The Book with Twelve Tales Page 9

  56 Injection no. 6

  I climbed in. It was warm, and smelt of mud. I shut my eyes. He, said the nurse. I waited. I opened my eyes. She stood tally above the couch holding the syringe like a chef about to pipe icing onto a cake. A tiny glass blip of milk balanced on the end. Which would go in me. I stared. Her necklace popped like soap bubbles. Was bitten in prison, she said. As she swooped the needle down at my soft skin and innards it screamed. I sat up. Fear blushed me furiously. She stopped. The prison-jeep’s siren faded. The nurse slid the needle deep into me. They’re taking him back, she said. She was close. She pushed the piston. I smiled. Get well soon, she said closely. The long alien withdrew. The hill gathered back broken blood and bits in its wake. Why? It was made to. What could I do? Live or die.

  Grandad was smoking under the wiry tree. The little girl’s head wound round with bandages lay on his knees. The greening grass prickled at his shalvar. Clouds slid down the sky. Sunshine came next.

  57 I forget

  Now to tell the truth about nine o’clock. Azize Ipek curled her lips round a meatball. The lights in the Preparation Room zizzed. I went dizzy. Her greaseproof paper crackled. I stood up. I stared at the wall. People dancing on a lawn in Hakkari. With all the abandon of passing time. What use was that? I stared at the picture on the White Bank calendar. Find today for instance. I couldn’t. What about the month? I’ve really no idea. Azize Ipek stirred her tea with a faraway tinkle. My brain went electric. In this evolutionary overdrive I melted. But the hill stayed. It was me, after all. But I didn’t know anything about it. It was heavy. I thought I looked like a big hairy dungball plastered with dirt. Azize Ipek swayed at another meatball. I snatched at these inconsequentialities. Safety. Terror didn’t teach me much. Except what it felt like. Roaring out of the earth. Which isn’t much.

  58 Flashing lights

  The prison-jeep hurtled towards the Health Centre. I stepped back. Leaves on the wiry tree signaled. Orange-black. Orange-black. The sun burned in my face. My ears hurt. I burned into overload. And meltdown. Atoms of alien milk hurled their petalled dishes open just under my skin. They drank heat. They throbbed with light. They shuttled with noise. I threw money at the two women on the green rug. The wiry tree stuck out suddenly like electrified hair. I staggered. I stumbled. Dribble swarmed over my lip and fell like mercury into the greening grass. It moved there like a glass worm.

  The prison-jeep screeched stop by the crumbly concrete steps. I put my hand on my heart. It wasn’t there.

  The big prisoner got out. Morning, he said. His handcuffs clanked. They poked him down the crumbly steps.

  I scampered in.

  59 A queue for no. 7

  There was a queue. We all held our pink Rabies Record Cards. The little girl with her head wound round with bandages: grandad on his sticks drilling into the squishy spongy slatting. The fridge wobbled and buzzed. The nurse cut the cellophane on a new box of syringes with her fingernail. Then the big prisoner, his head up in the pink light: and the guards. Their halflit machineguns glinted. The tap dripped red water. I was still well. The nurse laid the little girl in the couch like a sultan turbaned into a pleasureboat. I smiled. Something wound round my leg. The needle flashed. Next into a grave to be shot. The nurse lifted the prisoner’s rag. He smelt of mud. My leg wobbled. The pink light licked the needle as it fell. I turned round.

  A little boy was holding my leg. Because then he could hold one foot off the floor. It was tied up in a sheet. Petals of blood panted through the white. He smiled. His shaved head gleamed fuzzily.

  The nurse swept him up into her arms. His face stayed the same. She pushed the needle in. His little stomach fluttered like a bit of hardboard.

  When the milken army ran to its places between each sentry already there and made a white plain just under my skin I bowed in my mind to my friends. Would it march in or out? I climbed out of the pram.

  60 Smoking

  The sky curled blue with a soft wind. The soldiers passed their cigarette between them. Their machineguns stood against the wiry tree. The greening grass rattled. The little boy smoked like the punctuation in a fast sentence. His smoke danced. So, I thought, what? God knows we’re all ill. Or weak. Like everyone.

  61 Four short visits

  In the afternoon Nezahat Ipliji took me to the post office. She worked on floor four and a half. She showed me the phone wires. The wooden room was high and sunlit. I smiled. We had tea. It might have been five minutes. The boysoldiers on guard at the door stared at the sun.

