MEN DON'T CRY

Men Don’t Cry is an intriguing, fast-paced novel which narrates strange, interlocking adventures of intense love and lust.  Two like-minded fourteen year-olds, enthralled with the Bohemian lifestyle, ignore their gang, and escape from boarding school.  They are unaware that the price of making their innocent dreams of freedom come true is high, and that they are about to set off a fire that will have a profound effect on their whole lives.
Life was nothing other than a motorway with unmarked exits; the coincidences that increase our life force could easily become fatal adventures.

In this semi-autobiographic book, Ercan Akbay, writer of Tales of the Weird, takes us on an neverending journey from the sordid, crime-ridden world of petty theft to art fraud, from surprising electronic dicoveries to smuggling historical artefacts, from lust-fueled loves to the deadly mysteries of insanity; once more, he succeeds in leaving a salty aftertaste when confused lives cross at the novel’s striking end.

1974

1
THE SCHOOL

I started at the school in 1970, when I was a boy barely eleven years old who seemed to have an exceptional mind enough to pass the exams to enter the country’s most elite colleges. Since our house was on the other side of the Bosphorus, I became a boarding student. The first bridge over the Bosphorus had not been built, and the city’s population had not even reached two million yet.
On that first day, my mother couldn’t hold back her tears as we spread the sheets on my new bed. But I was calm; I wanted to learn the realities of life as soon as I could and became a man of the world, a man who could stand on his own two feet. That sunny Sunday, I remember my new mates pleading with their mothers not to be left behind in the dorm. I knew that nothing would help and stood strong in front of my crying mother and bade her farewell with a smiling face.
That day was the beginning of an exciting adventure for me, but I have to confess, being a boarder was a tough thing. Although being away from home seemed to have its nice side, to become a man who didn’t cry took at least a few years in the dormitories of this merciless world.
Travelling these thorny paths, by the time we reached the age of fourteen, we’d become a little sophisticated. You become what you see. We emulated the strong, good-looking “older brothers” from the upper classes and became heavy smokers and wine drinkers who spoke in street slang. The wines we swigged could never be anything better than plastic-capped Dogkiller and what we smoked were ninety-kuruş-a-pack filterless Birinci’s.
At the end of 1973, winter arrived early. Snow fell toward the end of November, and the day-students struggled to get to school. For the boarders, the situation didn’t change much except for the view of the pine trees leading to the seaside in the backyard, which turned from green to white. We lived inside, stuck permanently in the same place. Studying under the glimmering fluorescent lamps in the cold study rooms, we were instructed to go to bed at 10:30, to be woken up in the wee hours of the morning. We had nothing to do to pass our time in the evening, no TV or other amusement. Some mornings we would be excited to wake up an hour earlier than required just to play soccer in the schoolyard’s field.
It was such a big deal…
There was another thing. Although it was rare for the lowerclassmen, we used to escape from school at night. Our destination was an all-night coffeehouse by the sea which offered nothing of interest for children of our age, except billiards and a black-and-white television. It was more a place for retired men and deadbeats to smoke waterpipes and play dominos, but what the heck, the important thing was to escape over the school wall. It was hard to find anything more creative to do at the time. We weren’t of an age to visit whorehouses or brothels like the seniors did.
Escaping from the school was something like passing a maturity exam for a boarder, and it was not an easy thing. The enemy had taken every kind of precaution. Back toward the end of our third year, in March 1974, not even a bird could fly away from our school; even tomcats were chased off the roof.
Even if the government at the time held boundless possibilities, it didn’t know the mind and talents of the new generation; it hadn’t met the brains behind the Zorba the Gang.

2
THE GANG

“Can you tell me the name of the Italian delegate to the United Nations?”
“Fuck it, man! Are you kidding? People are on the Japanese delegate now …”
A guy who could bring up such an old rubbish definitely had to be shown some manners.
“Who’s the Japanese delegate?”
He was dying of curiosity. I whispered the name in his ear. His small eyes narrowed and he burst out in a laugh that sounded like a woman’s scream. The other bastards in the study hall perked up their ears, and I started to laugh too. On occasions like this, we used to laugh like crazy just to make people jealous and say, “Wow, those guys are having a fun.”
Delegate jokes were the thing back then—fake names we invented in Turkish that looked like names from some other country. Obviously, when you pronounced the names they turned out to be smutty slang.
Twelve of the boarders used to study in one of the big classrooms of the old building. The front seats were always empty in this study hall. Then came the studious boys right behind the front row; they actually used to do what we all were supposed to do there. Finally, the right corner of the back row was occupied by us; the Zorba Gang.
Just because we had the name Zorba, which means ‘bully’ in Turkish, didn’t meant we were bullies or anything. Zorba was just the first letters of the members’ first names. As for the gang part, we couldn’t just call ourselves a soccer team or an orchestra, so we were forced to call ourselves a gang. I mean, how could we really carry out illegal business in school?
Our fields of interest were limited to sports, fighting, and gambling organizations and cultural activities like publishing comic magazines. To be honest, sometimes we had some activities other than the ordinary ones, but man, what could we do? One exception did not change the rule.
Our number-one letter, Ziya, was the class rep. We used to call him “Division Clerk.” He knew a lot about official requests and bureaucracy and used to cover up for guys who cut class. He was the only diligent and serious student among us, an absolute necessity for any gang at any school. He was also a back on our class soccer team, a fast runner although he was big and burly.
Oğuz, the blond, blue-eyed, hyperactive member of the gang, was also a non-stop talker. He used to talk slang all day long, telling jokes and selling Disney and Lucky Luke decals. He was known as the school’s “central distribution” for these and similar trade goods. Since he was a hyperactive guy, there could be no crime or incident he wasn’t involved in, including gambling organizations. His cheeks had turned to leather because of all the slaps he had gotten from study hall surveillants.
Renan, the so-called intellectual of the gang, was a dark-haired chubby guy. Although he read trash novels, he considered himself well-informed on every subject. Whenever there was a fight, he would carefully take off his big black-rimmed glasses, hand them to someone trustworthy, and roll up his sleeves. The owner of the grocery store across from the school was his brother-in-law. So he was in charge of transporting the illegal goods we imported from there and clearing them through customs into our dorms. He was indispensible for the gang if only for this reason. He could only be a substitute player for the soccer team because he was a four-eyes.
As for me, I had no special characteristics other than a groundless self-confidence, a cool, calm, and collected personality, and a talent for creative planning. I was a skinny kid with curly brown hair. I read a lot but hadn’t started wearing glasses yet. On the soccer team, I accomplished “strategical missions” in the forward field.
Ayhan was the star of the gang, a tall guy who had gone through puberty earlier than normal. He was good-looking too, captain and striker of the soccer team, a good writer and cartoonist, and a clever, good-hearted guy with lots of common sense. Because of his shy face when he first came to our school, nobody would have anything to do with him except me. We became like Siamese twins that day. He was my best friend, right from the heart.
At the beginning of the last year before high school, on average we were fourteen years old. It would’ve been hard to find a group of boarders living a worse life than our gang. At the very beginning of our young lives, we had seized on vagrancy, gambling, wickedness, and every kind of nuisance, and we weren’t about to abandon them.
There could be no leader in Zorba. We took pride in our leader-free, anti-authority institution. Procedures for any kind of thing were settled by the gang member who knew about that thing.
Since Ayhan was the earliest to reach physical maturity among us, he used to solve any problems that needed physical power. He was also the chief publisher of our magazine. And I was the creative power of the gang. I used to design the working and operational plans of our various businesses and bring them to the table. There were two of us who used to carry out the forgery and smuggling decisions made by the pluralist voting system of the gang: Ziya and Renan. The organization of any kind of gambling, sales and marketing, or collection was meticulously carried out by Oğuz.
As the twelve boarders in our class, we slept in two neighboring six-person dorm rooms. The Zorba Gang included the five permanent guys in bedroom #13. The sixth member, the one who ran our errands, was our slave.
People who think that slave societies have vanished in modern times are ignorant and know nothing about how schools are run. An oppressive and primitive regime lived on with all its cruelty in our school. The lives of weak and unprotected boys were hell in the dorms and study halls, they were the butts of mean jokes and torment, and they were forced to do all the dirty jobs.
That night, during the dinner break between the two study halls, Ayhan was giving evening instructions to the Arab, our dorm slave.
“Arab, boy. Quick, go grab the bottle of wine from the common locker and hide it under the bed. And don’t get caught. Cover it with a track suit so nobody sees.”
“Which number is it?”
“Twenty-six. Still can’t learn one simple locker number? Do we have to beat you every night, you stupid bastard?”
The Arab was famous for his clumsiness and his stupid questions that would make the gang members crazy.
“I just wanted to be sure, bro. Is the key in the mopboard next to the locker?”
“Come here right now!”
Still sitting, Ayhan pulled the Arab down in front of him and gave him two slaps. The sound that came out of the kid’s dark cheeks echoed off the classroom walls. At times like this, his mouth would twist and his face would wrinkle up, but he never let a tear escape from his eyes.
“Don’t hit me, bro, please!”
“You’ll get two slaps every day ’cause you’re spoiled, boy. Look at this fuckup! If you go around shouting this dorm room’s secrets ever again, I swear to God I’ll beat you all night long. Understood?”
“Understood, bro.”
“Now get lost!”
At that moment, Oğuz had entered the study hall. At dinner because of the jungle law, the only thing he could was some dessert and he was half-starved. He yelled at the Arab just as he was going out.
“Arab!”
“Yes, bro?”
“Bring me a cheese toast from the canteen on your way back. Make sure it’s well-pressed—as thin as a piece of paper.”
“Sure, bro.”
Sticking his hand in his pocket, he grabbed a handful of coins left over from the daily gambling session. He took a few and handed them to the Arab.
“This should cover it.”
It was hard to survive boarding life without knowing the way the school was run. If you weren’t sharp in the cafeteria during jungle law, and if you didn’t have any money, you would definitely starve. We lived under an order in which the strong and fast could leave the rest hungry.
Jungle law was a kind of martial law declared by the authorities when we had something good on the dinner menu. For rare dishes like steak, lady-thigh meatballs, and the special pilaf, and for rare sweets like şambaba cake or rare fruits like bananas, this declaration was made by the older brothers of the senior class, the grand authority. Under jungle law, as soon as the dinner bell rang, there were shouts of “Allah Allah!” and a dash to the twelve-person dinner tables, where the quickest to reach them had the right to swallow as much food as they could get.
I was a tiny, skinny boy who hadn’t physically matured yet. To survive among my peers, I had to be on the ball. I would sneak out before the end of study hall and found ways to use my wits to keep from going hungry. I got so cunning by the third year that when I needed a haircut, I would look at the barber’s apprentice’s haircut, not the barber’s …
The barber can’t cut his own hair, but isn’t it obvious he would cut the apprentice’s?

