AGAINST WINDMILLS

A novel by
ERCAN AKBAY

1989

1
JAZZINO
Destroying is a creative action.
There is no way to reset a life that’s heading down because if a building is ruined beyond repair, it’s better to demolish it first and then build it from scratch again. In 1988, I was so depressed that I couldn’t find the strength to carry on. For many months, I struggled to pull myself together and to heal myself but it didn’t work. I just couldn’t do it.
I failed.
By the time Hasan picked me up from the dirt at the end of pitch-black nights, I was still weak in the head. I had hit rock bottom after losing the love of my life and an old schoolmate. I was buried in deep grief. You don’t know how the end began; Hasan took the first steps to revive our almost bankrupt company. He ran around in excitement because of his accomplishments, and he used the power he gained with the money he received from the Americans. Eventually, I managed to get a grasp on myself and joined him. First, we rented a stylish office, and then we hired new staff. We were in business again. Our partner company from the States, which was especially known for its graphics cards and visual computing solutions, offered interesting hardware and software products.
I began to change my life slowly after things went well for some time and devoted myself to art. Let’s call it a kind of a ‘need for expression.’ In addition to my musical work, I wrote a few mystery stories, which weren’t published and which I wasn’t sure would be published. I also made some oil paints, which people who knew stuff about painting defined as something like ‘naïve-expressionist.’ Don’t get me wrong: I wasn’t trying to be a famous artist. I was just keeping myself occupied. I had even arranged a small music studio in the flat I bought to make the most of the joy I had by playing the guitar and writing songs. It was a simple studio: a recording desk consisting of a computer that could write midi files, a recorder with four tracks, a midi keyboard, a few small sound processors, and a microphone... The music industry was not at its best. Popular music was in great demand, and the electronic arrangements performed by the pain in the neck called midi made you long for even the ‘80s. But still, jazz and alternative musicians who made music for real music lovers struggled to survive with heart and soul.
I frequented the best clubs where I spend my lonely evenings having fun as a bachelor: alcohol, dancing and bedtime stories... Suddenly, I had a lot of women in my life now that I was no longer poor. What can I say? Thank God, I was good at this. Very good, indeed...
At the end of 1988, I decided to sell my shares to my partner Hasan and set off for a brand new adventure. Well, you can’t go against your nature. So what is better than managing a nightclub for a not-even-thirty-old-man to get himself into trouble? I didn’t turn down the offer of two buddies who bought an unsuccessful French restaurant in Gayrettepe with the aim of transforming it into a high quality jazz club so that they could gain some power in that glamorous world and became their partner. Soon, they discovered that I could meet all their needs: I was a hard-working, well-to-do, energetic, and enthusiastic fool who also knew a bit about music... For them, this was much better than hiring a business manager. I was to be in charge of designing and managing the club. As if I needed an excited new adventure, I gave up everything else and got down to work. We completed the legal establishment process rapidly and set off. Our jazz club that was located on Yildizposta Street had quite a large main hall. It was a square-shaped space of almost four hundred square meters without any columns in the way. It was a perfect place, which also had an annex including a kitchen, restrooms and an office room. Contrary to many entertainment venues in Istanbul, it had been constructed with the main aim of providing space for entertainment from the very beginning.
Askin P., one of my two partners in Jazzino, was a thirty-four-year-old man who used to sell high-tech products, and although he was somewhat of a boaster, he was also a very convincing salesman. He didn’t know a single word in a foreign language, yet he had somehow managed to become the sole representative of a few foreign brands including products such as projectors and sound and lighting systems used in clubs and discotheques. I mean, he was a smart and skilful guy who had founded a well-going company at the time, although through some hanky panky... He had brought together a couple of former jazz musicians to form an ‘advisory committee’ for Jazzino. It sounded really cool: ‘Jazzino Advisory Board.’ You know, a flamboyant description like ‘the Board of Aldermen’ or ‘the House of Representatives.’
Holy shit!
The advisory board consisting of old jazz masters were quite useful at the beginning. However, they cost us a lot... They drank like fish, and what’s more, they also offered other people drinks on our cost. Especially Brother Erol – may he rest in peace – latched on to me whenever he got tanked up. He explained – I don’t know how many times – how he had founded the first jazz group in Turkey and preached about the kind of jazz I should listen to. "You know son," he said, "nobody listens to anything else but classic jazz in such clubs. Don’t ever play guys like Chick Korea or Keith Jarrett. Not even during breaks. You’re going to tire people!"
"Sure, Brother Erol..."
