Erendiz Atasü
The Photograph on the Wall
(Translated by Stephen Clendinnen)
She got up with the morning call to prayer. This was so habitual for her that even before the call began, she would be fully awake. She had started doing this twelve years ago, when she was thirteen years old, when she started to menstruate. The different parts of her body were so familiar with the movements of washing, and her lips with the recitation of the Amentu* that they performed the movements by themselves, without her mind being involved. She performed her early morning namaz, then got dressed. She made tea and had breakfast with simit, white cheese and olives. She heard snoring from her mother and father; they always went back to sleep after morning prayers. Because of their age. She didn’t want to wake them – the flat was small – so she moved quietly. Silence, outside and inside… Actually, no. In fact there was a bell echoing constantly inside her head warning her: don’t be late for work, don’t be late for work!
It would take her at least a two hour journey to her job in the Ministry of Agriculture from this barren hill that once upon a time shanty houses used to cling to. Over the years the poor mothers of the shanty town had planted geraniums in margarine containers and brought colour to this wasteland and some joy to their weary hearts. Naturally Kübra had no knowledge about these earlier decades. She wasn’t aware that the steppe had once completely covered this hill. These days blocks of narrow, multi-storey, flats that lean slightly and whose plaster has already peeled off stood on the top of the ridge like broken down guards. What they were guarding against wasn’t clear…
Thank goodness that the roads had been paved. Kübra was also thankful that they had a flat with running water and a toilet; that her mother and father were well. She had a job and so many out here on the edge of the steppe didn’t! Another thing to be thankful for. Let Allah protect the state and the people; may we all be wealthy and prosperous.
(*The Amentu lists the six fundamental beliefs of Muslims.)
No longer was there any requirement for women to be uncovered to work at the Ministry of Agriculture. Her main concern in life was that she was not being thankful enough to God. She had learnt to do this from her grandmother in childhood, and it had been reinforced in her later when she was at her religious high school. It’s important never to forget to give thanks to the most high Lord. Kübra was a dour, quiet and skinny young woman. But she didn’t always keep her mouth shut!
What’s your name?
Kübra.
Do you know what it means?
Was the official at the desk behaving in an arrogant way? Was he trying to put her down? Was Kübra offended?.. Kübra puffed out her chest and said with pride, “It’s a name from the Holy Koran.”
She was not always sour-faced either. In childhood she was smiling and playful. In those days she lived in one of the mountain villages near Rize. Steep slopes that were covered with a profusion of brilliant green plants. Hazelnuts… Tea… And in the distance the unknowable sea. She had heard that some people even swam in the ocean. Heaven forbid! Were people fish to go swimming? Some climbed the mountains… For the child Kübra, it was enough to play amongst the chicken shit in her tiny courtyard. During prayers when her grandmother was on her prayer mat, she would tickle her toes and pull her head covering. Because of her youth, may Allah forgive her. She would chortle with laughter; her grandmother would embrace her and say, “Hey daughter of mine, Allah, who I forfeit my life to, forgives the faults of children.” She didn’t like to remember that in those days Allah was still part of her games.
It was around this time that one day she saw a drop of blood on her underpants. For some reason she was afraid to tell her mother. Had she done something wrong? Why was there blood? She ran to her grandmother, hoping she would say, “Hey child of mine, it is not anything at all, no.” But it didn’t turn out like that. Her grandmother looked at the blood, a serious expression appeared on her face, she sighed, she put her hand on Kübra’s head, and she sighed again.
“Hey, child of mine,” she said, “hey my child… let’s see about this.”
Kübra started to be afraid. What was going on?
“Now, do what I tell you, and repeat what I do.”
