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 really, just a couple of cases, but they talk as if someone’s shot every day.’
‘Why the killings?’
‘It’s all about land. Property values are only going to rise. Everyone knows that. So people are racing to get their hands on land. Then it quickly becomes a blood feud. And people here are a little behind the times. Revenge is still a powerful emotion. If you ask me, money is a stronger incentive than revenge.’
‘You have a difficult job,’ I said, beginning to feel the rakı. It was just what I needed; I was pulling myself together.
‘Of course. That’s inevitable but I’m used to it now.’
‘Do they ever threaten you?’
‘Me?’ he said, surprised. The sincerity in his voice was real; clearly he had never considered someone actually threatening him. ‘No, people here would never go so far.’
‘Are they afraid of you?’
‘Oh no, please, it’s not that, it’s just that my family has been here for such a long time, and there are a lot of us, so let’s just say it’s respect for the family.’
He had such a calm and natural confidence and I realised he was condescending to me in the same way he did to everyone else. He had already ruled me out as a potential rival.
He treated me like a valuable but useless antique vase, never offending or threatening me. I was faced with a dilemma. If I were to submit to his courtesy, which was gift-wrapped in pride, he’d place me among the bigwigs and he’d speak to Zuhal about me with a sort of affection; but if I were to counter with the same indifferent air of arrogance, he’d never speak well of me, and prevent me from learning more about the people in town.
I was caught between curiosity and pride.
I decided to take a step back to a place where I was safe from a sudden attack of kindness or his insolent aggression. But it wasn’t really a conscious decision, rather an action seemingly independent of my thoughts.
‘Are you and Zuhal old friends?’ I asked.
I knew that on the subject of Zuhal it was best to feign ignorance. Surely both of us would talk about our meeting with her separately, reshaping the scene in our own way.
I imagined the way she would laugh at us.
‘We’re friends from university,’ he said. ‘We went to the same college in Minnesota. You wouldn’t believe it. Someone from here must have discovered the place because there were a lot of students from around here at the time. Zuhal majored in economics …’
‘And you?’ I asked with a smile. ‘Literature?’
‘No,’ he said, laughing. ‘We own all of these olive groves here, so my dad wanted me to study agricultural engineering.’
‘Why the interest in literature?’
‘My uncle. There’s a black sheep in every family. He loves reading.’
Then he paused: ‘Black sheep in the positive sense. I don’t want you to get the wrong idea.’
He had a polite and cultivated side: and