Young Turk (32 page)

Fortunately, gossip is never selective. Details of secret machinations started leaking out. And we were proven right.

A neighbour of our beloved’s, having observed her weekend dalliances, had informed on her to a college teacher living in Bebek. (A denunciation borne out of spite, the gossip intimated. The neighbour, a middle-aged man who fancied himself as a Don Juan, had tried to seduce our beloved and had been rebuffed.)

The teacher, a pious American widow, alarmed that we, young and impressionable boys, would be traumatized for life with nightmares of being cooked and eaten up by a witch, had duly alerted the college governors.

Only Âşιk Ahmet had defended our beloved. Ridiculing the teacher’s hysteria as a hangover from the Brothers Grimm, he had argued that nasty witches were an importation that never concerned Turkish children because for them women, all women, represented love, tenderness and paradisal pleasures.

The teacher, even more shocked by Âşιk Ahmet’s liberalism, had then recruited a cabal of clerics of various faiths. These eminences, professional bigots all, had not only agreed with the teacher that we boys had been irreparably damaged psychologically, but also had rued the fact that, because of Turkey’s secular constitution, the harlot could not be stoned to death as religious law stipulated.

Again Âşιk Ahmet had risen to defend our beloved. Claiming to know her – we never found out how – he had presented her as a moral pioneer, a disciple of the philosopher Sartre and his companion, Simone de Beauvoir, who, by personal example, pointed the path to a new, tolerant and sexually liberated Europe. She was the sort of feminist modern Turkey needed in order to free our women from the taboos, inequalities and injustices by which, despite all efforts at emancipation, they were still ruled.

But the governors had refused to heed his arguments. Those who glibly take the names of Allah, Jesus and Yahweh in vain still win every disputation. Not just in Turkey, but everywhere in the world.

And so, the governors had ordered our beloved to leave Bebek; should she refuse, they had threatened, she would be handed over to the police.

One last word about our dormitory. At first those of us who had known our beloved felt relieved that the dormitory had disbanded. We had spent the summer wondering whether we could ever reforge the bonds we had had before our beloved had come into our lives or, indeed, whether we wished to do so. But after hearing the way Âşιk Ahmet had defended her, we felt bereft. I am sure we still believe that if our dormitory had been left intact, we would have reclaimed the harmony we had created – if only for Âşιk Ahmet’s sake.

If a school dormitory can do that for one individual, couldn’t the United Nations do it for all humankind?

Thus my first, my unforgettable love ended, like most loves, in dreadful heartache. I felt inconsolable, damaged beyond repair, cursed for ever.

But then, like all damaged goods, like those cracked urns of antiquity, I became an object that had been well used. I attained the wisdom of experience and developed a heart where every visitor could sign his or her name.

Above all, I learned about love, particularly about carnal love. I learned that it is a hunger which, if not fed, emaciates and kills just as mercilessly as the hunger for food and water. And I learned to thank God for instilling in us such a hunger.

I learned that no joy on earth compares with the joy two people experience as they lie naked and awash with bodily fluids. Feeling alive can mean only that.

I learned that there is no holier creation than the human body.

I learned that slow movements are beautiful, that gently humming interlocked bodies generate the sort of sublime electricity that the world needs, but which it rejects because it believes in perpetual activity which, invariably, means perpetual conflict.

I learned that there are as many love games as stars in heaven, that one can conjoin with one’s partner like a centipede or like a bull and that, mercifully, there are still free-spirited men and women who are trying to find new ways of making love.

Let me leave you with this vision: I am stretched out on a sofa. My beloved is determined to assess my age. She has an infallible method for doing so: the way they ascertain a tree’s age: by counting the rings in its trunk. Consequently, she has my member in her mouth. Her lips are thick with lipstick. Starting from the base of my penis, her mouth ambles upwards. At each half-centimetre, her lips imprint a red ring around the shaft. She continues until she runs out of length. She counts the rings. On this occasion they add up to thirty-six. (An hour ago, the number had been forty-one.) She cuddles up to me. She coos. ‘Thirty-odd rings. What a mature oak in one so young!’

We embrace. She smears her breasts and vagina with rose-petal jam. She squats above my face so that I can imbibe her splendour. She lowers herself on to my mouth and lets me lap up every bit of the rose-petal jam. Then she mounts me and, as she begins to rock, she rubs her breasts all over my face. I am in such ecstasy that I am ready to die. In fact, I want to die, because I know I shall never again find this heaven, the Seventh Heaven.

Orhan arrived at Konstantin Efendi’s
lokanta
early one Sunday morning, long before the old Romanian or any member of his extended family had come down from their flat above the restaurant to start preparations for the day. Squatting by the main entrance and barely moving a muscle, he waited – almost two hours – until Ebony Nermin had the wits to bang on Konstantin Efendi’s door and shout that he had a visitor. By that time, most of the neighbourhood – and certainly, we youngsters – had gathered in the square and were offering opinions about who the stranger was and where he might have come from. Many, judging by the way the man could sit on his haunches seemingly for ever, maintained he was from eastern Anatolia, probably a labourer who had come to Istanbul in search of work. Others, struck by his high Asiatic cheekbones, suggested he was a Kurd from Persia or Azerbaijan. Yet others, pointing at the stranger’s grey Hollywood-style suit with broad white stripes like lanes on a running track, at his azure tie hanging loosely on his cream shirt – the shirt itself wide open to display the thick fleece of black hair on his chest – at his patent shoes shining like metallic roofs on sunny days, and at his thickly brilliantined hair, contended he was a gangster, probably a member of the Cossack mafia. Surely, he had come to demand protection money from Konstantin Efendi. After all, the old Romanian, whose Balkan cuisine had become popular with the smart clique, was minting it. Not to mention the fact that Cossacks could never stomach Romanians because the latter maintained that their religious truth, specially blessed by the patriarchate of Constantinople, the bedrock of Holy Roman orthodoxy, was Absolutely Immaculate, whereas the Cossack – and other Slavic orthodoxies – had been defiled over many centuries by countless depraved heretics.

