The Clock

 

He owed his reputation to the enormous wall clock he constantly carried under his arm. At first, those who saw him thought he was joking, or at least that he was simply moving the clock from one place to another. But as the days passed, it became clear that things were not at all as they appeared. Every morning he left his house with the clock under his arm, walked to every corner of the school with it, entered classrooms with it, placed it on the table before meetings and occasionally pretended to clean it, navigated the cafeteria with difficulty but confidently — a clock in one hand, a food tray in the other — and he never parted with his clock even when going to the bathroom. In the evenings, he would tuck the clock back under his arm and head home, books in one hand, dinner in the other.

Students had no trouble getting used to this surprising sight, because the clock-carrying teacher posed no threat to them. On the contrary, the whole thing could be considered a source of entertainment. In the early days, whenever students saw the teacher, they would pester him with remarks like "Sir, what time is it?" or "Excuse me, your hour hand has fallen off," but in time they grew accustomed to the normalcy of the situation. Besides, the teacher who walked around with a clock had no other particularly noteworthy qualities. The clock's effect — spreading like a contagious disease — had not changed the fact that the teacher was a beloved and respected person.

At first, the other teachers could do nothing but laugh helplessly. Because no one could bring themselves to ask this teacher why he constantly carried such a large clock. Eventually, when students couldn't remember the teacher's name, they would describe him as "You know — the one with the clock!" The name suited him so well that the other teachers and school administrators quickly adopted "the clock teacher" as well. Since the teacher also attended district-wide meetings with his clock, he soon began attracting attention beyond the school. On the day the district governor came to visit the school and stepped into his classroom for an inspection, he was met with the following unusual scene: when a student arrived late to class, the clock teacher first asked for the time. Upon determining that the student's watch was behind his own large clock, he set the student's watch forward to match his. Without asking any further questions, without allowing the student to fabricate excuses to defend himself, without even bothering to warn him not to be late again, he simply continued the lesson from where he had left off.

The governor watched all of this in astonishment, and at the end of class called the teacher over and asked the meaning of what he had witnessed. The teacher replied with two simple sentences: "The student's watch was running behind, so I corrected it. Isn’t it our duty as teachers to correct what is wrong?" And he said no more.

From that day on, no one asked questions about the clock, nor made jokes about it. The clock had become a part of the school. Perhaps because students now faced the same question every time they arrived late after the clock teacher appeared, — whether out of a little shame or a desire to flee the image of a "great witness" that the sheer size of the clock conjured — they began arriving to class exactly on time. The school principal, who had never started a single meeting on time in his life, now felt ashamed under the gaze of the great clock — a gaze that seemed to say "You're late again, sir!" — and had begun making efforts to start meetings on time and finish them as close to the promised hour as possible. The cooks and other staff who worked at the school became unable to work without a clock as their guide. Meals were not served before their time; the cafeteria was thus occupied only during set hours. The maintenance workers began driving hard bargains over the phone for supplies and equipment to be brought in from outside. If purchased materials were not delivered exactly on time, they resorted to threatening the supplier companies with paying as little as half the agreed price. Among those who benefited most from all this were the teachers responsible for discipline. Complaints had decreased visibly compared to the start of the school year, dropping to a level that could almost be considered nonexistent. Everyone at school was debating punctuality; those who used to arrive late to their appointments were now exactly where they needed to be, on time. The presence of the clock was spreading through every corner of the school — slowly, but with lasting force, like tea diffusing through hot water. People had suddenly found an impartial witness to the disputes among themselves. No one any longer recalled that, before the clock had entered their lives, mutual tardiness had been met with tolerance. In the past, even when someone arrived half an hour late to a meeting, people would consider it trivial and carry on as though nothing had happened. While people had once worn their watches merely as flashy accessories, now that the great clock had become a part of their lives, the colorful and showy bracelets on their wrists had transformed into small bosses who held sway over them, taking orders only from one great authority. All the other clocks in the school began falling under the dominion of this great clock, and every clock that adjusted its hour and minute hands to match it declared its submission to this irresistible force through the language of its posture.

Shortly thereafter, the lion emblem on the school's crest was removed and replaced with the image of a clock. The school's official seal had taken the form of a simple figure — its hands made of two pen strokes — with the inscription beneath it reading: "Punctuality is respect for humanity." Many teachers began using the date the Great Clock had appeared as a historical reference point when speaking of the past. Phrases like "My first son was born six months after the clock appeared" or "In the first quarter of our second year with the clock, he walked around school with his arm in a cast the whole time" became common phrases and were eventually standardized by the school principal. After a rule was introduced requiring a single clock to be used in all sporting competitions, the clock became a referee who could validate a goal scored in the final minute of a football match, or an inspector who could prove that the principal's tennis matches did not last more than three hours, as he himself claimed. These changes at the school were naturally observed from the outside with a mixture of wonder and satisfaction. So much so that at the end of the second year with the clock, the school was named the most punctual school in the province. Everyone knew that such an award category had been created solely for them, and yet this did not stop the wild celebrations that took place — within the limits the great clock permitted, of course. Fires were lit in the school courtyard; a photograph of the great clock taken at ten to two was hung everywhere. When the celebrations were brought to a close near ten o'clock in the evening at the clock's insistence, people rubbed their alcohol-blurred eyes, set their wrist watches one final time, and went home. No one yet knew of the miracle that would take place the following morning.

---

That day, classes began as usual and ended as usual. Students, with the habit two years had ingrained in them, were in their classrooms exactly on time; the teacher had ended the lesson at the moment his clock told him it was time to go. No one would have noticed that, just as the clock teacher was leaving the classroom, a repairman's apprentice — who had clearly never heard of the great clock — had suddenly burst in while fleeing a giant hornet chasing him, and collided with the teacher, had they not heard the crash that followed the clock's fall to the floor and its shattering. Yes, the clock had fallen and broken. Shards of glass, pieces of spring, and tiny gears now littered the floor. The hour and minute hands had parted for the first time in a long while and scattered to different parts of the classroom, at a distance where they could not see each other. A great silence filled the room — a silence more disturbing, more maddening, more garrulous than even the most violent noise. It was clear this silence would not last long. The clock teacher was seen inside the school without his clock for the very first time. As if concealing the anger on his face, he immediately picked up a broom and began sweeping. The students rushed to help when they saw their teacher holding a broom. Within a few minutes, all the pieces of the clock had been consigned to the wastebasket. The teacher left the classroom in quick strides. Without the clock, the students were at a loss for a while as to what to do. So, what would happen now? The clock was broken — would there no longer be a "Mister Time" roaming the school with his enormous clock? Or would he go down to town today and buy a new one?

The teacher came to school the next day without a clock — and late. And not just him. The whole school was late. The principal moved the morning meeting to the evening without giving any reason, and announced this change of plan after the original meeting time had already passed. In the cafeteria, food began being served half an hour early. The cleaners swept and mopped at random hours. Students either didn't come to school that day or arrived late. And those who did arrive late, not knowing what to do in a place without a clock, first tampered with the settings of their own wristwatches, then wandered aimlessly around the school grounds — up and down, left and right — like a flock of sheep without a shepherd. It was as though everyone had woken from a long sleep. What kind of dream was this that had lasted a full two years? How could a school that had been ruled by a strange order for two full years change so suddenly, so quickly? The clock had broken, and everything had at once been condemned to clocklessness. For all this time, the people who had never asked what the clock meant now spent not a single second reflecting on this sudden change either. The chaos lasted a few days, but in the end gave way to an equilibrium that was worse than what had been before. A few people brought up the old days and dared to mention the "great clock," but were accused by the others of bringing back memories of those terrible times — even of being reactionary. Life drifted on as it had two years prior. At the end of that period, the clock teacher — his name had not changed after the clock broke — requested a transfer and left for another school in the north. The clock on the school's emblem remained just as it was. But in a school full of people who asked no questions and considered examining the past unnecessary or even a betrayal, one year later no one could remember why the image of a clock had been placed on the emblem at all.

