Labyrinth

by Burhan Sonmez

  Boratin…Boratin…. I turn at the sound of Bek’s voice. Are you all right, he says, you drifted off. It’s only then that I realize I was talking to myself. I’m fine, I say, I was engrossed in those lovely drawings on the wall. The more I look at them the further away they seem. It’s turned cloudy, says Bek, it got dark early, that’s why the drawings give you that impression. Are those rain clouds? I ask. I think so, he says, this time it’s really going to rain. It’s the first time I’ve seen clouds so close up, I say. If I go up to the rooftop I’ll be able to touch them. If it rains I don’t know what I have to do, should I stay here, or should I go inside? When it rains wait for a bit, he says, get a feel for what it is and then go inside. Otherwise you’ll get drenched. Watching the rain from inside, from the window, is nice too. Do you know something Boratin, you wrote a great song about rain. It can be the opening number at the concert this weekend, we can sing your song. Bek looks at my face and waits for my reaction. There’s no point in looking at me, I say, I don’t remember the song. I’m sure it’s a song with minor defects hidden inside it. Why do you say that Boratin, it would never occur to anyone to pick holes in your songs. If you listened to it now you’d see how mistaken you are. Shall I sing it to you? No, don’t, I say, I’ll find bits where the lyrics don’t fit the music and I’ll get into a mood. Bek doesn’t understand why I said that. He doesn’t insist. I’d better go, he says, or I’ll be late for the rehearsal. He stands up. Then he orders a rice pudding from the waiter, who comes up just at that moment. You used to like the rice pudding here, he says, just taste it. He puts his hand on my shoulder. Let’s talk tomorrow, he says, tomorrow everything will be all right. I’m going to tell you something, I say. Go ahead, he says. I’m going to go and see my sister, in Nehirce. When are you going, he says. As soon as possible, I say. Bek remains standing for a few seconds, then sits back down again. How soon is as soon as possible? he asks. He imagines what’s going through my head. He knows me better than I know myself. Bek, I say, I’m content with what I have left from my old life. You, one or two others, and the guitars that I haven’t touched yet. I don’t feel like there’s anything missing. My ex-girlfriend isn’t something that’s lacking in my life. The only person from my past I want to reach out to is my sister. She’s been waiting for me for weeks, years maybe. Every time, I tell her I’ll go and see her soon. What am I waiting for? You tell me, what am I waiting for? Go whenever you like, says Bek, in a soothing tone. You have to start taking your life into your own hands sometime. But do it soon, otherwise you might change your mind. Okay, I say, you go now, you’ll be late for the rehearsal. I’ll stay a bit longer, we can chat, he says. No, I object, I can’t have you keeping the others waiting because of me. All right, he says, but keep your phone switched on. I will, I say. Otherwise I’ll worry, he says. He smiles, his eyes half closed. He stands up again. He smooths back his hair. He looks around him. He picks up his bag and goes. I watch Bek walking, I watch his head bowed with concern, and I watch him disappear at the end of the street. I drain my cup of coffee. I stub my cigarette out in the ashtray. I don’t touch the rice pudding the waiter brings. I pay the bill and leave.

