Orhan Pamuk - A Strangeness in My Mind

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Mohini.Actually, my job at the hairdresser’s wasn’t too difficult. My only worry was how to pay each woman attention exactly according to her husband’s rank; I had to make sure that I saved the best hairstyle for the base commander Turgut Pasha’s tubby little wife, paying her all the best compliments; the bony wife of Turgut Pasha’s second-in-command got a tiny bit less; and finally there were the lieutenant colonels’ wives, though even there I had to make sure to respect the order of seniority, and the whole thing was bringing me to a state of nervous collapse. One day, I told Mevlut, a young officer’s pretty wife had come in, and I let slip a compliment on her dark hair, and you should have seen how they all sneered, not least Turgut Pasha’s wife, and the horrible way they treated me.

The lieutenant colonel’s prudent wife would say, “What color did you dye Turgut Pasha’s wife’s hair? Make sure mine isn’t lighter than hers.” I heard everything — who was free for a game of rummy, whose turn it was to host the others, where they would gather to watch their soap operas, and what kind of cookies were being bought from which bakery. Sometimes I sang songs and performed magic tricks at their children’s birthday parties, I did the shopping for those ladies who didn’t like to step outside the grounds of the base, and I helped a commander’s daughter with her math homework.

“What the hell do you know about math, Mohini!” said Mevlut, interrupting rather rudely. “Or are you fucking the pasha’s daughter?”

“Shame on you, Mevlut…I see the army’s fouled both your mouth and your soul. All those privates who find some cushy job at an officer’s house near headquarters, or end up working as servants and footmen in a colonel’s home, getting yelled at every day, they all like to say ‘I’m screwing the colonel’s daughter’ as soon as they get back to their barracks at night, just to save what little is left of their dignity. Don’t tell me you believe those stories? Besides, Turgut Pasha doesn’t deserve such treatment. He is an honest military man, and he’s always shielding me from his wife’s malice and her moods. Are we clear?”

—

Since joining the military, these were the most sincere words Mevlut had heard a private utter, and he felt ashamed. “The colonel is a good man, after all,” he said. “I’m sorry. Come here and let me give you a hug so you won’t be mad.”

The moment he’d said these words, he saw the truth he’d been hiding even from himself: since Mevlut had last seen him in high school, Mohini had become more effeminate, revealing the existence of a secret homosexual he harbored inside of him. Was he even aware of it? Should Mevlut pretend he hadn’t noticed? They stood still for a moment, staring at each other wordlessly.

Turgut Pasha found out soon enough that the private who did his wife’s hair and the private who worked in the restaurant had been schoolmates. So Mevlut started going over to the pasha’s house for special assignments. He might be asked to paint the kitchen cupboards or to play horses and coachmen with the children (Kars still had horse-drawn carriages as taxis). The pasha had informed the captain of his company and the manager of the officers’ club that Mevlut would occasionally be needed at the pasha’s house to help organize parties, and this had the immediate effect of promoting him to “pasha’s favorite,” which everyone knew was the highest rank a private could reach. Mevlut took pleasure in watching word of his new standing spread among his unit first, and then to the rest of the garrison. Those who used to greet him with “What’s up, baby face,” who would ambush him with a goosing and treat him like a queer, were the first to back off. The lieutenants began to treat Mevlut with a certain regard, too, like some rich kid who’d ended up in Kars by mistake. Others asked him if he could please try to find out from the pasha’s wife the secret date of the upcoming exercises on the Russian border. No one ever even flicked his ear again.

The Cemetery of the Industrial Quarter

THE MILITARY OPERATION whose secret date everyone wanted to know did not take place after all, because another military coup occurred on the night of 12 September. Mevlut realized that there was something extraordinary going on when he saw that the streets outside the base were deserted. The army had declared martial law and curfews throughout the country. He spent the day watching General Evren Pasha’s proclamations on TV. The total emptiness of the streets of Kars, which had so recently been full of villagers, shopkeepers, unemployed men, frightened citizens, and undercover policemen, seemed to Mevlut like a projection of his own strange mind. In the evening, Turgut Pasha gathered all base personnel together and explained that blinkered, selfish politicians who only cared about clinging to their seats had brought the country to the brink of collapse, but those bad days were over now, the Turkish army, the sole and true guardians of the nation, would not allow the country to go to the dogs, and they would punish all the terrorists and the seditious politicians. He talked at length about the flag, how it took its color from the blood of martyrs, and about Atatürk.

A week later, when it was announced on TV that Turgut Pasha would become mayor of Kars, Mevlut and Mohini started coming and going between the base and city hall, ten minutes away. The pasha spent his mornings at the base, planning operations against the Communists in light of the intelligence from his informants and the secret services, and after lunch he took his jeep to the city hall, then situated in an old Russian building. Sometimes he walked, flanked by his bodyguards, listening happily to grateful shopkeepers who told him what a good thing the coup had been, and letting people kiss his hand if they wanted to, and any letters that he received, he read himself as soon as he got back to headquarters. It was one of the pasha’s responsibilities, as mayor, base commander, and the man in charge of enforcing martial law in the district, to investigate any illegalities and allegations of corruption reported to him by post and to refer any suspects to the army prosecutor. Like the pasha, the prosecutor acted on the logic “They’ll be acquitted if they’re innocent!” and he was therefore quick to lock people up to intimidate them.

The military treated wealthy offenders relatively gently. Those who had committed political crimes, though, and Communists who were often labeled “terrorists” had the soles of their feet whipped. When the wind was blowing in the right direction, the cries of youths picked up during raids on impoverished neighborhoods and tortured for information could be heard all the way to the base, and Mevlut would cast his eyes down in guilt as he made his way toward the officers’ club.

During musters one morning early in the new year, the new lieutenant called out Mevlut’s name. Mevlut stood up and shouted, “Mevlut Karataş, Konya, at your orders.” He saluted and stood to attention.

“Come over here, Konya,” said the lieutenant.

This guy must not have heard I’ve got the pasha’s backing, thought Mevlut. He had never been to the city of Konya in his life, but that was the district to which Beyşehir belonged, so, as was the custom, everyone here called him Konya, which was rather irritating, though he didn’t show it on this occasion.

“My condolences, Konya, your father’s passed away in Istanbul,” said the new lieutenant. “Go back to your unit and get the captain to give you some leave.”