---

Ali Riza Arican - August, 2001 / Klaeng, Thailand

Sürgünden Öte

 Yayınevinden yeni romanımın çıktığı üzerine sevindirici haberi aldım. Sosyal medyada yapılan paylaşım şu: 

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Tencerenin Dibi

                                                   Öykünün ilham kaynağı S. S.'e 

 “Buraya dün gece bomba atmış olmalılar” diye geçirdim içimden sokağa çıkar çıkmaz. Zaten belliydi akşamki seslerden. Bu evdeki ilk gecem ve yeni sokağım beni böylesi şatafatlı, böylesi dağdağalı ve cafcaflı bir törenle karşılıyor. Pencereye çıkıp perdenin kıyısından gizlice bakmıştım; tanklar geçiyordu yoldan, pencere kapalı olduğu halde yaktıkları benzinin kesif kokusu burnumu delip geçmişti, dev paletlerin altında ezilen asfalt yoldan kopan ufak parçalar sağa sola savruluyordu. Sonrasında hırsız adımlarıyla uzaklaştım pencereden. Ne olur ne olmaz dedim kendi kendime, bir kör kurşun alınımın ortasından çat diye vurur. Faili meçhul değil, faili meşhur olurum! Havada bir serinlik var ama yer yer soluyorum aralara karışmış ağır metal zerreciklerini. Kubbe habbe oluyor, doluşuyor ciğerlerimize. Yolun ortasında kocaman bir çukur, içinde zift rengi durgun bir su, suyun içinde artık varlığına alıştığım somurtkan gökyüzü, gökyüzünde duman rengi bulutlar, bulutların arkasında var olduklarına inandığım yıldızlar, gezegenler, galaksiler, sonsuz bir boşluk ve o boşluğun bana yaşatacağı huzur. Demek buraya düşmüş büyük bomba, etrafında da uyduları var, yumruk kadar delikler, bir takılsam ağzımı yüzümü pürtüklü zemine sürte sürte kapaklanırım yolun ortasına. Attığım her adıma dikkat ederek ilerliyorum. Mayın tarlası gibi adeta her yer, ince işçilikle hazırlanmış hassas tuzaklar teyakkuzda tutuyor zihnimi. Kesin döşemişlerdir dünyanın en sinsi, en görünmez silahlarını yolun sağlı sollu köşelerine. Yataktan kalkınca değil, bu sokağa inince uyanıyorum aslında. Düşüp bir yerlerimi kırmamak için, saçma sapan bir konuda yoldan geçen biriyle kavga edip bıçaklanmamak için, genç yaşımda ölmemek için. Mermi çekirdekleri saçılmış her yere, bunlardan birisinin insanın etine saplandığını hayal ediyorum, içim ürperiyor, elektrik verilmiş gibi titriyorum olduğum yerde. Yeni açtığı sigara paketinin ambalajını rüzgârın esintisine bırakan yaşlı bir adam kuşku dolu gözlerle beni izliyor, dik dik süzüyor yengeç gibi yalpa yalpa yürüyen bedenimi. Kaldırımlar arabalar tarafından işgal edildiği için yolun ortasından yürümek zorundayım. İkide bir arkamdan gelen araçlara yol veriyorum -bir terslik yok mu bu resimde?-, bir de kızmıyorlar mı bana “Hanımefendi yolun ortasından yürümeyin” diye! Orada yürüme, burada yürüme, ne yapacağım ben, uçacak mıyım? Ayağımın altında takır tukur sesler, üzerine bastığım şarapnel parçalarının, topuğumun altında ezilen bilumum yıkıntıların sesleri. Kâğıt, cam, plastik, kiremit parçaları, kırık tuğlalar, her bir atomuna onu bir zamanlar kullanmış olan insanların hatıratı sinmiş eski eşyalar… Demek gökten bombalar düşüp her şeyin altının üstünü getirmeden önce güzel bir sokakmış burası; kaldırımlarında çocukların şen şakrak oynadığı, sevgililerin el ele kol kola gezdiği, yaşlı çiftlerin tatlı sert kavgalarını ettiği, bahçelerinden dünyaya begonya, gül, leylak, erguvan kokularının aktığı; duvar diplerinden yola doğru hercai menekşelerin fışkırdığı, pürüzsüz asfalt yolun özenle ütülenmiş çarşaf gibi insanda üzerine kıvrılıp kısa süreliğine de olsa uyuma arzusu uyandırdığı bir yermiş. Şimdi, hayalini kurabiliyoruz ancak! Evsiz birinin düşlerini süsleyen temiz yataklar, yumuşak yastıklar ve kalın yorganlar. Ben evsiz değilim ama “yol”suzum. Sokağıma bomba atmışlar ve işime gidemiyorum. Bak, nasıl da akıyor çamur-kum karışımı iğrenç karasular, bak, nasıl da bulaşıyor ayaklarıma, paçalarıma. Buna da şükür, kan da olabilirdi bu. İnsan kanı, hayvan kanı! Oraya basmayayım diyorum ama nereye basayım, kaldırımlara çıkamıyorum, yayaya yasak. Asfalt yol çamura bulanmış, o kadar ki şu pisliği kazısak sert zemine ulaşana kadar ne fosiller bulunur burada, ne toplu mezarlar! Bir araba çıkmış, kaldırıma geçeyim bari, çamur deryasından kurtulurum bir süreliğine. Ama yok, kaldırıma da döşemişler aynı mayınlardan, taşların kimi göçmüş, kimi kalkmış, aralarından zehirli otlar yeşermiş. En azından yolun ortasında yürürken adımımı attığım yeri görebiliyorum, kaldırımlar tam bir tropik orman. Yılan gibi uzayıp en olmadık zamanda çıplak ensene dokunan o incecik dallar, o dalların üzerinde sinsice ilerleyen kalem kalınlığında yeşil renkli parlak yılanlar, o yılanların ağızlarına hiç yakışmayan çatallı dilleri. Her saniye sokulabilirsin, omzundan, baldırından, hatta yanağından. Tetikteyim her an, otların arasına bakıyorum, mayınlara basmayayım, bubi tuzaklarına takılmayayım diye. Kaldırım taşlarının arasına odaklanıyorum, en ufak ayrıntılara, olağandışı renklere ve oluşumlara, çıkıntılara, girintilere, sarkıtlara, dikitlere. Milyonlarca yıl önce insanımsı türler tarafından mesken tutulmuş bir mağaraya girer gibi temkinli ve düşünceliyim. Tuşlarının bazıları sökülmüş bir piyanoyla yüz binlerce seyirciye konser vermesi beklenen sanatçının maruz kaldığı fiyaskoya benziyor şu anda yaşamakta olduğum deneyim. Bir kaldırımı yapmak ve onu temiz tutmak ne kadar zor olabilir ki? Hele ki bir yola asfalt döşemek bu devirde. Ama tabii savaş yoksa! Demokrasi ve adalet adı altında yaşanan çirkeflikler, kumpaslar, iftiralar. Bitmeyen bir mücadele, iyiyle kötünün kavgası değil bu, basiretsizliğin ve akılsızlığın uzun vadede insana çektirdiği işkence. Sen kulsun, verdiğimizle yetineceksin diyen zihniyetin bin yıllık mirası. İşte yine kaldırıma park etmiş bir kamyon, mecburen iniyorum yola tekrar, hızla geçen bir motosikletin sıçrattığı çamuru son anda savuşturuyorum. İş yerine az kaldı ama ben de yoruldum. Her adımımı pürdikkat atmaktan, her saniye huzurumu kollamaktan, her an başıma bir şey gelecekmiş gibi etrafı kolaçan etmekten yoruldum. Çalıştığım kurumun binasını görünce adımlarımı hızlandırdım. Ah ne büyük bir hata! Yakındayken uzak görüneceksin, uzaktayken yakın, zorken kolay, kolayken zor. Hayatın, yani mücadelenin kuralı bu. Yoksa sinek gibi ezerler seni. Şimdi top onlarda, senin verdiğin tavizi gole çevirip çevirmemek onların kirli insaflarına kaldı. Topuğum bir çukura girdi tökezledim ama düşmedim. Bu sırada yanımdan geçen bir cip öyle bir su sıçrattı ki dün akşam yıkayıp özenle ütülediğim mavi bluzum sırılsıklam oldu. Kara sular şıp şıp yere damlıyordu kaldırımdaki bir aralığa sığındığımda. Meğer üzerine bastığım ilk taş da benim düşmanımmış. Ah bir kere görmesinler zayıf yanını, et kokusu almış piranalar gibi saldırırlar, ne koparırsak o kadar kâr! Taşın altında birikmiş sular dik bir açıyla öyle bir fışkırdı ki güzelim pantolonumun sağ tarafında kuru yer kalmadı. Çaresizce dayandım demir çitlere. Yoldan geçen bir lise öğrencisi -önce yardım edecek sandım- beni görünce histerik bir kahkaha attı, sonra da bana sormadan fotoğrafımı çekti. Uzaklaşırken “Kanka, gönderdiğim resme bak!” diye kikirdiyordu. O gözden kaybolunca sinirim bir nebze yatıştı. Şimdi yola ineceğim ve üzerime tek bir bela daha çekmeden çalıştığım kuruma varacağım dedim kendime. Dediğim gibi de yaptım. Yola indim, usta bir dama oyuncusu gibi taşların, molozların, çakılların, çukurların ve tümseklerin arasından seke seke geçtim. Bana sorulsa duyduğu bir gürültüden ürküp orman boyunca kazasız belasız koşan bir ceylan gibiydim. Dışarıdan bakan birisi beni herhalde uçak kazasından kurtulmuş elbiseleri yanık, yüzü gözü kapkara olmuş bir kazazede olarak görüyordu. Ne olursa olsun, varmıştım hedefime. Girişteki güvenlik memuru “Yanlış geldiniz sanırım, burası bir eğitim kurumu” diyen gözlerle ıslak elbiselerime bakıyordu. Hiç bozuntuya vermeden kartımı okutup içeriye girdim. Bu kurumda çalışıyorum ben. Evimden buraya gelene kadar ne yaşamış olursam olayım, bundan sonra başım dik, göğsüm kıvanç dolu, işimin başında olacağım. Asansöre doğru ilerlerken girişteki sekretere takılıyor gözüm. Müstehzi bakışlarla süzüyor beni, bu pantolona bu bluz olmamış mı demek istiyor acaba, yoksa ıslanmış yerlerimi görmemeye çalışarak içinde biriken gülme arzusunu mu frenliyor? Her hâlükârda telefondaki şikâyetlerine devam ediyor 