  I stride quickly through the streets. At each corner, before crossing to the other side, I gaze up at the sky. Fifteen minutes later I arrive home. I pack my rucksack. A few changes of clothing, a couple of records, that’s all. The records are for my nephew. I now switch off the lights that I always leave on. I run down the stairs. I put the rucksack down on the edge of the sidewalk. I raise my hand to hail a cab. Our grocer is nowhere to be seen. He must have a customer. Before long a taxi draws up. I say I’m going to Haydarpaşa Train Station. Right away young man, says the driver. He has gray hair and thick glasses. He’s wearing a suit and tie. He’s very likely a retired civil servant. As he drives into the heavy traffic he says, This is because of the gas tanker. What gas tanker? I say. There’s been an accident in the Bosphorus with a gas tanker, all the ferries have been suspended, they’ve been talking about it on the radio all afternoon. Now everyone’s trying to cross over to the other side by car. I hope you’re not in a hurry. I still have some time, I say, it’s not evening yet. In the back seat, by the window, I look up. I listen to what they’re saying on the radio. They’re talking about soccer matches. They switch from praise to criticism of the teams, the coaches, the players. I remember every name they mention. That side of my memory is still fresh. I only confuse the time of one player. I assumed he was still alive, but it turns out he’s been dead for many years. After that there’s a music program. One Arabesk song plays after another. Our car inches its way to the Bosphorus Bridge, amid the deafening horns of irate drivers. The evening’s darkness cloaks the horizon. The lights on the other side begin to come on at the same time as the lights on the bridge. The traffic advances at a snail’s pace. And then the radio announces that the accident involving the petrol tanker is under control and that the ferries are up and running again. Time for the sea to come back to life. If I could pluck up the courage to look down I’d see the ships sailing on the Bosphorus. I can make out the lights of the boats to-ing and fro-ing like fireflies between Beşiktaş and Üsküdar. If I could distract myself with the ships and the boats’ lights I’d be able to stop thinking about the night of my suicide. No matter how hard I try, I don’t succeed. It’s all reenacted before my eyes, as though I’m watching a film. On the last night of my previous life too I was slumped in the back seat of a taxi, just like now. I was alone. I wanted to sleep. Maybe I was dreaming. When was it, a month ago, two months ago, or two thousand years ago? Eventually I woke up. I saw that the cars were stuck in a traffic jam. My taxi driver was standing outside, talking on the telephone. Other drivers had got out too, and were looking at the accident further ahead. I realized I was in the middle of the Bosphorus Bridge. Instead of the traffic, I thought about the sea. I opened the door of the taxi and went to the edge of the bridge. I gazed at the sky and the lights on the other side. Mustering up all my courage, I climbed onto the metal railings. I held out my arms. I took deep breaths. I waited for the wind that would carry me off. It was night. Perhaps that was why I didn’t realize just how deep the sea was. The darkness made me forget about depth. Istanbul was buzzing. The sounds coming from the shores and the slopes all became a single buzz. In the middle of Istanbul, in the middle of the sea, in the middle of the night, between two continents, in the middle of the world and in the middle of life I was as light as a feather. I couldn’t hear the shouts of the people around me. I wanted to go back to sleep. I closed my eyes and released myself into the void. Like a bird. That’s what the taxi driver said. And as he described it he moved his outstretched arms up and down like wings.

  21

  It’s completely dark when we arrive at Haydarpaşa Station. I glance around. Except for a couple walking hand in hand on the seafront and another couple sitting on a bench, there’s no one around. The jetty farther ahead is deserted. A ferry stands there with its lights switched off. Why is it so quiet, I ask, is it because it’s midweek? The taxi driver turns around and looks at me. Have you come here to meet your girlfriend son? he asks. No, I say, I’ve come to take a train. You’re obviously not from here, he says. Where did you get that idea from? I say. Don’t you know that the train station’s closed and that the trains don’t run anymore? he says. Really, I say. I gaze at the station’s large, brightly lit facade. If the station’s closed, I say, then why are all the lights still on? They illuminate it to make it look pretty from a distance, he says, it attracts tourists, youngsters meet here. When did it close, I say, and why? A few years ago the station roof caught fire, he says, all the trains were suspended. The trains go from the other side of Istanbul now, from Pendik. I’ll take you there if you want. No, I say, I’ll get out here, I’ll have a look around, and admire the Istanbul on the other side. You’re not from here, he says, you might as well get a view of Istanbul from this angle too, now that you’ve come. This time I go along with the taxi driver�
��s assumption. That’s right, I’m a stranger here, I say. Have you just arrived? he asks. It’s been a few months, I say. I thank him and pay the fare. I get out of the taxi and wave after him, as though seeing off a close friend. He sounds his horn in return.