3
THE STUDY HALL

Jungle law had been declared during dinner because of the special grilled meatballs, and after dinner, three punks from the next class showed up next to us in study hall. Oğuz immediately started quizzing me about who the Japanese delegate to the UN was. I acted like I didn’t know the answer. He was glad and tilted his head back like a samurai and yelled out the name, which which was in fact a seriously foul sentence. The assholes couldn’t stop laughing, so Oğuz took the opportunity and sold them the NĞA from the week before and got fifteen kuruş out of them. As a matter of fact, fifteen kuruş was only the price to read the magazine. When you paid for a copy of NĞA, you could only keep it for two hours at most before we took it back.
The surveillant came in just then and was pissed at us. He’d seen our commercial activity and the magazine’s cover too. So we got ourselves together and sat down in our seats. It was 9:00 p.m.  We’d had our dinner, we’d had some fun, and now we began to think about what to do with that last hour-long study period.
I was sitting next to Ayhan. We were the ones who’s been publishing a humor magazine every week called NĞA. We’d draw a single copy in pencil, which consisted of the filthiest possible humor on a piece of paper which was then passed from hand to hand. All the same, it got to be really popular. We published it for nine straight weeks and everyone was wondering about this underground magazine and its strange name. We had put the meaning of the name on last week’s cover, and considered it very creative:
NĞA (n., slang). The moan-like exclamation uttered by young men while jerking off.
We used to draw a film poster for the cover of each issue. This was very serious work, with the film’s amazing name in great big letters at the top along with the names of the made-up movie stars who were acting in it—these were all cartoon versions of people from school—then more crude things scrawled under that. A graphic work. And that week’s film was A Streetbus Named Desire, starring Mike Fake, Growshot Hawshot and Jenifer Allfours, in which the players were passionately rubbing up against each other inside a bus in as dirty a way as we could draw it.
At the bottom there were notes on the guest stars and movie theater, like, “This film is playing to a closed house because the audience didn’t come,” or, “Our refreshment counter offers delicious sodas that aren’t even very flat,” or, “This movie was shot in ‘there’: There Film Studios.”
That was more or less the format of NĞA.
The cover for the last issue was done, and now we were working on a strip making fun of Star Trek, the most popular TV show of the year. Ayhan had his tongue sticking out and was drawing some pictures, and I was telling him all the funny ideas I had. The magazine had to be ready tomorrow.
The star of the NĞA version of Star Trek was Mesut the Donkey. He was the slave of dorm #11, the one next to ours. A hilarious guy. He would try to fight the dorm gang that owned him, he’d rat people out, he’d blubber and cry in the principal’s office, but he couldn’t get out of being a slave. In our comic strip, we drew him as someone from the planet of the donkey-heads, who were the ones who did clown duty on the Starship Enterprise. Donkey was the anti-hero, who starred in place of pointy-eared Mr. Spock. He would mess around with the ship’s devices and break them. Or some meteors in space would hit him on the head. Or he would fall over into a crater on a satellite of Jupiter. Pretty much every kind of thing used to happen to Mesut. It was a totally original cartoon.
So it wasn’t enough for us to be cruel and make all the slaves like the Arab and Mesut the Donkey suffer, we thought we were entertaining everybody too by insulting them in our miserable little magazine. Like this time, the Starship Enterprise was damaged while in orbit over Mesut’s planet. A crew of three including Mesut land on the planet with the research craft to explore and find argonium crystals to repair the ship’s engines.
“Boy,” I said to Ayhan, “now they should meet some donkey men on the planet, with giant penises. Mesut can speak their language and explains the situation, and he asks them where to find the argonium crystals.”
“Yeah, and then what?”
“Then someone says some dumbfuck thing and they throw the whole crew in jail. They tie up Mesut and say, ‘Mogambo or Death?’ When he says he prefers Mogambo, they shoot him in the ass with an injector device made out of a donkey dick. After that ...”
“Whoa!” Ayhan had to think my idea was way too much. “Are you shitting? The Donkey gets the magazine tomorrow and goes straight to the principal’s office. And then we’re really fucked ...”
“So we just don’t publish the magazine then? Just because it makes Mr. Donkey mad? We’ll punch him in the mouth a couple times and he won’t be able to say anything.”
I was kidding. Actually, Ayhan was the one who liked to show off and act tough. He was the one who would suggest things, but now I was acting like we had switched roles. We laughed again a little more.
Considering how opposite our personalities were, our friendship was a real friendship. It was really different from the way it was with the other members of the gang. We were like brothers. Each one made up for what was missing from the other and tried to make things easy for the other one at school. Ayhan’s family was from Izmir. His father was some high-level bureaucrat in the government, and when he was assigned to Istanbul, Ayhan was transferred too, from Bornova High School to us. He had some problems adapting at first, but he had a warm and open way about him that eventually won us over.
We definitely learned that the most important thing someone needed at the school was his friends. A boy was torn away from all family ties and brought to a place ruled by completely different rules and relationships. The only way he could completely adapt to his new situation was with the help of the friends he found there. A friend was everything at boarding school. You shared your food and your money, you kept the wolves at bay, you shared his loneliness during the night.
Notebooks and books and lessons were secondary. Our real life was in the dorms, study halls, schoolyards, and hallways, where we had to learn to stand on our own two feet and had to get on with our lives without mom and dad. Boarding students discovered how heavy the existence of authority was, how cruel the oppression of the upper classmen could be, how mercilessly you had to compete to survive, and how slimy social relations could be—and we learned. Nobody cared in this world if you were sad or sorry or sobbing. And students without power were sentenced to torment and loneliness.
Our older brothers had experienced the school in the 60s and used to tell us the rules were even more strict back then, so be thankful. I could imagine those times, easily, when it was an all-boys school, how tough, cruel, and loveless a system could be created by males. It was an inhuman thing for such a system to become tradition, where boys just a year older had the right to lord over the younger students and thought they could beat them too. Whatever boys saw in school, that’s what they did, and whatever things were done to them, they took it out on the younger ones.
Toward the end of study period, we were still working on NĞA and the surveillant chewed us out a little for the noise we were making, so we had to shut up. But in a bit, study hall was over. We poured out into the halls of the school’s top floor and dispersed into the rooms where we would sleep. One life was over, a new one was beginning.
Sometimes, for a polar bear to survive, a fish in the river will sacrifice itself. In a way, living was like this. There was a perfect balance between death and survival.
In fact, there was no difference between matter turning to nothing or matter coming from nothing.

