Code of Disjointed Letters: ( Doomsday Will Arise From the Past (12 page)

The summer was gone and it was turning to autumn. Because of school, my income wasn’t enough, and Oktay started to spend our savings. But, the warning bells still hadn’t rung for me yet.

What Oktay had been doing made him happy, and it was worth anything to see him hopping around his work, smiling and happy. But he also began to spend more time in front of the computer, and with his books. I remember him repeatedly mentioning the ‘Cauchy integral formula.’

One evening, when I returned from another long day at work, he ran happily out of his room and excitedly hugged me. He took my hands, sat opposite me, and started to tell me everything he had learned and discovered. Though I didn’t understand what he was saying, he insisted that I should believe him. I couldn’t do what he wanted. I couldn’t believe him. By then, I had started to realize something was wrong, and I tried to calm him down by taking control. I tried to turn him back, to remind him of himself.

He reacted by getting cross with me and locked himself in his room. As the days passed, I began to get scared. I talked about the situation to his brother, Turgay, who was also a doctor. Turgay was the middle child and the black sheep of the family, so strange behavior was expected of him, but even he had never done anything like this. Turgay advised me that if any new incident occurred, I should call him. I didn’t want to think about further possibilities because I loved Oktay, but I had to accept that something might be wrong.

Oktay had now cut off all contact with me and turned into a flatmate whom I hardly saw. He would lock himself in his room constantly. Ironically, during this period, the house wasn’t messy at all. However, despite the tidiness, the tension and unrest made me long for the old mess.

After a long time passed with him in isolation, he opened the door of his room, walked toward me slowly, sat beside me, and began doing what he hadn’t done for a long time: talking to me. He explained that he was going to write a book and share everything he’d found with everyone. He was persuasive, calm, and consistent. I started to hope that I might have been wrong in thinking he was mad. Was he the same Oktay again? Was he back?

We held each other again, and then we talked for the first time in a very long while. We talked about our relationship. He agreed to be a responsible person, and I added that his behavior had to support that change.

Oktay’s return to me and to life itself calmed both of us down and wrapped us up in peace. Lighting some candles, we surrendered ourselves to the dark room, the luminous pool, and the sea view. I held on to him tightly, desperately relieved that I hadn’t lost him.

As far as it seemed, Oktay was back to me, to his home, and to the world. Although he talked about how difficult it was to write a book, he was calmer, at least, and more focused on his work. But in time, the gears shifted again. Now he was in turbo mode. Oktay began to show distress that he hadn’t begun writing his book. He had a story he wanted to tell people, and he could tell this story to himself beautifully. In his opinion, he had made an incredible discovery—but he didn’t know exactly how to turn it into a book.

The house began to fall apart again, and he began to talk even less. He was again subject to my questions, which he left unanswered, and, hence, to my scolding. More and more, I considered getting him professional help. I was afraid there might have been something that I missed and that the trend toward deterioration might have returned. But as Oktay was spending hours in front of the computer and still seemed okay, I occupied myself with my own academic work and neglected the question. I knew the answer might be devastating.

Sometimes, he spent days in front of a half-written page, and sometimes, he wrote nonstop for hours. His effort was admirable. When the opportunity presented itself, he insistently made me read what he had written, and if I didn’t read it, he would stand over me and read it to me loudly. He asked me whether he was clearly expressing what he wanted or if I had any suggestions. When I looked at the text, it was only pages full of the letters
aaaaaa, bbbbb, ccccc
…meaningless words, hundreds of pages that told of nothing but were written nonetheless. I began to try to avoid him, but he would stand right in front of my door and go on insisting that I read it.

God! He was out of control! He started acting more frantic and I began to feel the presence of a mental illness. When I questioned whether I would be able to accept it, I consoled myself by remembering how much I loved him. Nothing could stop my love for him. No matter how crazy he was, he was mine.

Regardless of everything, I treated him with motherly compassion, caressing his head while sitting beside him in front of the screen and sipping my coffee. I watched him in silence, thinking about what to do: whether I would be able to survive or if I would lose him as he lost his mind. My God, I didn’t know what to do. He was with me at home, but he was only semiconscious. I hoped he wouldn’t deteriorate.

In the evenings, when I came back from work, and saw him like that, although I felt sad, I would always ask him, “How was your day, honey?” His disconnection from the world prevented him from taking care of himself. He forgot to eat most of his meals and began to lose weight. Most of the time, I would force him to stand up from his desk to eat something.

Turgay visited a few times and even brought his psychiatrist friend on the sly for one of the visits. Turgay, albeit timidly, said to me, “We think he is really schizophrenic; he will have to be observed—we would normally hospitalize someone in his state.” I begged, cried, screamed, and put up a fight, and in the end, I convinced them to give me one more chance and not take him away from me. They were hesitant, but I counted on love: It would overcome everything.

And just like that, months passed and the seasons turned again.

One evening, when I returned from work, exhausted, I heard cries of joy in the dark house. Having lit a few candles, Oktay stood happily before me with shining eyes. He was holding some crumpled pieces of paper that he had tried to wrap with a red ribbon from the rubbish bin. While looking at this miserable man in shabby clothes and collapsed shoulders, I was overcome by an indefinable sadness and a hopeless pain. It was such a strong sorrow that I couldn’t even cry.

To my confusion, following a kiss, he gave me the roll of papers as if it were the biggest gift in the world. “It’s finally done!” he yelled before using all the remaining strength of his weak body to hug me and try to spin me around. His movements were clumsy, and, instead, we rolled on the ground and laughed. He was laughing for happiness. I was laughing because I didn’t know what else to do.