  Erkan Yazirchioglu took me to a pancake restaurant in Office. The air was cold inside. The windows were covered with newspapers. Open Early and Late. For Ramadan. He sat in pleasing abstinence and I ate. Some men in dim cold corners hurried food down themselves. Their reputations protected by a business they had been kind enough to patronise at the peril of their souls. Erkan plopped sugar in my tea. It swirled and glittered dully. You’re sick, he said. Drink up.

  We hurried to a green cardhouse. No smoke surged round the ceiling. Then to a greener billiardroom. I drank tea everywhere. Erkan smiled. When I got home I ran the tap. I said my name and address. I dreamed that the dancers on the White Bank calendar all had one foot wound up in a sheet. Petals of blood panted through the white. Flowers danced in the greening grass.

  62 Children’s Bayram

  I woke up, got up, and adjusted my thick head. My armpit hurt. I drank Lezzo. The pain went away. An April shower fell on my window. The waterbeads raced down. The sun shone now and then. The clouds passed here and there.

  I looked down at my stomachskin. Four rights, three lefts. Blotches pushed and itched there like small bloody heads trying to get out. I cried. The clouds raced away. The sun hit the waterbeads. My room filled with light. It slipped and slid round the walls. The uneven armies of milk opened their dishes. My right side prickled and burned. I should be balanced. The left blotches prickled and burned. I blushed. Right today. Five–three. Why? The worst day.

  It was Children’s Bayram. I hurtled out the gates. I raced through the city walls. They were black and heavily warmed. Salt burned in a nutcart. A tank burbled under some lime trees, flickered with bits of blue shade. I slapped on towards the hospital. Bang bang. Round the corner came the Diyarbakir Children’s Massed Band. They headed for Atatürk. I leaped back against the recordshop window. My back went cold. Their bugles flashed goldly. I was late. The drums banged with my heart. They burned past, all red and gold. I galloped off.

  The nurse had come especially on Saturday and a holiday. Oh it’s nothing, she said. She closed the door. The big red leather couch aahed like a mouth. I got in. Right right right, she said merrily. I smiled and shut my eyes.

  I pulled up my shirt. Oh dear, she said. Fear yanked my innards. The light yellowy air moved. I opened one eye. The buttery walls glistened. Boff boff. The Children’s Band. The bugles parped. The nurse marched back to the couch, smiling kindly. Cotton bud, she said, waving one hand. Alcohol, she said, waving the other. Bing bang. I closed my eyes.

  63 No. 8 in the right side

  She dabbed my blotches. I got an erection. The yellow light lapped at my eyelids. Clish clash. The Children’s Band. My stomach fluttered gaspingly. The bodies of the blotches smiled coolly deep in my innards. I opened my eyes. She dabbed a bit more. I closed my eyes. I gasped like I was walking into a cold sea. The needle slid its silvery length through my skin. It spiked slowly on and on. It pierced heavy red curtains that stretched against the point and then slid back along the spike. It stopped. I breathed shallowly. Leave it in. My back arched a bit. I groaned. Then like white cream ejaculated into a bowl of cherries the milky serum spread out creamily. It curled off. The needle stayed, deliciously. Crash bang. The Band marched at the hospital. I squirmed against the metal bodkin. The last creamy blob gushed out. It still stayed. I gasped. It slid out slowly like immortality withdrawing from corruption. Aaah, I said.

  I glowed through the anteroom. The big prisoner was standing under the pick
and shovel crossed. Morning, he said. Morning, I said smilingly. The guards poked him in. The Massed Children’s Band was playing the national anthem at the glass doors of the hospital. Patients and nurses leaned out of the windows like doves in a great big dovecote, and sang. The children sparkled like hope.

  64 A snooze in the park

  I wandered towards home. Republic Park was full. Balloons like bits of sensible freedom bobbed here and there. A few clouds wound along the blue sky jerkily. Breadringsellers splodged the air with bready smells. I sat on the greening grass. It prickled my trousers. Little girls in party dresses frothed round the bushes. Orange and purple and lace. I smiled. A little girl sailed past and touched her big white cowboy hat at me like a gentleman. I was still well. I sparkled dully like hope discovered again. Not lost but mislaid.

