The Book with Twelve Tales Read online

  Dr Shimshek splashed back to the black Mercedes. He got in. Good, he said kindly. It’s got a vaccination certificate. We crashed out of Ergani. Night put its arms round us.

  38 One dark road home

  We roared home. The lights of Diyarbakir shone in towers of flats. Dr Shimshek turned his big, shaved head. Start the treatment, he said kindly. Now. I was still well. The third dog looked like the others. A shadow cut out of a plate of light. We rattled into Diyarbakir. A tank went past the other way, pulling a train of barbed wire and squashed vegetables. I leaned forwards on the leather. What’s the side effects? I said. Dr Shimshek didn’t turn. His big, shaved head sat like a moon in the sky of the windscreen. Brain damage, he said. We joggled and splashed through the blackly wet city walls. I felt like a hand closed round me. And death, said Dr Shimshek. The rain had shrunk into a curtain of stars.

  39 Saving the mountain, saving the tree

  Fikri Dikmen was waiting in the tearoom. Have a cigarette, he said. He clacked his beads. There wasn’t any tea. The clean teaglasses stood upsidedown in rows, glinting on the counter. What happened? he said. Dr Shimshek told him. Fikri Dikmen laid his hand on mine. I recognized his kindness. Maybe that was a step on the way to the recovery of my too selfish soul. The body might follow. If it didn’t, at least it proved I had a soul. So death was kind of relative. Dr Shimshek finished the story.

  We walked purposefully to Fikri Dikmen’s house. We sat at the red formica table and had cheese on toast. Dr Shimshek drove away. I’ll be back tomorrow, he said.

  I limped home. Ali Emiri 4 was empty. Scaffolding up on the new block of flats next door creaked gently. Two redstained boiled eggs sat in the crumbly mud like roc droppings. Down at the end, the city walls clutched at the carpark like a huge fist hanging on to the edge of the world.

  I lay on my bed shaking. The stove shook. I left the light on. If there had been a powercut I would have followed it.

  40 Resolution

  So I submitted to a treatment that could kill me for a complaint I mightn’t have.

  41 Thank God it’s open

  I gave up thinking. I curled up in a mattress stuffed with something like faith.

  It was a warm, white day. The streets were puddled with last night’s rain. The red fish swam to the Institute gates. Pale, white sunshine played with the heads of Fikri Dikmen, Dr Shimshek, the vet, and his cousin from Gaziantep. I squashed in. The windows fogged up. Hello, we all said. We bounced through the city walls. They were black and glistened. Did they all worry? We skidded to a stop at the Health Centre. It sat in front of the State Hospital like a joey in mum’s pocket. Fikri Dikmen rubbed the windscreen. Thank God it’s open, he said. So I did.

  We got out and went in. Six buckets of sand stood by the door. Over the door were a pick and shovel crossed. Probably the labour of medicine. We all marched into a little anteroom. We waited tightly together. Dr Shimshek smiled. My feelings were so complicated they cancelled each other out. A doctor and a nurse came in the front door. Hello, we all said. Dr Shimshek whispered to the nurse. The doctor shook my hand. How’s the kids? he said to the vet. Fikri Dikmen clacked his beads. The nurse opened a door.

  42 The nurse

  The room was yellow. The doctor closed the door. The nurse frowned. As bad as an alarmed pilot. Lie down, said the doctor. A big red leather couch aahed like a mouth. I got in and shut my eyes. I don’t care about pain; I just hate its business.

  43 Injection no. 1

  Pull up your shirt, said the doctor. So I did. I rolled my head away. Are you taking, said the doctor, who had changed sides, anything else? No. I opened my eyes. I was deceived. The nurse was holding up a little hypodermic. It was full of milky liquid. I smiled.

  I watched as the needlepoint pricked my stomach. As if it was looking for a splinter. Then it slid in. I gasped. I felt it spike what was in its way as it went in. All mine. All alive. It stopped as if it was resting and looking round in the reddish dark. The nurse pressed the little plunger. In the right half of my stomach, like an alien’s penis, it ejaculated milk, whose effect was beyond me.

  The milk spread away. All I had to do was wait and see what happened. The questing wire slid out. The nurse dropped it in a bin. Would my brain be able to communicate brain damage if it was damaged? That’s less terrible. I sat up. I shook hands with the doctor. The nurse bowed. Get well soon, they said.

