Yasemın Aydinoğlu: Istanbul Noir

Thus Nigel managed to burn me twelve more times. Even after death. Now I understood what it meant, “the secret tongue of the flames.” We walk this earth with a seed of fire within us, an infectious fire lit by a simple spark, a fire that never goes out, a fire that spreads and contaminates with a strange geometry, until it rages everywhere. There are twelve books on my shelves, twelve books I’ll never ever again dare to open.

Now they’ve locked me up here because I was trying to feel the pain of the fourteen people I killed by putting out cigarettes on my chest. They are giving me drugs in all the colors of the rainbow; the drugs are supposed to stop my mind from working. I test the power of the fire on my body whenever I can. I smile at those who try to stop me. This is the only thing in the world that they can’t possibly stop: Fire, it’s everywhere. They can’t keep me from touching it. But they don’t know that yet.

I approach one of the visitors. “Could you give me a cigarette? They won’t let me smoke here. Could you light it and give it to me, please?” Then I go to the bathroom. As I touch the concealed parts of my body with fire, I turn the bloody pages of the library in my mind; I read Nigel’s books. As the smell of burnt flesh reaches my nose, I release the flames that rise from my own personal hell.

Gradually, I understand why people once worshiped fire. I hear the screams of the nurses. I worship fire.

Bebek

Perhaps all of this still would have happened, even if the city hadn’t been caught up in the tempestuous lodos that night. But the truth is, that frantic wind, spinner of its own mysteries, provided justifiable motive for transgression. Strange, droning, lukewarm, the lodos keeps in its thrall not only the city, but the souls of its people as well. And Cavidan Altan was one of those people. Perhaps what would occur later hadn’t even remotely crossed her mind when she left home that day. I say “perhaps,” because we can never know for sure what’s on a woman’s mind. Now, I could pretend that I knew, but I don’t want to taint the authenticity of the story by adding to it something I’m not sure about. We can safely assume the same about Tolga Güçel, and say that he, too, never would have guessed that he would experience the things he did that evening, or any other evening, for that matter.

Tolga is a computer engineer in his thirties. A few years ago, he left the company he had been working for to start his own business with a friend. They install data processing systems for companies and provide support services and solutions. Of course, he is an intelligent man — he must be, right? He’s a person of high moral standards and principles, a man who likes to do things by the book. He’s not married, but he has a girlfriend, a woman he met at his last job. They share a home, though theirs is a constant rollercoaster of break-up and make-up. Yes, that’s right, yet another case of passion’s demise and habitual routine on the rise! He works in Gayrettepe, lives in Etiler. On the evening in question, in spite of the heavy end-of-the-year workload, he had managed to leave early, thinking he might stop by Akmerkez on his way home and buy a New Year’s gift for his girlfriend. A white cashmere sweater, an elegant laptop bag, or a bottle of perfume — he was still undecided. But then, what difference does it make anyway? Considering that, ultimately, he would buy none of these.

That evening on his way home from work, as he passed Zincirlikuyu and made a right onto the road to Levent, he was listening to the radio program Women Sing Jazz. “Dear listeners, we continue with Ethel Waters’s ‘Stormy Weather’...” There couldn’t have been a more fitting selection. He tapped along on the steering wheel. The invasive wind whistled and shook the colored lights on the trees. Who knows, maybe everything would have panned out in another way if the weather had been different; say, if it had been snowing. After all, the New Year spirit calls for snow; and for love, hope, new beginnings, packages of presents, angels hanging on trees, the cinnamon-spiced scent of mulled wine. But it didn’t happen, it didn’t snow. Instead, a crazy, wayward wind kept the area convulsing for days on end, making the city slave to its whim. Though the majority suffered only mild headaches and a little shortness of breath in its aftermath, at the time, melancholy ran like a viscous liquid through the streets.

Tolga, for his part, did something he never would have done otherwise: Compelled by the sorrowful music and the feeling of benevolence that the New Year’s spirit aroused, he pulled up to the curb, where a woman with shopping bags was trying to flag down a taxi. The woman, Cavidan Hanım , had just finished her shopping at the mall in Levent. On the window behind her, 2007 was written in cotton balls, and adorned with wreaths of mistletoe, yellow, green, and red lights, gold-lacquered pinecones, and red stars. She was a woman of a certain maturity; she held her hand in front of her face as she tried to protect herself from the wind. Perhaps hitching a ride wasn’t her intention at all. Still, when she stooped and saw Tolga, she opened the back door, dropped her bags in the car, and settled onto the passenger seat without hesitation. Obviously she was cold, otherwise why on earth would she have plunged headlong into a stranger’s car, especially at that hour?

While we were in Tolga’s car, making our way from Levent to Gayrettepe, Cavidan Hanım was checking off items on her shopping list. She had bought a different washing detergent, something other than her usual brand, because it came with a free bottle of fabric softener. The thin peel of the tangerines had not been to her taste, and so she picked up some oranges and a few green apples instead. A bag of sliced whole-wheat bread, tahini halva, and petit beurre biscuits. Aged kaşar cheese, napkins, and ginger for the New Year’s cookies she was planning to bake. In a last-minute dash, she had added olive oil, clotted cream, and fresh walnuts to her cart at the check-out. She realized that she couldn’t possibly carry those heavy bags all the way home, and so she had decided to wait for a cab. It should therefore come as no surprise that she jumped into the car as soon as Tolga stopped. He’s young enough to be my son, she might have thought as she got into the car. I’m not sure if I told you: Tolga has the kind of face that puts even the most jittery of people at ease.

As soon as she was in the car, Cavidan Hanım removed her beret and scarf. She swung her hips left and then right, settling into the seat and making herself comfortable. She also made sure to turn and take a good look at Tolga. He was a young man with a fair complexion, clean shaven, with longish brown hair and glasses perched on an arched nose. Cavidan Hanım didn’t know much about automobiles, but still, judging from the smell of fresh leather rising from the black seats and the wooden details of the dashboard, this had to be a luxury car. Her savior, she guessed, was probably a successful young businessman. He must have been at least twenty years younger than her; Cavidan wondered if he was married. She glanced to see if he had a ring on his left hand, but her view was blocked. Tolga’s fingers had stopped tapping and now clung to the steering wheel. If it hadn’t been so dark inside, she could have seen how white his knuckles were. Wishing she were at least ten years younger, Cavidan Hanım let out a sigh. Fortunately, it was drowned out by the sound of the radio. “Dear jazz fans, our program continues with Billie Holiday: ‘Long Gone Blues’...”

Tolga’s fingers relaxed and started tapping again. “So you’re a jazz fan,” Cavidan Hanım said, in an attempt to make conversation. Tolga looked at her for the first time, smiled, nodded, and then turned his attention back to the road. “If you drop me off in front of Akmerkez, I can walk from there.” A sudden gush of wind rattled the windshield, and shook the car even, or so it seemed to them.