The old woman ritually cleansed her granddaughter, put a white headscarf on her head and explained to her that her life had changed from this point in time. From now on she will pray five times a day, she will fast at Ramadan, she will only wear clothes with long skirts and long sleeves and her head will remain covered. No more running and playing, and especially don’t go near boys! She will behave formally and respectfully towards her father, she must always follow the instructions of her mother and father. In a few years her father will choose a suitable family where she will be sent to be a wife. And so on and so forth. The most important thing is that from now on she had to be careful not to sin. Her childhood was over. The angels have opened the record books for sins and for good deeds; one angel will sit on one shoulder, and the other angel on the other shoulder. Henceforth Kübra will continuously be under scrutiny, each action, each word will be watched and will be recorded. In the future, on Judgement Day these records will be revealed in the presence of Allah.
All this because of one drop of blood? Kübra was astonished. She pursed her lips as though she was going to ask something; her gentle and cuddly grandmother – on whose face Kübra saw for the very first time a serious, even a frightening expression – raised her dry and veiny hand and silenced Kübra. No questions, she must do what she is told. It meant that Allah was no longer a participant in her games, so what was going on?
Since we can’t understand Allah, thinking about him is a waste of time; it is enough just to keep the fear of Allah in your mind. After that day, God for Kübra was a distant and snowy mountain. When her grandmother stopped playing with her as a child a fixed expression settled onto Kübra’s face – her lips became a thin line, her eyes became dull and lifeless.
She shied away from her own body, the one drop of blood that had brought all these problems onto her and had came from her body, her body had summoned up sin… Kübra had to be covered and hidden away, she had to be kept under strict supervision so that neither she nor anyone else was thrust into sin!
***
At half past six the alarm went off but she didn’t wake. Each morning it was the same thing… Her mother, with her hair all over the place and her dressing gown untied, her bare feet pushed into slippers, would kiss her and tenderly try to wake her, but once again she didn’t wake. Then her mother’s voice would become more impatient and the poor woman would exasperatedly call her daughter’s name, and it was only now that Hülya will wake up…
She will grumble to herself while trying to swallow the food put into her mouth by her mother; struggling to get dressed, and only make it to the Ministry of Agriculture with a few seconds to spare to sign the attendance book before its removal.
Hülya was Kübra’s assistant. She didn’t like the job. How could she like it after all the time spent finishing an economics degree, then stuck for two years with no work, all her efforts at finding a job and networking yielding nothing, and in the end having to accept a lowly, dead end job in the Ministry of Agriculture? Most of the people working in the Ministry had no experience or qualifications in agriculture. For example, her boss Kübra had only completed two years studying home economics by correspondence.
Hülya just couldn’t accept her situation; she considered it a great injustice that had been inflicted on her. Her parents were on low salaries but they were both university graduates; she was aware that they had made sacrifices for her to get an education, and she knew that she should thank them. But inside she didn’t feel thankful, her lips couldn’t sound out the syllables to say thanks. Everything was meaningless and stupid… It was all a big, cruel joke!
She finished high school with good marks and went into the economics faculty because of all the great careers it would supposedly lead to; but where are these careers? In fact it’s a useless qualification! There is a crisis in the sector so there are no jobs! The end result for her was taking up a job in the Ministry of Agriculture. My girl, at least it’s a government job and you will be eligible for a pension. In a world where job security no longer exists I have a mother and father who babble on about pensions! Doesn’t she know it’s not their fault… So who are you going to blame Hülya? You need to take out your anger on someone, to be able to get on with your life. Besides her mother and father, especially her mother, who else does she have in her life? What sort of a future awaits her in the Ministry of Agriculture? Mother, in this country, agriculture is dead. There is no way to find a husband in that place. She feels no affinity for her work colleagues, with prayer beads in their hands and wooden clogs on their feet. They all find women like Hülya strange anyway, as if she had been cast here from some other planet. It’s my wretched fate, I graduated as an economist, the recession hit; I got a position at the Ministry of Agriculture, just when the heart had been ripped out of farming in this country.
