Young Turk (46 page)

Âşιk Ahmet looked twice his age. He had lost a lot of weight. And of his robust silvery mane that had waved greetings to the world as he strode along, only a few strands remained. He was also unsteady on his feet – according to Agop, the result of spinal damage incurred from the systematic beatings political prisoners received. Imagine torturing one of the nation’s greatest sons! A hero of the War of Independence! One of Atatürk’s greatest reformers!

I had expected many of his students to come to Bursa and welcome him from prison. In the event, besides Melek and myself only Agop, Musa, Naim, Zeki and Mustafa came. The rest, fearing that MIT agents who would be keeping an eye on Âşιk Ahmet might decide to investigate them, too, had chosen to play safe. But who was I to judge them? Despite their fears, they had never stopped supporting our mentor, nor would they ever. And, of course, they had been right to be wary of MIT. I counted at least half a dozen men at the periphery of the prison gates watching us as we met Âşιk Ahmet; two others, in an unmarked car, photographed us quite blatantly.

Agop and Mustafa had wanted to bring their wives, but had desisted, thinking that the presence of a woman might upset Âşιk Ahmet. For the dear man’s beloved wife, Leylâ, had committed suicide a couple of years earlier by taking an overdose. Having seen him in hospital after he had been beaten almost to the point of death, she had not expected him to recover. Perversely, her suicide had saved his life. A note she had left behind had caused such a public furore that the authorities had been forced to stop torturing him. (Actually, the note is a paean to love. Describing Âşιk Ahmet as the ‘Loving Man’
par excellence
and ‘Turkey’s greatest democrat’, she declared that dying as his wife – they had finally been able to marry when her son from her previous marriage had come of age – had always been the only death she had wanted.

I, on the other hand, reversing my friends’ logic, had brought Melek along. As an enlightened young intellectual, she was in many ways like Leylâ and I felt that her presence, mournful as it might make Âşιk Ahmet, would nonetheless provide him with happy echoes of the passionate love he and his wife had enjoyed. (I was even toying with the idea of telling him, at an opportune moment, that the secret copse where Melek and I ran to make love was the same place where, years ago, Mustafa and members of his dormitory had stumbled upon them.)

Agop and his wife, Sabet, had cleaned up Âşιk Ahmet’s house, decked it with flowers and stocked it with food, books and records. What he needed most was weeks of rest. Consequently, we had planned to go to Istanbul immediately by taxi and get him settled at home. But Âşιk Ahmet, hungry for fresh air after his time in gaol, insisted that we go by boat. On such a beautiful summer morning, skating over the sea would be intoxicating.

So we went to Yalova, boarded the ferry there, found a shady corner under the awning on the upper deck and crossed the Sea of Marmara.

I imprinted the day carefully on my mind. For, by then, I felt certain that the fortnight or so I still had in Istanbul before returning to London to finish my thesis would probably be the last I saw of Âşιk Ahmet. (I had another motive – an unconscious one which revealed itself years later. Istanbul is where the spirit of Turkey becomes palpable. And although there are many ways of internalizing the city – ways that need countless lifetimes – the best way to absorb her, or rather to witness her divinity, is to ingest her from the sea. Every panorama from the Bosporus or from the Sea of Marmara or from the luxurious expanses of pine and cypress woods reflects centuries of history. Hues that could only have been created on God’s palette are scrolled on the huddled houses, on the majestic wooden
yalι
s, on their sun-stroked roofs, on pencil-thin minarets and their breast-shaped domes. And it is also by standing on the water that one can hear the numinous calls of Turkey’s soil – calls which, streams of poetry tell us, invariably conjured visions of paradise to warriors, martyrs, bards and mystics alike. No wonder those who behold this heavenly city swear, like Jews do about Jerusalem, ‘If I forget thee, O Istanbul ...’)

Much of the time on the boat, Âşιk Ahmet dozed, looking as if he carried the fatigue of several lifetimes. We took turns and held his hand. That – and no doubt the fragrance of the spray that the breeze occasionally sent our way – kept a smile on his face. And, as I had guessed, Melek’s presence delighted him. On one occasion, when she had gone to get us some tea, he told me he could easily believe that she was the daughter Leylâ had always yearned for but had never had.

In between his naps, he chain-smoked and questioned us all. What were we doing? What were our aspirations? And what were the chances of achieving them? He encouraged Melek, who had another year at Ankara University for her philosophy degree, to continue her studies and, like me, go for a doctorate. He discussed one or two points about my thesis; he knew a great deal about it because we had been corresponding regularly on its principal aspects. Indeed, by virtue of his network of sympathisers that covered the full spectrum of society, he had provided me with many important insights. But the fact that the authorities had confiscated my outline perturbed him. Much as I assured him that I had at least three copies tucked away in London, he kept saying we must find a way of getting it back.

Then he talked about himself. Though he was now retired – actually unemployable, particularly in education, because of his prison record – he was working harder than ever. He corresponded regularly with a number of ex-students who sought his advice not only on theses, lectures or speeches, as I did, but also on such intimate matters as marital and personal difficulties, the problems of bringing up children, the struggle to make ends meet and so on. The rest of his time – actually the bulk of his time – was taken up by his efforts to have the ongoing ban on the works of Nâzιm Hikmet lifted and, just as importantly, to have Hikmet acknowledged internationally as one of the greatest poets of the twentieth century. Hikmet was still alive, still living in exile in Moscow, still writing. But he was in poor health and only Allah’s grace – because Allah loved great poets as much as we did – kept his weary heart ticking. He, Âşιk Ahmet, still corresponded with him through various – and devious – channels, still received all that the great man produced. (During those times when he languished in prison, trusted colleagues collected these works and kept them in safekeeping.) He still disseminated a stream of Hikmet’s poems, plays, letters and polemics to lycées, universities and foreign publishers. Tomorrow, he would resume these activities.