4
THE DORM

Istanbul was a more liveable city during our childhood in the 60s, and the country had fewer problems. We were poorer but happier. The year 1974 happened to be a turning point in the fate of Turkey and Istanbul. Istanbul was hit badly by economic breakdown that began with the embargoes after the Cyprus Peace Operation and became a real mess with the war expenses. The city entered a time of mass immigration to the metropolis, corruption, and decline.
A year before, the Bosphorus Bridge had opened in Istanbul. The bridge was the beginning of a new period for the boarders. The pleasure of the ferry boats was replaced by the Kadıköy dolmuş. Lots of boarders took the advantage of the new situation and changed over to being day students. Before the bridge, all the school’s boarders had come together on the 8:00 Karaköy ferry every Monday morning.
At those times, we would sit in the wonderful atmosphere of the ferry’s first-class lounge, order tea, and chat all the way. Our senior brothers used to treat us pretty nice there. We would discuss the news in the papers. The juniors were even given the right to talk to the seniors, provided they didn’t show the same insolent familiarity at school. When the day-students and teachers vanished from the scene in the evenings and the time of sovereignty came in the study halls and dorms, the senior boarders turned into real monsters.
In dorm #13, my bed was head to head with Ayhan’s. After putting on our pajamas and enacting some on-the-spot fight scenes with the other bastards, the bedtime horn would sound and we’d pull back into our dens. Under the warnings of the surveillants, we’d finish up all the festivities of urination, tooth-brushing teeth, and foot-washing in the gigantic troughs of our lavatory, and then we’d be stuffed back into our dorms. They’d push in a few latecoming idiots and close all the doors. Everyone should be quiet and go to sleep. Now was the time for friendly whispering. Who could sleep at the hour of 10:30 in the evening, for God’s sake?
Sitting crossed-legged on his bed, Ayhan turned to me and asked in a lowered voice.
“Anybody in the hallway? Who’s the teacher on duty tonight?”
Standing up on my bed, I peeked out from the upper windows that looked out into the hallway.
“10:30 and all is well! ... Necdet Bey’s on duty tonight. Don’t sweat, boy. C’mon give me a cigarette.”
“Okay, you get out the bottle.”
Renan ran over from his bed in the other row. This bastard always had this habit of freeloading.
“Hey, don’t forget who’s your brother. Save a few swigs for me. There wouldn’t be any wine for you if it wasn’t for me.”
Ayhan was always generous, not just to members of Zorba but to almost everyone. But when necessary, he would teach Renan a lesson for being such a dog.
“Boy, we pay money for the goods. Your brother-in-law doesn’t hand out wine for free. You’ve got to bring a cup if you want to drink. Tonight we have a dry red. Where’s the corkscrew?’’
Ziya was never in on this kind of stuff. A non-smoker and non-drinker, he was careful to do just enough schoolwork to avoid headaches. The drunkards and the smokers and the talking till all hours made him suffer, but he knew very well there was nothing he could do but put up with it all.
“Hey, can’t you shut it! I’ve got orals tomorrow. You guys have no consideration!”
“Okay, son, we won’t make a sound. You just close your ears and turn the other way. You won’t even know we’re here. Arab, give me that corkscrew over there!”
“Here, bro.”
Usually, since we would chat for at least two hours before we went to sleep, we’d drink a little wine and smoke a few cigarettes. The non-smoking Arab would sit in the cloud of smoke and make pissy sounds. He wasn’t allowed to say anything else.
Introducing food, drink, newspapers, magazines, and other harmful materials into the dormitories was prohibited. Therefore, we would bring in non-harmful materials not mentioned in the school regulations, like cigarettes and liquor. The crime was the same anyhow, because the punishment was the same.
The favorite topics of our nighttime chats were girls and love. For hours, the events of the day would be talked over, with endless and inexhaustible excitement. Tactics were hashed out, and everything that had to do with love and how it filled our little hearts was told and listened to.
Everyone in our dorm had a “girlfriend,” everyone except one. These love affairs weren’t like the ones you might know. The girls were not even aware of our love or the fever we were in or how we would continuously think and talk about them. Oğuz, who was deeply in love with the flirtiest girl in the class, used to repeat the same old story to Ziya every night.
“Oh, boy, I’ve got to get rid of this obsession. No way out.”
“What did you do with your wifie today? Isn’t everything simply great?”
“What the hell, man, she wouldn’t give me anything today. All she thinks about is that guy at the Priest School, you know. That fucker is eighteen years old ...”
We used to call the French Lyceé next door the Priest School. And anyway as far as we were concerned, an eighteen-year-old was a pervie old man almost old enough to be married with children and should keeps his hands off girls our age.
“Let’s get some of our day guys to beat him up during the noon hour tomorrow. Believe me, it’s the only way.”
“If that priest was actually guilty of anything, I’d say, ‘Yeah, let’s do it,’ man. But God knows the boy doesn’t even notice her. Whereas I would give my life for her. But what can you do, there’s no justice in this world.”
We knew our shit—gambling, booze, acting tough, soccer, fighting, any kind of manly thing—but when it came time for flirting with a girl, we just couldn’t perform. All of our babes were in love with other guys.  They worshipped rock stars or they went out with upperclassmen. They didn’t even look at us.
To tell the truth these babes were pretty developed. While our mustaches had barely sprouted, the girl with the smallest boobs was bigger than size 38. Being in the same age group, we looked like midgets next to them.
The girl that I was in love with actually liked me—as a person, of course—but still she said she couldn’t give up that bum named Beco who lived in her neighborhood. On weekends, she used to ask me to take her to the disco just so she could meet Beco inside, because they wouldn’t let in non-adults unless they were a couple. She would go with him into dark corners and make out, while I had to sit at the bar with a gin and tonic, making small talk with the bartender and suffering in every way.
On one of those days I had left the disco pretty inebriated and was just about to confess my love to her, when she told me she was planning to marry Beco. On Monday during the first class break, she came up to me and apologized and held my hand for a few seconds. My heart wouldn’t stop pounding for the rest of the day, until evening.
This was what I called real love.
For us, in a relationship love and sex were opposite things. We wouldn’t even dream of making love with the girls we were in love with. Any friend that would say something like that would be given a rough time and never be allowed to talk again. The women who adorned our sex fantasies were the ones who happened to be in Pazar, the movie magazine of those years, where smutty pictures of all the whorish stars were featured. We hadn’t found any women other than these for sex and we didn’t know how to do it either.
Oğuz couldn’t smoke in the dorm without reading Pazar magazine, and before glueing together the most important pages never to be opened again, he would want us see those magnificent women inside.
“Oh man, what an amazing butt. Will ya look at this picture?”
Renan, as if he were an expert on women, never liked any of them.
“Which part of her is amazing, boy? Her hips and nips are all full of cellulite.”
“What’s cell-u-lite, man?
“Something that happens to the legs and asses of women, all lumpy like an orange peel ...”
Oğuz stopped and thought a while. He looked at the picture again, then turned to Renan and said disdainfully, “Forget about the cellulite, man, you’d give your body and soul to fuck her. If the cat can’t reach the liver, it calls it rotten. You’re just the same.” 
Renan farted with a sound somewhere between a scooter tailpipe and a steamboat horn as if to say, “Here’s my answer.” Oğuz began  swearing at him and opened out the window. Our eyes followed the heavy fog of cigarette smoke that dispersed under the bluish fluorescent light was coming from the floor below.
In the final item of business in our dorm chats, the activities of the day would be reviewed. The members of the gang would pursue their own activities separately during the day. If there wasn’t any event or problem that involved all of us together, then Ziya would straighten out everything concerning our class and with great seriousness solve our official problems; Oğuz would continue organizing the gambling and marketing services necessary for the financing of the gang; Renan would carry on meaningless literature debates with his group of day-student snobs, as well as manage the liquor-cigarette trade; Ayhan and I would hang around well-known upperclass dogs and take notes on waywardness and other cool behavior and make business plans. So, this is how we used to assemble the topics of our nighttime talks. But the most important topic to bring us together was soccer.
Last thing, we agreed to do morning workout for the soccer match we had on Friday. The day after tomorrow, we’d get up early and play, we wouldn’t forget to tie our towels to bedframes tomorrow night. A towel tied at the foot of the bed was a message to the surveillants on duty: “Wake me up at five o’clock.” We used to get up at the crack of dawn a lot, to study for exams, to play soccer, or to watch heavyweight boxing matches on TV from America. When there was live broadcast in the evening there, we could watch it at 5:00 in the morning.
Our favorite bouts were Muhammed Ali’s championship fights. Ali “flew like a butterfly and stung like a bee.” After every heavyweight match in America, we’d get fired up and arrange tournaments in the classroom. We used to tie sponge cushions to our fists and fight to the bitter end. By the end there would always be some nasty accident; someone’s nose would start bleeding, someone’s eyebrow would be busted open, or a tooth would be broken. But in spite of all this, we would never quit, there would always be more boxing and more bleeding.
We would get tired and cut the chat at midnight. Little by little sounds of snoring would rise from the beds. And at 6:30 in the morning, we would be woken up, with puffy eyes, to go snooze in our desks in the study hall, and we would beg to the surveillants-on-duty in the ice-cold dormitories to let us stay in our warm beds just ten minutes more.
Like all the basic necessities of life, the value of sleep is never known until you don’t have it.