That’s why she couldn’t wake up in the mornings. The bosses were busy making up things for all their idle employees to do. The Council officials gave the employees at the Ministry a new responsibility – quality control for shops selling food. At the same time there was a management restructure, Kübra’s team was transferred to the Ministry of Science and Technology. Why was that? Who knows! But they were still in the Agriculture Ministry building. From the employee’s point of view there was no change. The staff and the buildings were all mixed up and they were being moved from one place to another. Everybody was equally in the dark. Their positions weren’t clear anymore nor was it clear what job description they were supposed to be fulfilling! As a sop to us all, us staff were called “inspectors” and we were set loose on the streets. And on top of all this, we didn’t inspect the mouldy grocery shops on the outskirts of the city, no, we didn’t; we always inspected the shops along the same fashionable city street.
Today, once again, they will show themselves along the length of the city’s most chic boulevard, with Kübra in front and Hülya behind. In the delicatessens with the air conditioners blasting an icy wind, they will argue with the shop owners about why the eggs are displayed on the shelves and not in the refrigerators and they will hand out fines.
Hülya didn’t like Kübra, she couldn’t get used to taking orders from her. As soon as Kübra stepped inside a shop she was magically transformed – just like when Cinderella is turned into a princess. But she doesn’t become a changeable princess like in the story, she becomes something Hülya doesn’t want to be part of – a fine issuing machine. And she speaks in a monotone, the words coming out one on top of the other. She doesn’t get angry or yell, but she doesn’t stop talking either. She doesn’t think the people listening to her have any right to defend themselves.
Hülya is very uncomfortable, standing there like that, doing a job that she doesn’t believe in, coming into nice shops and giving them a hard time, with Kübra’s incessant voice hurting her eardrums… But Hülya can’t object, not because of Kübra’s personality, but because of an ill-defined shadow that she recoils from. It hangs over all the places in the city and in the country where people live, over the ministries and the luxurious boulevards. Kübra acts as its go-between, and Hulya can’t know its dimensions – or maybe she doesn’t want to know them. Her job is hanging by a thread, and she can’t take the risk of losing it. But she won’t always stay quiet! After all she is the intellectual with a university degree. When she can’t argue with Kübra she scolds the shop owners, just like Kübra does. She can’t find the right words to say; so she ends up sounding like Kübra – and she is not so dense that she doesn’t notice herself doing this; she is doing this more and more. She feels angry at herself and this makes it harder to find the right words to express herself. All this anger has to be channeled in some direction or other. Hülya recognises her own voice with shame, her words and tone were sounding just like Kübra’s.
So this is why she can’t wake up in the mornings. So as not to be suffocated in this hopeless and inescapable shame… It would be fine if she never woke up.
Sometimes – very rarely – there was a hint of friendliness between the two women. Kübra like Hülya has problems with their male work mates, but for different reasons. Of course Kübra was not put off by the prayer beads. But when it came to the clogs… That was another story. It made Kübra uncomfortable seeing her colleague’s hairy legs as they walked around the corridors. They were shameless. Modesty in dress also applies to men, doesn’t it? She resented men exploiting freedoms that she had never known. Throughout the day Kübra didn’t pray, in the evening when she got home she would pray instead. The men should do the same. It also made Kübra uncomfortable that the men used the excuse of “we are going to Friday prayers” to leave work at noon on Fridays and so got themselves a two and a half day holiday for the weekend. She knew they felt contempt for her because of her gender and this infuriated her. She was very angry when people despised her female body, but this anger didn’t lead her into forgiving her own femaleness.
Hülya was curious whether Kübra, with her body so tightly under control, was ever inflamed by the same desire to make love that made Hülya, at twenty five and with her body fresh and ripe, writhe with passion, even though she had no man that she felt close to. She couldn’t find the courage to ask. Kübra’s hand were always cold. It’s as if her body was always dried out and she has gotten used to it.
