Bliss: A Novel (10 page)

He had not said anything to Aysel yet. She was sleeping peacefully upstairs, quite unaware that her life, too, was about to change.

When he got to the university that morning, the first thing İrfan would do would be to visit the department chair and instead of greeting him formally as he had done for years, he would punch the man right in the middle of his disgusting face. İrfan was younger and stronger, and nothing could prevent him from hitting the man, who had secretly accused him of being shallow and commonplace and ruined his reputation, that miserable old man whose face it would be a delight to batter.

What relief he would feel. Like Gulliver, İrfan had to rip off the invisible ties of Lilliput around him. He would make sure the door was open so the secretary could see the fellow’s ugly mouth lose a few rotten teeth. No doubt, the scandalmonger would be stunned. A few minutes later, once İrfan had left, the man would come to his senses, shout, and threaten to make İrfan pay for what he had done. Struggling to save his ego, he would order his secretary to call the rector, a lawyer, and, of course, the police. He would wipe the blood from his mouth, trying to console himself by imagining how İrfan, landed in jail, would be finished and done with once and for all.

News of the incident would spread quickly through the university. Hundreds of telephones would ring at exactly the same minute, and the press would soon be hot on the story. Like hungry wolves following the smell of blood, İrfan’s friends would erupt into the corridors to follow the trail of fresh gossip.

After paying his respects to the department head, İrfan would drop by the office of that abominable woman,
ermin
. After finishing his business with the old dinosaur, he would visit her next. He wondered how best to display his feelings for her. Peeing on her desk as she gazed at him with astonished eyes might be appropriate. It would probably cause her to have a heart attack. All he would have to do would be to walk into
ermin
’s office and open his zipper. She was certain to lose her presence of mind and scream hysterically. The secretary would make one frantic call after the other, and soon the department head with his bloody mouth would arrive on the scene to find out what was going on and to join in the outcry. İrfan would have already made a hasty exit.

As might be assumed, not only did İrfan not carry out his plan but, in fact, he acted even more foolishly than usual. With the light of day, the fantasies of the night vanished, and the sun appeared like a messenger to bring him back to reality. His plans, so feasible in the darkness of the night, seemed nothing more than delusions in the cold light of day. Like many people, İrfan was Don Quixote at night and Sancho Panza in the morning. It was for this reason that he felt constrained to go to the university, if only to prove to himself that his plans for revenge, which he had dreamed of so happily by the pool, were just not practical.

He knew this even before leaving the house but when, upon entering the building, he immediately came face-to-face with his department head, this unexpected encounter merely made it clearer. The door was only wide enough for one person so İrfan stepped aside, murmuring his usual halfhearted greeting as he let the man whom he had dreamed of beating up go first. The man whose face he had smashed like a melon in his dreams the night before was now treated with great courtesy. This really was proof of how little character he had. Instead of insulting the man or making him look small, he had almost licked his boots.

Needless to say, he did not even think of visiting
ermin
.

When İrfan entered his office, he was so full of self-doubt that he felt an overwhelming need to compensate. He sat down to write an e-mail to his wife, feeling as if he had to burn all bridges and cross the point of no return. He typed Aysel’s address, but then sat staring at the empty screen.

Feeling uneasy that he might never realize his dream, İrfan wrote “My Love” at the top of the screen but then paused. That was not honest. A farewell note should not start that way; but how else could he address a wife of twelve years standing, “My dear wife,” “Dear Aysel,” “Aysel,” or just “Hi.”

He decided to keep the two words that were the most meaningful for him. Aysel had to understand that his departure had nothing to do with her.

My Love,

You know the legal term “self-defense,” or what we call “legitimate defense,” meaning defense of the self. I can no longer hide the fact that for months I’ve been imprisoned by fear. It has nothing to do with you, or the love I feel for you. I love you more than ever, but I have to leave.

Please try to understand.

This is not the consequence of free will; it is legitimate defense. If I don’t go, I cannot survive another day. I must either leave or commit suicide. Of these two options, I can only choose to live.

My foundation is shaken, and in order to breathe at all I must find another place to live where I can be on my own. I hope that you will understand that I must do this.

Don’t try to find me. Pretend I’m away on a long trip. If I get over this terrible fear of mine, I’ll call you.

Good-bye, my love.

İrfan

İrfan stared at the screen and imagined the impact of the message, picturing all the possible consequences. After questioning the household, the chauffeur, the secretary, relatives, and friends, Aysel would feel utterly abandoned. Realizing that his resolve was weakening, İrfan quickly clicked
SEND
. The message disappeared from the screen. He had crossed the point of no return.