Ay şekerim sorma! Erkek milletini mutfağa sokmayacaksın. Tencerenin dibi yanmış, sen tut yıkarken kolaylık olsun diye tencereye su koy, sonra da onu tezgâhın bir köşesinde unut. On gün sonra ben annemin yanından dönünce tencerenin kapağını bir açtım ki ne göreyim! O nasıl bir koku, o nasıl bir görüntü! Hâlâ çıkmıyor aklımdan. Bildiğin yeni yaşam türleri oluşmuş düğünümde halamın hediye ettiği tencerenin içinde. Bir de pişkinliğe veriyor yaptığı densizliği, “Ama hayatım bak ne güzel çorba olmuş, bunu bulamayan da var. Şükretmek lazım.” İğrenç herif! 

Asansörün gelmesini beklerken sekreter hanımın tarif ettiği tencerenin dibini hayal ediyorum. Nedense bana çok iğrenç gelmiyor. Alıştığım, zorla daha kötüsüne alıştırıldığım için mi acaba? Sonra başıma bir şey gelir korkusuyla sert bir U dönüşü yapıyorum. Birazdan asansöre bineceğim ne de olsa! “Evet” diyorum içimden, bir elimle bluzumun en ıslak yerlerini sıkarken, “buna da şükretmek lazım.” 

Ali Rıza Arıcan 

17.02.2026 

Maltepe, İstanbul

THE EDGE

For the last few months, I've been sharing my bed with knives. Some are short and thin, made for skinning animals, some are thick and long, like the kind that the butchers use to split bones, some are efficient and heavy, some are small and simple, but all of them, each and every one of them, are incredibly sharp, captivatingly attractive, brilliantly shiny, and hard to believe but they are also infinitely affectionate. I love sleeping with them, feeling them caress my skin all night long. As my naked body rolls over them, I shiver from head to toe, I tremble like a teenager boy who is about to make love for the first time in his life, my heart opens to all the songs of the earth like a fig cracking and splitting in autumn, or like a mango welcoming June with a large tear on its bright gold skin. I love this quivering, this vexation, this tremble, and the vibration that comes with it.

Living alone, when I'm with my knives, I at least escape the feeling of loneliness. I'm grateful to them for allowing me to deceive myself. Knives have also taught me that there's no difference between sensing something and thinking you're sensing it; their shiny steel faces, the compassionate arms they hide behind those facades, their handles that give confidence in the palm of your hand, the tiny claws at the end of the handle that imitate swords, their envious magnificence that appears where the light hits and reflects… The fact that they can only harm me when I want them to actually elevates my soul, caresses me when I need to be caressed the most; puts an end to my resentment towards myself, like a lover who solves our prolonged, tangled problems by pressing her skin to mine and curing all the wounds at the most unexpected moment.

I feel dangerous these days, so I avoid going out, looking at people's faces, and I try my best not to talk to anyone outside. I live at home, surrounded by books and DVDs of my favorite TV series that will take days to watch; or I don't live, I get lost, I hide in the plain sight. Still, like every secret, I need to be torn apart just a little, or I'll vanish into the unknown, along with my hidden truth. I'm like a child lost in the woods who, when he realizes it, isn't bothered in the slightest, quite the opposite, his self-confidence skyrockets with his solitude. Books, in fact, draw me in like labyrinths; they say, "Come, let me cover your shivering body," "Come, disappear into my chest and confess your fragility" "Come, become someone else under my arm," "Never miss the life you left behind again." The series, which I watch thirty episodes in a row and fall asleep to, promise me a second self: a life unlived, an unreachable happiness, the triumph of the good, the endless struggle of the oppressed, the ruthless control of the oppressors. I feed on the pleasure I derive from this artificiality. Days go by, and sometimes I haven't said a word within the walls of my home. Silence melts me like the flame melts a candle; I'm one of those corners that the blazing flame can never fully illuminate. I have neither the strength nor the will to demand more.

I'm also experiencing the joy of having money but being womanless. Being self-sufficient, not needing anyone, having full control of everything, being fully aware of all the ropes that used to pull me and push me in the past. Ohhh, how blessed I am, what a charm! Like those Hindu deities, being able to destroy and rebuild the world I live in whenever I want, perhaps gives me a sense of divine grandeur. "I created this life," I tell myself. "I can burn and destroy." I'm consumed by my own justice, my own fascist ruler. My knives and me! I know it's a wild and cruel arena outside, a world in which power trumps effort. Not being able to stand this is isolating me, weighing me down like a sponge absorbing water. I can't support myself walking the streets or trying to explain my troubles to someone. "What's the need?" I ask afterward, why all the strain, all the pressure, all the twists and turns to please others. That's why I lock myself in my house and live out my own justice, instead of going out and being a despot, harming others in the short term and hurting myself in the long.

I know well that when injustice rules a place, those who subject you to justice are wronging you. I've lived it; I'm experienced in this matter. The rest is infiltration, colonizing evil brokers, their armies sneak in every crevice, their institutions acting like gangs and thugs! Injustice spreads like cancer, once it creates its own vicious cycle. When those seeking justice realize that injustice is more valued, they easily switch sides, saying, "Why are they getting it, but I'm not?" and attempt to establish their own justice. Knowing you can't change corrupted souls is the worst. This truth is like an apple plucked from its branch starting to rot; the opposite is unthinkable, undeniable, and untenable. Like a river that can't flow in reverse, it allows only the observer to watch it, leaving you with two options: take to the streets and fight, or lock yourself away at home and punish your own being, satisfying your desires with the cheapest methods you can find. My knives masterfully accomplish the latter.

All of it; my fondness for knives and my belief that this affection was my salvation, started with a fight with my boss at work. We had argued about something trivial, but the words he said hit me hard. He barked at me like a rabid dog, hurled harsh insults at me, the likes of which I had never heard from anyone in my life, from my mother to my father, from my most bitter enemies to the closest friends -who know all my soft spots-, as if dumping a bucket full of spit and pus all over my head. For some reason I couldn't make my voice heard, I couldn't open my mouth and say a few words to the man's face. Like a piece of ice that shrinks as it melts; no, no, best of all, like a big toe curling inward when it's cold, I too shrank further, taking refuge in the folds of my stomach. The more he spoke, the hatred inside me turned darker, looking for an opportunity to explode and drown the whole world in filth. Despite this, I kept calm; I didn't lose that damned silence, that famous respectful stance that was eating me up, ruining my life, the source of my unhappiness and despair. Even being right and coming out on top felt unfair at that moment for some reason, an unbecoming snobbery, a false shadow of a world that didn't belong to me. As if I defended myself and crushed the boss, I would also be saddened and devastated by the brutality I'd displayed. I call this "the unbearable lightness of being a victim" now. Back then, this sinister malady didn't yet have a name, it had no title, but it had taken root in my cells like a seed. It was simply waiting for the opportunity to emerge and invade my soul along with my body.

