The Flea Palace Part 10

I smiled. One end of naivety leads to negligence, the other to innocence. The negligence part can be flawed but there is probably not much in this world as alluring as innocence.

'My mother and stepfather were listening from behind the door, ready to intervene if something happened, fearing harm from the Mauve Prince. They had no clue what I was about to do. Of course, I didn't have a knife or anything. There was only this steel pin in my hair bun sharp enough back then my hair was so thick, no other hairpin would do. Anyway, that's what I used to slash my left cheek. Though I couldn't see my face at the moment I could see the Mauve Prince's: ashen with horror, almost lemon yellow. He started yelling and shrieking to stop me. My mother ran to the noise, she too let out a scream. Only then did I understand I must be in pretty bad shape, cut up bad. My stepfather started hitting the Mauve Prince, thinking he was the one responsible, and the other didn't even defend himself, as he was still in shock! While my stepfather was giving him a thrashing, my mother and I jumped in a cab, straight to the emergency room. I was amazed that it didn't hurt at all. Apparently pain only comes later. There was a fatherly physician at the emergency room, almost a soulmate of grandpa. He talked sweetly, amiably, trying to get information out to learn who had done this to me. When he sensed the truth, he was livid with rage, but even his rebukes were sweet, I tell you. They gave me narcotics, sewed up the wound. Just as I was leaving the hospital, he held my hand. "My crazy little girl, now that you have transcended the threshold of sanity and sliced up this beautiful face of yours, do not ever go back to the meadow of reason and common sense. What is even worse than slicing up your own face without remorse is the remorse that follows. In that case you'll really suffer and suffer for nothing. So be true to yourself, remain as crazy as you have been once the sutures are removed, promise?" I promised. We shook hands. It was lucky for me that he did such a neat job. Any other doctor, I tell you, would have sewn my face up like a sack. Still a scar remains, that doesn't go away.'

I didn't know what to say. Her story was not quite what I expected to hear. To fall in love with a person is tantamount to retrieving repressed stories from their house of sorrow stories that have never seen daylight. As for staying in love, it is to nose-dive, once having heard those stories, into the house of dreams of your beloved only to stay put even upon encountering other stories that are far worse. I had acted impetuously concerning the Blue Mistress. She was not blue. At least, her blueness was not as lucent as it seemed at first glance. I pulled her toward me. She snuck closer, fidgeted until she had made her head comfortable on my chest. Then she silently, softly let herself go.

'I loved the Mauve Prince because of who he was but then he pretended to be someone else. Never lie to me, please? Everything should be what it is!'

I just nodded. A person who claims to abhor lies, if not telling one herself will inexorably bring bad luck to those around her, just like a smashed mirror. One who asks never to be told a lie actually yearns for it. It's similar to showing a gun in a film sooner or later it has to be put into use. Still, I did not want to demur. Before long, she fell asleep under the light seeping through the window. She was not that beautiful but her face had a sort of magic. Watching her always gave me great pleasure.

I got up. Groping around for something to wear in the dark, I turned on the lamp. The sheet covering the Blue Mistress had slid across, exposing her right leg. Only then did it occur to me for the very first time that we had always made love either in the dark or half-dressed; her naked body still remained a mystery.

The upper part of her leg was covered with scarlet stripes of scars. Lined up vertically next to one another like those five line cl.u.s.ters of lines we imagine are used in prisons to count the pa.s.sing, not-pa.s.sing days. I took a closer look. The majority did not seem to be very deep, as if slashed open in a hurry. However, one among them was quite deep and seemed to have been opened more recently, having had no time yet to heal.

02:22 a.m.: She turned onto her face with a clipped moan. I covered her body and turned off the light. Rak would have gone down well at that moment. As soon as I turned on the kitchen light, several c.o.c.kroaches vanished like greased lightning. Sooner or later I too would have to have the house fumigated. I sliced plenty of white cheese and melon. On the cheese, I poured the olive oil the Blue Mistress had brought and thyme, a great deal of thyme. The olive oil merchant would probably not want to know that the bottles he carried to his little mistress were consumed by another man.