  I got up purposefully. There was nothing to be done except get on. As if that is not enough. Life’s decorations frothed and swirled round me. I thought I was strong. My leaves glittered with sunlight and I forgot the heavy determinism of my roots. What use was that? Spring threw me up. I picked a leaf. I marched along the grass. A photographer went snap. Where’s the kids? he said. I smiled. Suddenly tired, I sat down in the grass again. My blotches itched. The sun rolled down. I puffed. Nutsellers. Sweetsellers. Icecream.

  I snoozed.

  65 Nejati Bey

  I woke up, got up, and looked around. The sun and its creatures were gone. A soldier in a white helmet and white puttees clattered away down a path. The big high swooping vague blue monument in the middle of the park swooped up vaguely. I hurried home.

  Nejati Bey tapped on my window. We hurried through the city walls. A new hoarding picked round with lightbulbs was nailed up on the gate. The People Are The Thing, it read brightly. So they are. We went to an expensive pastryshop. There were no newspapers on the windows. I ate baklava and drank Pepsi while Nejati Bey clicked his amber beads sourly. He looked at me pityingly. I smiled. All round children ate glittery sugary things. Two waiters with long yellow horseheads and bushes of black hair swished among the tables. They are famous, said Nejati Bey gloomily, freaks.

  66 Get well soon you all

  Birds trilled frantically through the trelliswork. The brown rosegarden distilled its rosy smell in the hot earth. My window sparkled. I hurried out. The sun hugged me warmly. My head buzzed. I was still well.

  The sun let rip. I gasped. I reached the six bloody buckets. I rushed under the pick and shovel crossed. I marched into the little anteroom. My pink Rabies Record Card fluttered. Men in flatcaps sat on benches all round the place. God be with you. The nurse threw open the door. Yellow light leapt out and hurled itself all over them. Their moustaches bristled and sparkled. Their wet old eyes glimmered. Old men’s tetanus day, whispered the nurse as I hurried past. The plastic pearls round her neck melted meltingly.

  I pulled up the left side of my shirt. I smiled and shut my eyes. The yellow light swam round my eyelids. She dabbed my blotches with cotton bud and alcohol. A sweet coolness like a little rainshower grew in a cloud off my skin. It fell on the little landscape of my stomach breathingly. I squirmed happily. I opened my eyes. The nurse waved the new syringe in a sea of light. Her hair whirled. The flibbleflabble lapping lit the milk inside. I wanted to drink it. Left left left, she said merrily.

  The time it happened like a simile.

  I hurried out into the anteroom. Get well soon! all the old men yelled. I smiled widely. And get well soon you all, I yelled back. We all bowed completely. I burst out into the sunshine transfixed, itching and beaming.

  67 No snoozing in the park

  I jaunted towards home. Republic Park was empty. I sat down. The grass prickled my trousers. Fear gasped out of my chest. It shot up my neck. It brayed like a bugle in my brain. A lightbugle. I had no idea. I stayed wide awake. The big high swooping blue vague monument in the middle of the park made me gasp. The sun hit me. I blushed. Atoms of milk ran round and changed places just under my skin. Like musical chairs. I heated up until bing like an oven I reached my highest heat. I shook there hotly. What? I didn’t explode. I was still well.

  I hurried home. I bought some Ramadan bread. It was plaited on top. And sesameseeded. I ran the tap. Ah. I splashed water round the bathroom walls. I flooded the floor. I sat under the shower. I laughed haha. It might be brain damage. Well at least the horror would be only darkly understood. The bread got soggy. I dried my clothes from a wire by the stove. I had taken off a skin. I felt cold.

  That night Nejati Bey brought me a puzzle-ring in a black box. He clacked his amber beads and looked at me pityingly. Like I’d never work it out before I. We hurried to the Labour Cinema. Nejati Bey snorted gloomily at the film. He leaned over. The sound is not, he whispered sadly, synchronised. Behind us somebody nibbled seeds with the fury of a suit full of fieldmice. The floor was a drift of husks that whispered when I sighed.

  I stumbled home itching and frowning. Only my ears burned. I could have sat in a desert and cooled off.

  68 Set free by sheep

  I woke up and got up slowly. My window was a blue square written on by the Institute gate. Nothing moved. I heard the salepman yelling. His tincart rattled the air. But nothing moved. Fear whooshed up in me. My heart banged. It was still only me. I waited for a bird. The sky stayed still. The gates were wrought. But didn’t wright. I hurried round and round the room. It was still only me. The world stuck outside like a giant cube of gelatin. I went mental.