5
THE CLASSROOM AND THE SMOKEHOUSE

At 8:00 in the morning, when we had finished morning study hall and moved along to the cafeteria for breakfast, the day students would arrive at the school in throngs. Morning classes were always boring for me. I could only get through them by snoozing.
Until then, my credits had been good enough. I still had an accumulation of useless of encyclopedic knowledge from my elementary school years. I don’t know why, but whatever damn thing had motivated me then was now gone.
In literature class, there was that failatun-mefailun meter thing from Ottoman poetry. I was daydreaming about where we would go when we escaped from school.
In the next class, English literature, we just monkeyed around at. Our teacher Serpil Hanım read us some examples from the compositions we’d written last Tuesday and made some comments on them. One of them was by a classmate whose nickname was Patton—he was an exact copy of the actor George C. Scott—who had written a composition that almost made us die laughing. 
“Your classmate has described life from the viewpoint of a ticket seller in a movie theater. Let me read it to you …”
He expressed the box office man’s monotonous life and his weariness in tragic language—the depression of being stuck in a cell of six square feet and the impossibility of leaving to use the bathroom and wetting his pants because of the lines of people in front of him. In fact, Patton had written something serious and strong, using a sophisticated literary English higher than our level of understanding. However, it hadn’t occurred to him that earnestness and diligence would just seem funny to us.
During the noon break, after lunch, we went to the back schoolyard and wandered around. The kids called us over to do some gambling, and chatted as we headed over. We used to arrange “secret sessions” in the sideyard where the cafeteria slop and the rest of the garbage were thrown, in a secluded corner where two parallel historic walls both met a parapet on the seashore. A secret session was a meeting where one of the gang’s banditry projects would be hammered out, or it could be a gathering where we would rig some gambling for a few certain suckers.
Nobody expected us to arrange roulette or card games here.  We used to organize a game that’s played with hard cash on the ground, called gıldır. For this game, you put a certain number of coins in a jar or can and shake it. Then you call heads or tails and turn the jar or can over on the ground. Heads or tails, whichever the player bet, he would pick up the coins he won and the balance went to the house’s account.
During the long breaks during the day, during noon break or before study hall, we would have a gıldır session on behalf of Zorba. The organizer of this business was of course the gang’s hyperactive man, Jackpot Oğuz. He got his nickname from the famous gambling man in the Lucky Luke cartoons. This game made the gang gıldır millionaires. We got brand new sports clothes, shoes, and gear, all purchased with gambling income.
Back then, the words “proud sponsor” had never been heard, and even if they had been and we had applied to Adidas or Puma, there was no possibility they would have supported us.
“C’mon, Kremlin boy, you tell me, heads or tails?”
“I say heads.”
Jackpot shook the jar a couple times around his head with some fancy moves and turned it over onto the ground. I don’t know how he did it, but whichever the player bet, the player would always loose.
“Take your fifty kuruş and go. New players!… C’mon gentlemen, new game beginning. Pig, aren’t you playing?
Almost every boy in school had a nickname, especially the boarders. Some of the names didn’t catch on and were forgotten after a while. But there were some nicknames that would become actual name everyone used from the guy.
The name I got stuck with in a silly way was “the Nationalist.” During my first year in the school during a discussion on the Vietnam War and the U.S. Army, I argued that the Turkish Army has always been strong—as history has shown. I said that the armed powers of the Middle East and Europe would not be able to deal with us or invade our country. The reason for this flowed from the people’s warrior soul and their power of resistance, rather than from equipment and guns. Didn’t America’s defeat in Vietnam make this obvious?
I was eleven years old. The upperclassmen in the sixth grade laughed a lot at what I said and named me after it. It was paradoxical that a guy who had adopted anarchist philosophy had such an authoritarian nickname, but there was nothing I could do. Fighting your nickname wouldn’t change it; in our school that would just make it stronger. 
It took more than half an hour for Jackpot to fleece the folks in the gıldır game: the losing wrestler leaves the match unsatisfied.  Finally, though, the noon break was over. Kremlin, Pig, and the others abandoned their currency to the gang’s treasury and walked to class with heads hanging low. We totaled our revenue and took it to our hiding place. We used to keep books very carefully for these kinds of activities.
They used to play all the heavy hits from the American Top 40 during the noon hour and all the lesson breaks. It was a gimmick of the white American teachers who came to our school back then as part of the Peace Corps. The Staples Singers had just released “City in the Sky,” and we were listening all the toughest songs from that album along with lots of other great songs, all broadcast from the Radiopunch speakers installed in the hallways and cafeteria and around the schoolyard.
The lab classes, which were held in a specially constructed building at the rear of the main building, were always scheduled for the afternoon hours. The reason was not to be known. That particular day, during the first lesson of the afternoon, we were having some fun in the science lab. A group of serious students was preparing material necessary for the reproduction of bacteria to be observed under the microscope. They boiled a piece of meat in a saucepan over a cooker and distributed the broth into test tubes. Some of these were closed tightly, some were covered in cheesecloth, and some were left open. We would then observe which one produced more bacteria next week on Monday.
When boredom and weariness were weighing most heavily on us, the break-bells rang. We wanted to go down to the smokehouse. Spring was in the air and the weather was getting warmer. Rather than enjoying our cigarettes in the john, we preferred to suck them down in the open air.
In the smokehouse, situated beneath and behind the outside stairs, just beside the canteen, was where bullshit reigned. This was where you could hear the most unknown slang, and it was where you showed off with dirty jokes and never-experienced sex stories. On rare occasions, girls from the upper classes would also come and smoke there, in which case the level of slang would be reduced.
The kids who would try to talk to girls preferred to meet in front of the canteen, right at the back of the smokehouse, and the girls used to come there along with their best friends on their first dates. The beginning sessions of flirting in any case would be done as a trio: the girl, the boy, and the other girl in the position of translator, and even the realization of the hand-holding phase could last several months. What’s more, the first kissing would usually be delayed till the next season.
Only the day-students among us could actually ask girls out. They dressed right, they combed their hair. We boarders couldn’t associate with the girls. Even the best-looking guy among us looked raggedy. Our pants weren’t ironed, our shoes weren’t polished, our hands were dirty, our teeth weren’t brushed, and our cleanest socks had been worn at least three days.
You see we just weren’t capable of looking after ourselves …
And we used to find more manly activities for ourselves; we’d play soccer, we’d do vagrancy, we’d smoke’n’drink, and we’d talk scurril-ously. We wouldn’t like the guys who walk around with girls much. Firstly we call him sissy, make fun of him publicly, and if he’s still out of control, then we used the way to seam him.
On the second break in the afternoon, while we were smoking at the smokehouse, I overheard the senior gang’s conversation scheming secretly at the corner. There was a weird matter going on. As far as I understood, the senior crew who escaped from the school and collared by the nightmen while entering were chasing a new way based upon an old legend. One of our senior bro, nicknamed ‘Americano’, dressed on two striped American commando sergeant uniform, was passionately explaining.
“Hey boy, this tunnel’s got to open to the basement of the old building; Mahir the Barrel has told me that there’s a secret passage that opens to the old pier from the building that’s left from the Carmelite nuns. He says it’s quite a normal thing in old monasteries.’’
The Smoker, ignoring these words, took a huge puff from his cigarette, and whiffed a hard cloud of smoke towards Americano and the Truck standing right beside him.
“Most probably, it’s bullshit...’’ he said.
Sami the Chickenfucker, who’s appearance was just like a real Mexican bandit, has introduced into the conversation passionately.
“It’s no shit, man... Get there and see it with your own eyes. The ventage is there at the cliff of the seashore, beneath the tree... Truck, you’ve seen it, ain’t ya?’’
As far as I understood, it was the Truck who was following the subject most closely. Turning towards the Smoker, he forwarded his body which was as big as a dumper truck. Sending a huge loogie toward the tree over there, he talked with that bloodcurdling bass-toned voice.
“That ventage’s been plastered with cement, there’s an old brick mouth there but I can’t know that it’s a tunnel exit. We’ve got to go there and dig it out.’’
The excitement of Americano was something coming and going, anyway, he didn’t make any comments on Truck’s words. And Smoker, without wriggling any of his hair, crunched his camel-long neck by turning to both sides in his pullover. He was taller than six feet three, he didn’t like to talk and argue, he used to smoke only.
“C’mon dusties. Too much shave damage your skin.’’
Sami gulped. Without showing that he’s offended, he turned back to the building and vanished. Almost all the subjects were left unfinished like that among our senior brothers. The voltage was high, but it wouldn’t shock; its ampere was low.
The bell has rang and fifteen minutes lesson-break has ended. We threw our cigarettes into to puddle to snuff them out, there were almost a hundred butts floating inside the mud. With a little latency, together with our science teacher, we entered through the classroom helter-skelter. We still kept on talking when we were taking our seats.
“You heard the chatter, didn’t you?’’
“So what?’’
“What’s that so what?! Maybe we’ll discover a brand new way-back, and will be the first user of that tunnel. What more can it be?!’’
We couln’t get the sight of our teacher who began to do roll call. Couln’t take anymore, he grumbled at us.
“Hushhh! What are you two talking there? Don’t make me throw you out, holding your ears up...’’
As I’ve told before, for I’ve had a talent to pass my credits without introducing the details of the lessons, the teachers used to show a special sympathy towards me at those days. The person who made me discover myself at these matters was my uncle, who has graduated from the Istanbul Technical University as an electrical engineer and established an elevator company at the year that I started primary school.
One morning, when I hadn’t have done my homework for playing soccer option, I’d put my palm up and waited to be punished with a ruler slap by my primary school teacher. That smart lady, who used to teach a seventy pupil class those days, looked right through my eyes and, for some reason, hasn’t hit my hand and she’s given me another punishment instead: I would prepare the lesson subject at home, and narrate it at the class next day.
This was really a horrific punishment!... I was only eight, not even circumcised, boy, what was this woman expecting from me? Can you call that something other than mercilessness?
To my luck or unluckiness, -maybe they’re only the same thing- my uncle’s came to dinner that evening. In a way that I could comprehend, he explained and drew to me how an electric motor is working. I was a kind of boy who’s got no ability of memorize or imitate anything, and besides who used to have a deep boredom against monotonous and repeating exercises. In spite of this; I have had a skill of instantly understanding whatever subject I read, and a memory that I almost never forget whatever I learned.
The next day, writing and drawing, I expressed the lesson to everybody at the class. They saw how an electric motor works. Later on, in all my primary school years, instead of doing homework I did this. My knowledge from the primary school were consisting of those only; like the education curriculum of our country, it wasn’t something useful in a normal human life.
Around evening, we came to the end of another day. The last lesson was finished, the day-pupils turned back to their warm houses. In the boarders, there were all the same things; same solidarity, same people... Almost everything was boring me; I wasn’t even in a mood to see the members of the gang other than Ayhan.The banditries that we’ve carried on seemed childish and phony to me. Our lives were all empty, and our world was very tiny. The vileness, jokes and soccer games were just three-penny shows in fact; our chains were only allowing that long. We’ve never tasted the real freedom, we should live real adventures for this.
Only the ones who live adventures would be men in this world, the rest was only a story...

