Young Turk (27 page)

Adem sighed heavily. ‘It was nothing. Stupid, in fact! We – had an argument ...’

‘What about?’

‘Something he did – I didn’t like ... I told you – it was silly ...’

‘Silly enough to want to die?’

‘He didn’t want to die! I dropped him!’

‘On purpose?’

‘No!’ Adem started to shake. ‘Is that what you think? That I killed him?’

‘No. That’s your fear. I know – everybody knows – that he fell because he mistimed his take-off.’

‘No! He was too good for that!

Babacιk nodded pensively. ‘What was it he did – you didn’t like?’

‘I told you – nothing ... He ...’

‘What?’

‘He – kept ... watching me ...’

‘How do you mean?’

‘When I slept ... We lived in the same caravan ...’

‘Sure ...’

‘And he also ...’

‘Yes ...’

‘Stroked me – as if I were a ... child ...’

‘I see ... And you wanted to be stroked like an adult?’

‘Yes! No! I didn’t want to be – touched!’

‘Did you tell him that?’

‘Yes ...’

‘You must have hurt him ... The man who shared his breathing – not wanting to be touched ...’

‘Oh, I hurt him all right ...’ He sprang up. ‘Sorry, Grandad. Too painful to talk ...’

He rushed out.

Adem was going to run away again. We knew – even I did – that we would not be able to find him this time.

But Babacιk was not one to leave a conversation unfinished. He charged out of the Big Top and confronted Adem, who had gathered from our tent the few clothes he had acquired during his stay.

‘Before you go, Adem!’ This was the first time I had heard Babacιk shout. Such was the power of his voice that he must have sounded like one of Mama Meryem’s formidable prophets. ‘I told you about touching! I’ll tell you again!’

Adem stopped as if held by an invisible harness.

All the members of the troupe rushed out, wondering what was happening.

Babacιk raised his hands as if preparing to worship. ‘Look! Our hands! Allah created them to do three things.’ He opened up his hands. ‘One: to be palms – to touch, stroke, create, love.’ Then he clenched them. ‘Two: to be fists – to strike, hurt, destroy, kill!’ Then he put them in his pockets. ‘Three: to hide – to run away, to do nothing.’

Adem pleaded. ‘Let me go, Grandad!’

Babacιk faced him. ‘Everything that’s good in this world comes from touch, when hands are palms. Everything bad happens for lack of touch, when palms turn into fists. We must touch as if we’re mothers giving suck, with smiles and sighs and blessings to Allah for having created touch.’

Adem was becoming agitated. ‘Grandad, please let me go!’

Babacιk moved closer to him. ‘When men and women wrap themselves around each other, they’re in heaven. When people like you and me lock hands, we’re in heaven. All those who hold daughters and sons to their chests, they’re in heaven. Because touch creates love. Makes male and female jump like dolphins. Makes men like us feel the miracle of our bodies, admire the grace of muscles flexing, the honest way we share our strength. Makes us fulfil Allah’s will!’

Adem yelled, ‘And if the touch is not entirely honest?’

Babacιk thundered, ‘If the touch is given with love, it’s always honest!’

Adem bellowed, ‘You don’t understand!’

Babacιk outshouted him. ‘I do!’

Enraged, Adem tried to punch Babacιk.

Babacιk seized Adem’s fist and held it in his palm.

For what seemed an eternity, they stood, eyes locked, gauging each other’s strength.

Then Adem unclenched his fist, pulled his hand out of Babacιk’s grip and strode away.

This time Babacιk did not stop him.

Sadly, the troupe made way for him.

Both Osman and I shot forward to stop him.

Babacιk held us back. ‘Let him go. If he’s worthy of you, he’ll come back.’

He came back weeks later, when Osman and I – though not Babacιk – had given up hope.

I had expected him to look weak and haggard from too much drinking and maybe even on opium, like Yorgo. Instead, he looked like a film star, like Errol Flynn who saved England for Richard the Lionheart.

He arrived by taxi. When he got out, he did not salute those members of the troupe who came out to welcome him. Barely nodding, once to Babacιk and Mama Meryem and once to me, he proceeded to the Big Top, dragging a trunk.

Osman, as usual, was training. When he saw Adem, he scrambled down to greet him. He, too, received a cursory nod.

Adem took off his jacket, shirt and trousers. Underneath he was wearing the white vest and tights of a trapezist.

By now the whole troupe had heard of his arrival and had rushed into the Big Top. As they settled around the ring, they made happy sounds like animals coming to feed.

Adem unlocked the trunk and brought out his trapeze gear. He started rigging it in the catcher’s corner.

I gaped at his torso. Not even Babacιk possessed such powerful shoulders.

Babacιk noted my wonderment. ‘He’s been getting into shape.’

‘He looks so strong.’

‘Has to be. When a flyer drops for the catch, he falls like a meteor – at great speed. That makes him much heavier than his weight. If you don’t have the strength to arrest such a fall, you’ll tear off your shoulders or get pulled off your perch.’

His trapeze now secured, Adem sat on the bar. He began swinging, slowly at first, then faster and faster. Had he not been in costume, he would have looked like a giant child in a playground.

Babacιk looked pleased. ‘Wise man ...’

‘Yes?’

‘He’s coming back from the depths – maybe from the edges of life. He’s coming up slowly – trying to keep his mind clear.’