I stepped out to the balcony. Careful not to squash the cl.u.s.ter of ants busily shouldering home the bulky corpse of a black beetle, I pulled my chair closer to the railing and lit a cigarette. How many more cuts were there on her body? I did not know what had opened up those wounds... Was it a razor or a knife? Or a hair pin? I glanced at the garbage bags piled up by the garden wall down below. Nothing had changed. The sour smell of garbage was still with us.

Flat Number 10: Madam Auntie.

Madam Auntie had been waiting for hours by the seaside together with collectors like her. With each gust of lodos, that enraged southwest wind, the waves brought bits and pieces, torn sails, broken oars, compa.s.ses with shattered pointers, rudders that had lost their course, the letters spilled from the names of the boats left behind from those voyages that were never to reach a port of tranquility and those travellers long disembarked.

The sea, once satisfied with playing with those plastic b.a.l.l.s or inflatable beds the waves had long ago s.n.a.t.c.hed away whilst you were on vacation and the straw mats or hats the wind had carried far away from their rightful places, brings and delivers them all to different sh.o.r.es.

Next to collectors like her, Madam Auntie was waiting to collect what the sea would ferry to the sh.o.r.e.

Flat Number 3: Hairdresser Celal.

As soon as Celal left the beauty parlour, he blasted through the back streets right out to the avenue. After walking for about fifteen minutes in the crowd without a destination in mind, he entered a street lined up with five bars looking exactly alike. Though it was not at all his habit, he felt like having a beer. From among them, he chose one randomly and dashed in. Inside it was crammed full. He headed directly to the table closest to the door, as it was his habit to be as close to the exit as possible, asked for a beer, and also fries from the gaunt, runty waiter with gestures that displayed not only his distaste for his job but also the fact that his mind was occupied elsewhere.

As Celal waited to give his order, he spotted at the table across a swarthy man with three rings in three different shades of purple under his eyes, who either could not stand still or was simply on the verge of collapsing onto the table. The man's eyes were fixed on the rak in front of him. Though not taking a single sip from his gla.s.s at present, it was only too evident that he had already had more than his share. He had not touched the fried anchovies either.

'Why-the-h.e.l.l-are-you-star-ing-at-me-mate?' croaked the man all of a sudden, slurring the words hoa.r.s.ely. Celal shrunk in his seat not knowing what to say but thankfully the waiter sprung up by his side at precisely that moment. 'Take it easy on him, brother,' the waiter advised, his attention fixed on the pa.s.sers-by scurrying on the other side of the windows, as if he would like to be there among them rather than here in the bar. 'A harmless fellow. Just feeling down today.'

The beer was decent enough, the fries not at all. There were lengthy strings of mayonnaise and ketchup spurted all over them. Mayonnaise was fine but Celal couldn't stand ketchup. He got angry at himself for not having warned the waiter. Fidgeting edgily he turned aside so as not to have to face the table across.

One of the four strapping men at the next table had lifted his thumb up, as if trying to hitchhike from where he sat. He was a scary, brawny man with a hooked nose and a bottomless craving to have his opinions confirmed by others, given the frequency with which he asked 'Isn't that so?' Guzzling a swig of beer, he wiped his moustache with the back of his hand and blitzed his friends: 'What's up? Why are you all silent? We aren't the type to chicken out and run away! Isn't that so?' He brought down the blunt knife smeared with hotdog dressing he was holding, right in the middle of the table with a bang. 'You want a bet? Be my guest. This is how I make a bet, my man. We are no kids who'll bet on two marbles, three bottle caps, isn't that so? If I lose, I'll chop off this thumb and leave it at the table, but if you lose, the same rule goes for you, isn't that so?'

To this end, the knife on the table must not have been impressive enough, for he snapped the blade of a pocket-knife out in a flash, placing it next to the other one. Then he once again lifted his thumb up in the air, frozen like a statue. As the others gawked at the squat and chunky thumb aimed right at them, a chill swept over the table.

If it were any other time, afraid of a row Celal would have left the place, but today he felt like drinking. So he stayed and continued to drink in spite of the provocations of the drunk at the table across from him, the ketchup on the fries and the thumb terrorizing the next table.

