. Loud laughter pours out of a café on the left. The happiness of the group—quite clearly tourists—sitting on the kilim-upholstered armchairs pervades the street. We’ve been to this café together a few times, says Bek, the burgers here are delicious. Do you fancy something to eat? No, I say, let’s walk around a bit first, then we can eat.

  I cast a look at the crowd growing before our eyes. When I fail to see the long-haired woman, I realize I’ve lost her. The woman, swept along by the tide, leaves just as she arrived. She wasn’t in my life and now she vanishes completely. My eyes scour the streets in vain. Shops selling musical instruments, sign painters, döner kebab restaurants. People come out of one and head inside another. There’s a mysterious happiness in this crowd. A happiness that’s unknown to me. Maybe it’s unknown to them too. When we reach the avenue at the end of the street, the roar of cars drowns out every other sound. We walk past old men selling tissues, and down-and-out buskers playing the saz. Like everyone else, we skirt two meters around the sleeping dog sprawled out in the street, to avoid disturbing it. We turn the corner at a gray building with solid walls. There, a sea bursting out of its mold appears before us. It’s indigo blue. Cold. I didn’t know the sea was so close. It thrashes from Galata Bridge to the Bosphorus, and from there towards the Marmara. A leaping wave crashes to the shore and spreads out on the cobblestones, seeping into the soil through the cracks. The blue of the sea, broken stones, soil. I take a step back. I reach over and take Bek’s arm. I tug him along with me, as though we’re rushing to get somewhere. I stride past the benches. I turn onto the street opposite the quay. Once on the narrow street, the sound of the waves abates, as does the wind. I slow down. The ferry must be due, people are scuttling towards the quay. They are racing to catch the last hours of a day that is practically over. Everyone is in a hurry. The ferry is about to leave. I bump into someone again. I must have a habit of bumping into people. I need to learn how to walk in a crowd all over again. I stand aside to give way. It’s the long-haired woman. She’s staring at me in disbelief. Fool, she whispers, you fool. She whips her sunglasses off the top of her head, puts them on and sweeps past angrily. Bek touches me on the shoulder, Are you all right? he asks. Yes, I say, I think so. Roaming the streets all day has tired me out. I don’t think I’ll go out to meet our friends tonight. I can see them another time. I’d better go home and rest.

  6

  Bek takes me home. He’s worried because I won’t let him stay with me tonight either. See you, he says. Bye, I reply. I’m talking to myself inside a circle. Ever since I’ve been home I’ve been repeating the same resolution: I’m not going to force myself to think about the past. That’s what I say, but then I can’t do anything but worry about it. It’s like telling someone who wakes up in the dark not to look at it. Wherever he turns it’s dark, if he closes his eyes it’s still dark. Far away, in the depths of infinity, light has not yet appeared. Can the opposite of dark be sound instead of light? The sound of this house. The sound of the bell. The sound of music. I look at the album covers on the wall. I go and sit beside the record collection. I run my fingers over the records. I select a record and examine its cover. Then another, and another. I know all the singers on the covers, but I don’t remember when or where I bought them. I chance upon a Bessie Smith album. Her lips are parted in the cover photograph, she’s smiling as though she wants to give me some of her breath. I cover her mouth with my hand. I keep it there until my hand starts sweating. When I take it away I notice that she’s still smiling at me. I take the record out of its sleeve. I’m not sure how I should hold it. After turning it between my fingers, I place it on the record player and press ON. I lift the needle. The record wobbles as it rotates. And crackles when I lower the needle onto it. A piano starts to play. A piano with worn keys, covered in an unholy amount of dust. Bessie Smith’s throaty voice spills out. I’ve got the blues. I feel so lonely. I’ll give the world if I could only make you understand. I understand the lyrics. Which must mean I know English. And I also know that it’s English she’s singing in. I lie on my back in the middle of the living room. ’Cause when you’re gone, I’m worried all day long…. I stretch my arms out. The coolness of the floor flows from my back to my chest. Outside, evening is approaching fast. Anyone can sense the full moon rising even without looking out the window. There is a faint breeze in the street. There are piles of rubbish heaped up by dark walls. The sound of laughter comes through an open window. A young couple are kissing on a street corner. They have no money in their pockets and no room to go to. A man appears on the opposite sidewalk, he stops and lights a cigarette. The dogs accompanying him stop too. Anyone walking alone at this time of night should either smoke a cigarette or have a drink, and find a corner to curl up in before midnight strikes. I hear whistling. The whistler is a young man sitting under the streetlamp a bit farther up the road. He’s obviously waiting for someone. Occasionally he turns his head to see if there’s anyone coming from the other end. He’s whistling a Bessie Smith song. I can’t tell if it’s happy or sad. Images form in my mind as I listen to the song, but I don’t feel anything. One lifeless apparition follows another, people and sounds merge into the night. I listen to the song without any joy or nostalgia. What did I feel in the past? Baby won’t you please come home, Baby won’t you please come home…. Something’s ringing. I turn my head and look. It’s the phone.