I went home that evening with a heavy stone in my stomach. A weight that had taken over not only my stomach but also my mind. The crushing feeling of humiliation made my hands and feet tremble. I felt like my skin was being torn from my body, ripped from one place and carried to another. It was as if the boiling water had blistered my softened skin, causing a mass of skin to pile up around my feet, layer upon layer overlapping like a drawn curtain. It was limp, like the folds on the necks of very fat people. The ends of my arms and legs were becoming numb. I was filled with sediment, dregs with which to build sand and mud castles. A little feminine, a little lustful, a little enthusiastic, but mostly guilty.

I went into the kitchen and drank a glass of water to calm my nerves. For some reason, I too have this faith in water. I suppose we believe the lubrication stemming from the water will release the lump in our throats and push it down. I drank the water in one breath, scraping my teeth against the glass, savoring the soft slickness of the glass with my tongue and lips. As I was putting the glass back in its place, somehow the back of my hand —the feet of the table were already shaking like a cumbersome washing machine placed on a rough surface— hit the knife on the edge of the table, and before I could even react, the falling knife stabbed into my foot. I let out a deep cry of pain, or rather, the thought of pain. But the knife hadn't actually penetrated my foot; it had lodged itself between my big toe and the toe next to it, peeling a tiny bit of skin and drawing a single drop of blood. There was no serious injury that would cause any pain. I slowly pulled the knife out and retrieved it from the parquet floor. I wiped the blood from my foot with a napkin and went into the living room. The knife, licking through my skin, had sent a strange tickling sensation through me. Deep down, I longed for the same experience to happen again. Let the knife fall again, pass between two other fingers, and make me enjoy the same sweet pain. A fabricated belief arose within me that a firm but unbreaking touch could be a healing tool. It would be harsh, it would happen suddenly; it would strike me without warning, without my permission, without my will or decision. It would strike, but it wouldn't be life-threatening. I was searching for something like a slightly-bitten nipple during lovemaking, like the tongue between the threatening teeth of a lover during a kiss, something I hesitated to seek at other times. Pain would lead to pleasure. I wanted it to happen so I could wait for the next one, dream of the next saccharine pain and find happiness.

I took the knife and ran it over my skin. Just as we can marvel at the tickling power of a feather despite its weakness, we should also marvel at the caressing power of a knife despite all its harshness! I lightly ran the knife over my arms, legs, and face. Sometimes I brought the sharp edge to my nose and ears, sometimes I rubbed the blunt side against my fingers. The pleasure intensified, a cold but sincere threat. This knife could be a friend whose sincerity I could trust, stimulating me gently and harshly, scratching my skin when the time came, stroking my back with its blunt side when it was time. Like a kitten, it was testing me, testing my trust in it and whether I would reciprocate that trust. I played with the knife until late, thinking about my—possible—relationship with it. When I fell asleep and lay down in bed, I realized it had become a refugee in my mind. It had nowhere to go, and it couldn't get away from me. Then I realized, I didn’t have a choice anymore. I got up, picked up the knife again, and placed it on the bed. I wasn't as frightened as I had been at first, but there was still a vast abyss at the edge of my bed. A thorny trap was around me, restricting the confines of the bed and keeping my mind alert! I had turned my world into a voluntary prison camp surrounded by electrified fences.

I couldn't sleep soundly that night, torn between fear and hope until the sun filtered through my window, but when I woke up the next morning, I was no less refreshed than I had been the morning before. I was the same, and determined about one thing. I dressed immediately and set off. I went to my office and handed in my resignation letter. I collected my receivables from accounting department and headed out into the street. The sun was now warming me differently; people looked at me differently, even children were playing their games differently. The awareness that all these differences were mere shifts in perception prevented me from being deceived. First, I went to a park, sat, and watched the pigeons. Then I walked to the market. I bought dozens of knives from a shop that sold all kinds of knives. I returned home with dozens of knives, ranging in size, color, and purpose, from short fruit knives to cleavers, from utility knives to switchblades, from Swiss army knives to machetes. I locked myself in and pulled the latch like I was hiding a hostage in my own house. I took all the knives I'd bought, one by one, out of my bag. I arranged them neatly on the table. I went to the kitchen and added the other knives in the drawer to my new purchases. The sight was exciting. I wouldn't have to leave the house for a long time. I would create my own punishment, my own entertainment, and blend it with my own justice.

I laid one of the machetes lengthwise on the bed and lay down beside her. She was so peaceful, so serene, even I envied her, her gleaming body rivaling even the most beautiful women in the world. The gray of the steel that began where his thick wooden handle ended symbolized not power but clarity. “Don’t come near me,” she would say. “The moment you step away from yourself, you’ll fall into the hands of the sharp blades of knives,” she would warn. “What are you looking for in us when the abyss itself lies deep within your soul?” she would ask. Driven by the midday heat, I drifted slowly to sleep, practically suffocating. When I woke, there was a small scratch under my elbow. I ignored it. I turned on the television and watched the news, wanting to know what had happened in the world while I was serving my sentence. I went into the kitchen and prepared a delicious meal from the ingredients in the cupboard. I spent the night doing the dishes and laundry. That night, I slept with a long butcher knife, made for slaughtering cattle during the religious festival of Eid al-Adha. Once again, I felt a sense of fulfillment, a strange sense of saintliness, an unsupported belief that my head had reached the heavens. I drifted off to sleep, imagining the deeds that knife would have done, the blood it would have shed, if I hadn't taken it, into the twilight between sleep and wakefulness.

When I woke up next morning, I had a deep cut on my foot. Yet, I'd mistaken the pain for a dream. Even in my dreams, I'd questioned whether what I'd seen was a dream, but for some reason, I couldn't react, couldn't move. The bed, which had absorbed my troubles, my insomnia, and my panic for years, had now sucked my blood, my very soul. I got out of bed and went to the bathroom. I washed my foot and wrapped it in clean clothes. Then I went to the emergency room at the nearest hospital. The nurses closed the wound with eleven stitches, gave me two bottles of antibiotics, and sent me home. They didn't ask what caused the cuts on my foot. Even if they had, I wouldn't have answered. Was it because I didn't want to answer? Or because I wasn't sure I knew the answer? Besides, if I had, would they have understood that my life had recently become a punishment seeking its guilt?

Maybe I should have stopped the knife fantasy right there. I should have ceased it immediately. I knew my hesitation was pointless. It was impossible to give up knives. Sleeping without them, a night without them, would be the worst thing I could do to myself. That night, I slept with two knives. I put one on my right, the other on my left. Lying on my back next to them, I listened to my heartbeat as I waited for sleep to come. How was it that this heart, thumping so hard, went unnoticed at other times? And yet, it was so close to us, so within us, so active! Or are we the ones living far away from it? Despite the noise coming out of my chest, I slept peacefully. By morning, I was completely fine; I couldn't find a single scratch on my body.

So, I was learning to live among the thorns, to breed my demons and walk on the ground they vomited up, without a single drop getting stained on my trousers. In short, what I'd never learned in my entire life: knowing my limits, not encroaching on others' boundaries, and of course, educating myself, bending and twisting, being flexible, slowing down… Intoxicated by this success, I increased the number of knives to three, four, and sometimes five. While I sometimes suffered deep cuts and scratches, they were never life-threatening. My foot healed in the meantime. I was proud to have carved out a place for myself in the silent, harsh world of knives. For they showed no mercy, no contempt or insult. The knives were like a stern mother, slapping and retreating, locking me in a dark room and setting me free, in the end always leaving me with profound lessons to learn.

A month has passed, and during that month, I've only left the house three times. I order the ingredients for cooking from the supermarket downstairs, and an apprentice brings them up to my door. I do my own laundry and dishes. I've also turned off my phone so no one will bother me. The money in my pocket will last at least six more months. I don't know what I'll do after that. I'll probably find a job and work. I'll do as I'm told, I won't say anything, I won't object, I won’t complain. After all, I have knives waiting for me at home! As long as they're there and they make me happy in bed, life is good for me, too.