Sometimes Hülya envied Kübra. If only Hülya could also believe that everything depends on fate and on Allah’s will, and that there was nothing for the believer to do but to submit and give thanks… Maybe then she could breathe easier. Maybe then she could save herself from this horrible feeling of failure and incapacity that arose from realising that she had not been able to direct her life, from this vicious circle of shame. But she cannot believe.
Since she had started working at the ministry, the word “Allah” was never far from her tongue. Is she aware that she keeps repeating the words that she hears all day? Instead of saying “thank you”, she says “may Allah find it pleasing”; instead of “good morning”, “praise be to the morning”. “May Allah bless you”, “if it pleases Allah”… There is no connection between her heart and her lips. Her lips move on their own. For her Allah is just another word in the dictionary. Is she aware of this change in her language?
***
At eight o’clock, the peaceful flow of his dream is disturbed by a kiss on his forehead. The days of being a soft, blue-eyed child, in the downy embrace of his mother… Reality starts to intrude into the dream – vague images of the bedroom. The kiss slides from his forehead to his lips, the dream retreats further to become a misty panorama; it must be his wife, his mother never kissed him on the lips. For a while he stayed in that warm embrace, his body in an aroused relaxation, his eyes closed, not bothering to distinguish between dream and reality. Very slowly he opened his eyes.
“I swoon looking into your eyes, like blue lakes, peaceful, full of hope”, said his wife. “Your breakfast is ready.” As she quietly left the tray in the man’s lap, she wondered how much she could trust this blue peacefulness. This unpleasant question was like a shadow that passed across her mind and then disappeared. The eyes of men could be captivated by other women, couldn’t they? All those women buying things in the delicatessen. Why was it that women do all the shopping? Obviously because their husbands are at work. Fair enough, but don’t working women also return home with their arms full of packages and recycled plastic supermarket bags stuffed full of food? It must be because men can’t tell the difference between good and evil.
“I have to hurry,” said the husband, as he got out of bed, the angelic, childish expression was gone from his face, the endless hours of monotony that he would spend in the delicatessen was a heaviness that overwhelmed his identity. To be a child again… Wasn’t he also able to want to snatch a few short hours away from work and home, just like many men want to? He wasn’t thinking of any permanent break, nothing like that, he was a responsible person, but maybe in a club, cafe or in a bar with a few friends they could speak man to man, have a few drinks, talk about women, laugh at a few of those bawdy anecdotes and get rid of some of the day’s stresses. Occasionally to escape from the steep, thorny and narrow requirements of virtue, and to dive into a small escapade in some hidden garden; a great love affair was not for him anymore, of course not, he was a responsible husband and also a father, but still… That damn shop was not going away…
“Those damn women are going to come again today and nag me about the refrigerator,” continued the husband. Once again that discomfiting question mark came into the woman’s mind, like a drill, causing her pain… She didn’t know anything about what went on at the deli, she didn’t know any of the people there. Bringing up children really kept her stuck in the house, and loving her two children so much meant that she was even more tied down. She never wanted a third child. Let the children grow up and she knew what they would end up doing. They will take their place beside the cash register, and in this way both help Oğuz and supervise the running of the shop. So will that mean that Oğuz will stop running the shop? No, she will take matters into her own hands and design and implement an effective transfer of power. Oğuz isn’t good at this work, he is a slack worker if you want the truth – how ever much she doesn’t like to run down her husband – she certainly realises that he is a lazy person. Yes, with God’s help she knew how to keep Oğuz connected to the shop.
“The air conditioning makes it freezing cold inside, but still the ladies say to put the eggs in the refrigerator, they won’t talk about anything else. The result is to let the other shops sell more, let them make money,” grumbled Oğuz. At least the ladies were coming for business… One is a dark and dry thing, like a cockroach, her head tightly wound as if the evil eye will attack her flaxen hair; the other one is her double…
“Who are they?” asked the woman, trying not to let her concern show on the outside.
“Darling who would they be? From the Science and Industry Ministry, or maybe from Satan, they’re officials.”