  I reach over to the faded coffee table for the phone that looks older than I am. I lift the receiver and place it on my ear. A distant humming that reminds me of the mechanical sound of cables. The cables, that at this moment are transmitting who knows how many thousands of voices, in who knows how many thousands of houses, quiver and echo. I wait for a voice to reach me. When I don’t hear anything I place the receiver on my other ear. Boratin, says a woman. Her voice is throaty, like Bessie Smith’s. That’s why it sounds familiar. Abla, I say. Yes my love, it’s me. After that there might be silence. Or, she might speak and I might just make noises of approval. Are you there Boratin? Yes Abla, I’m here. That’s the only thing I know. I’m here, inside an apartment I don’t know. Boratin, I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for days. Are you inundated with concerts again? What if I said, Abla, I don’t know you? What if I said, if I saw you in the street I wouldn’t recognize you? Instead I say, Abla, I’m really busy, I’m usually out all day and I get back late. You’re in Istanbul Boratin, that’s enough to wear anyone out. Just seeing it in films makes my hair stand on end, even from this distance. You’re young and you don’t look after yourself. It was the same when you were little, you’d go out to play marbles and forget all about dinner, you’d spend all day chasing after a ball in the street until evening. Then you got hooked on the guitar. My sister says the same thing every time she phones me. I can tell by her calm voice.
Every phone call features examples from my childhood. Remembering the past gives her joy. She loves giving me affectionate warnings. Don’t go neglecting your health and getting ill. No Abla, I’m not that careless. Talking to my sister is a game. I get the hang of it straightaway. Is this what life is? If I’m going to live out the rest of my days and years playing games like these…. You say you’re not careless, but don’t forget that time last spring when you stayed out in the rain and got ill. I have forgotten. One day I hope I’ll be able to tell my sister that. When you were a child, she says, you would get so engrossed in whatever you were playing, you would stay outside in the rain. Would I? I think of a child in a small town growing up in the rain. I remember rain from books and films but I don’t know what it looks like. That child is as happy as children in films, until he realizes there are other lives in the world, and that he can reach them. No one can rein him in. He can feel the whip of dreams flogging his back. He wants to make time go faster, to make life flow at top speed, to make the roads ahead of him clear. And, when the time comes, to go away. Was that the kind of child I was? How did I get a yearning for the guitar in a small town? I push the question away. How are you Abla, is everyone well? We’re well, I can’t complain, you know, seeing neighbors and that. One of our lodgers is leaving, I’ve found a new one, he’s moving in next month. Aladdin drafted and wrote the contract all by himself. He’s grown huge since you last saw him. I listen to my sister’s words carefully, trying to work out who Aladdin is. Well done Aladdin, I say, he’s grown that big then. What do I think I’m doing? Oh yes, Uncle Boratin, you should see how tall he’s grown…. It’s been such a long time since I’ve seen him Abla, time flies so quickly. Yes, it’s been three years, it just flows by like water. Every summer Aladdin dreams that you’ll come and spend the holiday with him. Are you counting the years? Well, the last time you came was to your brother-in-law’s funeral. With time Aladdin has gotten used to his father not being around, he’s pinned all his hopes on you now. He’s so happy when you send him presents, when he’s opening them he asks, when is my uncle coming? Just recently he’s started to sing songs, just like you. He plants a chair in front of the mirror and sits and sings for hours. And do you know what, his voice sounds like yours. I haven’t been to see my sister and my fatherless nephew for all these years. What sort of a person am I, or rather, what sort of a person was I? I’m going to come, I say, just let me get some of this work out of the way and I’ll come and see you. The words pop out of my mouth. Do you mean it, are you really coming? She’s so delighted it’s obvious I’ve never said anything like that before. Three years that pass without seeing a sister. Yes, I have a handful of concerts, but after that I’ll come and stay with you for a while. Come Boratin, I’ve missed you so much. When you were at university you used to come every month. In those days I used to tell you not to come so often, I didn’t want you to miss your classes. I couldn’t bear to think of you traveling for twelve hours. Did it take twelve hours Abla? You see, it’s been so long since you’ve been here, you can’t even remember the way. In those days you used to tell me the journey wasn’t tiring. You would get the night train from Haydarpaşa Station and be at Nehirce the next morning. It made me so happy when you suddenly showed up at the door. Every time you came you’d say, Nehirce hasn’t changed. I don’t know if it was reproach or satisfaction that I could detect in your voice, but you’d say it with a little smile. Oh, I would ask, and does Istanbul change then? Yes, you would say, it does, along with everything and everyone in it. What you see today might not be there tomorrow, and in the evening you may say that what you believed in the morning is a lie. Everyone trains their soul accordingly. Is Istanbul still changing Boratin? I don’t know what to say. If I told her Istanbul hasn’t changed for several days, that it’s stuck in a never-ending moment, she wouldn’t believe me. Lies and the truth are one now. Right and wrong are the same. Mosques built from stone and steel skyscrapers look as though they’re the same age. Istanbul has stopped, I’ve stopped. I got lost at the time gate separating old and new. I’m searching for a word to believe in. I think the dead are still alive, maybe I’m under the impression that a lot of the living are dead. My mind is a graveyard where the living and the dead lie wrapped in each other’s arms. The stench of rotten meat mixes with the most tantalizing perfumes. Who is the one speaking, who is the one groaning, who is the one who’s going to wake up the next morning and go to work? When the telephone rings who is going to reach over and pick up the receiver, speak, grow anxious? If my mind was this convoluted when I was a small child still living in Nehirce, my sister will know. One day I’ll be able to ask her. I’ll be able to find out if I have a past I might wish to return to. If I left and haven’t been back except for funerals, is it entirely my fault? A Nehirce that can’t win my affection can’t be all that perfect. Boratin are you there? I’m like water seeping out of a broken cup. I can’t return to my cup, and if I did, it wouldn’t be able to contain me. My fate is to want to sleep and not be able to, to read the names in my address book over and over again and not be able to remember them, and to wake up every day and stare at the endless contours of the wall. If there is a God (is there?) It plays a different game of fate with each of Its mortals. And this is the one that’s fallen to me. The songs on the record don’t shed any light. Images are lifeless, I can’t touch them. I can’t feel what I do touch. I can’t understand what I feel. There is a way out, it’s out there somewhere, waiting, but every morning I start the day without knowing what I’m going to do. Boratin, darling? As I listen to my sister, Bessie Smith’s face swims before my eyes. She’s smiling benevolently, as though she wants to give me some of her breath.