7
SOCCER

Waken up at six in the morning, we weared our sky-blue sportsgears and we went down to the soccer ground. Even that field seemed a giant ground to our eyes, in fact, it was smaller than the half of a space of a standart gridiron. For that reason, our teams were to be formed with seven players.
Three days later, on Saturday morning, we’d have middle section championship match; we’d share our trump with 3-C. We really were a good team. On the other hand, we were aware of the outer soccer world; dealing both with the domestic league as well as the world cup. So that, we all had some big notebooks which we drawed and noted all the scores of the games in charts. This is sickness, boy... As a guy who has got no interest left with soccer today, I remember these days with a strange nostalgia.
We used to play soccer everyday at the streets of Nişantaşi, where my childhood’s passed. And what a play, boy... We would be starting at the daybreak, in front of the house gate. There was so rare a car used to pass from our cobblestone covered street. Almost no traffic at all... For this reason, that wonderful cobblestones would never got out of order. When the street needed any repairment and the stones were uprooted, its master would come to hammer them into their places, like a wizard; with all its pattern.
The street was safe then. We knew no preschool or something like that. Before the primary school, all the children used to be grown up at the streets; they would play games on the vacant building plots, and would dash into the gardens that were situated almost every district of Istanbul. Fruit trees were plenty enough to feed every children at every season. The girls were used to play games at the street, too. Even the most high-toned girls would come out to the street; play elegant games like hopscotch, burningball and en-de-trois prettiness. We, the tough boys, would never show respect that kind of stuff; all that we do was playing soccer.
At the recent final match we’ve beaten 3-A distinctly. This was our victory; we’ve crowed with joy, the girls in the class have smothered us with kisses. 3-A partners couldn’t just stand this defeat; their bystanders sweared to our goalkeeper, tried to manhandle us, and the occurrence grew further. Mickey Tuğrul’s got interfered between us, and abated the incidence instantly.
Mickey, our sweet-tramp brother at the senior class, was our deity. We all wanted to be like him and speak his jargon. He was a kind of guy who doesn’t bluster to the juniors unnecessarily, someone who watch over and love them. He was one of the most ferocious gamblers of the coffeehouse. The Gang’s been always on good terms with him; because, by just looking into their eyes, he could recognize the tough boys who have capacity to be real tramps.
“Come over here!...’’
Except Oğuz, who’s been doing a secret session, we all ran along and standed order arms in front of him. We’ve got our sportsgears on us. Our ball was at Ayhan’s hand. As usual, I was doing the spokesmanship of the gang. Mickey, swinging his black paternoster, was drinking his tea. He has been seated on the yard parapet.
“Say the word, captain Tuğrul!...’’
It was forbidden to call our senior brothers with their nicknames. Slithering to the side of the parapet a little, Mickey has nodded us to get to the ease position.
“How do you do?’’
He thrusted out his hand. I shook it, and falling down to an heedlessness, I answered him wrongly by saying ‘We’re fine, commander Tuğrul!’. From where he sat, he bashed a smack down my ear. The gang was horrified with the loudness of the sound, though I wasn’t much smarted. He used to slap a guy with a special technique; there came out a big sound but it wouldn’t hurt.
“How many times should I tell you, bastards; you’ve got to say not we’re fine but I’m fine... Asking plural, replying singular... And when a hand is thrusted, It’s not shaken that way, like a sissy. Shake hands properly, like a real man!... You got it?!’’
“Understood, captain Tuğrul!’’
I gave a sharp reply looking right to his eyes, instantly and aloud. He used to get hot with that kind of stuff; he was such a queer man...
“What do you do at the moment, tell me now... Where’s Jackpot?’’
He knew all of us very well and used to keep tabs on.
“There’s a gıldır session nearby the wall...’’
“Do you make good money from that biz, huh?’’
“No captain, the markets are flat at the moment; nobody’s got any money. Y’know; it’s March, the month of scourge.’’
We would never tell anybody that we do helluva money from gambling; otherwise they would shake us down and tribute money all through our lives. Mickey, turned towards Ziya and hit the paternoster to his arm. He knew that he was rep of the classroom.
“Ziya, you keep these guys official biz fine, ain’t ya?’’
“I do captain Tuğrul, they don’t even have one dunning letter. Even when they play truant, I show them present at the roll call...’’
Mickey’s used to show us the way of such things; the school prosedures, and he taught us the ways of solving problems; in someway, he arranged the school management.
When he finished his conversation with Ziya, this time, he turned towards Renan and caressed him with a slap.
“Don’t keep this Renan rascal together with you, bastards; this guy ain’t no useful for no shit. He doesn’t even wear any sportsgear. What does he do, for example?’’
“He does no shit, captain. Just customs our spirits and cigarettes into the school.’’
“That’s exactly what I say, son. Don’t get such boy that ain’t to be a real man among you, huh!...’’
“Understood captain Tuğrul. We’ll make him a real man, don’t worry. From tomorrow on, we’ll get him all the soccer workouts. And also we’ll get him new eyeglass.’’
“Okay, boys. Get lost now!’’
He straightened up, pushing us sidewards by his arm, and showed interest to the girl passing by. We’ve scattered out without prolonging. There was no use to force our luck; we could’ve give off something silly and lost the most important supporter of ours. Mickey, would not like and defend the boys at the junior classes who are not real tramps.
However, he’s understood what kind of bums we are, from the first day that we started school.

8
THE PLAN TO ESCAPE

We couldn’t have a decision yet to get into the school building at return, because our pockets were to be filled with empty cola bottles. Ayhan’s idea was to get through the front gate among the day-pupils instead of crossing the backyard wall. For me, this was a dangerous option; the ‘Spy’ factor was daunting me.
There was the Spy at the gate; it wasn’t easy to pass over him. This old guard at the main gate of the school building used to know everybody who’s registered at the school, and inspect ins-outs every morning and evening, without letting a single bird flew away. He had had a face memory that he even remembered the guys who have graduated years ago.
Maybe because of that he was a real spook, nobody’d knew the Spy’s real name. He was a gimp moustached, witty and canny dark guy from the Blacksea. The day-pupils used to respect while the criminal boarders dislike and be afraid of him. Whenever he caught a sinner, he used to stick at his ears and extend him right to the vice-principal’s room.
On the way back, dressed like a daily guy, it was hard thing to pass without being caught to Spy; he’d knew who’s boarding and who’s day-pupil. Maybe by any chance, like dailies; books’n’papers at our hands, indigo jackets, gray pants and ties, by flowing into the crowd we could ooze-in from the main gate. We all aware that some successfull runaways who’d done this way, but it was very risky; once you’re duped, it was not possible to turn back.
And to sell stolen cola bottle-deposits to Canteen Kemal was as well an artful job to do; he would instantly be aroused to the subject. For being a helluva trader, so that; he’d developed a device to slice the cheese he put in the sandwiches into the leaves of transparent membranes in order to earn more, and when he saw the guilty expression on our face and the empty cola bottles, he would immediately would awake the situation, and probably offer us the half of the market price of the deposits. For that reason, we had to steal at least twenty bottles and get them in unbroken. Selling them half the price, it would cover one quarter of our journey costs hardly.
When Ayhan heard this part of the event, he began to say that this was called thievery and there were no small or big kind of that crime. I wasn’t expecting such a formalism from him. To pass the problem, I’ve had to argue this.
“You can’t be so dumb to call this bottle-deposit selling deal a thievery, I told him. And most of the people that we used to call thieves are also obliged to do that thing because of their helplessness, exigency and whats more, because they’re starving to death, not because of they want to live a more comfortable life. In my opinion, the real thieves are greedy people whose eyes are burning with covetousness.’’
I was a of guy who’s famous for defending the arguements of my beliefs at the class debates in a very enthusiastic way. Ayhan looked at my face smiling.
“In your opinion, what we’re gonna do is not thievery or something, is it so?’’
“Of course, boy. We are going to nick a few cola bottles which are worthless to the others, and we’ll do that for an honorable event, and in the name of indigence and despair, and the most important thing is we’ll do that without harming anybody. That’s all it’s gonna be...’’
His head was confused. Kept quiet, judged and decided that I was right. I told Ayhan that we couldn’t take the risk to enter from the main gate. We would get in from the same way that we got out, climbing from the rear wall. This event will be very difficult with ten cola bottles each in our pockets. It should be so... As a result, the harder this adventure is, the greater our pleasure would be... We were introducing into the outer world; we would gather fame as great voyagers in our own calibre, we’d travel other places to live other adventures. From then on, nobody would be able to hold us...
When we told it at the smokehouse, even the senior adventurers’ would grew vesicles. ‘Wow,’ they would say, ‘the kids’ve got the balls’. Our prestige would be damn high; we would be known as real tramps, not some kites as today.
This adventure was the most important exam at the school for us. We should be successfull, and we would be. Later on, we would mastermind other adventures, increase our experience, be the kings of the school. The girls would worship us... The teachers would hear about our fame, beware of us, and they would favour us at the lessons.
This affair would be so fabulous, so deadly stunning...