The woman forgot her worries and laughed, “What, the Science Ministry? How funny! It sounds like a science fiction book. Say, is it really the Science Ministry? As far as I know science is only found in universities. For the love of God, the council doesn’t do experiments!” she said.
“In our country anything can happen,” replied her husband, worried and preoccupied; it passed through his mind regretfully that when his father had left him stuck in the shop, this would be the unknowable end result. Why did he have children so young? His wife was his girlfriend from high school. His first love, his only girlfriend. If I don’t have that girl Father, I will die! That was really how he felt. On his wedding night the whole world belonged to him. No, he never had any regrets. He loved his wife. He didn’t want to share his life with anyone other than her, in fact any other possibility was unthinkable. But… As the years go by, as his youth fades into the past, and old age – however far off it was – more clearly became his final destination, the unpleasant realisation that this fate, that he didn’t even like mentioning, awaits him just like everybody else, gains strength…
And an unthinkable possibility had started to prick his internal peacefulness. To die without him ever savouring a different woman… For him to be confined to one woman, to one body. However comfortable, a prison is still a prison. Is this life? Does this count as living! He imagines other women, desires other women but… The damn shop, it gives him no free time! It gets harder and harder to keep the shop open and resist the seductive invasion of the supermarkets… To keep the older and middle aged customers who are used to the shop from going elsewhere you needed high quality products and smiling salespeople. As to young customers… They have already left. By the time that generation of customers have departed this world there will be no shops left. What they found in those shopping centres that are like hangars was unknown. At least the prices were cheap. His shop’s weren’t. What is this nation of people with hungry eyes and with hungry bones; first circling the shelves stuffed with products to let their eyes drink their fill.
He completely trusted his helpers, they were both honest people, especially the old one, who had been here since his father ran the shop. But no matter, the cash register is always attended. Like his late father used to say, women must use food to cook in the kitchen, and the shopkeeper must struggle with the calculations at the cash register. Just as the devil loads an empty gun, so too does the devil fill the mind of the assistant next to the cash register with thoughts that would normally never occur to him.
Oğuz followed his father’s advice and every morning goes straight to his shop. He can’t get rid of his sulkiness until he has had some coffee prepared by his young assistant with the electric kettle. For a while the coffee will take him to a happy place. For this short space of time he looks with pride at the bright shop, at the inviting window displays and at the large photograph of Atatürk hanging on the wall.
A few years before the end of the 20th century, when Turkey was shaken to its core, the street traders – in some sort of a reflex – hung up pictures of Atatürk in their shops. This earthquake was supposed to have come and gone, but as the 21st century unfolded the electric shock waves of transformation continued, maybe then some of the shopkeepers felt regret, but because of their pride they didn’t take the pictures down. Oğuz praised the photograph in his shop, you couldn’t find this photo of Atatürk in any other place; it was as if it was absolutely unique to his deli. The photo had been a gift from an acquaintance who understood art, for the delicatessen’s thirtieth anniversary – it was thought it would be a good promotional opportunity – which was celebrated with a small gathering. The photo was a memento from that day.