  44 Home to bed

  No drink now, said Dr Shimshek and smiled. And keep warm. The red fish rattled through the black city walls. A soldier bowled two tyres through puddles in the carpark. Now I had no purpose. Someone tapped the window with a stook of striped walkingsticks. The sun smiled waterily. Something imperceptible ran through the hill of me. The tree waited, roots sucking unselectively. And no running round, said Dr Shimshek, his kind eyes popping. I smiled. We skidded up to the Institute.

  Fikri Dikmen lit the stove. I lay in bed. The vet and his cousin left me the paper. Dr Shimshek patted my blanketed foot. I watched their watery sunny heads float out of the gates. Now I was the hill of me. The chemicals fought there. What use was I? I couldn’t even watch. So I went to sleep.

  45 Shell Company

  I woke up. Shell Company were standing round the bed with paper bags of chocolates tied up with ribbons. It could have been heaven. Get well soon, they said. I mightn’t have anything. I had some chocolates. I felt slow. Waterbeads raced down the window. The gates gleamed. A dolmush slipped and slapped down Ali Emiri 4.

  I sat up. The alien hole hurt me. My head was muggy with milk. The thought of sunshine frightened me.

  Quick, said Fikri Dikmen. Let’s go. He put me in a big grey coat. We had tea in the Institute tearoom. We drank in our coats. Come on, he said. Azize Ipek swayed in. She smiled with watery kindness. Here, she said, and gave me a grey umbrella. I smiled. Fikri Dikmen led me into Ali Emiri 4.

  46 With an umbrella to no. 2

  The city walls stood up deckled and black in the sky. Behind the grey clouds somewhere the sun beat on their tops. I looked up nervously round the umbrella. Fikri Dikmen splashed and splished ahead. Hurry, he said now and then. The statue of Atatürk looked especially grey in the cloudy morning light.

  The sand buckets swarmed with raindrops. We hurried into the yellow room. Fikri Dikmen held the umbrella. It wet the floor like an incontinent bat. I watched the puddle smilingly. Fikri Dikmen took me out of the big grey coat. I got in the big leather couch. The nurse held up the little sharp alien and aimed it. In the left half of my stomach it ejaculated its helping of milk. Get well soon, said the nurse. She whispered to Fikri Dikmen. I shut my eyes and got back into the coat.

  We splashed off. A white sheet like a leaf from a big white tree. The Council Bus Depot. Its tin rooves dripped. We hurried through the city walls. Fikri Dikmen stopped behind a bus. Have a cigarette, he said. My eyes rolled slowly. It can’t hurt, he said. I smiled. I nearly said. He hurried on, dragging a squiggle of smoke. Thanks for all this.

  Dr Shimshek rang. The Weekday Health Centre was between the vegetable market and the football stadium. Quite close actually, he said. Are you all right? I cried a bit.

  47 Ramadan starts

  Ramadan started. Hot blue and clear. Sunshine burned like a blowtorch towards my bed. I leapt up. The hot square slithered burning through the stove. I went red. And I still do go.

  I bought a wet cheese from the shop across the other road. My sickness as dispensation. I gobbled it. Red and wet, I hurried to the Preparation Room. Azize Ipek swayed at her desk and wrote. Good morning, she said waterily. I looked out the window at the brown rosegarden. The blue sky burned like acid. How was I? I smiled redly. A bit hot. She smiled. Oh, I’m hungry.

  Fikri Dikmen threw the door open. Come on, he said. Quick. We hurried out into Ali Emiri 4. The sun burned in my face. My ears hurt. Atoms of alien milk unfolded like flowers just under my skin. Their petalled dishes drank heat that burned it. In my cool protected innards the rest hurried from place to place, looking fo
r suck.

  Quick, said Fikri Dikmen, pulling a squiggle of smoke behind him across the blue card of sky. We hurried past the football stadium. Open Early and Late, said a restaurant. For Ramadan. Sunshine flashed in the window. Someone was sellotaping newspaper to the glass. That is to hide, said Fikri Dikmen, hypocrites. In the cool protected innards flies hurried from place to place, looking for suck.