And please if one day you encounter me, don’t try to give me lectures on life or shortcuts to happiness. I learned enough and I am already happy. Let me stay like this.

 

2013, Istanbul 

Beyond Exile (1)

1

 I still remember the day Naci[1] Zara's file landed in my super-secure inbox like it happened yesterday. Behind my back was a hard pillow adorned with Tibetan sky patterns; on the coffee table, where I stretched out my swollen legs, laid the golden pits of the plums I'd just devoured with my bated breath; on the other side of the sofa was our kitten, Hundun, engaged in a relentless struggle with its own tail; on the radio was a voice from the nineties, singing "Bù zhǐshì péngyǒu[2]" and in my womb was my son who would never be born. Outside, heavy July rain was pummeling the city's concrete streets. Selfless grandmothers and grandfathers, sworn to be hand fans for their grandchildren, had escaped to the scooter parks beneath the buildings as if the elixir of youth had been suddenly injected into their legs. The green garden at the center of the complex, which was becoming more dilapidated with each drop falling from the sky, was left to the patience of African snails and our native, squishy earthworms. Water splashing against the metal roof of the outbuilding housing of the security guards sparkled and rippled beyond the garden's boundaries. The two long metal poles we used to hang laundry swayed from the balcony ceiling like a cradle, clashing against each other. The sky grumbled like an old lady snarling at a street vendor who tried to cheat her. Mosquitoes sought warm, humid new spaces in defiance of the suddenly foul weather, and smoke-colored clouds sparkled momentarily across the sky like mischievous children who couldn't give up their firecrackers on festival days.

What happened? Are you bored already? Did my descriptions weigh heavily on the minds of the most impatient generation that history has ever known, the relentless children who aren't used to challenges, who expect action every ten seconds, who, when they don't find what they're looking for, move on to the next entertainment with a flick of their finger? Did I exaggerate a simple rain? What could be more natural, more ordinary, and, some might say, more despicable and devastating than the torrential rain in Shenzhen in July, the flooding, and even the traffic chaos? But what can I do? If nature itself exaggerates without limits, if it's always chasing one madness after another, if even its simplest form can shake already-settled souls, is it my fault? I am responsible for recording what unfolds before my eyes, the sounds and sights that shake my heartstrings, with such anxiety and tremors that I feel as if I'll never experience them again. I so desire that you too will tremble within. May this unique moment I've experienced transcend time and space, causing a tornado in the hearts of those who, thousands of years later, have never even heard of Shenzen, and stirring a movement in their bodies. May these images, coursing through my consciousness like a virus, live on in other consciousnesses nestled on the inaccessible fringes of the universe and history, becoming immortal, remaining ever-living. Since my body cannot survive this mortal life, may my consciousness, clinging to life in the minds of others like a pearl clinging to an oyster, remain there, always speaking, murmuring, sparking forth curses at the most unexpected times, like the blade of an axe striking a stone, seeking and creating paths to immortality, adorning and polishing what exists, and enhancing its power. May people, when they read my writing, feel a wetness on their heels, a cool relief on their shoulders, a faint itch on their lips, and a spring breeze on their bare chests. Let them hear the sound of rain in their ears, enough to make even the numbest lovers long for love. Wouldn't that be good? Besides, does literature have any other mission than this? I should focus on it, hone and develop my talents in that area, push my boundaries when the time and place come, and even surpass them! If Naci were here now, he'd agree with me. Perhaps the act of writing could be accomplished with fewer words, with less effort. I don't know. After all, I'm a rookie, just starting out, a novice in this field! An apprentice who will never become a master, a slave with no ambition for ownership, a dreamer who prefers flowing stream to a calm lake. You could call mine a kind of midlife crisis, the final straw brought to me by boredom and material comfort. Paper cutting[3], calligraphy, or dancing with my peers in the park aren't for me! I'm just trying. Maybe after I write my first and last story, I'll lose my enthusiasm and get rid of this problem. Until that day comes, I can't save any effort. Besides, isn't it common for beginners to overdo things, exaggerate, and mess up? If you don't like it, suppose that you haven’t read this paragraph. I won't interrupt again, I promise.

I'd risen from my seat, swaying like a well-fed bear cub, and had securely closed the door and window to prevent the water from the balcony into the living room. Just in case, I'd spread a few of my husband's old clothes on this side of the threshold. The profound silence that then filled the house, the sudden cessation of the hum from outside, giving way to a motionless solitude, had at first surprised me, then brought me some relief. Yes, I was alone; now, like Clark Kent entering a phone booth as a reporter and emerging as Superman, or Dr. Jekyll evolving into Mr. Hyde at night, I too could transform, allowing my inner spy to possess the soon-to-be-mother housewife. I wouldn't have to attend to anything else for at least two and a half hours. The meat I'd taken out of the freezer for dinner was thawing on the kitchen counter, and the vegetables I'd bought from the grocery store at the entrance to the complex were being disinfected in soda water. My husband wouldn't be home for three hours. This meant I could pore over the file to my heart's content, memorize every detail of my new assignment, and even find information online about some topics I wasn't familiar with. And half an hour before my husband arrived home, I'd slip into the kitchen and return to my loving, hardworking, beautiful, and charming self.

Oh, my naive husband, oh, the kindest, the nicest, most gentleman in the world, who never had the slightest doubt about his wife's work... I could never blame you for seeing everyone around you as "the inside is the same as the outside"! On the contrary, I often blamed myself for not being like you, for keeping a secret from you my entire life, and for luckily avoiding detection despite the small mistakes I made. And it wasn't just you who were unaware of my second life. My family, your family, our mutual friends... Everyone knew me as a smart, hard-working, and enterprising woman who made small profits from home, buying goods from wholesale stores on Nan Hai Boulevard and selling them nationwide, and running a small shop with a small assistant. My name is Lai Zi Ran[4], I am a trader who deals in wholesale buying of clothes and exporting some, and at home I am a diligent housewife who has created a perfect life with her husband!

Frankly, most of the time, I couldn't believe I could carry a second identity in my soul like heavy remorse. I often thought, "Let me climb this hill, I am going to let go of my burden, and flap my wings to find my freedom," but the hills never ended, nor did the weight of the burden on me ease. Oddly enough, for years, I followed the people I sometimes saw on television living two separate lives— men with two families in two different cities, unaware of each other; serial killers who raised three children on the money they earned as accountants while murdering dozens of innocents; financial advisors who, claiming to make a fortune for their friends, actually work as motorcycle mechanics and collect money from people; pyramid scheme scammers who advertise Bitcoin with lavish performances in giant halls, only to swindle billions of dollars and vanish a few years later—with an envy I couldn't even admit to myself. How was it that they didn't feel a pang of conscience? How did this immense secret they carried within them not take over their bodies, leak out like black vinegar seeping from cracks, and ruin everything? I'll never know the answer to that question. Perhaps what made me different was that, like a teacher, a nurse, or a soldier, I was led to believe that I was working for the welfare of my people. I wasn't a seductive woman who cheated on her husband, a vagrant who gambled secretly and squandered her family's fortune, or a scoundrel who spent every penny she could on drugs. My duty was sacred, my goal was clear, and my heart was pure. There were times when I couldn't believe this last one, but isn't it, as you Turks say, "Even a judge’s daughter can have those little issues!"? Besides, is the past a scrapbook so we can find and erase the things we don't like? Every sentence you delete from a previous page can cause the next pages to burn down. Therefore, I owe nothing to anyone. From now on, I can write as I wish, listening to all the voices within me, embracing all the colors, without shame or embarrassment, and believing with all my heart that, even if there is a small possibility, one day Naci will read these pages.