Before the high from his coffee had worn off, Oğuz would carefully dust the photograph and its stylish frame. He doesn’t let his helpers do this. Oğuz also knows a bit about art; he knows that the use of black and white is essential in portraits; he knows that it reveals the true geometry of a person’s face, it also shows the lines of the face which display the special traits of that person, and that the simple use of black and white can be more impactful than resorting to the use of eye-catching colours. This is what Oğuz is proud of, what makes the photograph special; that although the photo has some pastel colours in it, its expressive power is still just as striking as a black and white portrait. As Oğuz wipes down the photo, he stares into Atatürk’s face, but every time he does this his eyes dart away from the man in the photograph’s flashing eyes, which stare anxiously and steadily into the future. It gives him a feeling of inadequacy… The borrowed energy from the cup of coffee is all used up. Once again he feels cross, once again he feels melancholy, once again tedium weighs on him… The mood of a worried student coming out of an exam, I made a mistake, but on which question…
Look, be honest Oğuz, you blame everything that you feel is not going well in your life on women! For you this is a hobby horse that you keep returning to. Okay, let’s have a close look at this hobby horse of yours. You’re frightened, aren’t you? You’re using the delicatessen as an excuse. Oğuz’s face has got good structure, his brows project just in the right way to darken his blue eyes. You’re frightened to try with a different woman, frightened you’ll be no good at it; with your wife you are good, with her there is no fear of failure. And even if you did fail, you know that Nalan is like a mother, she will embrace you compassionately, she will never blame you, never taunt you, she will forget about it herself. But someone else…
So, desire that can not break its chains, looks longingly out of the window of its dungeon at the sky; from its eyes flames form and shoot forth, licking the skin of the women coming into the shop – whoever they may be – some tremble, some feel pleasure, some are repulsed. Is Oğuz aware of the effect he has? Does he know that in these glances of his, even in moments when he doesn’t feel desire, that the appearance of desire remains? Glances that operate independently from the nervous system of his body… Just like an empty mask, with no real face behind it…
***
They entered one behind the other, first Kübra and then Hülya. A blue heat swept over both of them from head to toe – the liquified flame of male desire, or maybe it was only a shimmer in the air. When you came in, it was pretty much impossible not to see the portrait of Atatürk that hung on the wall opposite the door. Didn’t the girls see it? Hülya didn’t notice it, she wasn’t aware of any other presence in the delicatessen other than Oğuz; she was so focused on the man’s movements that it wasn’t clear if she was seeing them or imagining them… Kübra, with the sunlight glinting off her amour, stood as unmoved as a knight. Was she unable to decipher Oğuz’s behaviour, or did she refuse to interpret its meaning? She was very aware of the photograph; she kept her eyes away from that wall with an almost religious tranquility. Without seeing it she could sense the photograph’s presence.
Today Hülya was very determined, she was going to make a revolution in her life, she was going to say “no” to Kübra. What they were doing was legally outside their powers as employees. Let’s see how Miss Kübra’s face reacts when Hülya, instead of nodding her head, fluently cites the relevant statutes to Kübra’s face. Let’s see if Kübra Hanım will look so arrogantly self confident and so high and mighty as usual! Nothing doing! This time Hülya has found the inner strength to do her homework. Hey… Did she get stronger from the man looking at her? Thinking about those eyes… Imagining the owner of those eyes embracing her dried out body… Suddenly life was more bearable. Still an inner voice warned her, Hülya, my girl, what kind of a man are you getting involved in? But an altogether different voice overpowered her cautious mind. What was that saying? “You can only live within the realm of imagination”… And there are chance meetings in life… Miraculous coincidences. The monotony of everyday life can be like a wall blocking your way. In this pattern of nothing ever changing a man appears and suddenly a miracle! The miracle of love exploding in mid-winter with the abundance of spring. Like dynamite blowing all the locks sky high, levelling all the walls… Hülya felt full of compassion; she felt so much tenderness for the owner of the shop, whose name she didn’t even know. They had made him suffer for nothing. Last time they came, the liquid energy coming from the man thoroughly soaked Hülya and she had felt so unhappy for the way they had treated him.
She had to help him. She felt her delicious new power. Let them fire her from her job if they wanted to! She had the fortitude to lose her job without a single care! What a terrific feeling! Now she could even die without flinching! Now that she had experienced this feeling! Her defiance of Kübra had to take place in front of the man so that he could see what a big deal it was. Let the man feel thankful to Hülya. Then when she shyly says that she hasn’t done anything worthy of thanks, she will be rewarded by his respect too. What a nice girl he would say… Men don’t like cold and arrogant women. Hülya knew that much. They don’t get aroused by women like that, her maternal grandmother used to say. Men wouldn’t even glance at a woman like Kübra. Of course he was a bit old. There were flecks of grey in his hair. Oh well, there wasn’t much, it’s okay.