  48 The Weekday Health Centre

  We rattled down some concrete steps that crumbled under us. We hurried into a dark waitingroom. The flowers closed. My skin cooled. I smiled. We panted. Shapes crouched along the walls. Come on, said Fikri Dikmen. He pulled my sleeve. The room suddenly made itself long. A small window made it grey. And yellow. Two concrete washingtubs hung off the wall. Taps dripped red water into them clunkily. We squished onto spongy slatting. The grey light lit up a big fridge in the corner. Cream chrome. And yellow. Like a deSoto. Its engine idled. It wobbled and buzzed. Something inside tinkled. Where’s everyone? said Fikri Dikmen to the window.

  Alone on the yellowish half of a floating tabletop stood a new sealed box of syringes. It gleamed dully. Made in Germany, it said. I sat on a greenish bench. Into the new angle of yellow light leapt a brown medical couch. It was held up by swoops of glinting steel tubing. The suspension of a giant’s pram. The couch coughed. Lumps of horsehair leapt out through tears in the leather. I shut my eyes.

  Everyone wasn’t there.

  49 The little girl please

  The fridge wobbled and buzzed. The box of syringes flickered yellowishly. Morning! said a tall voice. We all turned round.

  A nurse loomed out of the waitingroom. Her hair whirled up like a chocolate-cream whirl. Morning, we said in the gloom. The little girl please, she said. The nurse’s pearl necklace popped like soap bubbles. She cut the cellophane on the box with a fingernail.

  An old man rattled in, stabbing the spongy slatting with two walking sticks. The nurse smiled. The little girl held the old man’s sleeve. The fridge idled and winked. The little girl’s head was wound round with bandages. The nurse picked up the little girl by her neck and ankles and laid her in the couch. It stuck out some hairy tongues. The little girl lay still. Seven dogs, said the nurse, nodding at the ball of bandages. Can you imagine? His, she said, nodding at grandad. She took a syringe, and a brown bottle out of the fridge. I looked into the dark. In Tatvan, I heard her say. They sleep here. Every night. Out there. Yellow light glinted along the questing needle.

  50 The station was in the country

  I climbed into the giant’s pram. The next needle gleamed down through air and then flesh. I gasped. The nurse yanked it out, dripping milk. Get well soon, she said. Atoms of alien milk unfolded new buds just under my right skin. They spread. I went red. My ears burned. I gulped. Something wrong. Fikri Dikmen clack-clacked his beads. What are the shadows in the waitingroom? From some innard shackled to another. Fear. To all of them. I sat up.

  The nurse was writing my Rabies Record Card. No. of Days. Ccs Administered. Keep it somewhere safe, she said smilingly. Her chocolate-cream hair whirled up. Course of Treatment. Name. I took it. Pink cardboard.

  We hurried out. Sunshine slapped my face. I went redder. 2ccs. 14 days. 155.

  We turned quickly into Ali Emiri 4. Fikri Dikmen said, when I was little the station was in the country. Ah, how fast Diyarbakir’s grown. The city walls gleamed at the end of the road like a big hot black leather shoe.

  51 Injection no. 4

  I lay and watched the next needle pierce the air. My flesh didn’t make any difference. In it went, sliding away. The nurse stopped. Oh, she said, wrong side. I dropped my pink record card. More fear. The selfish alien penis withdrew. It gleamed steelily.

  My right side burned with blood. So near my skin it ached. Now and then it still does. I sleep on it. What a double! Half safe from everything. Half prey to anything. I sat up and leaned left. What use was that? I thought it would drain across, like snot in a nostril. I forgot my name. Get well soon, said the nurse.

  I hurried away. The hot sun lit a carpet like a hanging garden from a high balcony. Three rights one left. I worried. Someone lay asleep across two chairs in front of a suit shop. A red egg stood under one chair. The too-used hole hurt. A hot bead sat in the hole in my skin. It let down a hot string through the empty road of the needle. I gasped.

  I sat in the brown rosegarden. The sun went watery. I gulped water. Fear was elsewhere. The cure spread tendrils of panic out in my head. Which chemical was which? Did I suck fear not mine out of the hill? Did I make it and shake on a mountain of healthy earth and rocks? Did one disease them both?

  Wait and see. Sweet rain fell. Sevtap pulled down the blind in the Institute tearoom. We had tea. The sugar glittered. My sickness was a dispensation. Sevtap had a cigarette. Her red lips smiled. So, she said guiltily, what?

  Nejati Bey came in quietly. He drank his tea by the blind window. The vaccine is useless, he said. His amber beads clicked.

