his dad’s an olive man. they’re loaded. had two kids. but haldun started hitting the drink. why … i don’t know. and i think he started beating gülten. then they split. now she has a lover in the city. he’s married. what does he do? he’s a dentist. strange. they say that kamile’s a lesbian. she’s got a sharp tongue. that’s why everyone stays away from her.’
When Zuhal was chatting with me online she had this way of answering her own questions, and that day she told me a lot about the people she knew in town.
‘but it was like she was flirting with me,’ I wrote.
‘they say that when she goes to the city she calls a gigolo. i don’t know. anything’s possible with kamile. i’m afraid of the woman. and her husband raci bey. but it’s like he’s blind to it all. or he has no choice but to turn a blind eye. there’s nothing he could do anyway. they say that raci is close to the refugees. he’s probably the most powerful man after mustafa. some people say he has the deed to the treasure. but then again everyone says someone else has it.’
‘does the deed really exist?’
‘i have no idea. that’s what everyone thinks. if not for that church the town would fall apart. talk about that treasure keeps everyone together. or at least it seems like that to me. strange. mustafa is convinced there’s treasure there. why … i don’t know. babies know about the treasure before they’re born. take serhan abi. who? the pharmacist. with the quiet wife. she never says a word, always knitting. he’s a sweet man. he says nothing’s there, it’s all just talk. how does he know? i don’t know. but everyone’s looking for the deed. you’d be amazed to see how much money people spend trying to find it. they are all watching each other like hawks. sometimes i wonder what will happen if they really dig up the place … if there’s nothing there. the next day everyone would be dead … strange.’
‘when did all this talk of the treasure start?’
‘i don’t know. nobody really knows. people hear the story from their fathers, grandfathers, their great-grandfathers.’
Then she changed the subject.
‘i saw mustafa in a dream last night. he was driving in some kind of roman chariot. but he was wearing a black suit. he said he was going to war. then he disappeared through a hole and popped out in the olive groves. god, if only I could forget this guy. i can’t get him out of my mind. he sent me a message last night. asking where i was. i told him i was in the city. and then he said he would come and see me. i was about to tell him to come but then i knew he would just make me cry. i told him not to come. why, he asked. i said i had work. what work, he asked. meetings, i said. i’ll come later, he said. but i won’t meet him. i hate it when he gets drunk and calls me. he only wants me when he’s drunk. and when he sobers up he’s the same mustafa.’
‘maybe when he’s sober he can’t bear the pain of losing you.’
‘i’m the one in pain. he suffered in the past. now i’m suffering. he got over it. have you ever been in love?
‘of course.’
‘have you ever been heartbroken?’
‘no.’
‘i woke up in tears this morning. i was crying because i didn’t ask him to come. but i’d cry if he came. sometimes he can be so cruel. such hurtful and poisonous words. then i attack him with my own words. and we always hurt each other. it was so wonderful before. we had such a good time together. are you angry with me for loving him?’
‘no.’
‘i will never be able to love you the way i love him. you know that, don’t you?’
‘i do. that’s fine.’
‘why fine?’
‘what do you want me to say?’
‘don’t know, just not that.’
‘all right.’
We were both surprised by our own indifference. I wasn’t jealous.
And I didn’t really know why.
I knew that Zuhal loved another man so passionately that she would never be able to let him go. She belonged to him, loved him with all her heart. So perhaps it was the thought that I would never lose her – because she never was mine – that kept me from being jealous.
Maybe I was satisfied: she was betraying her great love with me, and this stroked my ego.
Jealousy was a damaged soul, a painful crack in the wall around our sense of self. But Zuhal wasn’t a part of my life, she wasn’t a part of who I was and so I didn’t feel jealous at all. Though I felt strongly connected to her, in a strange way she wasn’t a part of me.
As much as I tried I just couldn’t understand it.
Why wasn’t she a part of me? How was I both so intimate with her and so distant?
I didn’t want her to be mine. No. I wanted her to entertain me. To excite me. I wanted to win her heart. I wanted her to betray her love with me. That’s what turned me on. I confess that I felt a kind of malevolent joy as I challenged an overwhelming and absolute love that had nothing to do with me. I wanted to break it apart.
Lacerating her love and the man she loved gave me a feeling of triumph; but I didn’t really understand that I was also hurting myself – conquering them left me cold.
But if the wounds were opening, I still couldn’t feel them.
Sometimes I can’t solve even my own mysteries.
Was there any reason for me to feel jealous? I know the emotion. It’s easy to describe. But not to be jealous in this situation? It was inexplicable. If she left Mustafa and gave herself to me, but still loved him, would I be jealous? I suppose so. Was I not jealous because she didn’t give herself to me, didn’t choose me? Mulling all this over, I hadn’t noticed the words flashing on the screen.
‘do you miss me?’
‘yes.’
It was the truth. I missed her.
‘what do you miss?’
‘i miss everything about you.’
‘everything? tell me.’
I knew straightaway where the conversation was going. I was already aroused. We were going to make virtual love.
Our relationship had two principal foundations: the pure love she felt for another man and the pure lust she experienced with me through written words.
The former was such a powerful bedrock that it seemed as if the relationship would be shaken if she were to one day leave Mustafa; something would be missing.
We began to make love.
I don’t know if it was because of this virtual lovemaking, or because we’re all born with the need to feel another living being, or because of the darkness in the unseen face of my life, or my fondness for the prostitutes who eke out their existence in darkness, but it wasn’t long before I discovered Sümbül. That was her real name. She was honest about that and the kind of life she led. Between the wealthy neighbourhood where I lived and the lower part of town where the middle class had settled there was a belt inhabited by the very poor.
The neighbourhoods had not been arranged in hierarchical order.
The poor had settled between the rich and the middle class.
In fact the middle-class homes that extended as far as the centre of town were the newest and most unattractive. The rich lived in vast old mansions and the poor lived in little old stone houses, while the middle class lived in short apartment buildings.
Sümbül’s home was in the poor neighbourhood. But I never went there. She came to me. She had a pink telephone with sparkling gems (something I’d never seen before), and music for a ringtone. She was always getting calls. But I was usually her last customer, calling her