This time she carefully read the notice above the shop. Oğuz something or other… In her excitement she didn’t get his surname. But that doesn’t matter. What matters is his first name. She must use his name when speaking to him to allow a feeling of intimacy to grow between the two of them… Oğuz Bey, actually we have been disturbing you for no reason at all, look Kübra we don’t have any authority to issue fines to this gentleman; because of such and such a regulation of such and such a law etc… The man will have to be amazed by her knowledge and also by her courage, and then, when he sees her humility as well it will blow his mind. Like the corny song from the DVD that she watched… “Hayranlık aşka döndü…” Fascination turned to love…
But what’s that! As Kübra was making her standard speech and as she was getting ready to say, Oğuz Bey, actually we have been disturbing you for no reason -one, two, three, take a deep breath, in the name of God, come on Hülya- what is that! Hülya’s eyes were transfixed on the man’s left hand. There is a wedding ring there! A wedding ring! Was it there before? Had her eyes missed it? Had the golden ring come onto his finger in the last few days? Hulya’s emotions were completely upended. She tried to gather herself. She searched for the man’s eyes to once again find strength; she looked for confirmation, support and maybe encouragement in those eyes… But what’s this! His eyes were looking in the other direction! His eyes swept over Kübra, wandering over her armour, looking for any hole that he could penetrate. The man’s both commanding and pleading eyes… In a moment Hülya was flooded with shame, anger and the thirst for revenge. She was very surprised to hear her own voice start speaking louder than Kübra’s. “Yes Kübra Hanım, you are right,” she heard her voice say, “how many more times do we have to come here! What do you mean you ordered it but it hasn’t been delivered yet? So show us the order slip. We’re not interested in your explanations, we want proof. We are going to have to issue you a fine.”
Oğuz was taken aback, he had thought that Kübra was the one in charge; he had hoped that his glances at Kübra would soften her; he didn’t have any experience with girls like Kübra; he had never had much to do with religion, when his father was well, he had forced Oğuz to go to Ramadan prayers once or twice, that’s all; but he had stuck it in his mind that all women like to feel admired; it went without saying that Kübra wasn’t his type, in fact you couldn’t say he fancied the other one either, she was too skinny, he liked women with more flesh, with something soft for your hands, like his wife, like his mother. In this moment of conflict he had naturally expected the skinny girl with the uncovered head to remain silent before Kübra, like she had previously done, to be Kübra’s natural ally… So what had happened?.. In the last day or two had the position of top and bottom switched? So now was the other one in charge? On the previous occasions, Oğuz had completely forgotten to train his gaze on the uncovered girl in the same way that he had just now done to Kübra.
As he took the receipt he tried very hard not to grind his teeth. The blood rushed to his brain, his eyes and face darkened. He had an alarming look on his face.
The two young girls coming out of the delicatessen walked slowly side by side without speaking… Kübra thought that they had done their duty; this gave her a brief moment of satisfaction and thankfulness. Inside Hülya however, amidst an uproar court proceedings were just getting underway; there was the plaintiff, the defendant, prosecutor and judge, and she was all of them… This stupid woman was dreaming about a bridal veil, thundered the prosecutor Hülya, at the accused Hülya. The judge was more humane and was searching for a way to get the accused off… Bridal veil… How messed up is this woman’s thinking… This rebuke that Hülya found appropriate stirred an image in her mind; it flared up like a flash of lightning. A photograph of a wedding couple. Wearing an elegant, low-cut wedding dress, was a young woman, as beautiful as a movie star, and next to her a meticulously dressed groom. Where did she see this picture? On Kübra’s work desk, of course! It had fallen out of one of her files. Kübra turned bright red, and straight away tried to snatch up the photo, which looked like it had been cut out of a magazine.
