The Book with Twelve Tales Page 7

  We got to the car when the sky was coals and ashes.

  22 Dr Shimshek’s advice

  Shell Company were having tea in the Institute tearoom. Twenty teaglasses twinkled and glittered. Blue smoke surged round the ceiling. Dr Shimshek took me to a corner. The walls were shiny: the neon lights buzzed. I was bitten once, in Adana, he whispered. His big, round, shaved head rolled purposefully towards me. I didn’t do anything. He picked my shirtsleeve. Nothing happened. He smiled. His tight white collar held his head up like a golf ball on a tee. His kind black eyes popped at me. When you’re frightened of water, he murmured, you’ve had it. Twenty teaspoons rattled. Tea, said Fikri Dikmen. I grabbed it fearlessly. I made some choppy waves and drank it greedily.

  That night I sat by the basin and turned the taps on. I was frightened anyway. How was I supposed to know? I dreamed I chucked myself off a rock like a plane and flew away.

  23 The day after the night I was a plane

  Morning broke. My teeth were bone dry. Rain pricked the window. I lay fearlessly round my pillow. I washed wildly. At nine o’clock Fikri Dikmen tapped on the window. Come on, he said through the glass. The red fish glided out of Ali Emiri 4. We hissed past Republic Park. The bushes shivered and shone. We parked anyhow at the City Council. Quick, said Fikri Dikmen. We ran purposefully upstairs. Where’s the Vet department, he shouted. There, said a woman, pointing with a brush. We barged in.

  We sat in front of the vet. Fikri Dikmen clacked his beads. Let me sort this out, said the vet. I thought how mean of death to come through such a little hole.

  We drove to the vet’s house. It was an ochre villa. Let’s take the kids, he said. He ran inside. We sat in the station wagon, which fogged up. I stared at the rain dripping off the iron railings and ivy. I bet he earns a bit, said Fikri Dikmen, staring at the ochre villa. The vet came back, dodging under the ivy. He was carrying gumboots and a spade. A tank barged down the road behind us, its tracks tangled in barbedwire and squashed oranges. The ground rumbled. The kids had bows and arrows and a football. I sat between them while we hurtled into Ergani. The arrows were sharp.

  24 Return to Ergani again

  We skidded up by a pink shed. The Ergani vet walked down the steps swishing a striped walkingstick. Morning, he yelled, bowing brightly on the bottom step. His white suit shone. He peered through the back window. He took out a small notebook. The cover was spotted with damp. He squashed in the back.

  Fikri Dikmen gushed us up the greenbrown hill. It was kind of grey. We went up packed tight like a box of good souls killed in a crash down below and going to heaven holding the rubbish with which death had surprised us.

  It was cold on top. The vet put his small notebook away. We looked all round. The hillsides were grey. The road to Diyarbakir lay like dirty silver. The vet took his kids to see the mosque. The porch was empty. The stone wall dripped. The door was locked. The prickly tree scratched the sky and wrapped it with rags. Who cares?

  We slithered back to the shed. The vet shouted at Fikri Dikmen. The ball baffed our feet. What use was that? I rested in the arms of half a sleep. I sat up suddenly. The Ergani vet smiled. His white suit beamed. The hill of me was sick. The tree next.

  25 The house of Arif Finjan

  The vet wrote quickly in his small notebook. I watched tiredly. The pink shed breathed. He wrote more. I swayed a bit. He passed to page two. Whywhywhy, he said. No one’s been up there for years. He smiled. My mouth started. Whoa, he yelled. He stood up. His chair screamed away. He swished his striped walkingstick. He yanked the door. He danced down the steps. He charged the little meadow. The kids hung out. We craned over. The vet splashed over the plashy meadow. He yelled. A man was marching towards town, pulling a squiggle of smoke behind him. The vet splashed closer. He yelled. The man stopped. The vet took him by the shoulders and shook him. We peered hopefully. The man’s cap went askew. He held his cigarette out of harm’s way. The vet smiled. He pushed the man away. The man marched off towards town. We held our breaths. The vet splashed back. The shepherd’s name, he puffed brightly, is Arif Finjan.

  We marched to the house of Arif Finjan. First the vet with a small, damp notebook. Then the vet with a spade on his shoulder. Then the kids with bows and arrows. Then Fikri Dikmen with the football. Then me with rabies, like a baggagetrain about to be picked off at the back of a shiny army.