Adem seemed set to swing for hours. Some of the troupe got bored, urged him to show them what he could do.

He ignored them.

Babacιk chased us out. ‘He’s not ready yet! Let him be!’

Thereafter Adem went into the Big Top every day. Week after week, he sat on his trapeze and worked on his swing. Then he practised swinging in the catcher’s position, hanging upside down while he gripped the bar with the insides of his knees.

Babacιk left him to find himself.

Occasionally, Osman offered to exercise together. Adem refused – delicately, in order not to offend him.

But he allowed me to stay and watch.

And I did. I devoured Adem – every part of him – with my eyes and relished the moist warmth in my crotch. I even began to think I might like motherhood.

Adem pretended to ignore me. I knew he was pretending because every time I left the ring – either to have a pee or change my rags during my monthlies or, if there was a commotion outside, go and see what it was about – he would watch me leave. And often, when I returned, I’d find him down from his trapeze, seemingly towelling himself, but actually looking for me.

One such day, Mama Meryem had got there before me. Adem had come down from his trapeze and she was talking to him.

I hid so that I could listen.

Mama Meryem had put on what Babacιk called her Catholic voice. ‘You had women, Adem?’

Adem looked like a cornered animal. ‘A few ...’

‘What happened? You loved and left?’

‘No ... They were ... in brothels ...’

‘Ahh ... Ever love somebody?’

‘Why do you ask ...?’

‘No. You not have. You not loving kind ...’

Adem became defiant. ‘I did – love.’

‘What happened her?’

‘He died.’

Mama Meryem was left temporarily speechless. ‘You telling you don’t like women?’

‘No ...’

‘What then?’

‘I can love.’

‘What about my girl?’

‘I haven’t touched her.’

‘I know. If you had, I see it the way she walks.’

‘Then why do you ask?’

‘Listen, I’m no Muslim. No even Catholic any more. Just mother wants Girl happy. I give camel’s turd about virginity. My girl will break hymen one day. Soon the better, I say. Best life for woman when her legs open. But
how
Girl break hymen what concern me! Will be bang-bang? Or will be kiss-kiss everywhere?’

‘You needn’t worry about me.’

Mama Meryem forced a smile. ‘If you no can love her ... Spare her ... Please ...’

Then on 10 June – which happened to be his birthday – Adem asked Babacιk, Mama Meryem, Osman, Hatice and me to meet him in the Big Top.

He was standing by his trapeze. He had washed and ironed his vest and tights as if for a performance and looked illuminated. I was reminded of Mahmut the Simurg’s description of Eternity, the Beneficent Immortal whom the god Ahura Mazda baked from russet Samarkand clay.

He had rigged up the safety net. ‘I’m twenty-five today. I’ll try and start a new life.’

Babacιk ruffled his hair. ‘Good man!’

Adem put his arm on Osman’s shoulders. ‘Still want me as partner?’

Osman beamed. ‘Yes!’

‘Let’s have a go. A few passes first. Then maybe some twist-and-turns. I’ll signal – clap my hands! All right?’

‘Great!’ Osman ran to his rope ladder on the flyer’s side of the ring and climbed up to his trapeze.

Adem climbed on to his.

We sat down.

I was excited, but also nervous. Babacιk looked confident. Mama Meryem was expressionless. Hatice’s teeth clattered.

Adem and Osman started swinging. As they gathered speed, they settled into their positions: Adem, hanging upside down, arms and hands loose and ready to catch; Osman holding the trapeze like a gymnast on a fixed bar.

Minutes seemed to pass. We could have had our eyes closed but we would still have known by the swishing sound they made that they were swinging in perfect rhythm.

But no signal from Adem. We could see him rubbing his hands, trying to summon up courage.

We grew anxious, fearful.

Hatice shut her eyes and started mumbling a prayer.

Finally Adem clapped his hands.

We held our breath.

Osman let go of his trapeze just as Adem swung to meet him.

He floated down perfectly into Adem’s hands.

Adem caught him. And held him.

We clapped as they swung back.

Babacιk silenced us. ‘Sssshhhh!’

We looked up.

A terrible grimace distorted Adem’s face. Osman was slipping through his hands.

Adem managed to hold Osman until they were above the centre of the safety net. Then he dropped him. A moment later, he regained his perch, tied up his trapeze and scrambled down.

Osman ran to him. ‘Adem, it was perfect!’

Adem brushed him aside. ‘Sorry, can’t do it!’ He went up to Babacιk. ‘I tried, Grandad! You saw how hard I tried! I even believed I could do it. But I can’t!’

Babacιk held him to his chest. ‘Try again, son! Try again.’

Adem kissed Babacιk’s hands. ‘No!’ Then he broke free and ran out.

Babacιk shouted at Osman. ‘Take the safety net down! Immediately!’ He turned to me. ‘Girl, get him before he disappears! Tell him I need his help! Tell him it’s life or death! My life or my death!’

I ran out, so scared that my legs shook.

I heard Mama Meryem wail. ‘What you do, Baba? What you up to?’

I caught up with Adem at the gate. Osman joined us moments later. Adem refused to believe that Babacιk needed his help. Or that it was a matter of life or death. Not until Mama Meryem and Hatice came out screaming, calling everybody to come and save Babacιk.