When we had settled Âşιk Ahmet in his house, Agop, Musa, Naim, Zeki and Mustafa went to their homes.

Melek and I stayed behind to cook a special dinner. Much as Âşιk Ahmet wanted to praise our efforts on the delicacies we had prepared – aubergine salad, artichoke hearts in lemon and olive oil and swordfish in greengage sauce, all of which he loved – he could not manage to eat. Prison food, albeit meagre, was normally nourishing – and tasty – because, in the main, it was cooked by the prisoners with ingredients brought to them by relatives and friends. After years of maltreatment, however, Âşιk Ahmet had been left with a barely functioning stomach. Thus he could only eat small portions of bread, olives and white cheese and, as a luxury, some yoghurt with molasses.

We should have left then, but couldn’t bring ourselves to do so. Âşιk Ahmet was far too tired and we wanted to be around just in case he needed something.

As Melek and I settled for the night in the lounge, he called us.

We went to him.

He was sitting in bed, smoking. The skin on his forehead had creased, indicating that something was troubling him. ‘Davut, this thesis of yours ...’

‘Yes?’

‘You say you have all your primary material here with you?’

‘Much of it.’

‘Go and get it – every scrap of it. Leave it with me.’

‘Why?’

‘It’s best to play safe.’

‘But nothing that I have is secret. Everything is declassified – available to everybody.’

‘Everybody is not interested in it. You are. It’s the back-up to your thesis. That makes it special.’

‘I don’t understand ...’

‘Look, if they’ve been holding on to your outline for this long, something is obviously rattling them. Give me all the material before they make a move.’

‘What sort of a move?’

‘A raid, probably. To confiscate what you have. To scuttle your work. Who knows? I’ll try and find out. I still have spies in the reactionary camps. In the meantime ...’

‘But I’m only writing a thesis.’

‘Theses contain words. That’s what frightens them. And the more truthful these words are, the more they’re terrified. Go on. Bring everything. I’ll find a way of getting it all to you in London.’

‘But ... at some point – for certain parts of my thesis – I’ll have to come back for further research ...’

‘Don’t. Stay in London. Until things get better. Whatever you may need from here, I’ll dig it up for you somehow.’

‘And if things don’t get better? Do I stay in exile?’

‘Exile is too big a word. Besides, if they tie up your tongue, bury your words or put you in prison you’ll be an exile in your own country. Let’s say, you need to retreat a little in order to advance better later. I remember suggesting the same to Nâzιm.’

I stared at him, unable to take in all the repercussions of what he had said.

He turned to Melek. ‘Do you two tumble?’

Melek blushed. ‘Yes.’

‘Do you like it?’

Melek smiled boldly. ‘Very much.’

Âşιk Ahmet nodded approvingly. ‘Good. If this world can be saved, it’s the lusty women who’ll save it. Does Davut like it, too?’

‘Oh, yes.’

‘Nothing to worry about then. Keep your honey sweet. He’ll always come back.’

I managed to control my apprehension. ‘Sir, aren’t we presuming ...?’

He looked at me fiercely. ‘You still here? Go on, off you go! Get your fucking stuff here! Now!’

I nodded and rushed out.

When I reached home – the apartment I was sharing with some friends – there was a message for me. A couple of plain-clothes policemen had called; they had left their phone number; nothing of importance or urgency; but would I ring them as soon as possible to arrange a meeting?

Panic seized me. I couldn’t think what to do. I managed to ring Âşιk Ahmet.

He chuckled as soon as he heard my voice. ‘Good thing you left when you did, Davut. The police came here looking for you. They obviously knew you’d been with me. Anyway, they want you to ring them and arrange a meeting.’

I spoke hoarsely, suddenly drained of all saliva. ‘They called here, too.’

A pause, ominous and increasingly alarming, ensued.

I wailed anxiously, ‘Sir – are you there?’

‘Yes.’

‘Do you think they want me because they saw me with you or because of my thesis?’

‘I don’t know. Because of your thesis, I’d say. Whatever the reason, I don’t like it.’

‘What shall I do?’

‘Let me think.’

I waited. Almost an eternity.

When he spoke his voice had regained its old authority. ‘No sense in being grilled by those hoodlums. They can trick you with any number of questions and hold you in custody for ages.’

‘What then?’

‘You’ll have to run.’

I began to shake. ‘Run where?’

‘This is what you do. Pack your things. Don’t forget your passport. Don’t take anything in writing – not even a newspaper. I’ll send an old friend, Bekir – he drives a taxi. Give him your box-files. He’ll bring them to me. You’ll get them in London in a few days. After Bekir’s gone, make straight for the airport. Take the first plane out – anywhere in Europe – and then proceed to London. I’ll make all the arrangements. Melek will meet you at the check-in with your new ticket ...’

‘Won’t you come to the airport too? I can’t leave without saying goodbye.’

‘You’ll have to. I’m always under surveillance, so they’d spot you. In any case, I hate goodbyes. When you and Melek stop kissing a moment, give her a hug for me. I’ll make sure I get it.’

‘Several hugs.’