  52 Injection no. 5

  Next time the sun came up I felt cooler. I walked purposefully to the Health Centre. The little girl sat under a tree by the crumbly concrete steps. Grandad was asleep. His hat lay embroideredly in the grass. His head lay on her little knees. The sun slipped down his walkingstick. I smiled. The little girl’s head, all wound round with bandages, looked away. I hurried down the steps.

  The nurse unwrapped a new syringe. Left left left left, she said merrily. I climbed into the pram and bared my skin. The white cloud shaded in my blood. I thought, a better balance. Get well soon, she said.

  Fikri Dikmen was waiting. Come on, he said. Quick. I got in. The red fish screeched off. The first bits of dust blown from the drying mud blew away dryly. A man ran past with twenty breadrings on his head. A folding chair snapped at his hand. We stopped at Fikri Dikmen’s house. We sat at the red formica table. Five done, said Fikri Dikmen smiling. Have a cigarette. The white cloud spilled in my skin, near the surface. The sun slapped my face. I went red. We sat in the livingroom and watched TV. The screen looked white. Some shadow moved. I clutched my left side. Stop stop. I stood up. Fear. White cloud on the brain. I nearly said.

  53 Monopoly in lentils

  Come on, said Fikri Dikmen. Let’s go out. We thuddered across the Tigris. You can’t beat these Murat stationwagons, he said. The river looked yellow. We stopped by a big field of lentils. Come on, said Fikri Dikmen. We stumbled into the lentils. Fikri Dikmen had Monopoly under his arm. We sat in the lentils and played Monopoly. I lost. The flickery sunlight burned my face now and then like acid on a skinned rabbit. The lentils wobbled little threads of shade here and there. What use was that? The Tigris moved on and on and on. The big black walls of Diyarbakir loomed.

  I shook emptily.

  Fikri Dikmen put his arm round my neck. Don’t worry, he said. Let’s have dinner. We had hamburgers. The sun went down in the windows like running paint. I woke up. Fikri Dikmen’s house was dark. A red rug lay all over me. Folk songs shook the windows. I got up and looked out.

  Across the road in little playground floodlights a hundred schoolchildren were singing. A shining girl with a great pink bow on her hair like a luminous night butterfly. Atatürk watched. A shining boy in a shiny white collar bigger than his head. And a big sword moon all yellow. Microphones like big night insects glinting in the electric light, legs and necks. The headmaster conducted with a gleaming walkingstick. His big shiny head blipped like a torch. I sat down. I prickled all over. I cried just before I fell asleep. Can a tree instruct a hill?

  54 Some lonely tea

  The Institute tearoom was full. Only my teaglass twinkled and glittered. No smoke surged round the ceiling. In the still first flush of faith and hope. The neon lights buzzed now and then. I felt ashamed. God knows you’re sick, said Nejati Bey decently. I smiled.

  I hurried to my sixth injection. The sky ran with blue and clouds. Like it was all tilted. I wondered what might slide off the horizon next. Between clouds and clouds that slid down the blue slo
pe. I hurried more.

  Two women with twisted legs sat on a green rug near the crumbly concrete steps. A cloud slid along the top of the Health Centre. I threw money at them. Another bit of faith and hope. Charity and forgiveness. It’s right, I thought. There’s no proof. Why, I scrabbled down the steps, not?

  55 Another rabid person

  I blundered into the vaccination room. The spongy slatting squished. The pram was full. The fridge wobbled and buzzed into gear. Machineguns glinted in the grey light like big alien insects’ necks. A needle flashed like lightning. It slid into the pram. The nurse was quiet. Shadows flibbled darkly behind the machineguns. It slid out. Get up, barked a shadow. The barrels gleamed along like carlights down a shiny grey road. My heart pushed and battered blood and milk.

  Out of the pram rose a big dark thing. Swoops of glinting steel tubing bowed and squealed. It was a big prisoner. He stood like a halfpainted tree in the yellowgrey light. The soldiers were suddenly half alight: the nurse had opened the burbling fridge. The light cut them out of the dark. They spat. The nurse unwrapped a new syringe.

  You got rabies? asked one of the soldiers decently. If I say no, then strike me down. If I say yes, anyway I’ll die. I smiled waterily. Get well soon, said the two soldiers. The prisoner bowed. Handcuffs snapped at his arms. They poked him out. When he reached the door the sunlight hugged him.