Unused to alcohol, his eyes turned bloodshot before he was halfway through the second beer. Fixating his glance on the stains and cigarette burns of the tablecloth, he heaved a deep sigh. Why was his twin so different from him? They did not have one single thing in common. Why were they not alike in any way? And if they were so very dissimilar, why did they still work together? By the time the third beer had vanished, he had reached the decision to part ways with Cemal.

Flat Number 9: Su and Madam Auntie.

Su was going to have her first English lesson tonight. 7:00 p.m. was the time agreed upon. She looked at the glow-in-the-dark watch her father had given her as a birthday gift: 4:35 p.m. There still was a lot of time. Bored stiff, she wandered around the house wherein everything had turned white. Her mother was sleeping, having once again spent the night awake and cleaning.

Opening the windows she peeped at the children playing down on the street. Though she watched them with interest, it did not even cross her mind to join them. She wouldn't want to be among them even if given the chance. Like all lonely children who had not a friend outside of school or buddy at home, who had mastered the art of being as well-behaved as expected and as docile as was not expected and who were now searching for ways to subvert the art, she too looked down on the street games with a hidden fury. Exceedingly careful not to make a sound, she sneaked outside. The intimacy that had blossomed with the old woman that day at the hairdresser was still fresh in her memory. Not that she had forgotten the ban on leaving Bonbon Palace, with the exception of attending school...but on second thoughts, the flat right across could not be considered 'outside', could it?

Thus, she did what she had never done before, daring to visit the neighbour next door. Not a sound was heard from the flat after she rang the bell. She pressed it again, this time a bit more tenaciously and was just about to give up when the door of Flat Number 10 opened.

Flat Number 3: Hairdresser Cemal.

Offended that his twin brother had not come back, Cemal saw off the last customer and turning over the beauty parlour to the apprentices, went out into the street feeling depressed. The night breeze felt good. He blasted through the back streets with speedy steps, as if sliding, and went right out onto the main street. After walking for about fifteen minutes in the crowd without even knowing where he was headed, he entered a street lined up with five bars, all looking exactly alike. Though not at all his habit, he felt like having a beer. Among all the bars on his way, he randomly chose one and dashed in. Inside it was crammed full. He headed directly to the table closest to the door as it was his habit to be as near to the exit as possible. He then asked for a beer and also fries from the gaunt, runty waiter with gestures that displayed not only his distaste for his job but also that his mind was hooked-up somewhere else.

As he waited to give his order, Cemal spotted at the table opposite a swarthy man with three rings in three different shades of purple under his eyes, who either could not stand still or was simply on the verge of collapsing onto the table. Still without shifting his gaze from the rak in front of him, the man beckoned the waiter and whispered, his breath smelling profusely of liquor, to the latter's ear: 'Ask-him-why-he-is-back-let-us-know.' Upon seeing the confusion on the waiter's face, he impatiently clarified: 'Ask-him-why-did-he-leave-if-he-was-to-come-back-if-he-was-to-come-back-why-he-did-he-leave-if?'

By now Cemal had realized the man across was talking about him but he just could not gauge what on earth he was saying. He shrunk on his chair not knowing what to say, but thankfully the waiter sprung up by his side at precisely that moment: 'Take it easy on him, brother,' murmured the waiter in an exasperated voice. 'He's a regular customer. Just feeling down today, provokes whoever he sees, but he'll never behave shamefully.'

The beer was decent enough, the fries not at all. There were lengthy strings of mayonnaise and ketchup spurted on them. Ketchup was fine but Cemal would have none of that mayonnaise. He got angry at himself for not having warned the waiter. Fidgeting edgily he turned aside so as not to have to face the table opposite.

At the table to his right were four strapping men, one of whom had lifted up the thumb of his right hand which was bandaged in gauze with a lump of dried blood around the nail, and kept sitting like a statue. One of the others quietly murmured: 'Why don't you go home man, why are you still sitting around with a bandage and st.i.tches?' The one next to him piped up in support: 'Anyhow, I do not have the foggiest idea why we came back here. We're probably the only ones on earth to return to the bar after a visit to the emergency room.'