First, I went through the security checkpoints, which included three separate passwords, facial recognition, and fingerprints. So much so that if I mistyped a single letter while typing these passwords, the system would lock me out for two hours. If I made a similar mistake on my second try, I'd find myself answering to the Head of the Shenzhen Provincial Intelligence Bureau. Fortunately, I'm not clumsy; and if I were, why would they give me this job? I'm cautious, curious, and suspicious. The first thing I look at when I enter a room is where the exits are. Walking down the street, I know every camera, dead-end street, and pedestrian walkway by heart. When I talk to people, I look them in the eye, focusing not on what they say but on what they don't, probing their souls as deeply as if I were examining a historical scroll from the Tang Dynasty I'd stumbled upon in the archives. Just as I'm a good cook, I'm also a good tracker. I can stalk my target for hours without ever getting bored. So much so that sometimes, when I'm out shopping with my husband or a close friend, I feel the nagging annoyance of not following someone. I sweat all over, my mind is confused, and I wait for a sign from the sky, like a castaway in the middle of a vast ocean, unsure which way to swim. Indeed, following someone is easy; you don't use your mind, you don't make decisions, you don't face any dilemmas. The only difference from a guided missile is that your goal isn't to destroy your target; on the contrary, it's to follow, to obtain the information you need, and to ensure your target is alive. The lies I tell are so consistent, so convincing, that even I occasionally send myself notes to remind myself which story I'm telling and for what purpose, so they don't interfere with reality. The notebook I keep as a diary is a coded record of which lie I told, and to whom, on which date. As a spy, my greatest fear is that someone will treat me like a spy. Ours is a profession that, when identified, self-destructs. In the back of our minds, we have our second identity, those secrets we keep hidden from everyone. Meanwhile, with a childlike enthusiasm, we keep the spoiled self-consciousness of, "I wish I could tell everyone I was a spy, so they'd be stunned, gasp in utter amazement, and their mouths would drop open." The gravity of our walking secrets, even from those closest to us, saddens us like the spoiled children of rich families who aren't allowed to show off their newly purchased, expensive toys to their friends. It irritates the tranquil, subterranean pools deep within our souls even when the time and place are the most inappropriate.

One way or another, we were human too, after all, each of us made of flesh and bone, impatience and weakness, loyalty and betrayal, and even chatter, when necessary, born from a mother and made by a father. How I longed, though; on one of those winter nights, as I hugged my husband tightly, gently caressed his chest with my free thumb, and placed my warm tongue in the orbit of his earlobe, to say, "I'm going to tell you a secret, but don't get angry and don't tell anyone, okay? It'll stay between us until the day I die." In the early years, I even imagined his responses in my head and wrote a few scenarios.

- I'm going to tell you a secret, but don't get angry and don't tell anyone, okay? It'll stay between us until we die.

- I'm very sleepy, you can tell me tomorrow morning.

- Why are you so boring like this? I am going to sleep.

- Don't forget, I will ask you tomorrow morning.

- I already forgot!

Or

- I'm going to tell you a secret, but don't get angry and don't tell anyone, okay? It'll stay between us until we die.

-Don't tell me, let me guess. You're not actually a young woman. You've been under the knife seven times and gotten to this point with tons of plastic surgery...

- Don't make me laugh, I've already eaten too much watermelon, I'm going to pee in my pants!

- So I knew?

Or

- I'm going to tell you a secret, but don't get angry and don't tell anyone, okay? It'll stay between us until we die.

- Let me say it before you do, but don’t be angry. Promise?

- What? Do you have a secret too?

- Of course there is, do you promise?

- Well, yeah I promise! What else can I say?

- I have a mistress, and she is five months pregnant…

- You animal. Is this a joke?

- If it's a girl, we'll name her Zı Ran... Ha ha ha... Stop, don't hit my arm!

When you carry a secret inside you like a bitter poison for years, this is the pickle-like result. When I was alone, I always ended up talking to my secret, not to myself. Lying on my back on sleepless nights, watching the dance of light on the ceiling, irritated by those who slipped through the crowds at train stations and took my turn in the queue, but finding it unnecessary to fight, seeing other strangers who looked like you in parks and tagging along just for the fun of it, pacing the rough pavements of misty streets right behind your shadow at night, and most of all, watching you helplessly from afar, drunk as hell, throwing up in the bushes by the roadside—you never learned not to mix wine and beer!—unable to approach you from behind, unable to pat your back with my warm hands warmed in my pockets, unable to lean in and whisper, “It’s over, it’s over, you’ve threw it all out!”…

And here's your file before me. Your great-grandfather emigrated from Sivas to Giresun in the early twentieth century, your registry is in Görele, not far from the Black Sea, but you're an Istanbul native, born and raised there. You studied mathematics at a reputable university and speak fluent English. You're about to start teaching at one of Shenzhen's most prestigious high schools. Wow, wow, wow! You'd better stick to that. You also write. Essays, poems, short stories, and so on. So, you're a class of people who know how to hide things, and you claim to be able to see the world through other people's eyes. This means, our job is both easy and difficult! Their investigation into you hasn't yielded a satisfactory answer to the question of whether you're a nationalist, a conservative, a democrat, or anarchist. They haven't been able to definitively determine what you believe in or oppose, whether you hold negative views about our country and will work to spread them, or which side you believe is right on TTXT[5]. You had the potential to poison the young minds of our high school students, and you might even use your job as a cover to achieve other ends. Therefore, every step you took was monitored, all your correspondence and conversations were reviewed with a spy program installed on your phone, and when you left your phone somewhere, physical surveillance was needed to record who you met with, who you befriended, and what you argued about. My previous assignments had included tracking a businessman from Siirt, a retired officer from Erzurum, a journalist from Kayseri, and finally, an actor from Yozgat. Except for the last one, all of them were monotonous, lacking in excitement and depth, and I almost had to get myself caught just to get over with it. Their only interesting aspect was that, when combined, they created a striking pattern. It was as if with each assignment, I was moving a little further west, a little further away from China. That was the question I asked myself the day I came across your file. I wondered if my next assignment would be a sunflower oil merchant from Edirne? No, if I had a next assignment, perhaps I would have had the opportunity to test this prediction and ultimately accept or reject my hypothesis, but you were my last. A long, long assignment that lasted almost 18 years, as deep as the oceans, as high as the Himalayas, as hot as the inside of volcanoes, and painful as the toothaches of the winter nights.

Ahh, Naci, you were 28 when I met you. Just like you said to that advertising woman you met at the bar, you were the perfect age. Since it couldn't be 6 or 496! That day, I thought to myself, "What kind of dorky flirtation techniques does this guy have?" That they actually worked was a whole other mystery for a woman like me, who, despite the intervention of others, had finally married her high school sweetheart. That's where I first saw you in person. I was sitting in the corner behind the door, drinking lemon-soda, and you were sitting at the bar with your Canadian friend—the baby-faced guy who'd resorted to Traditional Chinese Medicine because his hair was falling out—making plans to bike to Beijing. You had jet-black, thick, and curly hair. Your beardless and mustache-free face exuded the innocence and joy of a university student. You were five years younger than me. With your smile, your movements, your restless body, you weren't much different from a middle schooler who'd just finished his homework and thrown himself onto the basketball court. The three or four chairs between us were filling and emptying. When the music stopped, I could hear every word you spoke, and at other times, I read your thin lips. You traced your fingers over the map like a commander preparing for conquest, excitedly saying things like, "If we go together, we can stay in double-bed hotel rooms; we can make the trip cheaper," to your friend. You'd finished your fifth beer and was about to order your sixth when that girl appeared next to you, fixated on the crooked map you'd drawn on napkin paper. Her excuse was to refill her beer, but her true intentions were clear. "See me, talk to me, hunt me so I can be a gazelle you'll find hard to capture, and you can be proud of yourself," she said with the uninterpretable language of a female body desperate for attention. Inwardly, I prayed to the gods I didn't believe in, urging you to stay away from that woman and avoid falling into this trap. But my prayers didn't come true, probably because I didn't have enough faith or because the gods didn't find me sincere enough. But in the end, I got what I wanted. You had lunch with the girl twice and gone to the movies once. The food was fine, but what was that ridiculous movie? I know you passed out in the 14th minute and woke up in the final scene from the activity signals on your phone. For all I know, your potential lover, who devoured a huge bag of popcorn on her own, must have been stumped too. You hadn't seen each other again after that. You were a little upset. Not because she wasn't responding to your messages, but because you'd become so attached to a relationship that was clearly destined to fail. For days, you'd written short self-criticisms in your notebook, along the lines of, "Why am I like this? Why can't I resist sweet poisons?" Blaming yourself for your weak willpower, you'd had minor breakdowns. But I'd known this from the start, so I’d have struggled less. Thankfully, the breakup didn’t shake you too much. And I didn't know back then that it wasn't the endings of such superficial relationships that would truly shake you. In relationships, as in so many other things, there were vast differences between us. These were differences that needed to be understood, not overcome. It would be unfair to expect an old-world devout like me, who would pick the second, if not the first, flower she saw in a garden, put it in her hair, and then close her eyes to all the other plants in the garden, to understand you at that first glance. But I didn't give up, don't worry. I didn't give up, I didn't tire, I didn't complain. I struggled and struggled, trying to find my way in the middle of a desert where the sand dunes were constantly shifting, and to reach the oasis that would cool me down, even if it were late.