“No one would believe me, but I did it: I’m done with the book!” His jubilant screams bounced off the walls. Watching him like that, I wept for a long time: for myself, for what I’d lost, and for love. Love was there, but beaten.

That night, I hugged him and tried to calm him down with my whispers and make him sleep. I hugged whatever was left of him, and when the candles went out, we were still holding on to each other while sharing the melancholy sea view through the window.

The next day, Oktay stated that he was inexperienced in these matters, that he didn’t have any academic experience, and that he hadn’t had a book published as I had. He asked me to be his manager. I had lost him, but I wouldn’t yet completely accept it. Whatever it took, I promised myself I would devote myself to this battle. I wouldn’t let them take him away from me and lock him in a mental asylum. They wouldn’t understand him, take care of him right, or return him to me.

One night while he was sleeping, I stepped outside and screamed. It was the scream of a captive soldier whose army had been defeated and whose friends had all died. I was worn out. His discovery process had been exhausting enough, and then there was the writing process. I needed to get some rest and put my mind together.

The next day, Oktay again asked me to find an editor, contact the publisher, and help with the publication of his book, and, for the next few days, Oktay pretended to be occupied with medical things in front of the computer while I supported him as usual. I told him it was a tough process to publish a book as I was trying in vain to keep him busy while calming him down and distracting him. I answered Turgay’s
‘How’s-Oktay’
calls with “fine,” “much better,” and “there is no problem.”

Oktay was patient with the waiting process at first, but he became bored as it grew longer. Asking if the delay was normal, he began to put some pressure on me, even becoming aggressive. Was there something I knew but wasn’t telling him? We quarreled. He held my shoulders and shook me. Then, after he calmed down, he confessed his thoughts and fears more calmly. What if the publisher stole his book with the code that he’d found and published it as if he had written it? What if the thief had the money and the fame to impress the media? These worries obviously troubled his mind, and there was only one way to appease him. I had to ask one of my colleagues to pretend to be Oktay’s editor. Fortunately, after some understandable questions, my colleague said that he would help, and I told him what he needed to say.

Two days later, I showed up with the ‘editor.” It was worth all the effort to see the relief on Oktay’s face. We hosted my friend for a while, and in response, he repeated what he had memorized: everything was magnificent; he’d read everything, from the beginning to the end without touching even a letter. Of course, Oktay was ecstatic. The book was expected to be a great success. The editorial stage had only been longer because the book was very comprehensive and contained a great amount of mathematical data.

Oktay held my friend’s hands with an indefinable joy as he cried with happiness. He kissed the man’s cheeks and ran to his room, ignoring the surprised expression on my colleagues face.

During the following days, the house was like a festival. Every evening, when we sat face-to-face at the dinner table, Oktay shared his excitement. Though his talk was nonsense, I listened to him like a mother whose son had won an essay contest. We were having meals together like the old days.

Later that night, as he was watching the moonlight, I, afraid of losing him, tried to scratch every memory I could into my mind: Oktay’s face, the moonlight, and Orhan Gencebay in my ear…
God, you are almighty; God, you see all. Stop the time; let your servants smile
.

I knew, now that the book had been “accepted,” I would need a new distraction. In order to please Oktay, to keep from losing him, I would say whatever was necessary. “All the agreements and legal procedures are being completed,” I told him. But it was hard to satisfy him, and he asked more questions. It didn’t take long for him to press me about the printing and when he would see the first copy in his hand. He was increasingly obsessed with his desire for the printed book.

Every morning he would ask me if the book had appeared. The unrest he felt while waiting for the book made me extremely tense. I hated seeing him in this condition.

I searched the marketplace for a graphic artist. Finally, I got a graphic artist friend to draw up a book cover. I glued the image on three blank books of the same size. It wasn’t a stroke of genius, and it didn’t take much labor, but this act came out of my despair. I knew it was no cure.

When I came home with three “rough drafts”, feeling guilty, Oktay became indefinably happy, and I definably sad. He grabbed one copy from my hand, kissed me on the cheek and ran to his room in childlike happiness. I was all alone in the middle of the living room with two books in my hand. I felt like a soldier alone on a battlefield, sword down, defeated, and unable to move. That was the longest and most painful night of all. It made me realize that there was still more to lose, and I was all alone.

The next morning, as I was rushing out of the house as if to run away, Oktay slipped the two remaining copies of his book into my hand. One of the books was for Turgay, he said, and the other for his little brother. These were only two of the thousands of pains I would go through.

I took the books and wandered around the streets of Istanbul, quietly asking the dark water of the Bosphorus if it wanted me. I consulted the planes in the sky to see if they would take me to another land. I asked my brain if there was some mechanism to shut it down or reset. When I finally turned back home that evening, I was empty-handed, while behind me two signed books bobbed and sank in the water of the Bosphorus.

As I was thinking that I’d seen the worst, I entered our house and immediately found out I was wrong. Oktay had put chairs around the table in the living room and decorated the walls with weird patterns and paints. On the table, there were papers, a jug, a few glasses, pens, and a notebook. I stood there, shocked, as I blankly watched the scene.

My Oktay was gone, and a lot of characters with different tones of voice and expressions were talking through his lips—sometimes slowly, sometimes fast. Some were peacemakers, and some were aggressive. With each character, his facial expressions and posture changed. Sometimes, he sounded like a professional broadcaster moderating a discussion. At other times, he talked like someone leaning over to speak in the ear of someone else. Sometimes he answered himself, and sometimes he became someone who spoke distinct nonsense that he believed in. I occasionally recognized my Oktay among those characters, but then he would immediately disappear. Rearranging the chairs, he kept talking while assuming different postures.