  26 Someone else’s house

  Arif Finjan’s house seeped. The mud bricks sagged like full sponges. The shoring sticks bowed. I gasped. Three dogs snored in the yard, white and brown. The vet slapped the door. Arif Finjan stared at us. The vet shouted at him. A woundup scarf stood on his head. His shalvar snapped like sails. He marched off and we went after. I stamped in puddles fearlessly. I was healthy and sick to death. We stopped. He, said Arif Finjan, has got three white dogs. The vet smacked the door. Don’t worry, he said to me while we waited. Cheerio, said Arif Finjan.

  27 He’s out

  A woman stared at us. The vet yelled at her, shaking whitely. He’s out, she said. The vet wrote quickly on his small notebook. Her eyes glinted. They’re safe anyway, she said. The vet shouted. Some chickens rallied to her jelly boots. The vet turned a page and wrote more. I swayed a bit. They’re safe, she said. Two kids with shaved heads stood round her legs. Were they white? My wrinkled brain knew no more. She glared at the notebook. The vet wrote more. The wind ruffled the chickens. Her jelly boots gleamed. The vet crammed two little pages into her hands. We stamped out of the yard and splashed across the plashy meadow. Right, said the vet smiling brightly, we’ll wait in my office.

  My heart misgave. To wait for someone who didn’t want to come.

  28 Waiting in a way

  We marched Ergani’s muddy streets. What’s the point? The vet sprang into every restaurant. He looked round carefully. He came out, swishing his striped walkingstick. We splashed on. He leapt into every teahouse. He looked round carefully. Twenty teaglasses twinkled and glittered. Blue smoke surged round the ceiling. Rain drizzled. We came to The Four Brothers Eggs A Speciality. The vet looked round carefully. He marched to a formica table. Where’s your brother, he yelled. The shepherd’s brother put down his tea and clacked his beads. Fikri Dikmen brought me tea. I sucked it fearlessly. Rain pattered on the roof. The sugar swirled. The shepherd’s brother went back to his eggs. We marched out. When he finds him, said the vet, smiling, he’ll come. We’ll sort it out, said the vet. Have a cigarette, said Fikri Dikmen.

  We splashed to Uncle Remzi’s. The vet unshouldered his spade. I’m hungry, he said. We marched in. Nice bread here, said the Ergani vet. It was fluffy and yellow. I ate a bit of chicken while I died. There were dots of blood inside.

  29 The right shepherd

  We stood about in the pink shed for five minutes. The little window fogged up. Then someone stamped up the steps. Knockknock. The vet smiled brightly. There you go, he said. He yanked the door.

  The shepherd’s eyes glinted. A woundup scarf stood on his head. Give us a moment, said the vet, smiling. The shepherd marched in and we marched out. We heard the vet yelling. We wandered apart on the plashy meadow. The kids shot in the drizzle. Fikri Dikmen clacked his beads. The vet picked his teeth. The sky rolled greyly like a rolling weight.

  They’re his, yelled his vet in the doorway. He waved his walkingstick and smiled. The cloud opened. Swords of sunlight cut through here and there. That is, I thought they did. The vet called us back. We stood together in the pink shed. I shook hands with the shepherd. I cried. What use was that?

  The shepherd stood by the vet’s desk and unwound his woundup scarf. The vet yelled. He wrote quickly in his small notebook. He wrote more. We watched in a tired huddle. Rain pricked the roof. I listened fearlessly. Sign this, said the vet. The shepherd wrote slowly on the notebook. Good, said the vet. Now you. I swayed a bit and wrote my name. I leaned on the desk. The vet leaned towards me. He heard you yelling, he whispered, up there and whistled. Thank God, I said.

  I bowed at the shepherd. Don’t
worry, he said. I went outside. The grass was wet and very green. The sky still rolled. Later, we drove back to Diyarbakir along dirty silver.

  30 Looking for a cure for death

  I started to shake like boiling water. Fikri Dikmen brought tea into the tearoom. My glass tinkled shakily. Cheer up, said Fikri Dikmen. The phone rang. Dr Shimshek, he said, for you. I told him what I thought we’d done. Ah nothing then, said Dr Shimshek. He sounded angry. Are the dogs tied up? Fikri Dikmen took the phone. I cried. He said uh-huh while he smoked. He said it again. Gazi Street, he said. Uh-huh. I waited purposefully. Uh-huh. Why. Quick, said Fikri Dikmen. Let’s go.