And yet it didn't work, Naci! I encountered nothing but mirages in the endless curves of the long, thin line you left behind. As I crawled on my knees, belly, and elbows in those curves, I always talked about you, I became one with your reunion. I made room for you even if only for your dreams in the rough caves of my womanhood, but you could never enter through that wide threshold. You managed to fit with your childish frame into the narrow tunnels of my mind, where no one else could fit, but you couldn't even take a step closer to my body, which shattered like glass every evening and was put back and glued together every morning. I always saw your silhouette on the wet sidewalks softened by the moonlight, but on the rough surfaces of the same sidewalks that resembled tree bark, you never saw me, you never noticed me; You never once shared with me the shy smile you generously distributed to those petite girls you met at your school, whose names you couldn't even be bothered to learn despite having worked on the same floor for years. The tide incident that occurred between us was just like my unborn child, the son I lost a few weeks before birth, never seeing his mother's face. I was close to you; you were even farther from yourself. I was the lively world, you the desolate, dark moon! I was the expectant mother who looked at her swollen belly like a pot and had rosy dreams, you, the blessed face whose arrival had been heralded. Yes, I had waited for him for months too, dreaming of the day he would look at me and smile, I longed for the moment he would call me "mom" with every cell in my body. Neither he could look at my face, nor you! Neither could he love me, nor you! From him, all I have left is a six- or seven-year-old friend, whose plump cheeks, red as tomatoes in the cold weather, never grew up, and whose eyes sparkled like wet cherries. From you, a desolate city, a cold planet, and a terrifying desert night where scorpions and snakes swarmed. You were both lame baby rabbits stranded on the opposite bank of the Yangtze River. Following you, I'd run downstream, brushing aside the twigs that crossed my path with hope and love, ignoring the thorns that tore and bled from my skin. Sometimes I was surprised by your closeness, occasionally filled with hope at the narrowing riverbed, but ultimately, I couldn't change the ill fate of my adventure, which ended in the East China Sea. Do you know what was most painful, Naci Hoca[6]? On sleepless nights, the silky face of that six- or seven-year-old boy meets the spots on your unshaven face, your eyes appear on his face, his lips on yours, my mind goes blank, and at the end of all this confusion, I find myself crying silently, my elbows on the cold railings of the balcony at three o’clock in the morning…

---

[1] Pronounced as “Naa-gee”. Turkish male name. It means “saved from hell, deserves heaven”.

[2] You are more than just a friend to me.

[3] 剪紙: jiǎnzhǐ: An artistic activity with roots dating back to the invention of paper. It plays an important role in decorating homes during holidays and special occasions. 

[4]It is read as "Lay Zı Ran." To prevent the reader from reading the "ı" sound as an "i" sound, it will be written as "Lai Zı Ran" in future sections.

[5]Tibet, Taiwan, Xinjiang, Tiananmen

[6] Hoca: Teacher in Turkish. “Naci Hoca” sounds like “Naci Laoshi” in Chinese. 

*** Yukarıdaki çeviri google translate tarafından yapıldı. Ben çeviri üzerinde düzeltiler uyguladım. Önümüzdeki haftalarda diğer bölümleri de aynı şekilde çevirtip sayfaya koymayı düşünüyorum. 

The Ball of Wisdom

The gymnasium was a great, dark lung, inhaling the chirping songs of the children in the daytime and exhaling the silence of solitude at night. Behzat had come here for the clarity of the projectile motion, the clean arc of a free throw, the immutable satisfaction of a ball passing through a net, and solving some skirmishes in his life, if not all. Instead, he found this velvety obscurity hanging in the air. The janitor, a sullen and elusive man named Ercüment, was unreachable; his little basement office, behind the furnace room, was locked, and the phone rang into a void that seemed to swallow the sound whole.

He should have left, so he did the right thing once and all. The quarrel with Esra spread on his skin like a fine, irritating dust. Her voice, tight with a practical despair he could never emulate: “The tuition, Behzat. It’s due tomorrow. My father has offered. It’s simple.” And his own, choked with a principle that felt, even to him, like a kind of absolute misery: “We are not taking a loan from your father. Never did in the past, not now, and not in the future… The bank will call about the credit application next week. Can we not just wait?” But waiting, to Esra, was a luxury she could not afford. The child must be paid for. She grinned as if she knew a lot more than Behzat did, the past transactions, hidden accounts…

Dark? Yes, Esra's eyes were even darker when she fiercely fought. This is why he did not leave the equally dark gym. He needed a distraction, something to keep his mind occupied. He had the ball, a familiar orange planet in his hands, like a wobbly jellyfish filling his sweaty palms. A high, triangle-shaped window and the full moon provided the only light, a weak, ecclesiastical silver that pooled on the hardwood floor, making of the court a ghost of a court, the free-throw line a faint chalky smudge, the backboard a darker slab of darkness. The hoop was an invisible idea, a circular absence he had to believe in, a Platonic rationalism. If not the perfect circle, this was the resemblance of that idealized circle, the one that lives in the world of ideas, same as the way he was the resemblance of a perfect marriage, a perfect husband, a perfect father… Until tonight.

The first shot was a betrayal. It left his fingers with the memory of a thousand practiced motions, but sailed wide, a clumsy satellite missing its orbit entirely, thudding dully against the padded wall. The sound was obscene in the quiet. And the miss conjured another failure: their wedding day. A borrowed car from her brother, a sleek, mocking thing that smelled of someone else’s cigars. A petty, hot argument over a scratch on the door, a scratch that was there before, or was it? The memory was a poorly developed photograph. He saw the guests later, leaving the dance hall, like the red lanterns carried away into the summer night, winking out one by one like dying stars, leaving him and Esra alone in a sudden, terrifying expanse of matrimony.

He retrieved the ball. The second shot was a thought made leather. As he released it, the image came unbidden: his uncle’s grave. A plain, grey stone in a town he had not visited in fifteen years. He had sent money to his grandfather for it, a guilt-offering mailed in a plain envelope. The uncle had lived alone, died alone, a man of extremist political affiliations whom the family discussed in hushed, dismissive tones. Behzat had wanted to visit him, once, but the pressure of their collective judgment—Why would you? He's troubled, Behzat. It's none of your business—had held him fast, an insect pinned in amber. The ball, this time, whispered against the rim. A tremor. A nearness. It did not go in, but the universe had acknowledged his aim.

The third shot was a ritual. He bounced the ball, once, twice, syncing its rhythm to the drum in his chest. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. In the dark, he felt acutely alive, a heartbeat propelling a sphere toward an unseen truth. He was describing an elephant in a dark room, each touch, each shot, a revelation of a part—a leg, a trunk, the curve of a tusk. He was getting closer. The ball left his hands. It struck the iron hook with a clean, metallic clang and sprang back to him, a perfect, obedient return. He caught it, a shock of pure relief coursing through him. Order.

The fourth shot was rage. It flew from him, worse than the first, a wild thing hurled into the darkness behind the backboard. “Damn it!” The curse exploded in the sacred silence. “All because of her. Why couldn’t she wait? A week. Just a week.” The shame was a hot flush. Borrowing from the wife's father! It was an ancient, humiliating transaction, a subtraction of his own stature. He was the provider who could not provide, the mathematician whose sums never added up to security.

He slowly walked to the errant planet. He began to bounce it again, a steady, penitent rhythm. And then, a deepening. A cloud, a soft, black felt, slid over the moon. The silver pool vanished. The world was extinguished. He was standing at the free-throw line in a pitch-black universe, holding a ball, aiming at nothing. He stared into the abyss where the hoop had to be, where the laws of physics insisted it still was. He saw nothing.

In that nothingness, his daughter’s face appeared. Not as she was now, but younger, confused over a simple equation, her brow furrowed not in concentration but in a kind of sorrow or shame. She doesn’t enjoy math. Why? What did I do wrong? And an answer, not his own, echoed in the vault of his skull: Nothing. Your child is not your child. You borrowed her from the future.” The words hung there. He did not question them. In the absolute dark, all statements were truths. He raised the ball, a gesture of faith. He did not aim; he simply released it toward the void, a surrender. It left his hands.