'No!' thundered the big and burly man with the hooked nose, shaking his head vehemently. 'We made a bet, didn't we? Since I lost the bet, I'll face my punishment like a man. If I were scared of three st.i.tches and one injection, I'd have to wear a skirt, isn't that so? Since we are here to drink, drink we shall! We will drink to my thumb. For if I weren't an honest man, if I hadn't kept my word, this thumb of mine would still be in one piece, isn't that so? But what did I do, I kept my word. So this knife wound is proof of my honesty, isn't it? Therefore if we drink to my thumb, we'll be drinking to honesty, isn't that so?' As the others reluctantly raised their gla.s.ses, a chill swept over the table.

If it were any other time, afraid of a row, Cemal would have left the place, but today he felt like drinking. So he stayed and continued to drink in spite of the provocations of the drunk at the table across from him, the mayonnaise on the fries and the thumb terrorizing the next table.

Unused to alcohol, his eyes turned bloodshot before he was halfway through the second beer. Fixating his glance on the stains and cigarette burns of the tablecloth, he heaved a deep sigh. Why was his twin so different from him? They did not have one single thing in common. Why were they not alike in any way? And if they were so very dissimilar, why did they still work together? By the time the third beer had vanished, he had reached the decision to part ways with Celal.

Flat Number 10: Madam Auntie and Su.

When the doorbell rang, Madam Auntie was busy emptying out the bags she had brought in from the street. She stood still, completely startled. No one rang her door except Meryem who distributed bread every morning and collected the apartment maintenance fees once a month. At first she thought the bell might have been accidentally pushed downstairs, but when it rang again, this time even more tenaciously, a gnawing worry grabbed hold of her. She thrust into the bags everything she had taken out and then carried them all to the small room. Panting hard she closed shut the white door with the frosted gla.s.s separating the living room from the rest of the house and double locked it just in case. As for the key hanging on a purplish velvet ribbon, knowing too well she would lose it otherwise, she hung it around her neck. Giving the living room a last once over, she headed to the outside door feeling hesitant and anxious.

'Oh, was it you, Su?' she marvelled, relaxing visibly, as soon as she had opened the door. 'How are things my dear, are you comfortable with your hair short?'

Su, three and a half centimetres taller than Madam Auntie when in sneakers, nodded with a beaming smile. The old woman once again felt ill at ease with the exuberant joy of the child. Her discomfort gave way to considerable anxiety upon realizing the other was there to be invited in. Warily she threw a glance back at the living room. For years not a single visitor had stepped into this house. Not even her brother whom she loved so much. They would instead meet at a patisserie adorned with stained gla.s.s and famous for its age, where they would, every time without fail, have a piece of apple pie and drink two cappuccinos amidst the scent of cinnamon and whipped cream. Though still thinking of excuses that would send the child away without breaking her heart, she was drawn into the depths of the latter's large, black eyes. In spite of the cheeky smile stuck on her face, this child was extremely unhappy. She did not find it in her heart to send her away. Besides, she had taken all the necessary precautions, what harm could it cause to invite her in?

'Come, let's have coffee with milk,' she said, moving aside to let the child in.

'I don't like milk,' Su exclaimed.

'I've never met a child who liked milk,' Madam Auntie nodded. 'But since you're grown up enough to be a fifth grader, I thought you might enjoy drinking it.'

Faced with a line of reasoning she could barely object to, Su took her shoes off without a sound and unable to see a basket with disposable sanitary slippers at the entrance, realized in wonder that this was a house where one could walk in her socks.

'It smells worse here than at our house,' Su exclaimed, as soon as she entered the living room, and with an effervescent smile as if proud of making this observation, she started to scan her surroundings whilst whistling a song she heard on the minibus on the way to school every morning.

Flat Number 2: Sidar and Gaba.

As he watched the items the girl took out one by one from her backpack Sidar felt a tension descend upon him: a turquoise toothbrush (so now there were two toothbrushes in the house), an unpalatable mug with popped-out eyeb.a.l.l.s on it, some open and others shut (so now there two mugs in the house), one jojoba shampoo for frequently washed hair (so now there were two shampoos in the house), one box of tampons (there was none of these in the house), one towel (so now there were two towels in the house), a lot of books and CDs (so now there were a lot of books and CDs in the house).

