Bliss: A Novel (15 page)

“I don’t know,” he said, in answer to his own question. “I just don’t know.”

The game of question and answer lasted for a few minutes and did him good, helping him forget his terror of the dark.

He took the game a step further. He imagined he and his self had separated into two personalities who were engaged in endless debate. İrfan’s reference points were rooted in books rather than in life. He was more affected by fictional characters than real people.

“You’re a coward!” exclaimed the first voice.

“No!” the second voice answered. “If I’ve risked everything by facing up to my life and have had the courage to initiate a change, I can’t be called a coward. Not everyone could do what I did.”

“All you did was run away. You left your problems unsolved. You should have stayed in Istanbul and confronted them.”

“There was nothing to confront in Istanbul. I had a happy life. I was successful and rich. There was nothing to bother me—except the trouble inside of me.”

“You’re lying, İrfan Kurudal.”

“No!”

“You’re lying. You’re a cowardly liar.”

“No, no, no!”

“What will you do when I prove that you’re lying? Your life in Istanbul, which you call ‘happy,’ was garbage. You felt worthless, and you were right. You never created anything worthwhile. You only grabbed what opportunities were available and climbed the social ladder. As a scholar, you’re worth nothing. It doesn’t matter if people treat you with respect. What novel idea have you come up with? What noteworthy article have you published? Didn’t you always feel embarrassed, ignorant, and shallow at the congresses you attended abroad? Come on, admit it.”

“Yes, yes, in a way I did.”

“That’s because you’re not genuine. You’re a man of straw. You’re ignorant, cowardly, and paranoid, hiding behind your title of ‘professor.’ Your television talks are a great example of mediocrity.”

“You’ve turned this debate into an academic examination.”

“Okay, let’s talk about other things then. You weren’t a good teacher, but were you a good husband?”

“Aysel was happy—very happy.”

“Maybe she looked happy, but that was because she kept all her troubles to herself. Isn’t it true that you just made love to her because you felt it was your duty?”

“That’s a lie!”

“You can’t fool me. I’m your other self. Are you going to deny that you never enjoyed caressing her—that you never desired her flesh? You were not drawn to her, not even when you were young. Isn’t that the reason for her unfaithfulness?”

“Now you are lying. Aysel was never unfaithful. Like everything else you’ve said, this is mere invention.”

“Remember, I’m you. I know your secret doubts. Didn’t you know that she regularly met Selim in an apartment in Maçka?”

“No.”

“Let’s suppose you suspected it. Actually, you realized the whole thing when you saw her enter that building one day, but you pretended not to notice. Why did you feign ignorance? Because you weren’t jealous. You’ve mistreated everyone in your life. First you deserted Hidayet, then your parents, your sister, and finally your wife. You’re small-minded and selfish. Your life is a fake. You’ve always lived according to the standards of others since you aren’t brave enough to be yourself. Your colleagues at the university looked down upon you because they sensed your fear. Your enemies multiplied.”

“Now you’re calling me paranoid.”

“The fact that you’re paranoid doesn’t mean that you don’t have enemies.”

“I’m not the man you describe.”

“Listen, Professor, you don’t even know who you are!”

“Are you going to treat me to a Delphic oration?”

“Indeed, I am. I’m going to ask you to know yourself. Is there something the matter with that? Or what about thinking of the great mystic Sufi poet Rumi?”

“Who said I was talking like a book? Who’s doing it now?”

“I’m not Athena talking to Odysseus on this boat. Have you forgotten? I’m you. Your habits are my habits. I can’t escape from your limitations, can I?”

“So why the hell are you picking on me?”

“I’m trying to show you what an unhappy, timid, worthless liar you are.”

“But if you’re me, then you’ve got these characteristics, too.”

“Absolutely. But I’m the realistic part of you. I see things as they are and try not to console myself with fantasies and lies.”

“What benefit does that bring you? Self-pity?”

“Don’t you know that the feeling of ceasing to exist can please a man? It gives a unique kind of pleasure to know you are destroying yourself, making others despise you, that your standing has sunk to the lowest rank, and you are falling into the deep pit of being human. Don’t reject all the values that every sensible person struggles to attain.”

“You sound like a nihilist.”

