Young Turk (34 page)

Some hours after his daughter was born, Orhan came to the damp basement that my father called home. Orhan had just closed the
lokanta
, but knew I always stayed up late, listening to the radio. (In those days I wanted to be an actor, better still, a comedian, and was trying to learn the various regional accents as well as the grandiose Turkish of the newscasters.)

He had brought a couple of bottles of raki and carried an endless smile such as Allah must have worn after creating the universe. He announced that the world was blessed with a new bloom. Both Nermin and Çiçek – ‘flower’, that was the name they had given the baby – were doing fine. We had cause for celebration. Moreover, by sunrise, I would have learned an important lesson: how to drink without getting drunk.

So we went to the beach, sat by the water and, watching the constant traffic of ships through the straits, imbibed the lion’s spunk.

When I got drunk without being drunk, I plucked up the courage to ask him why he had chosen me, of all people, to join him in such an important celebration. I was a reticent person; though I was a fixture in the neighbourhood, I was a stray; much of the time, I kept to myself, watched and observed. Some people thought I was the possessor of an evil eye and asked me what sort of thoughts I manufactured behind my eyes – which left me all the more mute. Even my father wouldn’t have anything to do with me.

To my surprise, Orhan said he and I were kindred spirits. Cracked vessels from a ruin somewhere out there. Trying to carry water for good people. Dripping from every fracture, but still able to offer mouthfuls to the thirsty. Then, before we could quench one soul: bang, pulverized by villains. Reduced to useless dust in the wind. In one word:
kabadayι
.

I asked him to elaborate on that. Then I passed out.

And elaborate he did, over several weeks, as he continued teaching me how to drink and keep upright.

The
kabadayι
are not villains. They are like the outlaws of bygone times – like Pîr Sultan Abdal, Köroğlu, Karacaoğlan and Şeyh Bedreddin – who defended the people against cruel rulers, corrupt officials and rapacious landowners. In our times, of course, services such as the police, the gendarmerie and the night
bekçi
should be performing these duties. But no matter how diligent these forces are, they are not effective enough to deter the wicked. Moreover, they are riddled with corruption. So people still suffer, whether they are peasants or fishermen, poets or musicians, employees or shopkeepers. The real outlaws, it should not be forgotten, are still the Establishment, still the cruel leaders, corrupt officials and rapacious landowners. While the poor lose their last rags, these either put on new tuxedos, uniforms and turbans or change names.

So, to address these injustices, the
kabadayι
have to continue to exist.

The
kabadayι
have commandments just like in the Sacred Books. But this Rule has not been written down. Since blind obeisance to canon has always led to oppression, the
kabadayι
have chosen to keep their tenets hidden in their hearts.

It could be said that the
kabadayι
are born with their special talents; they can’t be formed or trained like people in other trades. In this they are like master poets and musicians. Many become aware of their gifts early on in life. Others are so humble that they choose to disbelieve their intuition. (Orhan affirmed I was one such.) Fortunately, the master
kabadayι
are constantly on the look-out for new blood and soon gather these self-effacing men to the fraternity. Needless to say, talent does not always fulfil its promise. Thus, before declaring that a candidate possesses the
kabadayι
spirit, a master oversees him for a time; hasty judgements always carry seeds from the Devil. Since, like countless false men of God, there are countless false
kabadayι
also – all of them self-declared, of course – a lengthy examination of the candidate’s soul is imperative. In the main, allowing for the usual beginner’s strains of shyness and humility, it takes a master some six months before he can be sure that his candidate has the makings of a
kabadayι.
After that, the master imparts the
Kabadayι
Rule and the initiate takes it into his heart.

And Orhan chose none other than me, Attila, as his candidate – me, nobody else, not even Tarzan Hamdi, the local daredevil.

And over many glasses of raki, as I finally learned how to drink and keep upright, I received the
Kabadayι
Rule.

‘First and foremost, believe in Allah – even when, because evil fares better than good, it is impossible to believe in Him. The alternative, moaning and cursing, is a waste of energy.
Kabadayι
never squander energy.

‘Therefore, always shun money. It rots the mind.

‘Be tranquil. Perfect the art of sitting alone peacefully. But keep watch always. Observe people’s every move and consider the purpose behind it. You will realize everyone is searching for something.

‘Train every day.

‘Never start a fight. Try to avoid them as best as you can. Offer your adversaries raki and, to pacify them, serve a portion larger than yours. Always pay for the drinks; but when such a gesture might be considered an insult, allow your opponents the privilege of that civility. If these courtesies fail, tell them you still wish to be friends, that you are even prepared to entrust your throat to them by allowing them to shave you. If that, too, fails, change tack, warn your opponents you are likely to cause them serious injury. As proof, smash a chair. Or bend iron bars. Or lift cars. Or catch wasps with your mouth. As a last resort, play the fool, pull faces, act the madman.

‘However, if these warnings also go unheeded and you are forced to fight, fight like a demon.