Eventually, Konstantin Efendi, still in his pyjamas and escorted by his sons, nephews and mammoth wife, Liliana, came down.

Towering over the stranger, their voices deepened by some decibels for effect, they fired their questions.

‘Who are you?’

‘What do you want?’

The stranger, languidly smoothing his robust, bull’s-horns moustache, pulled himself up and smiled like earth after rain.

The fluidity of his movements induced Ebony Nermin to volunteer her opinion. ‘Clark Gable. But with a real moustache. Not a piddling eyebrow over the lips.’

The stranger, broadening his smile, proffered his hand to Konstantin Efendi. ‘Orhan.’

Konstantin Efendi, not much thinner than his wife, ignored the gesture and pushed closer to him. ‘Family name?’

Orhan, unperturbed by Konstantin Efendi’s effort to intimidate, shrugged. ‘Just that. Orhan. Never had another name.’

A quiver of pity streaked across Konstantin Efendi’s face. He was sensible enough to know that, even these days, there were still people bereft of lineage – and not just in Turkey. ‘What do you want, Orhan?’

‘I have a proposition.’

‘Oh, yes?!’

Orhan turned to Konstantin Efendi’s eldest son, who was carrying a bunch of keys. ‘Open up. Let’s escape the heat.’

The latter responded as if to a command and unlocked the
lokanta
’s door.

Orhan sauntered in and picked a table at the back of the dining area.

Konstantin Efendi and his clan followed as if Orhan were an inspector from the municipality.

The rest of us, led by Ebony Nermin – always the impetuous one for having a mind that lagged marginally behind ours – piled in behind them.

Two men placed Orhan’s accent as north-east Anatolian. They were wrong. It was southern, from the Toros mountains, but from an isolated community. I knew about accents. I had spent half my life listening to comedy sketches on the radio.

Orhan sat down, pulled the chairs on his flanks closer to himself and rested his arms on them. He beckoned us as if we were long-lost friends. ‘Konstantin Efendi – let’s have some raki. To sprinkle my proposition.’

This time Liliana towered over him with all her 140 kilos. ‘First – the proposition.’

Orhan beamed at her. ‘
Madamitza
– you have a beautiful voice ...’

‘Do I?’

Orhan, smiling, took out his cigarettes and offered her one. ‘And powerful. Have you ever thought of singing,
Madamitza
? You’d have the nation at your feet ...’

Liliana, who normally treated strangers as if her father owned the mountains and she the hills, relished the compliment. She refused the cigarette with a coquettish shake of the head. ‘The proposition ...’

Orhan lit his cigarette. ‘Of course,
Madamitza
. But please forgive me if, the next second, I die of thirst.’

Liliana, now smiling, gestured impatiently at her younger son. ‘Get some raki!’

Konstantin Efendi, disconcerted by his wife’s docility, barked. ‘On the double!’

The youth fetched a bottle of raki, a glass and some ice.

Orhan wetted his mouth with an ice-cube, then dropped it in the glass. He poured himself a large measure and drank it in one go. He refilled his glass – this time, with the normal quantity. ‘I am a
kabadayι
, Konstantin Efendi.
Madamitza
...’

Kabadayι
, literally ‘rough uncle’, has many connotations; but, give or take a nuance, they all mean ‘lout’, ‘tough guy’ and similar species.

Konstantin Efendi nodded. ‘So I see.’

‘To be precise: I am a
kabadayι
of the old school. In the classical mould, you understand. Nothing like the ruffians, hooligans and villains who have stolen our good name.’

‘I didn’t know there was an old school of
kabadayι.
’

‘Sadly, dying out. But not quite yet. I’m one of the best, if I may be permitted to boast. A professional, in today’s parlance ...’

Konstantin Efendi smiled derisively. ‘A professional?’

Orhan sipped his drink. ‘I have come to offer my services.’

Konstantin Efendi started laughing. ‘That’s very considerate ...’

Orhan ignored the derision. ‘You have a classy establishment. You might need a strong arm ...’

Konstantin Efendi pointed at his sons and nephews. ‘I have all the strong arms I need.’

Orhan sipped his drink. ‘I’ve heard talk of Cossack gangs ...’

Konstantin Efendi scoffed. ‘And you think you can deal with them? On your own?’

Orhan put his glass down, then abruptly – without even getting up – struck the chair to his right with the side of his hand.

The chair, made of wood, but sturdy, broke into pieces.

Orhan smiled. ‘Yes.’

A silence ensued.

We were all stunned. Though our neighbourhood was not a particularly rough one, we had had our share of brawls, even witnessed the spillage of blood. But we had never seen such strength and authority, such a spontaneous and casual explosion of power.

Orhan resumed drinking. ‘For your peace of mind – I’m cheap as
kabadayι
go. I don’t ask for wages. Nor a cut from the takings. Just my daily bread – melon, cheese, olives, a piece of fish or meat now and again. And raki. My portion is a bottle a day. I don’t need lodgings either. I’ll sleep in a corner. I got used to that in the army ...’