Labyrinth

by Burhan Sonmez

  When they enter the mosque’s courtyard at around noon, they find a large crowd. There are wreaths lined up all the way along the side wall, continuing right to the wall behind the coffin. It’s clear from everyone’s faces that Zafir was well known and well loved. Some people are crying, others hugging. They are gathered in small groups, talking in low voices, with few words. A middle-aged man approaches them from the direction of the coffin. This is Uncle Ahmet, says Bek, Zafir’s uncle. The man comes up to them and embraces Boratin. Boratin is only able to speak once he has extricated himself from his arms. My condolences Uncle Ahmet, he says, I returned this morning and came straight here as soon as I heard the news. My condolences to you too Boratin, I’m glad you came. We’re going to take the body to Nehirce after the prayers. It was his last will to be buried there. Will you come with us? Bek intervenes. He embraces the uncle and offers his condolences. Thank God for friends Bek. Just then an elderly couple approaches. The uncle goes and kisses their hands. Seizing the opportunity, Boratin walks into the midst of the crowd and disappears from sight, along with Bek, who is following him. The clouds in the sky cast a very appropriate shadow over the mournful atmosphere of the funeral in the middle of the day. Tall trees are shedding their last leaves. Boratin and Bek walk along the side of the wall and stand where they can see the coffin. There is a smiling picture of Zafir placed in front of it. He is bearded, with close-cropped hair. His hair is greased. He’s wearing horn-rimmed glasses. Bek, says Boratin, what did Zafir do? He was a fashion designer. Was he married, did he have any children? He was engaged, they split up quite a while before he fell ill. Who was his fiancée, did I know her? No you didn’t. As Boratin fires one question after another he keeps the real question in his head to himself. Why aren’t I in this coffin, and why am I the one looking at the coffin from outside, he thinks. He wonders whether the reason everyone in the crowd is so well dressed is out of respect for the deceased or because they’re all from the fashion world. What would I be thinking now if I were lying in the coffin and looking at the crowd outside? Would I be grateful to everyone for dressing up in my honor, or would I feel sorry for myself because they were all still alive? I might even feel happy. Lying in the coffin, in a state of tranquility the living can’t appreciate, I would spend those last moments amid the voices of the people I loved. I would know perfectly well that their grief would be short-lived. Until my coffin was lowered into the ground, my time and their time would flow at the same pace. Then, when they started to shovel soil onto me, I would leave the time of the living and descend to the time of the dead. I would know they would soon forget me. I wouldn’t resent them for it, because I would forget them even sooner. But I would still want to know the answer to the last question in my head: Why aren’t I one of the people in the crowd looking at the coffin, instead of the person lying inside it?

  The crowd in the courtyard is getting bigger. New wreaths are added to the others lined up against the wall. Journalists photograph the coffin and the distraught faces. At one point Boratin turns around and notices a woman with long hair among a group of women entering the courtyard. He has seen her before, in the café beside the Galata Tower. Throughout the days that followed that incident he thought about her constantly, trying to work out how and where they had met in the past. As usual, it was a waste of time. Boratin heads into the heart of the crowd, saying, Let’s try not to be seen. By whom? asks Bek. By the journalists of course Bek, they might recognize us and want to take our pictures too. Come on, let’s go and stand by that tree. Boratin puts on his glasses and his beret. It’s easier to observe people from behind dark glasses. He tries to understand why everyone looks so tense. Separation must be a hard thing to bear. The dead should be buried and the living should go back out into the street. Everyone should go to their rightful places as soon as possible. That’s why they join the line for prayers. They go up to the coffin. They bow their heads before the deceased. Let’s leave, says Boratin, let’s make our escape while Zafir’s uncle is praying. Let’s go that way, by the wall. When they reach the courtyard gate Boratin takes one last look at the mass of men crowded around the coffin. Bek, he says, my doctor tells me to be like these people. She advises me to be aware of the past and to lead my life by drawing lessons from it. Apparently that’s the secret of a healthy mind. Did you notice the way they were looking at Zafir’s photograph just now? They’re pleased that that’s what he’s become. For them, memories consist of photographs. As frightened as I am about losing my memory, I’m now just as frightened of being like these people. I have a doctor’s appointment tomorrow but I’ve decided I’m not going anymore. I’m tired of talking to myself inside my head all the time, and the doctor makes me even more tired. And I’ve come to hate the word past. As I’ve forgotten the past, I want to forget the word past too. I want to cut off all ties with it. Boratin raises his voice without realizing it. Several people standing near them turn and look at him. Calm down, says Bek, calm down, let’s talk about it, okay? Okay. Just then Bek’s telephone rings. They rush out of the courtyard. Bek walks in front on the narrow sidewalk and Boratin walks behind. At the end of the street they reach a park. Once Bek has hung up, they sit on a bench in the center of it. They look up at the cloudy sky. Rain, says Boratin, when did it last rain? There’s a drought this year, says Bek, normally autumn is the rainy season in Istanbul. And once it starts it doesn’t let up. Are you curious to know what rain is like? I don’t know Bek, I’m sick and tired of everything. And if you ask what is everything, I don’t know that either. I stay at home for days on end, wandering from room to room by myself. Then I go out to get some air. The things I see and do during the time that I’m outside fill my head and keep me busy for days. This morning I discovered someone called Zafir. I came to his funeral. I spoke to his uncle. His uncle wanted to drag me all the way to Nehirce. I came across what I thought were familiar faces in the crowd. All of that wears me out. And I spend all the next days thinking, tying meaningless knots between one thing and another. All my sessions with the doctor do is multiply those knots. Boratin, says Bek, don’t strain yourself. You need time. I talk to your doctor too, and she gives me advice on what’s best for you. She says we have to be patient. Bek, does the doctor drone on to you about patience as well? Yes. Well, in that case let’s be patient then. Boratin, there’s one other thing. What is it, is it good or bad? Don’t worry, it’s good news. What is it? That was Suzan on the phone just now. Suzan? Your ex-girlfriend. She phoned from Germany, she’s coming to Istanbul next week. She wants to see you. Does she know about me? Yes. They fall silent. They gaze up at the sky’s rippling mantle. They see the gleam of a bolt of lightning flashing in the distance. Staring towards it, they wait for it to strike again. Do you think I should meet her? Yes Boratin, it would do you good to see her. Why? Should I see her because it might unlock the door of my memory, or because we might get back together again? What are you thinking Bek, tell me. I’m not thinking anything Boratin, I just think you need to meet.

