Orhan Pamuk - A Strangeness in My Mind

Ferhat would glance at Mevlut, as proud to show off his authority as he was pleased to be showing Mevlut the ropes of the job and a glimpse of its vast opportunities. Sometimes he would walk away mysteriously saying nothing at all, leaving the residents to appeal to Mevlut. A few hours on the job, and he’d already learned to recognize those worried looks that said, Now what? Is he really going to cut us off?

If he decided to be lenient, Ferhat would usually deliver the news himself to the anxious customer at the door. “I’ll let you off this time, but remember, it’s all been privatized now, you won’t get away with it again!” he’d say. Or “When I cut it off, you’re going to have to pay an extra fee to have it reconnected again, so you’d best think about that, too.” Sometimes his verdict would be “I won’t cut you off today, seeing as there’s a pregnant woman in the house, but it’s the last time!” “If you’re not going to pay for your electricity, you might at least try not to use so much!” he might say, to which the relieved person at the door would respond, “God bless you!” Sometimes Ferhat would point to the runny-nosed little kid in the doorway, saying, “I’ll leave your lights on this time, for this one’s sake. But child or no child, I won’t be so generous next time.”

Occasionally, a little boy would open the door and say there was no one home. Some children became extremely nervous when they were put up to this, while others were as brash as adults, having already absorbed the notion that to lie well was a form of cleverness. Having listened for sounds inside the house before ringing the doorbell, Ferhat always knew when a child was lying, but often he would play along to spare the boy’s feelings.

“All right, kid,” he’d say like a kindly uncle. “Tell your folks when they’re back tonight that you’ve got electric bills to pay, all right? Now tell me, what’s your name?”

“Talat!”

“Good boy, Talat! Now close the door so the devil doesn’t get you.”

But all this was an act Ferhat put on for Mevlut’s first day, to make the job seem easier and more pleasant than it really was. They would have drunks telling them, “Our only debt is to God, inspector”; people screaming, “The government’s turned to usury now, you’re fleecing us, you bastards”; octogenarians in dentures saying, “Those bribes you take will land you in the pits of hell” before slamming the door in their faces; and smart-aleck layabouts asking, “How do I know you’re really from the electric company?” but Ferhat never took the bait, not even batting an eyelid in that torrent of lies—“My mother’s on her deathbed,” “Our father’s gone to do his military service!” “We’ve just moved in, those bills must be the previous tenants’.” As they walked out of a building, he would carefully explain to Mevlut the truth behind each of the excuses they’d just heard: the man who complained “You’re fleecing us!” always claimed he’d been forced to bribe a different team of inspectors every week. The old man with the dentures wasn’t even religious; Ferhat had seen him plenty of times in the bar on Kurtuluş Square…

“We’re not here to torment these people, only to make them pay for what they’ve used,” said Ferhat in a coffeehouse later on. “There’s nothing to be gained by leaving a bunch of poor men, women, and children without power if they just don’t have the money. Your job is to figure out who really can’t afford it, who could pay some of their bill, who could easily pay the whole thing but is just making excuses, who’s a crook, and who’s being sincere. The bosses have given me the power to rule on these cases like a judge; it’s my job to make the necessary evaluations. Your job, too, obviously…Do you understand?”

“I understand,” said Mevlut.

“Now, my dear Mevlut, there are two things that are strictly forbidden: If you haven’t gone and checked a meter yourself, you never make up a number to write down and pretend you have. If they catch you, you’re finished. The other thing — though I’m sure I don’t need to tell you of all people — is that we can’t even have a hint of harassing or ogling the women or anything like that. The company’s got its reputation to protect; they wouldn’t think twice about what to do…Now, how about I take you to the Springtime Club to celebrate the new job?”

“I’m going out to sell boza tonight.”

“Even tonight? You’re going to make loads of money now.”

“I’m going to sell boza every night,” said Mevlut.

Ferhat leaned forward and smiled, as if to say he understood.

Dogs Will Bark at Anyone Who Doesn’t Belong Among Us

Uncle Hasan.When I found out that Süleyman got an older woman — a singer, no less — pregnant, and now he was going to marry her, I said nothing. We were already very sad for Mevlut. When I see the calamities suffered by those around me, I tell Safiye how glad I am to have never wanted anything more than my little grocery store. Just to sit in my shop folding newspapers into pint baskets every day, that’s enough to make me happy.

—

Vediha.Maybe this was for the best, I thought. Otherwise who knows if Süleyman would have ever managed to get married. It was just me and Korkut who went to the house in Üsküdar with him to ask Miss Melahat’s father for her hand. Süleyman wore his finest. It struck me that he’d never made such an effort for any of the girls we’d gone to see together. He kissed the hand of his future father-in-law — a retired government clerk — with real deference. Süleyman must really love this Melahat. I can’t say I understand why, though, and I would love to know. When she finally made her appearance, she looked dignified and stylish enough, a forty-year-old woman serving us coffee like a teenage girl meeting her suitor. I liked that she didn’t treat the whole thing as a joke and that she was courteous and respectful. She got her self a cup of coffee, too. Then she passed around a pack of Samsuns. She handed one to her father — she had only just made her peace with him, Süleyman had said — and then she lit one up herself and blew smoke right out into the middle of the little room. We all went quiet. In that moment, I saw that far from feeling embarrassed to be forced into marrying this woman he’d gotten pregnant, Süleyman was proud of her. As the smoke from Miss Melahat’s cigarette swirled about the room like a blue mist, Süleyman could not have looked more smug if he’d blown that smoke in Korkut’s face himself, and I was confused.

—

Korkut.Of course they were in no position to impose any conditions. These were humble, well-intentioned people of modest means. Unfortunately, however, they were not well versed in matters of religion. The people of Duttepe love to gossip. We thought it would be best to avoid Mecidiyeköy and have the wedding somewhere farther away, so we arranged with Süleyman a small but perfectly presentable wedding hall in Aksaray. Once that was done, I said, “Let’s go have an afternoon drink, just me and you, brother to brother, man to man,” and we went to a restaurant in Kumkapı. “Süleyman,” I said after the second round, “as your brother, I am now going to ask you a very important question. We like this lady. But a man’s honor counts more than anything else. Are you absolutely certain that Miss Melahat will fit in with our way of life?”

“Don’t worry,” he said at first, but then he asked, “What exactly do you mean about honor?”

—

Ferhat.While they were busy getting Süleyman married off, I went on a reconnaissance mission to the Sunshine Club, pretending to be an ordinary customer. That’s another perk of the job: you get to have a couple of drinks while you look around for evidence they might be stealing electricity, what tricks they might be using, and see the faces of those conceited club owners totally unaware they’re about to get their comeuppance. All the ladies were taking up their positions in various corners of the room, and we settled down for a long night. At the table, we had Demir from Dersim, two contractors, one former left-wing militant, and another hardworking young inspector like me.