9
THE ESCAPE

After a mob of dreary lessons, Thursday program finished at last. Daily students scattered out with a clamour to get back to their homes. We were doing the final retouches to the road map of the activity that we’ll start tonight with Ayhan, and very excited. The rest of the gang have awakened that we’re setting a snare, they were sticked to Ayhan and I, and trying to wangle words out of us. At last, we told them that we’re gonna flee to do some ‘sneaky business’; they would manage our absence if anything occurs.
‘Sneaky business’ was a very sophisticated term that explains the obscure private life, gamble and love together with the sex needs. It was defining such a keen detail that nobody would dare to ask what it meant. Ziya, with his customary responsibility feeling, tried to learn the minimum information that he may need to manage the things during a potential unpleasantness.
“What kind of a sneaky biz is that?’’
Ayhan satisfied his curiosity.
“We’ll go to visit our chics boy, don’t give color...’’
“Don’t make fun of me!...’’
“Look Ziya, You know the girls at Moda...’’
“Yeah?...’’
“If anybody asks, tell them that we’re gonna go to the movies. It’s enough for you to know that, because of the nightguards we’ll stay in the coffee house until morning and get in here before breakfast. Don’t forget to put ‘bodies’ into our beds.’’
I winked. Ziya got the message, nodded.
“What’s the real story?’’
“Its better not to tell it to you. If you know nothing, you’ll rip up in case they grill you. Understood?’’
“Understood.’’
I told them not to panic and find some way to manage everything, if anything happens and we were not able to attain here in the morning. Just in case…
Because we’re excited, we could not eat anything properly at the dinner. We overlooked at the details of the plan of the great escape at least five times. The journey was very near, and we were ready for it.
At the first study, the curious cats of the gang forced us to an interrogation again. This time Ziya entered in between and comforted them by using the same tactic as ours.
“What will you do when you know it, gang. Leave them alone; they’re on the way to their birds maybe, or maybe to a whorehouse... Why do you ask so much? If they’re caught and they force to make you talk, you’ll drop into an unpleasant situation. Just let them go and come, they’ll tell us everything in the morning, ain’tcha?’’
“Yeah, of course...’’
“And they’ll all be published at NGA as well...’’
“Wow!...’’
Boys of the gang quitted to be uncomfortable of their curiousity and drawn with laughter. Oğuz entered into the next studyroom to sell the recent magazin. Before the second study, when the mutts rush down to the refectory in crowds, we slily sneaked out down to the backyard. We were fully equipped. At the seaside, we tied the end of the rope to the foot of the stirrer junk which’s been left there since the construction of the new school building. We had hidden that rope inside the cement tank. We swang the other end right down to other side of the wall. Stepping on the knots, we climbed down on the ground. We left the rope there; it would be necessary on the way back.
A torch at Ayhans hand, he’s in front and me at his tail, we walked along the steep cliff, and passed to the Priest’s Meadow. We’ve lived danger of falling down a few times; we couldn’t see properly the ground we stepped. Mostly, furious stray dogs used to wander around at that meadow. One of the most fearful thing for us was to be attacked by them. There wasn’t anything to defend ourselves other than the light of our torch. Ayhan’s filled his pockets with coarse pebble stones and he also relied on to the kicks with his military heavy boots. Why not be possible; if we’d seen the dogs at that pitch-black darkness, we would throw kicks as well as we throw stones...
To pass through the meadow from one edge to the other has lasted fifteen minutes. We saw two grey dogs approaching silently as the lights of the teagarden on the other side gave shadow to the trees in the darkness. The dogs gave up following as we bunked going beyond the the wall of the garden. They just contented to bark bluffly and growl. We talked and laughed that how lucky we were to pass over this keen teethed barrier in the beginning of the journey.
It was round nine. We arrived the cape where the teagarden was. First, we talked and drank tea inside. Then played three-balls pool game about fourty minutes. I was defeated by Ayhan as usual. As I paid the bill and we left there, he remembered to ask how I managed the money business. Usually he wasn’t interested in financial things and used to leave the mission on me.
“We’ve got money for everything. We can sip two bears for each, have some fried muscles and kickshaw. Excessing that can force our budget.’’
Ayhan was surely consented with that I counted. He licked his lips and gulped.
“How much time can we spend there?’’
“Untill eleven thirty. Then we’re gonna take the twelve train from the Sögütlüçeşme.’’
“It’s sure enough; the more time will be boring at the beerhouse… Did you emptied all of the safe?’’
“Yes, there were more than twenty bucks there, but it won’t cover all the night. I’ve borrowed ten bucks for this reason. Pay back with the bottles we’ll get in.’’
“From whom did you borrow?’’
“Eat the grape but don’t ask the vineyard...’’
I’ve drawn Ayhan some longbow. It seemed that the cola bottle deposits we’ll pilfer won’t be able to cover the ten bucks loan I’ve got from the unique loan-shark of the school, Sami the CF, but also I haven’t think of the way to refund it yet.
The best was to do everything when its time has come; they used to cut the rooster’s head who crows too early.

10
THE JOURNEY

Wise men know; Kadiköy was a landing that had plenty of old and new boozers then. We plunged into the most famous beerhouse full-hazy of cigarette smoke inside, ordering two beers right away. The beerhouse was playing a well known, weepy a-la-Turca record: ‘Give me a consolation’. All the customers inside where already pretty tipsy. It was a nice place with cheap beers that you could stand side by side with the drunkards to have companionship. Ayhan was cheerfully looking around when some guy at the next table asked something about the horse races. We told him that we know nothing about packhorses.
“Did you order fried mussels?’’
“I’ve got it covered. I’ve also ordered some kickshaw as well...’’
The goods came within a minute. We slurped down the foamy beers clinking cheers. We were bolting down some hot peanuts and almonds, as well.
A-ahh, what more could we want from life?
In forty minutes, we were smashed from slurping down the two big beers; we were walking like a couple of crabs while going to the bathroom. I looked at my watch and told Ayhan we needed to get going towards Sögütlüçeşme. We had a long way to go; we would walk to the railway station to take the train to the ferry landing at Kartal. The way of journey was a joy ride for us. We were constantly walking and commenting on the people, trees, cars, roads, buildings and everything we saw on the way.
Our train journey was pleasant. Catching the Yalova ferryboat just on time, we bought out tickets and got on the boat along with the truck drivers and the sellers while watching people around us. It seemed like there really was no one else but these people the boat at these late hours of the day. We quickly went on to the saloon upstairs to have a smoke, which would help us look older and hide our timid looks. Fifteen minutes into the boat’s departure, most of the truckers had curled up on the wooden benches to take a nap.
The truck driver sleeping on the bench right in front us might be seeing an erotic dream as he had his hand under his pants. The crutch of his pants had gotten sticky at the end. We were curled up in our chairs, chain-smoking our cigarettes away. Still, we were some unprotected and flashy boys; we could easily be the victim of a horny bastard in that cruel world.
About an hour later, we went outside to watch the boat getting closer to the pier. We stood there in the dry cold, under the stars, where it was cold but enjoyable. Ayhan’s eyes were shining with the hype of the journey.
“Hey man, I told him, playfully punching his shoulder. No worries; We’ve already completed almost one-third of the mission.’’
He said nothing. I couldn’t help but ask what he was thinking as I saw him deep in thought. He avoided my question and smiled. Upon my insistence, he mentioned of his worry for the future.
Then he turned to me and asked,
“What to you plan to do in the future?’’
I laughed at this; it was almost like the classic “what do you want to be when you grow up?” question. He took my reaction in, and asked if I was thinking of a particular profession. I told him that I found it meaningless to plan the future from now on. Life was a long road with a foggy end; I would go wherever it took me…
Ayhan’s mother and uncle were both doctors, which made me assume Ayhan would want to be one as well. I was wrong.
“I want to find a job that is dangerous but useful to the society, a job only a few people in this world do.’’
I found this strange.
“What would that job be, being a policeman or something?’’
“I don’t know. It could be a number of things, like bomb specialist or private investigator…’’
That made me start to tease him.
“You want somebody’s wife to come up to you and say 'oh detective, I need to know if my husband’s cheating on me, and by the way, how handsome you are’, right?’’
“Don’t joke about this! he snarled. I don’t want to be an engineer or a lawyer like everybody else.’’
“What about medicine? Didn’t your family want you to be a doctor? But being a medicine guy doesn’t fit your dreams, does it. It’s a common profession now.’’
“It was the most sensible choice for the future I thought for myself, actually. I see you look down on doctors, then…’’
“I do. My uncle says, even though medicine is one of the oldest professions in the world, it’s held back due to faulty education. If medical engineering weren’t so evolved and developed, these guys would totally flunk. All the world’s money is being spent on all the medicinal research that’s being done, and the results are still unsatisfactory. You see, they still haven’t found a cure for cancer.’’
“Well, it’s easy for you to say these things. Boy, everything else in this world is degenerating, so who’s to say medicine won’t. Even if cancer was cured, there’ll always be other fatal illnesses…’’
“There already are. I heard there’s this horrible disease spreading through the gays in America. It’s a virus attacking the immunity system and it doesn’t even have a name yet.’’
We truly weren’t aware what AIDS was back then. Years later, we would hear of it as a commonly spreading sinister curse…
“Yeah, I heard. Anyway, when it is time and if I feel gifted enough, I’d still like to be a doctor. What else is there to do but serve humanity in this world?’’
“Ah, boy, not for me. I wouldn’t want to be a doctor. Definitely not…’’
“Why?’’
I tried to explain why. In fact, I was trying to convince him. If he were to finish school and go off to study medicine, I was afraid Ayhan and I would grow apart. He was a friend I never wanted to separate from. We were together and we would be together.
“There was this son of a family friend studying medicine. The guy was studying anatomy right from his first year, you should have seen the book he had for it, I’d never want to see it again.’’
“Why is that?’’
“Studying anatomy dulls a man’s streak of creativity, it kills his sexual appetite. The book was as thick as at least three stacked bricks, boy…’’
For some reason, he wasn’t laughing at my jokes.
“You know how to crack those jokes. If you ask me, you should a comedian. It’s up to you, though…’’
I wanted to act like I was offended, but I couldn’t bother. Then we both laughed like we were crazy. The tension between us was gone. A tea maker was walking past us; we took one each and drank. All the empty Cola bottles from the buffet were outside. We talked of how we would swipe away those bottles on the way back. It would be easy, the bottles were so conveniently and casually ‘thrown away’ just like that…
The ones who don’t take measures, were always bound to have their property be swiped away. No thief had any fault in that.