  17

  I stand in front of the mirror and count. One, two, three, many. In one ancient tribe the people only counted to three, anything after that they called many. To me everything seems too many, I can’t even handle myself and my reflection in the mirror. I take the mirror off the wall. I remove it from its nail and place it carefully on the floor. The mirror and I are almost the same height. It’s heavy. And dusty. Its silvering has started to flake off. The carvings on its walnut frame have turned black. The carved rose branches are intertwined, climbing along the entire length of the frame. I wonder where to put the mirror. I could put it under the bed, or behind the wardrobe. Somewhere I won’t be able to see it. I can be free of it. The mirror’s memory has no limit. It draws everything it sees inside itself. It keeps the old me, the naked me, the sleeping me inside it. Even I don’t know what I’m like when I’m asleep, but the mirror does. It never sleeps. Perhaps it thinks I’m a mirror too. It waits. What for, I don’t know. I too slow down to its
time and wait. For days. Weeks. Mornings renew one another, nights follow on from one another. The color of the sky fluctuates between blue and gray. Autumn simply won’t pass. Ever since I opened my eyes in the hospital I’ve been in the same season. I can neither go back to summer nor move on to winter. Sometimes, on moonless dark nights, I can hear the sounds of a miner digging in the mirror. The dull sounds coming from far underground are carving holes in the rocks. It’s a mine that’s been operating for thousands of years. It smells damp. Every sound that comes from the rocks is the equivalent of a word. Words I used to know the meaning of, but that now seem distant, ring out. I’ve forgotten my old language along with my past. People speak one language to the outside world and another language to themselves. A language that’s kind to itself can be brutal to others. A language that’s compassionate to itself can be vicious to others. I opened my eyes in the hospital. I came to an apartment. I saw a handful of people. That’s all. I haven’t managed to see a language in which I can understand myself. I’m waiting in case I can find it in the mirror. I eat, sit, and sleep in front of the mirror. I wake up and repeat the previous day. I’m suspicious of myself. Because the Boratin in the mirror stares at me suspiciously. What have I done wrong? No one can know what happened before they were born. And I don’t know about my previous life either. I’m not even sure if I need to know anymore. I realize that, in fact, a person’s life doesn’t serve to remember the past, but to forget it, bit by bit. The most distant past is yesterday. Christ was crucified just yesterday. Rome was burnt yesterday. Istanbul was conquered yesterday. That’s it. The rest is all forgotten. The mirror alone hasn’t forgotten any of it.