And then, a sound. A sound so soft, so perfect, it was almost not a sound at all but the ghost of one: a swift, clean swish. The net, sucking the ball through its hoop. A hole in the universe is accepting its offering. He stood frozen. Had he? It was impossible to know. The darkness revealed nothing. It could have been a trick of the air, an auditory hallucination born of desire. There was no proof. There would never be proof. He remembered his math classes where he was the master of truth. “Every theorem we mention in this class must be proven or must not be used at all…” A slow smile touched his lips in the blackness. “The wisdom of uncertainty,” he told the empty gym.

He waited. The cloud passed. The moon, that bright, nonchalant ball, returned. He found the ball and continued playing. "If darkness was the problem, inside the ball was even darker, so what?..." he whispered to himself, as if he needed to be convinced. For an hour or so, he played. Until the darkness ceased to be an opponent and became his only friend. Until his muscles ached with an honest fatigue. Until he realized that the basketball didn't have any intention of saving his marriage!  Until he missed Esra with a sharp, almost metaphysical yearning. Until he was profoundly, simply, crazily thirsty. Then he went home.

The Coats

The gate of the Sheldon Cooper High School was not made of iron, but a kind of sentient boundary. For Naci Zara, crossing its bleached-white gravel threshold each morning at 7:28 a.m. was a ritual of meticulous divestment. He did not simply walk through it; he was processed by it, a slow and deliberate shedding of selves, like a man carefully hanging his many coats on a series of invisible hooks in the air.

He left home as Naci, husband to Emel, father to a seven-year-old girl with sticky fingers, sparkly beads around her wrist, and a laugh like sudden, loud thunder. He had kissed them both, had smelled the warm, buttery scent of toast on Emel's cheek, had felt the small, fierce weight of his daughter’s arms around his neck. This Naci, the man of the house, the man of a certain tender history, he left just there, at the gatepost. The ghost of his domestic self would wait patiently all day, a loyal dog, to be collected again at 4:45 p.m.

Parking his car under the usual banyan tree, a few steps onto the campus proper, on the asphalt path that cut through the militantly green lawn, he paused. Here, he shed his non-conformist political views. The carefully reasoned, quietly furious opinions he held on the morning’s news, the letters to the editor he composed in his mind during his commute—all of it was gently exhaled into the crisp air. The campus did not tolerate such messy, partisan colors. They bled into the perfect, abstract whiteness of the mathematical truth he was there to serve. They were variables for which this environment had no use. He felt them slip from his shoulders, a weightless, ideological cloak he would not need until he stepped back onto public pavement.

The main building swallowed him. The corridor was a long, polished throat of linoleum and lockers, smelling of lemon disinfectant and adolescent ennui. Here, walking with a measured pace that was neither hurried nor slow, he performed the most delicate operation. He unspooled his philosophical vexations. The dark, beautiful, and deeply controversial thoughts that visited him in the silent watches of the night—on the absurdity of consciousness, the elegant cruelty of natural selection, universe as a set of Markov chains, the godless, spinning rock they all clung to—these he carefully wound into a tight, invisible skein and placed on the window ledge near the fire extinguisher. They were too sharp, too potentially corrosive for the young minds he was approaching. A student might be cut on them. They were not part of the curriculum. His mind, now, was a clean, well-lit room, empty but for the furniture of instruction.

Finally, he reached the door to Room 217. On its pale green surface, a poster declared, “The only way to learn mathematics is to do mathematics!” He placed his hand on the cold metal handle. This was the final relinquishment. Here, he left his personal morality. His private convictions on friendship, loyalty, betrayal, love—the complex, often irrational algebra of human connection—had no place inside. He was not here to be a friend, a confessor, or a moral guide. He was here to demonstrate proof. To be fair was to be consistent. To be kind was to be clear. Emotion was an irrational number in the clean, rational equation of the classroom.

He opened the door.

The man who entered was not Naci. He was a mechanism of exquisite specificity.

He placed his worn leather satchel on the desk with a soft thud that silenced the room’s low hum. His eyes, pale and cool behind his spectacles, scanned the rows of faces. They were not children, not individuals with names and histories that might snag on his attention; they were a cohort, a set of thirty units awaiting data input.

“Open your homework to page 274,” he said, his voice a calibrated instrument, devoid of tremolo or vibrato. “Problem number twelve. A common point of error.”

The next ten minutes were a flawless execution of code. Homework check. Three students were queried. Their answers were parsed, their errors traced back to a single misapplied axiom, a faulty transposition. He did not chide. He identified the bug in the logic. He was a diagnostician. p implies q does not always guarantee q implies p. A common mistake done by the high schoolers. Right Jessica, we talked about this a few times in the last two months. A flicker of a smile, a pre-programmed social cue to indicate approbation without warmth.

Fifteen minutes for new material. He turned to the board. “Today, we ascend to a higher plane of abstraction. We leave the comfortable, familiar line of real numbers and enter the plane. We welcome the complex number.”

His chalk, a brittle white wand, began to dance. It defined the imaginary unit, *i*, the square root of -1. “A necessary fiction,” he stated, “a logical phantom that makes a larger, more beautiful system possible.” Ohh, life, a ghost from the window ledge in the corridor whispered in the deep recesses of his machinery, isn’t it more complex? Don’t we all require our fictions, our irrational bits, to become whole? Neither real numbers are truly real, nor the imaginary numbers can be imagined. Everything is misnamed, the swamp of political correctness sucks him into an oblivious terrain of mud... He stared at the ceiling, the mischievous thoughts were instantly quarantined and deleted. They were not in the lesson plan.

He wrote the general form: a + bi. “The real part,” he said, tapping a. “The imaginary part,” tapping bi. “Together, they form a complex whole. A coordinate. A point.” He plotted them, these strange hybrids, on the complex plane he drew with two swift, perfect lines. His voice was a calm, steady drone, explaining conjugation, addition, multiplication. He was a guide in a strange new country, pointing out the sights without ever betraying a sense of their wonder.

The final twenty-five minutes. Group work. This was a subroutine designed to foster collaboration, a directive from the administration. There were 19 students in the class, a classy prime number, ten plus nine or ten square minus nine square. He thought “either one group of 19 students or 19 groups of one student.” He almost grinned but restrained his urges, not in the plan, not in the plan. He partitioned the class into four groups of four and one group of three. He distributed a worksheet. “You will solve these. One member from each group will present a solution to a different problem.”

The classroom erupted into a low chatter. Mr. Zara did not sit. He paced the perimeter, a silent orbital satellite. He monitored progress. He listened for conceptual errors. His interventions were minimal, precise. “Check your sign in step three.” “Remember the multiplicative property.” He was processing their efforts, running a silent diagnostic on their understanding.

One by one, they came to the board. A boy with nervous hands solved the first problem. A girl with a determined set to her jaw conquered the second. Mr. Zara watched, his head tilted slightly. He was not assessing them; he was assessing the output. The solutions were either correct or incorrect. He offered a “Precisely” or a “Re-examine your distribution” with utter impartiality. There was no pride, no frustration, only validation or error-correction.

The bell rang, a sharp, electric shock that severed the room’s focus.

“The problems on page 281, numbers one through twenty-three, odd only,” he announced to the rustling of closing books and zipping bags. “Show all work.”

They flowed past him, a river of youth and noise and complication, spilling back into the world of friendships and politics and moral dilemmas. He stood by his desk, the empty shell of Mr. Zara, the lesson plan completed, the objectives met.

Then four more classes repeated the same way, he entered the room, delivered his plan and started breathing after each session.

When the last student of the last class had vanished, he turned and left the room. The process began in reverse. At the classroom door, he collected the waiting shard of his morality. In the corridor, he retrieved the spool of his dark, beautiful philosophy from the window ledge. On the asphalt path, he drew a deep breath and took up the mantle of his political convictions, feeling their familiar weight and texture. And finally, at the gate, he stepped back into the skin of Naci, husband and father. The ghost by the gatepost merged with him, infusing his limbs with a sudden, human fatigue and a faint, anticipatory warmth.

He walked to his car, a man once more, the intricate and often contradictory sum of all his parts. The complex number made whole again, if only until tomorrow.