11
YALOVA

The boat was slowly reaching to the shore. Lights around the pier grew bigger by the minute. We walked downstairs as we kept chatting. The wind was fairly strong; blowing away our hair, buzzing in our ears: we were having a hard time hearing each other. The Yalova pier was quite hectic. We could see the open restaurants lined by the square. Ayhan pointed his finger towards where we would go.
We got off the ferryboat and walked past the peddlers around, chatting, while heading towards the main street at the end of the square. His goals about the future had me thinking too. I told him about my wish to study something about Art. It was hard for a young man in this country to make a university, or even a job choice.
“An artist in Turkey will suffer, boy. Don’t you know that?’’
“As if you don’t suffer doing any other job… See if you’re a private detective or a bomb specialist. Your life will be on the ground, and at the same time you’ll have to struggle like hell to make a living and get through the day.’’
We found the restaurants on the main street to be unlikeable and were drawn back by the fact that they were overly priced. A tripe-soup place on one of the cross streets seemed like just the place we were looking for. We dived in. It wasn’t as narrow and cramped on the inside as it seemed; there were about ten tables. There were only a few people eating, given the late hour. A fat man who seemed to be the owner was serving. It was two in the morning, the next day’s programme blazing through the radio; it was as if the world was asleep.
We ordered tripe soup. To top it, Ayhan, disregarding the fact that we had little money, ordered a lamb intestine for himself. The waiter hollered at the cook inside our order in a language we didn’t understand; which we laughed at cheerfully among ourselves. We had only spooned up our soups twice, when a tall, pale man in black reached our table.
“Good evening, kids, may I sit?’’
We barely muttered a ‘good evening.’ He plopped down on a chair he found without waiting for an answer.
“So, young men, how’s it going, huh? Where are you coming from?’’
How the hell does this man know we’re passengers, I thought for a second. I half-heartedly asnwered him.
“We come from İstanbul…’’
“You students there?’’
I slowly took another spoonful from my soup, keeping quiet. I wanted him to realize we didn’t want him there. Nevertheless, he responded to our silence, insisting on his question.
“Are you?…’’
He didn’t care about bothering us. On the contrary, when I glanced at him with the corner of my eye, he had a bizarre smirk on his face; examining us with narrowed and bloody eyes, almost as if he would bite us with his sharp yellow teeth behind those purple lips. The tone of his voice changed when he had to ask three times.
“What the hell are you doing here at this hour?’’
We didn’t do anything to be interrogated. Ayhan shot out his answer in a deadpan voice.
“We were hungry, and here we are drinking our soup… Is that bothering you?’’
The man ignored his attitude.
“Why did you come here and who are you looking for? That’s the question you fellas need to answer…’’
Ayhan got irritated, shaking his spoon in the man’s face while snarling.
“That is none of your business! Besides, we surely don’t have to explain ours…’’
Then I broke in on it and interrupted him.
“We came here to my uncle’s, he’s from Yalova!...’’
The man turned to me to talk.
“Is that so? Who’s that uncle of yours?’’
Ayhan was grunting at my attempt to cool the water and soften the man.
“Hikmet Kartal,’’ I quickly shot back. ‘’Lives on Republic Avenue, number seventeen…’’
I figured, every place had a Republic Avenue. The man hesitated for a moment to search his mind.
“Don’t know him. You sure he lives in Yalova?’’
He paused again, thinking. I swallowed and took a spoon of my soup. I could sense what was about to come, and it couldn’t be good. He turned to Ayhan now and pointed at the millitary flashlight hanging from his belt.
“What the hell is that torch doing there?’’
Ayhan had skipped on to eating his kokorech now. He was trying to look calm and collected.
“Why do you ask? Is it a crime to carry a torch and eat in a restaurant at night?’’
He stared at Ayhan with glassy eyes. His lips had formed a mocking smirk.
“Depends on what you use that torch for…’’
Ayhan asked without lifting his head.
“Are you a cop?’’
He started threatening us instead of answering.
“If you don’t explain this flashlight to me, you’ll spend the night behind bars.’’
I jumped in; I had prepared a story in my head.
“Me and my cousin, we come from Istanbul, from Maltepe. We come here once a month to visit my uncle. See, from where we come from, the electric substation blew up… No electricity, on the streets or anywhere else, we didn’t want to fall…’’
The man had stopped listening to me; he interrupted me by putting his hands up in the air.
“Quit the stories. I know damn well what sort of little pricks you are.’’
There was another silence. I was trying to calm myself down by lighting a smoke when I heard Ayhan’s icy voice.
“Look, we ran away from school, okay?!’’
Clearing his face from expression and ready for a fight, he surely thought he shouldn’t need to lie. He turned his frame fully towards the man.
“Yeah, so, is there a problem with that?!’’
The expression on the man’s face didn’t change at all; he was gazing into Ayhan’s eyes, tempting him to tell more. And so Ayhan kept telling.
“Is this a crime or what? We ran away and used a light to keep from falling in the dark, alright?’’
I could sense that he was not a cop. I had a hunch that things would go wrong. Almost like a lawyer, he slowly spoke his words to Ayhan.
“That’s what I guessed. Running away is a crime, surely. Besides, even a bigger crime is running away from home and school this late at night, to steal in another area.’’
Ayhan jumped up from his seat at this. He started shouting as flames of fire danced in his angry eyes.
“Hey, what the hell are you saying? Are you calling us thieves, now?!’’
All eyes in the room turned to us. The man wasn’t bothered at all. Instead, he almost ordered in a firm and cold as ice voice.
“Sit down! I didn’t call you thieves. Only the court can decide on that.’’
I tried to calm Ayhan down, who was aching for a fight. I had the ability to keep calm and be political in times of crisis. I tried to sustain Ayhan with a friendly warning and take the argument into my own hands.
“Sir, just what are you trying to accomplish? What’s your motive in trying to corner us? You as well as I know that we’re not thieves of any sort and-…’’
This time he interrupted me more harshly than before and stood up.
“I don’t have no motive, I have duties. My duty right now is to catch you with the crime tools before the act of crime. Now get your stuff, we’re leaving…’’
We didn’t move an inch. I asked him his name and what department he worked in; told him we wanted to see his police ID.
“I don’t need to answer to you. A policeman doesn’t answer to criminals and runaways. The men at the station will read you your rights.’’
He was getting sassier. I locked eyes with the owner of the restaurant standing by the cashier, but he clearly didn’t know who this man was. The man stood up from where he was sitting. He had his strange, bloody eyes fixed on mine without blinking. His face was pale and his thin lips were a dark shade of purple. Suddenly, I saw the fresh looking scars on the left side of his neck, barely hidden by his collar. Upon realizing where I was looking at, he nervously fixed his collar with a quick hand. His hands had a strangeness that I couldn’t quite put my finger on, I noticed for the first time. These hands left me with nervousness and fright. My intuition never failed me, thus we were in danger.
Turning towards the door, he motioned for us to come outside.
“Hurry up and come, I’ll be waiting outside.’’
There wasn’t a single moment of hesitation on his pale frame; his order was firm and clear. He walked out the door without once turning back. In a haze of uncertainty and confusion, we reached the cashier and paid our bill. The owner worriedly told us he didn’t know the guy, but that these days the streets weren’t so safe, and that they’d constantly hear of someone being attacked; that the local newspapers were on this for a few months now…
“Maybe he’s really a cop, I don’t know… Just in case though, you boys should go back home as soon as you can, alright?’’
We were scared to the point of pissing our pants, but we still didn’t think to call the police and ask for help. We had run away from school using flashlights, thinking we were involved with illegal acts.
Ayhan suggested we beat him up with tools like knives and sticks from the kitchen; our chances were high as he was two against one. I strongly argued against this violent plan. I tried to tell him, in my own clumsy way, that first of all, it would be harder than we think to knock this guy out.
“These lunatics are very strong. They call it “lunatic strength”, you know. Besides, they’re used to fighting from all the trouble they look for every night…’’
“That guy is a goddamn psycho… He’s not a lunatic!’’
I looked for a way to calm him down. I wasn’t looking forward to get in a fight.
“Look Ayhan, these streets are his home. This place is his “space”, his area, do you get it? We might not be able to get him down. Let’s not take that risk.’’
His face was filled with rage.
“I’ll smash his head in with only one kick, boy!’’