‘Occasionally, you will meet adversaries whose souls have turned to stone. You’ll know the moment you see them that you will have to fight them. Tackle these people by fuelling their anger first. Mock them, insult them, offer them dribbles of raki instead of generous portions. When blood rushes to a man’s head, it veils his eyes and he charges in different directions.

‘Never run away, never ask for mercy.

‘But always grant mercy. Mercy is the
kabadayι
’s only currency. Be extravagant with it as if you have only a day to live because usually there isn’t a tomorrow.

‘Never be timid about weeping in public when affected by people’s joy or misfortune or by their songs and poems or by their workmanship and art. A
kabadayι
is not
kabadayι
unless he lets his emotions flow.

‘Never hurt women, children, old people or animals.

‘Be clean and dress well at all times.

‘Grow a big moustache. Moustaches reflect integrity. But make sure you always trim it. Like circumcision and paring the nails, that is part of the Prophet Muhammet’s prescription for personal cleanliness and for mental and moral health.

‘Show the hair on your chest. In summer it will glisten with sweat and dazzle the enemy. In winter it will gather icicles and its din, like cymbals announcing the last judgement, will make them turn tail.

‘Never masturbate. That offends Allah and women.

‘Eat frugally. A bloated bear cannot dance. Drink raki, never wine. Wine muddies the mind. Raki clears it. But make sure it’s pure. Lion’s spunk or tiger’s milk. Not ass’s piss.

‘Never carry firearms. They are cowards’ weapons.

‘But strap a knife to your calf and always have empty bottles within reach. Use the knife only when you must.

‘Never kill. Not even if you’re dying. Why go to the other world carrying the additional burden of your enemy’s miserable soul?’

Nearly another year passed.

Nermin was pregnant again.

By then, I looked upon Orhan as my only family – as the mother, brothers and sisters, yes, even the father, I had always longed for. In fact, I had a father, Ragιp. I also had a couple of uncles, Cemal and Bahadur. Good men, all of them. But I had always felt I was of no interest to them. Cemal and Bahadur, my mother’s brothers, were mariners and, consequently, always away on one ship or another. On the occasions they happened to wash ashore in Istanbul, they spent their time either looking for another ship or gambling. My father, originally from eastern Turkey, had lost all his relatives in the Erzincan earthquake of ’39. But he had kept faith with life and had felt saved when he had married my mother, a native of neighbouring İzmit who had found work in a shoe factory in Istanbul. According to Uncle Bahadur, my birth had been touch-and-go for my mother and, thereafter, she had been unable to hold a foetus. Then, one dreadful winter, tuberculosis had carried her off. I was six at the time, an only child.

After her death, my father more or less gave up. He had been a public scribe during his married years, but abandoned that as too harrowing because most of the letters he was asked to write imparted terrible news like dire poverty, hunger, eviction, deaths, particularly children’s deaths. (They still remember him around the Yeni Cami, the mosque at the end of Galata Bridge, as having a special flair for phrasing condolences.) Eventually, he found a job as a caretaker in a block of flats – the one where that famous
kanun
-player, Handan Ramazan, lives. So he would come home once a week, on Fridays, after prayers. He would make me a meal – very lovingly, as if to tell me that this was the only treat he could give me – then go out. First to a licensed brothel – they were relatively cheap – then to a
meyhane
to get drunk. (His weekly visits to the brothels, people told me, were his attempt at preserving his sanity. There was no other way a man who could not find a wife or bring himself to marry again could survive.) Late in the night, he would return – tottering. He would allow me to undress him and put him to bed. But I don’t think he ever slept. Then, at dawn, he would slip out quietly and go back to being a caretaker. So we hardly talked. Or shook hands. He never patted me on the back or ruffled my hair or pinched my cheek as fathers do. The only time we touched was when I helped him to bed. Then, as I undressed him, he would put his head on my shoulder and weep silently. I hesitate to admit it, but I loved those moments. Not only because they gave me a sense of his warmth and love, but also because I knew he was trying to say things to me, like maybe he was sorry for being such a wreck, or that maybe if I stuck by him, he might change, might manage to crawl out from under the weight of all those he had buried.

And then Orhan appeared. And filled my life. And told me we were alike.

Not just a man who was clear water all the way down to his innards and all the way up to his very soul. But also a loving man. A man who hugged me like a mother – who hugged everybody like a mother. A man who treated his woman as his greatest treasure, as his equal, as the meaning of life, as someone more sacred than the deity. A man who taught me the
Kabadayι
Rule and how to stand on my own and everything else I wanted to know. Who listened to the radio with me, took an interest in my dreams of becoming a comedian, heard me practising accents, praised me when I did well. Who patted me on the back, ruffled my hair, pinched and kissed my cheek – often for no reason, but just because he liked me. Who asked me if I had tumbled with a woman yet or whether I was carrying a torch for some
houri
. In short, a parent such as we imagine Allah to be.