“Don’t underestimate nihilism. If you listen to yourself long enough, you’ll realize that nihilism is the philosophy closest to you. Remember that your temperament enjoys being detached from everything and every belief, of making fun of the ideologies that terrorize this country, and of secretly despising those around you while pretending to enjoy their company. That’s why you never felt close to any group—either as a student or later in life. The groups you shunned would not have accepted you, anyway. You tried to look like an independent, disengaged intellectual, but I know that you don’t take any ideology as seriously as those weird dreams of yours. I’ve caught you out. Admit it.”

“My dreams?”

“Yes, your dreams—the biggest realities of your life. They’re the only moments when you become yourself as a real human being. Your dreams are the most sincere moments of your existence.”

“You’re exaggerating. Dreams aren’t the truest moments in life. You know very well that I don’t have dreams.”

“You do, even if you don’t want to admit it. That suit of armor you wear, even when making love, falls to pieces in your dreams. It’s only then that the truth surfaces, and you reunite with your own personality. Since your childhood, there’s been a single vision in your dreams, hasn’t there? It’s the only thing that excites you—a shadow, an obscure being, maybe not human even.…”

“Stop!”

“Since you want to confront it, let’s open this subject now, so that you can begin your new life as an honest man.”

“Shut up! I don’t want to talk about it.”

“Take a realistic look at yourself for the first time.”

“Enough!”

“What do you see in your dreams?”

“Nothing!”

“Whom do you see?”

“No one!”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes! Yes, I am, damn it! I don’t see anything or anyone. Enough! Shut up!”

When the professor regained consciousness, he was lying on the teak planking of the deck. The night dew had dampened his clothing and caused his muscles to become stiff. In front of him, a crimson dawn was breaking. The sailboat lay becalmed on the motionless water. The offshore breeze unique to the Aegean coast would probably not arise until afternoon, after the land had heated up.

İrfan considered the nighttime “crisis” a result of wine and a mixture of various tranquilizers. His mind must have been completely confused, but now, under the gleaming blue sky, all he had gone through during the night seemed distant and ridiculous. Fortunately, no one had witnessed it. Sentimentality, overreaction, a passion for literature, alcohol, and pill-taking—all these excesses had caused the night’s troubles.

İrfan’s head ached. He was sure that swimming would cure the pain and clear his perception. The water would be chilly at this time of the year, but he did not care. He threw off his clothes and plunged into the salty water. It was icy, taking his breath away at first, but he quickly adjusted to the cold. The longer he swam, the more invigorated and alert he felt. The night, which had begun with thoughts of Russian novels had ended like one of them. In most Russian novels, some public servant of whatever rank would wake up in his bed one day with an awful headache. Recalling the disgust and ridicule he had aroused the previous night while under the effects of vodka, he would purse his lips and swear never to let a single drop pass his lips again.

His oath would last only until the same evening.

THE BLACK TRAIN

Meryem was disappointed when she did not see Istanbul on the other side of the hill near her village, but her hopes revived when she saw a line of purple mountains in the distance. Yet beyond that range there were only more boundless fields. She tried to console herself with the thought that Istanbul was probably behind the next line of hills. Then she wondered if she had not been mistaken and Istanbul was, indeed, a great way off.

As the minibus bumped and swayed along the dusty road, the excitement of discovering new scenery replaced the hurt of leaving her hometown. Meryem was able to adapt to new circumstances quickly.

On the other hand, Cemal’s presence made her uneasy. She did not know how to approach him, or how she should behave toward him. The boy of the past—her childhood companion and playmate—had vanished to be replaced by a completely different person, this silent man who sat there sleeping, his large frame fitting awkwardly into the minibus’s narrow seat. She glanced out of the corner of her eye at his sunburned face and the rough hands folded in his lap, neither of which showed any tenderness. The sight of this man dressed in jeans and an old anorak with his Adam’s apple projecting from his thick neck among numerous pale wrinkles of untanned flesh, his rugged, unshaven face and short-cut hair emphasizing the grimness of his expression, made Meryem afraid.