One more thing, İrfan thought, and went to the locked closet, where he kept his research notes related to the book he had been planning to write for some time. He took out all of his notebooks, a couple of loose pages, and picked up a book about the Bogomils. After cramming them into his briefcase, he left his office. He took a taxi to the bank, leaving his car in the university parking lot. He had already given instructions for a withdrawal from his savings account. His financial adviser, Nilgün, had warned him that the interest was due the following week and he would lose a large sum on the $72,000 in his account. “Never mind,” he replied. “Just have the money ready. I’ll pick it up before noon.”

He would lose much more if he waited for the interest to come to term.

AMBUSH AND LAUGHTER

Crouching behind the rocks, the soldiers silently cursed the change in the weather, which had turned the snow to rain. They would be out all night, and no matter how many layers of plastic they wrapped themselves in, the rain always seeped through, like a snake slipping into their clothes and slithering over their skin. The icy water seeped into their boots, soaking their socks and numbing their feet. The only advantage of this weather was that their enemies were suffering, too.

Under his blanket, Selahattin was smoking a cigarette. Despite the precaution, he was putting the whole company at risk. Any light, no matter how faint, could draw the sniper’s attention and, once before, the very same action had resulted in the smoking soldier’s death. If they allowed the enemy to suspect an ambush, they could all be killed, without inflicting any casualties of their own. Cemal reached over, pulled the cigarette from Selahattin’s lips, and extinguished it. He looked so serious that Selahattin raised no objection.

Cemal hoped that Memo and the rest of the guerrillas would soon fall into the ambush and all die at the same instant. Memo was no longer a friend but a ruthless, bloodthirsty enemy intent only on slaughtering Cemal and his comrades. Cemal hated Memo more than any other terrorist and wanted him punished. When he had told Selahattin this, he had said it was Cemal’s own fear of death that made him think that way. Cemal thought he had become immune to fear, yet he obviously still suffered from it. It was hard to forget the images of comrades lying dead, with a bullet between the eyes or torn to pieces by a land mine.

Cemal remembered how he and Memo used to hunt partridges together. Memo was a crack shot, and he carried his rifle differently from the others, as if it were an extension of his body. He could bring the gun effortlessly to his shoulder and hit the target without waiting to take aim.

Cemal hated Memo with a hatred he felt for no one else. He was sure that Memo’s rifle was now pointing at him and his comrades. At moments like this, he always sensed the unseen barrel. Memo must be on the hilltop, ready to pick them off one by one, like partridges.

The fear of death was always present among the soldiers. The possibility of a rocket attack hung over them whenever they hastily ate their two hundred grams of canned rations or tried to drink a cup of half-frozen water. When, constipated from eating dry food for days on end, they bent down to defecate bloody stools, they could feel the enemy breathing behind them. When they occasionally lit a small fire to soften up their bowels with some hot food, the thin smoke took the form of death. Death haunted them even as they stretched out on their thin mattresses on the frigid ground. In these hostile mountains, they could not help wondering if they would survive the next minute.

Some of the soldiers broke under the strain and rushed into the fray, willing to die. Such boys would say, “Going home in a flag-draped coffin now is better than waiting for death in these mountains.”

Cemal knew that Memo was ready to kill him. They had spent many nights at each other’s homes, sharing meals and talking endlessly. Yet, now, Memo wanted to send him to his grave. Cemal’s only escape from his rage was to imagine killing Memo first. It would be just punishment. Memo would not even have time to reach for his rifle. “Bastard!” hissed Cemal. “Murderer, traitor, bastard!”

Hours passed, but there was no sign of the PKK. No one could sleep during an ambush; the soldiers had to be on the alert every second. They could not even whisper. Cemal knew that each of his comrades was lost in his own daydreams.

Suddenly, Cemal saw Memo’s face in front of him. His heart pounded. He realized his mind was wandering between sleep and wakefulness. Tonight no soldier could afford to make any mistakes, and he tried to get hold of himself, but soon he felt drowsy again.

Cemal recalled the games he and Memo used to play in the village, the taunts they threw at each other during soccer matches, the disputed goals, and the fights that ensued. Dripping with sweat, they would shout curses at one another, but their anger was soon dissipated.

Once they played together against a neighboring village. To guarantee victory, Cemal visited a maker of charms and potions before the match and had him prepare a talisman. He buried the charm in front of their goalpost so no ball would pass through.

In the first half of the game, the charm seemed to work like magic and even the hardest shots of the opposing team did not find the goal, going wide or rebounding from the goalpost. Cemal’s teammates were so ecstatic that he told them about the talisman until someone remembered they had to change ends for the second half, which meant the charm would then work in their opponents’ favor. How could they shoot against the talisman they had ordered? Their goal would be without its defense. During the second half, the talisman remained true to its promise. Every goal they attempted either went wide or rebounded from the goalpost. The team from the other village won three to one. After the match, Memo shouted at Cemal, “Idiot! If you could think of using a charm, why didn’t you think about having to change ends!”