This was not what he had in mind when agreeing to the girl's wish to stay here. He had said she could stay once in a while, not move in permanently. If this girl with beautifully solemn eyes and coppery hair wanted to feed Gaba with hazelnut wafers, lie down on this couch to watch the ceiling, make love to him, that was OK. He had no problem with her presence as long as there was only one Sidar, one Gaba and one girl. What disturbed him so much were these possessions of hers. The instant people infiltrated others' lives they seemed to feel obliged to bring their belongings along.

Yet, whenever Sidar rode the ochre cart of hashish or the chromatic horses of acid galloping into the uncharted maze of his brain, he would stumble at the threshold of the same old question: 'Which one?' That was the quandary he most feared when high. Failing to come up with an answer he would each time be catapulted into a bottomless torpor. If, say, there were two mugs in front of him, he could never decide which one to drink from; if there were two towels, he wouldn't know which one to wipe his face with; two books, two CDs...any option would be more than baffling. As long as there was more than one, the question of which fork or gla.s.s or plate or coffee-pot turned into a daunting enigma worthy of the ones asked in purgatory. Many a time he had been petrified with a sesame cookie in one hand and a creamy cookie in the other, only to realize he had been standing at the same spot without budging for forty minutes or so. Wrestling his way out of this tight bind, he would sink in deeper; whenever he felt inclined to choose one item, his thoughts would get stuck onto the one left behind. The objects would then, just like rowdy baby birds whose mother had still not returned, open their little mouths wide and shout in unison: 'Me! Me! Me Sidar! Please choose me!'

However, he did not want to choose. Everyone thought he had made a choice between Switzerland and Turkey in coming to live in the latter. That was not true. He had not decided on anything, he had merely arrived and maybe some day he would merely leave. Likewise, the act of suicide, which he had lately started to think about more often than ever, did not mean, as deemed by everyone, choosing death over life. Suicide was like Gaba, the one and only. He would merely commit it.

Of course, that credo was subject to scrutiny when not the why but the way of suicide was considered because in that case he would once again be confronted with the question 'Which one?' There was such an a.s.sortment of choices presenting so many different ways of committing suicide, and whenever Sidar rode the ochre cart of hashish or the chromatic horses of acid galloping into the uncharted maze of suicide, he got stuck there on the verge of the same quandary. Then the gas oven in the kitchen, the rope waiting to be hung down from the gas pipe crossing through the living room, the pills in the bottles, the razor in the bathtub and the Bosphorus Bridge with its Goliath feet would start to scream in unison: 'Me! Me! Me, Sidar! Please choose me!'

'You cannot stay here,' he mumbled, averting his eyes away from hers.

'But I asked before. You didn't object then.'

'I know,' Sidar admitted fretfully as he spotted the spider dangling from the ceiling. 'But I've changed my mind.'

Flat Number 3: Hairdressers Cemal and Celal.

Though Cemal had intended to go home directly after the bar, either because he found it hard to walk straight or came to realize his decision to part ways with his twin meant saying farewell to their joint workplace as well, he soon found himself in front of Bonbon Palace. Trying not to touch the reeking, leaking garbage bags huddled on the sidewalk, he leaned over the pistachio green writing on the garden wall and stared at the beauty parlour with sorrowful eyes, but what he spotted there was quick to replace his sorrow with agitation. There was a candle flickering inside. He had no doubt that the apprentices had locked up the door and left hours ago. With a frown on his face he stood still, staring at the low set balcony of their flat. That must be where the thief had gained entrance.

Though he was hardly experiencing a tidal wave of courage, after guzzling three large beers, Cemal was more than ready to give any thief a black eye. Grabbing a broken hanger G.o.dknowswho had thrown in the garbage he rushed into the garden, pa.s.sed by the rose acacia and managed to land on the balcony on his first try. As predicted, the door was slightly ajar. He rushed inside toward the shadow of a man standing by the candle...and instantly dropped his weapon of a broken hanger...