Meryem looked at herself. What a wretched girl she was. She felt miserable in the dirty, shabby clothes she had worn all those weeks in the barn—the baggy traditional trousers known as shalvar, worn under a shapeless cotton dress of faded blue flower print, and the old green sweater Döne had given her. As usual when outside the house, her head was covered. The black plastic shoes on her feet were caked with mud.

Meryem could not comprehend why her childhood days had gone by so quickly, leaving her so dreary and so desolate. She wished she had never grown up but had gone on playing with the other children and mingling easily with the villagers. Once into puberty, when hair had started to grow in unfamiliar places and her breasts had appeared, the magic had been spoiled. What if she said, “Cemal, do you remember the day we were playing in the miller’s garden and we saw his hens? I don’t remember who started it, but we both started throwing them up in the air as high as we could, pretending they were airplanes. We laughed so much to see them cackling and flapping their wings as they fell to earth. We thought they were flying, like real planes do. I can still smell them and feel the feathers that fell around us, sticking to our clothes. We hadn’t considered that the poor creatures would get hurt. Then someone, I don’t know who, saw us and shouted, and the miller’s wife burst out of her house and screamed when she saw her hens fluttering on the ground with broken legs. You remember, we ran away along the bed of the stream? My aunt punished us both, but in the end, you were forgiven—as always—and I ended up in the barn. I’ve been locked in that hole so many times! I was blamed for everything I did: Don’t laugh loudly, Meryem; don’t flirt, Meryem; you’re grown up now, Meryem; don’t play with boys!”

By command of her uncle, the bearded patriarch of the village, her family had stopped sending her to school after the first grade. It would be immoral for a girl to sit beside a boy, he decreed.

From the window of the minibus, Meryem watched the world pass by. The minibus went past the road signs too quickly for her to read more than the initial letters of the places along the road. Yet, as far as she could understand, there was still no mention of Istanbul—none of the words on the signs started with the letters “Is.”

Her aunt often reminded Meryem how she had had to take care of her. “It was hard raising you,” she used to say. “I washed your diapers so many times! Your shit’s still under my fingernails.” This was the same aunt who had not opened her door to Meryem. The ruthless woman had sat in her room waiting for the poor girl to leave. Meryem still could not understand why she was being sent away. Neither her aunt nor Cemal had behaved in a way that encouraged questions. Cemal was like her aunt, she thought. He hardly spoke and even refrained from looking at her.

It was getting difficult to keep her eyes open. She dozed off a couple of times, but woke up abruptly when her head fell forward. Then, without knowing it, she fell into a deep sleep.

When Meryem woke up much later, it was dark. Houses, people, and cars had replaced the fields and hills. And what a lot of houses, people, and vehicles there were.

“At last, we’re in Istanbul,” she thought. “It’s as wonderful as they said!”

Meryem glanced at Cemal. He was awake, also, and looking out the window. The traffic slowed, and they had to stop several times. People were hurrying in and out of brightly lit shops that lined both sides of the street.

The minibus came to a place swarming with people and vehicles, and the driver turned off the engine. All the passengers grabbed their suitcases and got out. Meryem’s head began to spin.

Cemal told her to follow him. They got off the bus and walked toward a row of lit buildings. He stopped in front of one. Women and men were lined up separately at opposite doors. Cemal gestured to her to wait with the women.

When she finally got inside, Meryem was overcome by the smell of urine. She saw her ghostlike face in a filthy mirror in the corner. She looked older in the dim light, but her green eyes were still the same. A woman pushed past her, going toward the basin and washing her hands. Meryem waited for the woman to finish, then asked, “Is this Istanbul?”

The woman looked at her and laughed. “No, my dear. Istanbul is two days farther on from here.”

Meryem was confused. When she left the toilet, she saw Cemal waiting for her. He told her to follow him.

The street was full of vendors: Some were selling rice with chickpeas from their carts covered by a glass dome, others boiled corn on the cob or meatballs. The smell of different kinds of food reminded Meryem that she was very hungry. Cemal led her to a street vendor with a small cart illuminated by a single bulb. He bought two sandwiches filled with meatballs, tomato slices, and fried onions and handed one to Meryem. They went to a secluded corner and devoured the sandwiches that Meryem found incredibly tasty. As if synchronized, the call to prayer began at the same instant from all the mosques in the city.