  I pick up the mirror, place it on the other side of the bed and turn it to face the balcony door. I gaze at the image of Istanbul inside it. The slender Beyazıt Tower tapers up to the sky. The rooftops of Topkapı Palace and the trees in Gülhane Park merge. The Golden Horn, where many-oared galleys anchored a thousand years ago, now abounds with ships with many machines. The mirror doesn’t show the last Istanbul fire that wiped out entire neighborhoods of wooden buildings. It does not display the bodies of rebels that are hung from the trees in Gülhane every hundred years. It keeps the past to itself, reflecting only the present. This is enough, it says, this is enough for you. On the opposite balcony, freshly laundered sheets flutter in the autumn wind. Beyond the sheets, a lighthouse flashes in the distance. Stars disappear, then reappear in its beam. I could make do with that. I could get used to this city, and to myself. I could live with a blank memory. That’s all. There’s just one thing I would want to know: What was there in life that was worth dying for? Why did people kill themselves when death was just a word? People didn’t know what death was before they found a word for it. Animals don’t know what death is. They don’t know what the past is either. They simply live and die. People created the past. They dressed it up with words. On that map known as the past, people were sometimes happy and they sometimes shed blood. The mirror knows that well. It’s not for nothing that it reflects Istanbul’s buildings and trees, but conceals the past. And that’s also the reason for its silence where I’m concerned. The clouds grow denser. The color of the leaves in the mirror fades. There are pieces of broken eggshell in the middle of the balcony. I can’t be certain I have seen them. I turn away from the mirror and walk to the balcony. I look at the two broken eggs among the leaves. When did that happen? The white shells of the eggs have shattered into small pieces. They have dried up inside. Dust obscures their color. I pick up a dry leaf. I crumble it into the palm of my hand. Eventually I pluck up the courage to have a look at the nest on the left. I can’t see the pigeon there. I step barefoot on the leaves and climb up onto the balcony railings. There are no eggs inside the nest. It’s not difficult to work out that the eggs on the ground fell out of the nest, or rather that they were thrown out. Was it the crows who did it, or the seagulls, or the owls that huddle in the rafters of old buildings? If they had done it they wouldn’t have let the eggs dry out, they would have eaten them. Did the pigeon do it herself? Maybe chicks were never going to hatch out of those eggs. The pigeon realized that and flung them on the ground. She vacated the nest that she had gone to so much trouble to build and abandoned it. Or maybe she did it for no reason and there was nothing wrong with the eggs. The pigeon was sitting on her eggs as usual. The weary nocturnal cars were passing through the street. The houses were drifting off to sleep one by one. The horn of a cargo ship sounded in the distance. The pigeon perched on the edge of the nest. She examined the eggs at length, as though seeing them for the first time. She turned to face the sky. She waited for a sign from above, for the flutter of wings. It was dark. It was cold. She didn’t wait for long. She picked up the eggs, and dropped one, then the other, into empty space. She watched the eggs smash on the concrete. Then she flew away.

  I cover the eggs with a handful of leaves. I give the chicks a burial, even though they were never born. I stand up and dust myself off. I go into the bedroom and close the balcony door. I sit on the bed, beside the mirror. I put my hand on the mirror’s shoulder. Like a friend. I pick up one of the bottles of pills on the bedside table. I take a pill and wash it down with a big gulp of water. A pill from the other bottle. And one from the third bottle. I’m coming to the end of today. Children have bedtime stories, I have bedtime pills. I prepare myself to sleep. Or at least to try. Perhaps tonight’s the night. When I’ll sleep and wake up in the morning to find my mind budding with fresh green shoots. When I’ll hum the tune of a new composition. I pick up the mirror and carry it back to its old place. I wanted to get rid of it for depriving me of sleep and hiding my past from me, but the mirror isn’t to blame. It’s not the mirror that’s superfluous in this room, it’s me. The bed, the curtains, the wardrobe, the bedside table, the lamp, and the mirror are all in harmony. They were here before I arrived. The balcony railings, the opposite balcony, the salty smell of the sea were all here. To be kind to myself I have to be kind to the mirror. It didn’t harm me, I harmed myself. Apparently I was a good person in the past, I was happy. Why then did I want to jump off the bridge and die, and become fish food at the bottom of the sea? Become fish food? That probably hadn’t occurred to me. Otherwise I would have thought twice about jumping (would I have thought twice?). Holding the mirror on both sides, I replace it on its nail on the wall. I step back and examine myself. The Boratin in the mirror looks calmer. I try speaking to him again. Hello, I say. Hello, he says. I’m a musician, I say. I’m a musician, he says. I’m well, I say. I’m well, he says. We speak at the same time, it’s not clear who is mimicking whom. We could play this game every day, one day we might even manage to laugh together. I love you, I say. I love you, he says. I say it again. He says it again. My mind grows weary. There was once a Persian king who knew the names of every one of his soldiers, I’m afraid of being like him one day, of remembering everything. I can make do with little. One, two, three. I can get used to myself, live with little. The rest is too many.