  We ran into Ali Emiri 4. The red fish glided away. Waterbeads raced down the windows. The city walls showed and slipped away wet black. A horse reared past the window. And a jacket with a machinegun, very close. Quick, said Fikri Dikmen. We ran up some yellow stairs. Dr Öztürk, said the door. A black sofa like a large cat occupied the landing. Fikri Dikmen knocked loudly. Nothing happened. I thought something else would. The cleaner opened the door. He’s gone home, she said. Fikri Dikmen ran to the phone. There’s no vaccine here, said Fikri Dikmen. Come on. We ran downstairs. Rain pittered on the car roof. I curled up on the leather.

  We stopped at Fikri Dikmen’s house. I sat in the livingroom and watched TV. Fikri Dikmen whispered down the phone. There’s no vaccine, he said. I listened sideways. He took out his worry-beads. Or at the Air Base. They ran out last week. I watched a pink cartoon. That they had run out was bad. That they had cause was awful. I stood up purposefully. Quick, said Fikri Dikmen and I together. We glided back to the Institute. The windows fogged up. A camel trotted the other way, loaded with wet sacks. Dr Shimshek waved angrily from his car. We got out and got in.

  31 Return to Ergani again again

  We walloped away. The black Mercedes thuddered like an aeroplane in the bluster. Evening shades ran down the sky like ink. The greenblack hill breathed its shape up on a lemon craze. I pressed my nose purposefully on the window. I’ll never believe it’s the end. We crashed into Ergani.

  Shades spilled over us slowly. Dr Shimshek threaded his black Mercedes up and down the small streets of Ergani. Mud spilled out of stone walls. I watched through the window. Puddles leapt out. The gears ground their teeth. I bounced on the leather. The wingmirrors scraped and flabbered along the walls. Dr Shimshek turned on the lights. Mud, stone and bright wet black. I saw a fire in a window. I saw a candle. A lamp held a yellow arm out in the rain, which glittered. We leapt a clod of wet bricks. I saw a yard floundering with peelings. I didn’t shake. I was a fearless passenger.

  32 Dr Shimshek knocks

  We stopped. Dr Shimshek squeezed out of the black Mercedes and banged on a door. Then another. He loomed at my window. His big, shaved head rolled towards me. He’s out, said Dr Shimshek. His tight white collar gleamed. So’s his sons. His kind black eyes popped. So’s the dogs. My head kind of blurred. He got in. The foam sighed. We’ll wait, he said kindly.

  We waited. Darkness dropped everywhere. The sky was dirty silver. Rain pattered on the roof. The walls spilled brown water. The windows fogged up. I saw a lamp lighting an eiderdown. I waited purposefully. I was still well.

  I looked at my face in the window. It looked small and pinched. Me and my face leaned together. Our nose flattened whitely. I looked at my eyes. Rained glittered at them. My hair was cut by the night. Big ears stuck out sideways. I leapt back. Someone else was stuck on the window. Death raced round me. It was lit with a lighter. Someone else’s white nose stuck to the window like a glo-worm. The light flibbled at me. The face vanished.

  We waited. Dr Shimshek’s big, shaved head watched and turned. I curled up. Aha! said Dr Shimshek. It was him.

  33 Sitting in the dark

  Dr Shimshek squeezed out of the car. The shepherd splashed past under his aeroplane coat. His eyes glinted through the flaps. Dr Shimshek splashed through the muddy rubble. The shepherd stamped inside. Dr Shimshek ran after him to his door. He yanked it open. His big, shaved head lit up like the moon. He shouted. The shepherd stamped and yelled. Dr Shimshek marched splashily back to the black Mercedes.

  They’re still out, said Dr Shimshek, puffing. His tight white collar gleamed. He got in. No one told them to tie them up. He sounded angry. Well, he wouldn’t do it anyway. His big head turned. He says they’re safe. We’ll wait, he said. The door shut. Darkness sat with us and we waited. Aha! said Dr Shimshek. It was them.

  34 The shepherd’s sons

  The shepherd’s sons splashed past under their aeroplane coats. The dogs splattered after. Night put its arms round them. They stamped inside and were gone. Dr Shimshek squeezed out of the car. The dogs sat lapping in the yard. The arm of light from the lamp reached out and glittered. Were they white? This time, Dr Shimshek knocked. Nothing happened. I thought something else would. I waited purposefully.