“Okay, Ayhan. You might just do that, but what’s the point of fighting with this goddamn dog and making a fool of ourselves? If this goes to the police, which will, if we fight him in the middle of a street, we’re gonna have to explain ourselves to the police at the station, and they’re gonna lock us up, and we’re gonna get kicked out of school. The best thing we can do is, not get involved with this psycho and run back to school, alright?’’
The idea that we might get into trouble with the police set him straight. I told him how we would escape.
“Let’s walk around the ferry bridge to make him lose our trail, then we’ll get on the ferry…’’
We took a peek at him from the door. He was standing there in a corner, waiting for us under the streetlight across the street, wearing a long black coat with its collars up, looking like the wings of a bat. He seemed to have no doubt that we wouldn’t bail on him.
I thought of the scars on his neck, and shivered. Those fresh-looking scars looked like those of a cutting, stiff rope. I searched for a reason why they might be there, but I couldn’t. I asked Ayhan whether he noticed the indescribable bizarreness on those hands of his or not. He did; those marks and scratches, said they looked like nail and teeth scars. Almost as if…
I stopped the conversation short to prevent us from getting more worried, and skipped on to the escape plan.
“Count to three, we go left again from the first street…’’
I counted, and we hurled ourselves ahead. We were both soccer players; we could run pretty fast. We dived into the first dark street we saw to the left in a hurry, not looking back once. We turned left again by a pile of trash in the dark. After running about a hundred and fifty feet, we were at a loss when faced with a high garden wall. It was a cruel misfortune. Every moment we lost was of fatal importance to us. We could get caught, we could be late for the ferry… Once we turned back and started running again to find another way to escape, our nerves were at a high end.
Even after turning left, then taking another left turn and running for minutes we couldn’t get to Seaport Street. On top of that, we didn’t know where we were. We dove into the streets one after another, every one of them darker and scarier than the other… It was four in the morning, and the city was left with a fog, making it impossible to see through the air. Ayhan came to a sudden stop and signaled me to do the same. Out of breath, I went and stood by his side. My lungs were burning like they were on fire.
“I now see that I shouldn’t have listened to you,’’ he said.
I didn’t think my escape plan would face so many obstacles. I reacted to his words, proposing that if he has a better idea, to please enlighten me. He started yelling.
“After we beat that psycho in front of that restaurant, we were gonna get on the ferry and leave! It was that simple! Now look at us!’’
“Don’t be stupid! Did you think that dude was just gonna let us to kick him and beat him there, like a lifeless potato sack? Now don’t get all mad and raise your voice…’’
“Would you prefer he caught up with us now, when we’re too tired to fight back? We made a mistake, boy. A bi-iig mistake.’’
“Don’t worry, Ayhan. Look, we made him lose our trail, and when we take this road to get to the pier…’’
“It us who lost the trail, boy; we don’t even know how to get to the pier from here.’’
I wasn’t about to sit and think of the consequences for my mistake. I cut it short and quickly went through all the roads we walked through in my head.
“This street on the right s-should take us to the m-main road.’’
I was stuttering from being so nervous. Just then, from the darkness not too far away from the street we were at, a giant bat appeared. We were scared to death. There wasn’t any single source of light in the foggy street. We were frozen to the ground. When he drifted towards us in his flying coat, I saw that odd twinkle in his eyes up close.
His whispering voice was polite.
“Don’t run away, kids. Come, let’s have something to drink together, let’s talk.’’
He was out of breath just like us, which meant he had been running after us from the start. He had reached out with his hands, walking towards us and getting closer. I was trying to figure out what he was after in my head; he wasn’t a simple psycho, he was a dangerous lunatic and he was going to kill us.
When he took a couple of more steps, Ayhan nervously shouted with a shaking voice.
“What the hell do you want from us?! Don’t come closer!’’
He ignored this and kept coming closer. Ayhan had taken his position to attack. He was holding out his flashlight with a tight grasp, casting the light to the man’s face.
“Hey, did you hear me, we’ll make the whole neighborhood come down here! I said don’t come closer!!’’
“Alright, calm down. Calm down… All I want from you is to be good boys. Come on, let’s talk a little…’’
Not being able to stand it any longer, I clasped Ayhan’s arm. With all the strength it took me, I pulled him to the opposite direction and dragged his body along with me. We were running again. The dark streets insisted not taking us to the pier. I was running senselessly; I couldn’t see or hear anything now.
I almost toppled over when coming to a stop after tripping on a soft object in the middle of the street. I held on to the stone wall of a house with one hand and worriedly looked around. There was nobody in sight.
I went back in a hurry, trying to recognize the roads I came from. As I was about to shout for help, I felt a cold hand on my back and a big hand grabbed my shoulder. I yelled out with all the strength I had and turned around, throwing a fist. He got rid of me with a quick body movement and grabbed both of my arms like a press machine.
He was unbelievably strong. I let myself loose for a second and then broke free with all the strength it took me. I tried to kick his face in a fast move. He toppled me over by holding my lifted leg, criss-crossing my arms over my upper body with hands like metal clamps. Collapsing on my ribs, he pressed on my locked-in-a-twist hands, stuffing my mouth with his hand as he got his face very close to mine. I felt like everything was over when I looked at that dull, cold expression in his eyes. His bad breath burned my throat.
As a last effort, I tried to bite his hand over my mouth. Quickly he drew back, and without even giving me a chance to breathe, he landed a strong slap on my face. The back of my head I was about to lift hit the corner of the pavement. I felt no pain, with the paralyzing sense of horror taking over my body. He grabbed me by the collar with his other hand and pulled me towards him.
I was swallowed by the darkness with the sudden blow in my ear.
I remembered the first time my mother with the face of an angel took me to school, me and her walking up the stairs, her putting white sheets on the bed they showed us. Ah, my mother… When we said good bye, she kissed my curly-haired head with teary eyes. I was her little baby, and for the first time I was to stay overnight at a place other then my home. She gave me a ton of advice, she didn’t want me to get in trouble.
I hugged her tight, now I was crying too.
I literally woke up crying. I had the worst headache and the feeling of being left under tons of weight. I felt sick in my stomach, too. My arm was around Ayhan’s shoulders; he had grabbed me from my waist and was dragging me along. Once I felt a little bit more like myself, I asked him to let go of me. Holding on to a tree I hardly kept my balance and tried to rub out all the dirt on my pants. I was missing one shoe. I pulled my sock up a little, covered with dirt.
My teeth were clattering. We were by the booths now. The ferryboat was by the pier, and the trucks had formed two lines, slowly proceeding towards it. I bent over at the nearest tree and puked my guts out. My eyes were full of tears, cold sweat was dripping off my back.
I returned to where Ayhan was with shaky legs. He was motionlessly standing there and staring at me. I noticed a deep cut on his face, from the corner of his swollen lips to his right cheek. He had the collar of his shirt ripped off, and the knees of his light-colored pants were stained with dirt and blood. I brought my hand to and touched the throbbing lump at the back of my head. For a while, I waited for Ayhan to speak up and fill me in on what happened back there.
He said nothing.
We bought our tickets and nearly crawled our way to the boat. Sat side by side at the wretched lounge upstairs. Ordered tea and lighted a smoke. His hand had become a swollen and bloody piece of meat, trembling as he held the match.
Once the ferry took off I looked out from the window, the sun had come up. I could see the silhouettes of people and cars getting smaller by the pier. My eyes searched for the silhouette of that goddamn son of a bitch. Once we left the pier behind and I calmed down, I ached to ask Ayhan, “Are you not going to tell me what happened?” I thought about it, but couldn’t find the courage to do it. I examined him and myself, the condition we were in and out torn clothes some more. Every time I looked I noticed something new and I would shiver, going out of breath.
Then, I saw the mark on Ayhan’s neck. Involuntarily, I wanted to reach up and touch that disgusting and odd-looking cut with my fingers. With eyes full of hatred, he firmly pushed my hand back. I swallowed, pulling back a bit. At last, I noticed his lips slightly moving.
His voice was ice cold.
“Let’s not see each other at school anymore and let’s both…’’
He paused. I understood what he was going to say. I finished his sentence.
“Forget about tonight…’’

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