  I put my rucksack down on the first step. I raise my head and gaze at the rows and rows of windows and the station’s towers reaching up to the dark sky. I climb up the steps. I come to the great door on the right-hand side of the station. The jambs are made of the kind of dark wood that looks aged as it wears. The door pledges a new world to everyone who passes through it. I push it. It’s closed. I try again. It’s clearly locked. I peer through one of the windows in the door, looking for signs of life inside. Nothing is visible but darkness. I hold my breath. I’m expecting to hear a locomotive inside, or a whistle, or the crackle of a loudspeaker making an announcement to the passengers. Instead, I hear the deafening shriek of seagulls. I raise my head and look up. A flock of seagulls is flying over me, one after the other. They’re so close I can feel the current from their wings in my hair. I notice the large arched window between the station’s two doors. Its glass is all different colors. Above it is a clock with a white face. It has stopped. The hour and minute hands may well be positioned at the precise moment when the fire began. They remain motionless, at 3:30. The harsh southwestern wind lashes at the clock. I raise my collar and huddle into my coat. I sit down on the steps, like someone who has nowhere to go. I contemplate the other side of the sea, the opposite shore. The domes, minarets, and towers are illuminated on that side too. The two continents of Istanbul are staring at each other, with the same lights. Everyone who sits on one shore and observes the other side can imagine what they look like from the opposite shore. As though they are gazing into a distant mirror. I too think of someone sitting on the opposite shore, like me, the pain in his rib stabbing harder the colder it gets. I’m worried about him. He can’t take the train, he can’t go back to his hometown. He doesn’t know what to do, apart from sit here. The waves are angry. The clouds are thick and dense, as though intent on wreaking vengeance on the moons. I am alone. Like the empty ferry anchored at the jetty. The doors of the jetty are closed, its lights switched off. Why do they anchor ferries at a jetty that’s not used anymore? The lighthouse at the end of the breakwater shines for that ferry, informing distant passing ships of its whereabouts. As I gazed out of the open door of my balcony in my apartment on the opposite shore, I used to see the lighthouse and think the flashing light was summoning me here. Every night, bit by bit, I carved out a path for myself leading here. Of course I knew about the fire at Haydarpaşa Station, but I was under the impression that it had happened a hundred years ago. The lighthouse isn’t to blame for that. It guided me to the right place, but didn’t mention anything about time. It flashed on and off in the calendar of darkness.