  My clothes hung on the wire by the stove. I thought they were me. So what was I then? I didn’t dare open the door. A clearplastic stone sat outside. As big as everything. What was the most frightening thing? That I couldn’t say it was like anything. Something like that. It wasn’t like anything I could think of. How could my little fury loosen such a huge coagulation? It pressed the glass. I gasped. Hard to breathe. I smelt salep. But nothing moved. It wasn’t like anything. I crouched against the wall. Sunlight speared the gelatin world like a yellow plastic ruler. I cried. The sun got hotter. But nothing moved. I closed my eyes. I put my arms over my head. I bobbed on my hams.

  Clish.

  I looked out. Azize Ipek swam through the wrought gates. Bits of the world like bubbles or broken bits of glass soared crackling off her shoulders. She unfurled across the path. Her black hair made slow currents here and there. So the world unfixed. It was still slow. The gate hung open, written sideways on the blue sky. A flock of sheep pattered through solemnly. They bobbed on towards my window. Bits of the world scampered like hopping fleas off their backs. They stopped at the glass. They looked in. A bird rattled through the evaporating sky. Their eyes, green and solemn, stared at me. I stood up.

  The shepherd stood at the gate. He yelled. The sheep stared at me, greeneyed and solemn. I swam about in my yellowish aquarium stupidly. They looked in and looked at each other. The shepherd waved his walkingstick. His shalvar flapped. The sheep still stared. The shepherd flapped amongst them. Bits of the world fizzed off his big knitted hat like fireworks. He looked in. I bowed. He hurried off, slapping his sheep. They bobbled out of the gates and back into Ali Emiri 4.

  The smell of salep and droppings danced round in the sunbeams. Bikecarts and little vans rushed up and down Ali Emiri 4. Birds swooped here and there. Bits fell off the block of flats being built next door. The postman wheeled his bike through the Institute gates.

  I got dressed.

  69 Rubbish

  I hurried to the Weekday Health Centre. My card flapped. I threw money at the two women on the green rug. Ominously, I had plenty of time to watch the coins make their ways tumblingly through the blue air. I walked faster. Though one leg was a bit glassy and the other a bit gluey. I wasn’t deranged. I don’t think. Charity and something. Deserts. I stopped.

  A wall on the front of the Health Centre had fallen down entirely. Or it was me? I hopped and danced on the prickling lime grass to keep at bay the climbing horrors that come from silence and stillness. What use was that? A big yellow crane like an a
lien creaked noddingly on the first floor. Its metal neck stuck up through the roof. I was seeing things. But they were there. I mean generally. I gasped.

  Help came. Climbing sirens brought the big prisoner nearer and nearer. The little girl with her head wound round with bandages glided out from the wiry tree. The little boy with his foot done up in a sheet carried his shaved head carefully forwards like a melon on a plate. He put his little arms round my leg. I cried. So much I forgot to ask, was there a crane?

  We hurried to the crumbly concrete steps. Piles of charred paper flapped like piles of pressed birds. We tiptoed through the pricking grass. One little long cloud like a line of chalk floated in the sky. Oildrums lay on their sides bleeding oil. I looked up distrustfully. The yellow alien nodded. We rushed on. It took ages. Puddles of rotted fruit and vegetables bobbed, yawned and sweated in the limegreen grass. Speared. We tiptoed round and round. Then suddenly we slipped down the crumbly concrete steps together and disappeared.

  70 Injection no. 10

  We lay under the nurse one after the other like hems under a sewingmachine. Right right right, she said merrily. It wasn’t that I didn’t feel anything. But I didn’t have any something. Reverberations. Get well soon, she said. I smiled. I worried. I might be desensitised. Brainhard. Unable to see the horror this time. I worried not that the horror had gone, but that I had lost the sensitivity to see it. I gasped. I hurried out. The sun hit me in the face. I went red. I was still well. The new horror at not finding horror filled me like an injection. Atoms of alien milk unfolded new buds just under all my skin and beat. My ears burned. I gulped. Good. Familiar fear. Usual fire. I galloped off towards Ali Emiri 4. The crane nodded in the breeze. Its yellow metal neck creaked above the roof.