Meanwhile, the other, faced with such an aggressive silhouette plunging in from the balcony, had scampered to his feet, taking cover behind a hair-removal machine. Celal was hardly experiencing a tidal wave of courage. Had it been any other time, he would have been scared to death but he too had left three large, emptied beer mugs behind. Nonetheless, probably because compared to his twin, he was either less impervious to alcohol or simply less agile, even though he had indeed unravelled the ident.i.ty of the encroaching silhouette at the very last moment, he could not withhold his arm quickly enough. By the time Celal's right arm had processed the 'Retreat!' command coming from the brain, it was already too late. In a flash, the hair-removal machine smashed onto Cemal's shoulder, leaving its heat control b.u.t.ton there.

The twins were ten years old when their father had returned from Australia where he had emigrated many years previously. In united awe they had listened to the stories the man they so much admired told them. He had worked hard, made heaps of money, and had now returned to take his family back with him to that land of prosperity. Awaiting them there was a house, vivid yellow like boiled corn, with a tyre swing in the backyard. While the twins had listened to their father with bated breath, their mother had been busy packing, bidding farewell to the neighbours and doling out all their belongings, since they weren't going to take any of these things with them.

The day before their departure, while Celal and Cemal tossed and turned in their beds on the floor, their father had sneaked into their room. Patting their heads, he had taken out from his chest-pocket one photograph. There was a house in the photograph which indeed looked huge and corn yellow; and the backyard was just as he had described. There was a swing there as well and on that swing sat a plump woman with a smile blooming on her face. She had ginger hair with a strand curled, thickly braided and loosely fastened into a bun at the nape of the neck. 'What do you think of her? Beautiful, isn't she?' their father had asked. The twins had nodded shyly. She did not at all look like the women they had hitherto seen, especially not like their mother. Putting the photograph back, their father had once again patted them on their heads. 'Tomorrow, we three are gonna leave,' he had whispered. 'Let your mother stay here for the time being. Once we get to Australia and settle down there, we can come pick her up.'

Though their age was small and their admiration of their father only too deep, both boys had instantly grasped that this was a lie. When left alone in the room they had shunned any further word on this matter. Both had feigned ignorance, as if by doing so they could manage to somehow unlearn what they had learned. When they had finally fallen asleep that night, both had beckoned to the ginger-haired woman in their dreams. The following morning, however, neither could tell for sure if she had come or not.

'I was so thrilled to hear the things daddy had told us then...' Cemal murmured to his twin whilst still on his knees and searching for the heat control b.u.t.ton.

'That vast country, that pretty woman,' Cemal droned on broodingly. 'I sold my mother in exchange for those. That's what a despicable person I am. In return for these, I peddled the woman who had given birth to me, suckled and raised me. G.o.d d.a.m.n it, one can become a materialist in time, so you'd think life made a person one, but how on earth could one be a materialist when still a child, at that age?!'

The following day, once having sent their mother away on a pretext, the three of them had loaded the suitcases into the car.

'But you? You did not peddle our mother for these things!' Cemal sighed, as he watched his brother crawl under a swivel chair to dig out the heat control b.u.t.ton. 'You didn't put your soul up for sale or your very humanity! f.u.c.k the money, f.u.c.k the luxury, you decided, and jumped off the car. You chose to stay with our mother and you tried to persuade me too. You were running so hard behind the car as dad and I drove away from the village. That poignant scene was seared forever in my mind. You were yelling so hard: "Stop! Stop!" You ran after us all the way to the end of the village.'

As Cemal folded a handkerchief into two, four, eight, sixteen folds, blowing his nose on the last fold, the power came back. Celal ran to the kitchen to fetch his twin a gla.s.s of water. Before handing him the gla.s.s, he put in five drops of lemon cologne.

'Thank you,' Cemal said.

'I had lost my shoe,' Celal replied.

Staring with l.u.s.treless eyes at the candle flame, which looked so rickety and flimsy now that the electricity had come, Cemal tried to make sense of what he had just heard.

'I had lost my shoe,' Celal repeated. He would rather have remained silent but his mouth talked without consulting him. How he wished he had not had that third beer. 'Just as I was getting into the car, one of my shoes fell off. That's why I got off the car, to put on my shoe. However, before I had the chance, mother showed up. As soon as father spotted her coming, he started the engine. I ran after you with one shoe on but the car careered away. I kept yelling at the top of my voice. I ran after you all the way to the end of the village.'