  The door opened.

  The shepherd’s sons stood like black cards against the lamplight. Dr Shimshek’s collar gleamed like a bird. Dr Shimshek yelled. I wiped the window. Dr Shimshek reached into the doorway and grabbed the shepherd’s sons. He pulled them down the steps. Drops shot off their coats. In a sky of sprayed stars they stumbled into the yard. Don’t, I said. I watched Dr Shimshek shake his hands at the dogs. The shepherd’s sons picked up the dogs’ ropes. They stood like grey cards against the spilling brown wall. The dogs gleamed like glass here and there. Were they white? Sphered in water, I looked fearlessly at what I never remembered. Dr Shimshek pushed the shepherd’s sons back up to the wall. The dogs gleamed. Dr Shimshek turned. His big, shaved head glowed like the moon. He splashed back to the car. He looked angry. He got in. The foam sighed.

  35 Betrayal

  He switched on the headlights. The shepherd’s sons put their arms over their eyes. A plate of white light threw itself at them and stuck on the wall, spilling and shining. Is that them? said Dr Shimshek kindly. My lips parted slowly. Dr Shimshek started the car. The shapes flattened on the wall, run all over by spilling water. Dr Shimshek took off the handbrake. I shut my eyes.

  The black Mercedes hissed and joggled forwards. Wet bricks lumped and crumbled under it. Puddles leapt out. The black Mercedes stopped. I looked out. At the end of the bonnet, white as the light, the shepherd’s sons gleamed and glittered with their dogs. Drained of movement and colour, they stood stiffly at the wall, flattened with brightness. Their eyes glinted. The dogs sparkled. I looked away. The black Mercedes glared. Which one bit you? said Dr Shimshek. He turned.

  I couldn’t remember, so I had no doubts. The small dog, gleaming and shivering like glass under pressure, yawned like an ape. Prickles pricked my skin from inside. The little one, I whispered. On fire with shame, I curled up on the leather and shut my eyes again.

  36 Arif Finjan’s sons

  Good, said Dr Shimshek. It bites everyone. A bird lifted my stomach. But no one has died, said Dr Shimshek.

  He rammed the black Mercedes into reverse. It hissed and joggled over the crumbled bricks. Stones pinged away and splashed in the mud. We crashed away. Dr Shimshek puffed. The windows fogged up.

  The wingmirrors scraped and flabbled down a steep, narrow street. I saw a fire in a window. I saw a candle. Rain spilled out of the grey stone walls. We stopped in a puddle at the house of Arif Finjan. Dr Shimshek yanked the handbrake. He squeezed out of the black Mercedes and splashed to the door and stamped up the steps. Don’t, I said. The rain shrank to a glittery mist that didn’t fall. It hung in the black night like sprayed stars. Dr Shimshek knocked.

  The door opened.

  Arif Finjan’s sons stood like paper cards against a sickly paraffin light. The light swung and the shapes, huge in shalvars, slipped and squeezed yellowly. A pile of brown blankets swung brown shadows on the floor. A tin plate skimmed off the table and returned, again and again. I slumped on the leather. Dr Shimshek reached into the doorway and grabbed the sons of Arif Finjan. He yelled and pulled them down the steps. A huge dog stirred in the mud. I watched Dr Shim
shek shake his hands at the dog. Arif Finjan’s sons picked up its rope. Dr Shimshek pushed them towards the white plate of light.

  37 Two out of three

  Drops flew off them. They stumbled in explosions of tiny stars. The unfalling rain hung and shifted where they stumbled like a huge bead curtain. They crashed into the light. Their eyes glinted. Their thin moustaches threw shadows like knives. I leaned forward. The huge white dog burst into light like it had been switched on. Prickles pricked my skin from inside. It yawned like an ape. It strained backwards and howled. Its teeth slid out of its gums to full length.

  I nodded purposefully at Dr Shimshek. On fire with shame, I turned to look at the lightpinned sons of Arif Finjan. Their arms were over their eyes. I started to cry.

  I had lost the strings that tied the cause and effect of my life to the processes of knowledge. I had no idea what this scene meant. I only knew it reminded me of something I’d forgotten that carried with it, unaccountably, melancholy, shame and betrayal. I thought it might be the effect of rabid poison that, to blunt the fear of death and its pain, was moving me into a world of inconsequent imaginings. What evolution that would have been.