“Ah, where did this come from…”
Hülya quick as a panther got hold of the piece of paper, she thought the design of the wedding dress was fabulous. A happy, newly wed couple, stricking a pose in front of the door of a church. It took some time for Hülya to stop focusing on the charm of the low cut wedding dress, and to comprehend that it was very surprising to find such a photograph in Kübra’s possession. Feeling no need to hide her childish amazement she blurted out, “But, but this is a photo of a church, they are Christians” and turned her wide open eyes to her work colleague questioningly.
Now it was Kübra’s turn to be shocked, it was as though she had been stuck with a pin, “Church?” she said. She wasn’t pretending, she was genuinely bewildered.
“That’s definitely a church. Haven’t you ever seen a church? Haven’t you been to Istanbul?”
Kübra had never seen any part of Istanbul other than Sultanbeyli*. She suddenly got angry, remembered that she was Hülya’s boss and said in her most imperious voice, “Anyway, time to get back to work,” stuffing the photo into her work draw.
(*Sultanbeyli is in a part of Istanbul on the eastern side – far from the parts of the city where you might see churches.)
The photo wasn’t referred to again. Until now, out of the blue this photograph of the wedding at the church appeared in Hülya’s mind. No Madame judge, please give the punishment to someone else, if not Hülya might… But what if Hülya won’t even be able to respond?.. She wished she had died, she wouldn’t mind if she had died right there… just one response… that was all she needed…
Hülya cloaked herself with the same cold, supercilious manner that Kübra had used on that day – impersonating Kübra was becoming a habit for Hülya.
“Do you still have that photo hidden away? The picture of the church?” Hülya spoke with the accusing and sarcastic voice of a prosecutor, her manner was cold as ice but her eyes were flashing with fire.
As Hülya took her revenge on Kübra, Oğuz in the deli was ready to explode with fury. He was so enraged that he slammed his fist down on the counter and didn’t even notice how much it hurt.
The employee who had worked in the shop since his father’s time said, “Don’t pay it Oğuz. What authority do they have to issue fines? If only you had asked a few more questions, resisted for a little bit. It’s a shame that you’re getting so upset.”
Oğuz’s eye landed for a moment on the photograph of Atatürk hanging on the wall…
“It’s because of this picture that they come and torment me, but I am not taking it down! Even if it means death I won’t take down the great saviour’s picture!” he yelled, and once more brought his fist down on the counter. He stormed out of the shop.
“The boss is really furious,” said the young attendant.
“Don’t worry. He will go and play backgammon with the owner in the nut shop next door, that will calm him down. But if he loses at backgammon, then be afraid” said the older employee.
The young employee took advantage of the boss’s absence and ducked out of the shop. The older man calculated how long before the owner would return, and lit a cigarette. He went over and sat on the stool, facing Oğuz’s beloved photograph.
“Those were the days, Oğuz,” he said; he had known him when he was still in short pants; he was a good kid, even if he was so set against cigarettes. Never mind that the man in the photograph was completely addicted to them…
“Isn’t that right Gazi Paşa*?”
Mustafa Kemal – with deep lines on his worn and thoughtful face and wearing an immaculate suit – was sitting in a wicker armchair, a cup of coffee in his long, elegant hands, between his fingers a cigarette; it was clear he didn’t want to drink the coffee, maybe he was even nauseated by it – but had accepted it so as not to offend the hospitality offered to him.
“Wow!” said the older employee.
What a gentleman! Who would have believed he had fought in trenches, in city squares throughout ten long years of ceaseless war, covered in mud and gunpowder… Is he sad? Or sick? His face looks tired but his eyes were not, his shoulders are stooped but his head is erect.
“Oh my Gazi Paşa,” said the old man, “was it worth it..?” Oğuz had appeared at the door. The old man stood up and in doing so quickly extinguished the cigarette.
(*Gazi Paşa is one of the ways that Mustafa Kemal Atatürk is referred to and means “veteran commander”.)