they would never tell anyone.
Discovering all this, I felt like I was in the underworld.
I could see the invisible.
And it tore my life apart.
In the evenings, I chatted with Zuhal and in the afternoons I chatted with the people of the town in a boundless world of realities nothing like the world above ground. The solitary life I led in town was calm and mundane in comparison. The virtual world was dramatically different, full of colour and excitement.
But the unexpected thing was the way the unseen, unspoken and indiscernible truths of the real world cropped up in the virtual world, which was surprisingly familiar.
Looking back, I’m amazed how the half-stoned inhabitants of a sleepy town were able to sink so deeply into sin.
Whose masterpiece made these people? In a small town they lived like kings, openly baring their sins.
Who created all the sins that caused so many books to be banned?
Who is responsible for the sins that people have committed since not long after their creation?
Tonight, on this bench, I see God all around me, and in my mind.
Why were human beings created with souls capable of these sins?
Is the sinner more sinful than the creator of the sin?
Is God a sinner?
If God created sin when he made us, then why punish us for it?
And if God didn’t create sin, is there something in this universe that he doesn’t know? Is there a limit to his power?
Why make me a murderer?
Why have me kill the person he wanted dead?
I see the first light of dawn rising up over the hills behind the town, reminding me that my time is dwindling, and I am restless.
How long would it take them to find out?
I had to do something.
I was so tired. It seemed easier to bury myself in the past than to come up with a plan. When the future was so frightening the past seemed that much more alluring.
Though I spent so much of my time searching for reality in an unreal world, I kept going to the coffeehouse every morning. Sometimes I’d have meatballs at Remzi’s place for lunch and sometimes I’d go to the Çinili restaurant and eat with the bigwigs in their black suits.
They always look at me but never approach me.
I can feel that it makes them tense to see a stranger in town. They have many secrets and every stranger is a threat in their eyes.
One day I was sitting at the Çinili restaurant when there was a flutter of movement and I realised that the mayor had arrived. I had already learned so much about him. But did he know that? Stepping into the garden, he spotted me almost immediately and came over to my table.
‘Hello. Mustafa Gürz,’ he said. ‘I’m the mayor.’
I stood up and we shook hands. Looking him in the eye, I didn’t know what to say. For a second it occurred to me that he could snap his fingers and someone in the restaurant would have jumped up and killed me. I’m not sure where I got that idea but I clearly remember the chill that ran up my spine.
‘If you don’t mind, I thought I might join you. We can eat and have a little chat.’
‘Please, have a seat.’
Waiters arrived at the table with food before he had even ordered.
He smiled. It was a warm smile that offset the harsh contours of his face. Clearly he was one of those rare types who seemed both gentle and cruel. But more surprising than his smile was what he said as he leaned towards me across the table: ‘I’ve read your books.’
I’m ashamed to admit this now but I think I blushed. I could even feel my ears burning. It was so unexpected that even in the depths of my unconscious there was no appropriate response, no right answer. ‘Is that so?’ was all I managed to say. And still smiling, he said, ‘Yes.’ For a moment I thought that he was mocking me.
‘When did you read them?’
‘Over the weekend.’
‘Just recently, then …’
‘Yes, I just read them. It took me a little while to get around to it.’
I stammered out another ‘Is that so?’, feeling like a boxer being pummelled in the ring, staggering to stay up on my feet.
‘I really liked them. For whatever reason I just can’t get into contemporary novels, I like the classics. I like writers who make you think, but I think books that analyse people are something else altogether. I think literature should be more about people than events. But then again what does my opinion matter, you’re the writer. Let’s just say I can personally relate to those kinds of books.’
‘So you enjoy reading,’ I said.
‘Is there anything more important? I think literature is one of man’s most praiseworthy pursuits. Greater than science. Consider Jules Verne. He took us to space before science did.’
He paused for a moment. ‘Would you like something to drink?’
‘I’ll have a rakı,’ I said. Drink was undoubtedly invented for just such times.
The conversation was so unexpected, I felt lost.
He ordered two glasses of rakı.
‘So how do you know Zuhal?’ he asked, politely, but a shadow fell over his face.
‘We met here,’ I said. ‘On the plane. Why does a small town like this even have an airport?’
‘People here are a little bit mad. Mahmut Amca, former president of our Chamber of Commerce, was always coming and going and he got fed up with the bad roads, which you can imagine were a lot worse back then. First he wanted to repave the roads but he found out how expensive that was going to be so he decided to build an airport. People thought he was insane, and they protested, but he insisted, saying that the airport would be cheaper than new roads. So he did it and he bought a little propeller plane. His son, Teoman, bought a new plane, for personal use and commercial flights. Then he bought a crop-duster and in the end it turned out to be a profitable investment. And we were happy to have our own airport. We travel by plane and not by bus.’
Raising his glass, he toasted my health. Then he asked, ‘So have you come to our town to write a new book?’
‘Let’s see. I was looking for somewhere quiet, and there was something about this place.’
‘I wouldn’t call this town quiet,’ he said, looking me in the eye.
‘I’ve heard,’ I said. ‘All the murders.’
‘Oh not so many