  The couple sitting on the bench below get up and leave. It’s not long before the couple strolling on the seafront follow suit. A lizard appears under my foot. Who knows where it came from. Perhaps from under the station door that keeps the darkness locked inside it, or perhaps from the deck of the ferry lying at the jetty. The lizard has a slender waist and a long tail. Its green skin slithers across the slippery marble. It stops beside a crevice. It raises its head, sniffs the air, and listens to the wind. Just then my phone beeps. A message. It’s not Bek, he prefers to call. My messages are all either adverts, or from Hayala. I open it and read it. How are you doing, writes Hayala, I’m here if you need anything. I know she’s there. Although we’ve only met once, I feel as though I’ve known her for years. She’s understanding about my unresponsiveness to her messages. When I do occasionally reply she says, don’t force yourself to write to me. Just don’t forget I’m here, that’s all. I don’t forget. Tonight I was planning to write to her from the train. I was going to say, I’m on the train. I was going to say, I’m off to stay with my sister for a while. I was going to say, the passengers next to me are asleep. The metal wheels slide over the tracks as though they’re singing a lullaby. I watch the darkness out of the window. I’m waiting for a song that’s on the tip of my tongue to take shape. Those who have fallen asleep are at peace, those who can’t sleep hang suspended on the night’s echoes. A bolt of lightning strikes on the horizon, at the most inaccessible point in the sky. The clouds quiver. Several trees beyond the steps bow down before the wind. I suddenly feel cold. I stand up. Slowly I climb back down the worn-out steps. I’m in no hurry to get anywhere. The sea will always be waiting at the same spot, just beyond the steps. At the place where light and darkness join together. Instead of going along the sea, I head towards the jetty. I count my steps. Forty-one, forty-two, forty-three…. I walk the entire length of the jetty’s tiled walls. I arrive at the metal railings and stop. I place my hands on the railings. I examine the slender prow of the ferry on my right. Despite being tied to the jetty with thick ropes, it’s rocking in the arms of the waves. Perhaps, like me, it too was unaware that the station had closed. It came here with its head full of dreams, spouting smoke, sounding its horn. It threw down its anchor. And never left again. But a boundless sea stretched before it. It could set sail. It could find itself new jetties (could it?). There is a loud crash of thunder from the direction of the Marmara Sea. Before its echo has subsided, another crash follows it. I want to know the meaning of thunder, like I want to know the meaning of everything. The meaning of the sea, the meaning of the dark, the meaning of letters and notes. The meaning of going, staying, forgetting, remembering. Only then could I approach the sea without fear. I could venture a little further, and stroll up and down the seafront where the young couple were just walking hand in hand, for as long as the waves’ naked voice continues. The seafront looks as though it’s inside the sea. The waves climb up it, then back away. The train station too becomes a part of the sea. A train station that has come from many layers below ground, from unknown times, from ten years, a hundred years, a thousand years in the past. It looks like a sunken ship, harboring hidden treasure behind its doors, and at the same time it’s preparing to set sail at any moment, inflating its towers like sails. Wherever it’s going, it can take me there too. And instead of waiting around for an uncertain future, Hayala, who’s dreaming of traveling, can come with me. Does time flow the same for everyone, I don’t know. One day I can discover that too. I take my phone out of my pocket. It’s only then that I realize how cold my fingers are. With numb hands, I type in my pin. I find Hayala’s number. The digits, which begin with zero, five, three, two, don’t mean anything by themselves, but, when put together, they turn into something that means Hayala. That meaning latches onto the wind, flows over the Bosphorus like a light, and lands inside a telephone on the opposite shore. The telephone rings inside a bag. The bag vibrates on an armchair. The ringtone gets longer and louder. I remember similar scenes in films. I’ve seen it countless times, the phone ringing endlessly and, just when you’re convinced that no one will pick up, a hand finally reaching out. A breathless voice comes from the other end. Boratin, she says, are you okay? I’m fine Hayala, I reply. Are you sure you’re okay, is everything all right? she repeats. I’m fine, calm down, I say. I don’t know, she says, you usually text me, when I saw your call at this time of night I thought something was up. Nothing’s up. I crossed over from one side of Istanbul to the other. I was planning to get on a train and go somewhere far away for a while. The door of the train station closed in my face. I’m grounded here. Boratin, where are you? Where am I? They told me I was born from the sea, or at least, when I opened my eyes in the hospital, that’s what I figured they were saying to me. I’m standing beside that sea. I’m at the train station, I say. Which train station? she says, I don’t get it, which train station? Haydarpaşa Train Station, I reply. Hayala falls silent as she considers what to say. Of the scores of questions racing through her mind, she chooses the most innocuous. Is that what that howling in the background is, she says, the sound of the waves and the wind? Yes, I say, y
our voice sounds muffled too, as though you’re somewhere far away instead of Istanbul. No Boratin, she says, I’m not far away, you know that. I know, I reply. I’m aware that our words have double meanings. I’m not far away either, I add. Shall I come and get you, she says. I can hear a song in the background. Someone is singing in a haunting voice. Wake up, bare your face to the rain on the window / Let a cloudburst peel the toothmarks off your lips. I can make out the tone of a Gibson guitar, I have one at home, but I don’t recognize the singer’s voice. Are you at the rehearsal, I say, or in a bar? The rehearsal’s over, I’m back at home, says Hayala, what’s up? Nothing, I say, when I heard music I thought you were out. Shall I turn it off? she asks. No, I say. I want to know who that singer with the faraway voice is. Hayala may be taking a sip of water, or she may be taking a drag of her cigarette. It’s you Boratin, she says, I’m listening to your recordings. This is one of the songs I’m rehearsing for the concert this weekend. I remain silent. Hayala doesn’t say anything either. We listen to the song together. Wake up, bare your face to the rain on the window / If growin’ used to it’s another name for death / Don’t let that same old violet in your hair fade and wear you down. The music of the guitar and the piano interweave. Fingers sweep across the air. We contemplate the double meaning of the sounds. Meanings that we know exist but that we can’t quite fit into. When the song is finished we return to our own words. Hayala, I say, it’s cold here, the wind is howling. How long have you been there, she says. I don’t know, I say, what time is it? It’s past midnight, she replies. That late, I say. Boratin, says Hayala, she pauses for a moment before continuing, then adds, stay there, I’m coming to get you, okay? It’s only then that I realize, Hayala’s voice sounds like Bessie Smith’s. It’s husky, and deep. Come, I say, come and get me. Wait for me somewhere away from the wind, she says, I won’t be long. She hangs up. I put my hands that have turned dry in the cold into my pockets. I stand on the station steps and gaze at the aged marble, the wooden doors, the large balconies. I can’t see the station’s towers anymore. Dark clouds descend and gradually enclose the entire building in their embrace. A drop falls onto my face. A raindrop.