Orhan Pamuk - A Strangeness in My Mind

“Aaaah…just what we needed,” said Süleyman. “Isn’t that so?”

“If I didn’t have to work tonight, I’d have another…,” said Mevlut.

“Mevlut, you’ve been calling me a nationalist and a pathetic little fascist for years, and now you’re the one who is so worried about sin that he’s scared of rakı . What happened to that Communist friend of yours who got you hooked on wine…What was that Kurd called again?”

“Enough of these old stories, Süleyman, tell me about this new job.”

“What sort of job would you like?”

“There is no job, is there…You only came here to try to get me to tell you who took Samiha.”

“You know those Arçelik three-wheelers, you should sell your rice from one of those,” said Süleyman callously. “You can buy them on monthly installments. Mevlut, if you had some cash to spend, what kind of shop would you open, and where would you put it?”

Mevlut knew he shouldn’t take the question seriously, but he couldn’t help himself. “I’d open a boza shop in Beyoğlu.”

“But is there enough demand for boza?”

“I am sure that anyone who tries boza once is bound to come back for more, as long as it has been prepared and served properly,” said Mevlut eagerly. “I’m talking to you as a capitalist, here…Boza ’ s got a real future.”

“Does Comrade Ferhat give you these capitalist tips?”

“Just because people don’t drink that much boza today doesn’t mean they won’t tomorrow. Have you ever heard that true story about the two footwear entrepreneurs who went to India? One of them said, ‘People here walk around barefoot, they won’t buy any shoes,’ and went back home.”

“Don’t they have their own capitalists over there?”

“The other one said, ‘There’s half a billion barefoot people here, it’s a huge market.’ So he persevered, and eventually he got rich selling shoes in India. Whatever money I lose selling chickpea rice during the day, I more than make up for with my evening boza sales…”

“You’ve become a real capitalist,” said Süleyman. “But let me remind you that the reason boza was so popular in Ottoman times was that they used to drink it instead of alcohol. Boza is one thing; shoes for barefoot Indians are another…We no longer need to fool ourselves into believing that boza is alcohol-free. Alcohol’s legal now anyway.”

“No, drinking boza doesn’t mean you’re fooling yourself. Everyone loves it,” said Mevlut, getting agitated. “If you’re selling it from a clean shop with a modern look…What job is your brother offering me?”

“Korkut can’t decide whether he should stay with his old friends from the Grey Wolves or run as a candidate of the Motherland Party,” said Süleyman. “Now tell me why you said earlier that I should get Samiha out of my head.”

“Because it’s done now, she’s run away with someone else…,” Mevlut mumbled. “There’s nothing more painful than love.” He sighed.

“You might not want to help me, but there are others who will. Now look at this one here.” Süleyman took a battered old black-and-white photograph out of his pocket and handed it to Mevlut.

The photograph showed a woman singing into a microphone, with darkness and too much makeup around her eyes and a world-weary expression. She was dressed conservatively. She wasn’t very pretty.

“Süleyman, this woman is at least fifteen years older than we are!”

“Only three or four years older, in fact. If you met her, you’d see she doesn’t look a day older than twenty-five. She’s a very good person, very understanding. I see her a couple of times a week. You won’t tell Rayiha or Vediha, of course, and least of all Korkut. You and I share lots of secrets, don’t we?”

“But weren’t you meant to settle down with a suitable girl? Isn’t Vediha supposed to find you a good girl to marry? Who is this singer woman?”

“I’m still a bachelor, I’m not married yet. Don’t get jealous now.”

“Why would I be jealous?” said Mevlut. He got up. “It’s boza time for me.” He’d figured out by then that there wasn’t any business to set up with Korkut and that Süleyman had come here purely to pump Mevlut for information about Samiha’s whereabouts, just as Rayiha had predicted.

“Come on, sit down, stay at least a few minutes more. How many cups do you think you’ll sell tonight?”

“I’m going out with two jugs filled halfway. I’m sure I’ll sell out by the end of the evening.”

“All right then, I’ll buy a whole jug’s worth off you. How many cups would that make? You’ll give me a discount, of course.”

“Why would you do that?”

“I’m buying it off you so you’ll stay here with me, keep me company, and not go out freezing on the streets.”

“I don’t need your charity.”

“But I really need your friendship.”

“All right then, you can pay me for a third of a jug,” said Mevlut, sitting back down. “I won’t make a profit off you. That’ll cover the costs. Don’t tell Rayiha I stayed here drinking with you. What will you do with the boza?”

“What will I do with it?” said Süleyman, pondering an answer. “I don’t know…I’ll give it away to someone…or I guess I could just get rid of it.”

“Where?”

“What do you mean where? It belongs to me, doesn’t it? It can go down the toilet hole.”

“Shame on you, Süleyman…”

“What’s the matter? Aren’t you a capitalist? I’m paying you for it.”

“Süleyman, you aren’t worth a single penny of the money you make here in Istanbul.”

“As if boza is holy or something.”

“Yes, boza is holy.”

“Oh, fuck off, boza is just something someone invented so Muslims could drink alcohol; it’s booze in disguise — everyone knows that.”

“No,” said Mevlut, his heart beating fast. “There is no alcohol in boza.” He was relieved to feel an expression of utter calm coming over his face.

“Are you joking?”

In the sixteen years he’d spent selling boza, Mevlut had told this lie to two different types of people:

1. Conservative customers who wanted to drink boza and also wanted to believe that they were not committing a sin. The clever ones knew that there was alcohol in boza, but acted as if the mixture that Mevlut sold was a special invention, like sugar-free Coke, and if there was alcohol in it, then Mevlut was a liar, and the sin was his.

2. Secular, Westernized customers who wanted to drink boza and also wanted to enlighten the country bumpkin who sold it to them. The clever ones understood that Mevlut knew there was alcohol in boza, but they wanted to shame the cunning religious peasant who lied to them just to make more money.

“No, I’m not joking. Boza is holy,” said Mevlut.

“I’m a Muslim,” said Süleyman. “Only things that obey the rules of my faith can be holy.”

“Just because something isn’t strictly Islamic doesn’t mean it can’t be holy. Old things we’ve inherited from our ancestors can be holy, too,” said Mevlut. “When I’m out at night on the gloomy, empty streets, I sometimes come across a mossy old wall. A wonderful joy rises up inside me. I walk into the cemetery, and even though I can’t read the Arabic script on the gravestones, I still feel as good as I would if I’d prayed.”

“Come off it, Mevlut, you’re probably scared of the dogs in the cemetery.”

“I’m not scared of stray dogs. They know who I am. What did my late father say to people who claimed there was alcohol in boza?”

“What did he say?”

“He’d tell them ‘Sir, if there was alcohol in it, I wouldn’t be selling it,’ ” said Mevlut, imitating his father.