Sait Abasiyanik - A Useless Man

But what if you were ill?

That really happened once. As soon as I heard, I raced to your bedside. You opened your eyes. There was sweat on your brow. Two strands of light blonde hair stuck to your forehead. You said, “The fever’s not dropping.” I raced back into the city. I came back with medicine from the black market. You got better. We walked the length of the pier together. You were fresh-faced, flushed. You were smiling. You teased me. You ran away from me and I couldn’t catch you. God forbid. Keep fevers at bay!

These were the thoughts that raced through my mind after the man on the next bench smiled at me. So it took me a few seconds to respond. But I must have made up for lost time. Because now the man stood up and came over.

“What’s the name of that mosque?”

Would you believe it if I said I couldn’t remember the name? My mind was still with you. No, you hadn’t come down with another fever, thank God — nothing as dire as that! I could almost see you moving through the back streets to avoid me. A wave of despair crashed over me. But I can never stay angry at you … No, I’m angry at the world. I’m angry at my best friend … I’m angry at this cold spring of 1946, this month of May that feels nothing like May. I’m angry at those girls over there, and their senseless laughter. I can’t stay angry at you. But if you did go off through the back streets so as not to see me, then at least you were thinking of me.

The name came back to me:

“It’s Beyazıt Mosque, my friend!”

The woman stood up and came over to join us. An intense curiosity played on her face. Clearly the man had asked me an important question. And I had helped them unravel a perplexing mystery. She sat down beside us. Now it was her turn:

“So which one’s Ali Sofya?”

“It’s over that hill there.”

I pointed to the left. But they still couldn’t tell where Ali Sofya was. They just couldn’t see it, exactly in the direction I was pointing. I pointed out over a maze of crossing roads, looming buildings, and shops. How would they ever find the Hagia Sophia through all of that? But there was no helping these two: it was hopeless. I could see them trying — thinking, yes, it must be over there. Finally the man said:

“It must be a long way away.”

“No, it’s not that far,” I said.

I put the man at over fifty. His face was deeply wrinkled and the color of earth.

“I brought this one back from the village with me,” he now said.

He pointed to the woman beside him. Her head was covered in a modest headscarf, and her face was as crinkly as a caramel-covered rice pudding, which here and there caught the shimmering light. She had little eyes, sparkling white teeth and high cheekbones, and I thought I caught the scent of milk. What a lively, rosy face she had; what wonderful blood she must have, running through those veins …

“This one here’s never been to Istanbul before. She’s having a good look around, really enjoying herself, she can’t stop smiling. She’s having a fine time, if I say so myself. We’re from Lüleburgaz. I’ve been to Istanbul a few times, but this one’s never been before. I’m taking her around to all the mosques.”

“You should see Taksim, too.”

“Oh, yes. We’ll see Beyoğlu too, right? That’s before you get to Taksim, right?”

“That’s right.”

“Should we take the tram?”

“Why not!”

“But we also want to take the Tünel.”

“It’s closed, it’s out of service.”

“No … so the Tünel’s closed, eh? That’s a shame — for me as well as her.” The woman held out something wrapped in newspaper:

“Copper’s much cheaper these days. We got this for a good price.”

“How much did you pay?”

“What did we pay again? Per kilo it was … We got this for four hundred fifty kuruş . But no, wait a minute, we paid three fifty in the end. That’s not much, is it?”

“We paid three hundred and twenty. It was seven hundred grams.”

“You gave them five lira. What did the coppersmith give you back?”

They did the math. First they couldn’t agree. Then they did. They’d bought the dish for three hundred and ten kuruş .

My eyes were still fixed on the road you usually walked along. Now that their math lesson was over, the couple next to me had turned to look at the fountain. By now I’d lost all hope of seeing you. So I was thinking of going after you. Finding you and saying: “Now look, listen to me please? For once just let me be honest with you. You don’t ever let me speak my mind. You don’t ever tell me what I need to hear. So if you could just stay calm for a moment and let me explain …”

“Does the water come bubbling up from the earth?”

“Oh, come now. This isn’t a natural spring, my dear fellow. They pump in city water, through a pipe.”

The man turned to the woman:

“They use pipes to fill it up. They lay down pipes along the bottom. You see?”

Then to me:

“But then … well … the water bubbles up?”

“On holidays or when the weather’s warm … But it’s cold now so it’s not running.”

To the woman:

“It’s not bubbling because it’s cold. You see? They bubble it up in the hot weather to cool people off …”

He turned to me:

“OK but … then they throw plastic balls on top and the water keeps the balls up in the air, keeps tossing them up in the air. That’s what they do, right?”

He must be in his fifties, she’s not much younger … And here they are, prattling about fountains and balls … They have more of the child in them than I do. I’m happy to be free of the pain of not seeing you; I feel fine now, absolutely fine. The woman leans over, listening. We talk about Taksim, other mosques, the city squares, the Bosphorus, the Maiden’s Tower. Then the conversation dries up. We are silent for a while. I begin to search for a line of poetry to recite to you. A line about rainy weather, mountain roads, mules, bells … it must be out there, somewhere — don’t such things exist?

Now the man is telling the woman about the Maiden’s Tower, the Haydarpaşa Train Station, the Selimiye Barracks …

Then the three of us fall silent again, as if to mull over the important things we’ve just discussed. Except, for me, there’s no doubt about it. There cannot be a thought I’m not ready to entertain. I can see you coming through the gate. Running over to me. I can see us arm in arm.

Just then the man says:

“Does the water freeze in winter?”

What can I say to that? I feel my sadness leave me again:

“It freezes,” I say. “It freezes and the children skate on it.”

He turns to the woman:

“He says it freezes in the winter, children skate on it.”

What do you think, my love? Does the Beyazıt Fountain freeze over in the winter? Anyway, that’s what I told Sergeant Murtaza and his wife Hacer Ana. Yes, I said, it freezes over.

I tied him up tight, hand and foot. I sat him down in the corner. His eyes were flashing. He was shaking, rocking with rage. His face was yellow. But I was certain it wasn’t fear that did that. It was fury, pure fury. There was no point, though, in making him angry. But that wasn’t because I feared he might do something. Or pounce on me, if I untied him. That rage would dissolve the moment I set him free. What about me, though? I wasn’t about to give up on him. I liked seeing him cornered, with nowhere to go.

“What’s it to you, anyway? What’s it to you?” He was screaming.