Celal, bruised all through his life from being the child his father had abandoned and Cemal, bruised all through his life from being the child who had abandoned his mother, stood staring at one another, half-dejected, half-confused, their respective ident.i.ties turned inside out in the mirror that each provided for the other...and whatever it was that they saw there led each to believe that his situation had been graver than the other's...

'There's one more thing I need to tell you,' Celal b.u.mbled. 'You know ma was an uneducated woman. After your departure, she fell ill with sorrow. People urged her to seek help from this famous spell-caster. She took me there with her. A young man with eyes like gla.s.s, turns out he was blind. He must have taken pity on my mother. "To this day I have never prepared a bad spell," he said, "and I never will hereafter, but this husband of yours deserves the worst so I'll make an exception and help you. Let's block their way, capsize their car, sink their ship if need be, let's make sure they never make it to Australia. Do you want me to do that? Do tell, is this what you really want?" he asked. Poor ma stood still, cried, moaned and then unable to take it any longer she said: "Yes!" '

As that night it was taking Cemal longer than usual to comprehend his twin's words, he was lagging behind, his mind functioning no quicker than an icicle feigning ignorance of the sun. He would have liked to intervene and put in a few words himself but not only did he not know what to say, at that moment even the idea of moving his jaw tired him. How he wished he had not finished off that third beer...

'Poor ma, she was so exhausted she couldn't even follow what was said. So it was me who had to get the instructions on how to cast the spell. The sorcerer gave me a corn husk, filled a bottle with blessed water and wrote who knows what on a piece of paper. "Separate the corn husk into two pinches and tie them tight. Put them in the paper and roll the paper up lengthwise like a cigarette. Then burn it all up" he instructed. "Right then, you'll hear a voice. A sound will speak out of the fire. When you hear that sound, rest a.s.sured you're doing the right thing. Do not ever touch the fire. Let it burn away its course. When the flames are entirely out, sprinkle the ashes over the blessed water and then pour the water at the bottom of a red rose tree. The rest will come by itself," he concluded.'

The power went out once again. The puny flame of the candle visibly heartened, appreciating the sudden darkness.

' "As soon as we reach home, get to it," said ma, "Do exactly what the sorcerer told you!" So I tied the cornhusks, making two bunches (one small, the other big), put them in the paper, wrapped it up nicely and then kindled it. You should have seen ma, her eyes were wide as saucers! G.o.d, that hope in her stare, she expected so much from me. The paper really went up in flames. I tried to convince myself, "Nothing will happen," but suddenly I heard, just like the sorcerer said I would, a scream...as if someone was crying...then another scream. I thought I heard your voice. Shaken up I took the blessed water and poured it right onto the burning fire. It went out with a hiss. I felt so relieved. Of course, I didn't tell my mother what I had done. She thought I'd poured it all out at the bottom of the red rose tree. Next we went to bed. At dawn a noise woke me up, I get out of bed and what do I see? Ma is out in the garden weeping on her knees! "Celal, what have I done? How could I have murdered my sweetheart son," she moaned, "I wish to G.o.d not a single stroke of harm happens to them on the way". "You mean both?" I asked. "Yes, I mean both," she said. I noticed her hands were covered with scratches. She had uprooted the rose tree to break the spell. "Nothing bad will happen, right, Celal?" she begged. "Nothing," I consoled. "You didn't do everything you were told, right" she asked. "Right," I replied. She was so relieved. "Good for you, my smart boy," she smiled. Then hugged me with such grat.i.tude that I understood right then. I understood she loved you more than me. The son who had left was the one she loved the most.'

Cemal shivered. He struggled to get up to close the balcony door but was so dizzy he had to squat right back down.

'From that day on Cemal, whenever someone mentions saints, sorcerers and the like, I get scared. Not that I believe it or anything. If you ask my opinion, I believe none of it. If the truth be told, after all these years, I even doubt those corn husks had really made a sound. I was so frightened I must have imagined it. However, the doubt is always with me. Were it not for that doubt my poor mother would spin in her grave. That's how I feel.'

The silence that ensued lasted two minutes. The lights came back right in the middle, leaving one minute in the darkness and the other in the light.

'So that's why you got so mad at my making fun of the saint in the garden! But I promise you, I'll never ever open my mouth again!'