I’d seen with my own eyes how easily people were killed.
But I wasn’t scared.
Though I had every reason to be.
X
Hamiyet believed that Jesus was buried in the church on the top of the hill. She said some nights you could see a flash of light over the hill and supposedly lightning never struck the church. Once a fire ravaged the olive groves along the hillside but went out just ten metres from the church. Then there was a terrible flood but the waters split in two just before the church and streamed past on both sides.
‘Sometimes they come to dig over there. And whoever tries ends up dead. Have you heard about it?’
‘Are there any stories in this town that don’t have to do with death?’
She flashed a coy smile.
‘Of course, but I couldn’t tell you.’
‘Why?’
‘Because …’
‘I wouldn’t understand?’
‘Oh, you’d understand … That’s for sure.’
Sometimes I think that the world is made up of cages built for two, and when a man and a woman are inside they slip on identities entirely different than the masks they wear outside. From the outside, Hamiyet was a woman who spoke to the furniture and believed in all kinds of superstition, a woman who danced to the beat of her own drum. But when the two of us were alone together she was flirtatious. It seemed so natural. She flirted with such flare. She was a master. Though she was openly seductive, she always was careful to protect herself with double-entendre. I suppose she felt she could let go with me because I wasn’t from town; she didn’t have to follow the local codes. I caught myself watching her with desire.
I had come to know a secret she’d kept hidden from the world, and this changed my perception of her and the way she flirted. I was one of three people who knew who she was, or rather what she was, and what she had done.
But she would never discover this.
Knowing someone’s secret gives you an upper hand; a kind of voodoo doll. I knew the subtext of everything she said, and was able to manipulate her if I wanted. But she had no idea I was doing it. Hamiyet fascinated me.
And I flirted with her too.
I wondered whether I could ever manipulate her into feeling close enough to me to share her secret. The covert sexual games we played served my plan. And I enjoyed them.
I have always enjoyed such games.
Everything was a game for me.
What is life if we don’t play it like a game? Nothing but an overwhelming stretch of anxiety and boredom.
But now, sitting on this bench, I can see that making life a game is the easy way out. And still the players want to be taken seriously. But there is a power that makes this desire a reality, and this night has shown me this power.
It has crushed me, ripped me into pieces.
The dreams have voices.
I hear the voices of the dreaming town, how loudly they moan and wail. Imprisoned sounds, ever encaged in dream, forever jangling in their jails. Voices that can somehow never emerge are condemned to resonate within. They must be filled with voices. How can they live with so many voices, stand so many unrelenting voices?
How do these people, who in their dreams unleash such a cacophony of sound, bounding through unimaginable adventures, wake up to lead such mundane lives?
There’s so much more I wanted to learn about the people here. But I suppose I’m out of time.
That weekend, full of the same curiosity, I went to Mustafa’s farm. I was curious to see how these people in a town steeped in marijuana and death really lived, how they had become so intimate with death, how they had turned death into a game, just as I’d turned life into a game.
I was playing with life to amuse myself.
Were they playing with death for the same reason?
The fine sand on the beach, untouched for years, piled into little dunes and studded with the tips of shrubs and glittering with seashells, was like a desert that stretched as far as the eye could see. And so it was surprising to see the deep blue sea just beyond it.
Mustafa’s home stood on top of the rocks at the end of the beach. I suppose it had once been a Byzantine fort. Now it looked more like a palace that overlooked the sea. At the back there was a large garden and in the front a broad terrace made of granite that stretched out over the beach. It blended well with the castle walls.
Tables had been arranged in the back garden. I was surprised to see that they weren’t using the terrace. It seemed like hardly anyone in town was even interested in the sea – maybe because the water wasn’t for sale.
When I stepped into the garden, I was horrified to see most of the men dressed in tracksuits. Were they on their way to the gym? They looked like beached seals. I wished they were wearing their daunting, dark suits. They looked far less comical in those. Lambs were roasting on spits at the end of the garden.
Mustafa was quick to find me. He was wearing pressed black trousers and a blue shirt. He’d taken off his jacket and tie.
‘I’m glad you came. Let me introduce you.’
It was like we were old friends.
Wading through the crowd, I asked, ‘Zuhal didn’t come?’
‘Something came up,’ he said.
I’ve always enjoyed knowing other people’s secrets. And when they don’t know that I know. They hide them behind walls, never imagining that someone may have scaled them. But then I suppose I suffer the same fate. I am unaware of the intruders. Our secrets intersect like ripples on the still waters of a pool.
‘You have a beautiful home.’
There was a mixture of joy and pride in his expression, even child-like innocence. ‘We worked really hard,’ he said. ‘But I suppose everything came out all right.’
‘How did you get permission to build here?’
‘I’m the mayor. I give the permission,’ he said, laughing. ‘Why do you think people want to become mayor in the first place?’
‘To get their hands on historical forts?’
‘Of course.’
‘The government doesn’t object?’
‘By government you mean someone they send here, some random committee. They say the same thing I say. And they’re happy with what they get in return. Isn’t that better than everyone being unhappy?’
‘Everyone’s happy?’
‘Of