"In the ‘40s and the ‘50s, jazz giants used to come to Istanbul: Paul Desmond, Dave Brubeck, you know... I was the one who taught them how to play the complex rhythms. Brubeck composed Take Five here. It’s actually a 5/4 Turkish rhythm. You know..." As he spoke, he used to imitate the beats and the accents of the rhythm using his voice and his hands.
"I know, bro," I always said as I nodded.
While I put together a group called Istanbul Jazz Quartet consisting of some friends I knew through my cousin who was a famous jazz musician and saxophone player, I got down to applying a formula that would pack Jazzino with customers starting from day one. We hired Can O. – a young and popular theater actor at the time – as the MC and managed to have the actors and actresses in the city to flock the club. Those are the people who are the real nighthawks in the city; they need to cut loose after each performance.
After a short preparation period of two months, we finally opened Jazzino in mid-January. More or less, we had to maintain the existing decoration, which resembled a Far Eastern brothel because we didn’t have much time to change it. The season was already half way. Owners of entertainment venues know it well: when the month of May comes, the winter venues in Istanbul don’t have too many guests anymore, and then everything stops until September.
We paid bigger attention to tasks such as the setup of things that required good technical skills and money such as the music equipment, the preparation of the stage and lighting. After that, we dealt with the work to control the areas that would bring the real cash such as service, the kitchen and the bar. We found a good chef, a maitre d’hôtel, bartenders, and waiters. And in the end, a giddy flashy jazz club was born.
Many journalists came to our cocktail party because we ran a successful promotion campaign, and afterwards, they canvassed us so well that the elite lovers of entertainment in the entire city kept talking about us. In those days, public relations, or PR as people often say, was still an aspiring profession in Turkey. It was a difficult concept for people like us to grasp, who weren’t aware of any means of promotion other than advertisements and inserts.
Our ‘PR consultant’ Ipek A., whom Askin engaged to our company perhaps because he wanted to give himself a cool image, was an attractive woman in her early thirties. She knew everyone in high society. Since designing the image of or club was assigned to ‘Lady Ipek,’ I kept away from that part of the work. However, when the PR costs reached peak toward the grand opening, I ended up being involved in those things again.
"Never in my life did I have such an expensive printing work! Did they print these catalogues in gold? " I asked Askin.
“We have to make sure what we get is high quality. We can’t have our stuff printed in cheap print houses. No way! Besides, the service sets and the napkins are included in that price. We had Hulki, the famous graphic artist as you know, to design the visuals. I mean...”
Askin had a lisp, and he tried to conceal it by repeating certain phrases such as ‘I mean’ over and over again. He acted as if not us but somebody else would cover all the cost. I objected. “We’ve already paid a small fortune to him for the logo, the posters, the signboard, and the invitations.”
“Those are different,” he said. Then he turned his back toward me as he continued by saying, “Ipek should also earn some money so that she serves us well, right? In the end, she’s the one who’s going to attract the journalists, the high society and the celebrities. It’s no game. I mean...”
“I see,” I murmured. “Sure it’s no game. Journalists are important. Right...”
In those days, I used to say ‘yes’ to everything. I had become such a mellow guy. Bar management was something I didn’t know well. Therefore, I had to be reasonable and leery. You know...
Although most of the journalists left our club at nine thirty without waiting for our jazz quartet who would take stage one hour before the usual time, they all wrote articles that said how fabulous the music had been...
God bless them, too...
I saw Askin before the cocktail party that was supposed to take place at seven thirty. Dressed in a tuxedo, he was combing his hair in front of the mirror in the men’s room. He had his beard shaped like that of Mandrake the Magician and wore a burgundy colored bow tie with yellow polka dots. “What’s up, Kohen?” he said as he grinned at me from the mirror.
“Where the hell did this Kohen name come from?”
Actually, I knew the answer. The other day, he had introduced me to some people as his Jewish partner... Apparently, he though I looked like a Jewish man especially when I wore a cap around my curly hair....
“Man, isn’t it good? Thanks to you, now the whole market and all the banks trust us because our partner is Jewish! Ha ha haa...” He had done it again. He laughed in that same disturbing way. “Everything’s done, right?” he said. “People will start filling in half an hour, I mean.”
I didn’t say anything. As I approached my room with a huge frown on my face, I noticed my other partner Taygun B. at the other end of the corridor. He was a well-built, blond guy with a moustache who was around twelve years older than I was. He had two kids. Usually he wasn’t much of a talker, but probably because he had Albanian blood, he became persistent and stubborn as a mule if he believed he was right. “Two hundred and fifty or maybe three hundred people will come tonight. I’m afraid the air conditioners are not going to be sufficient.” He was good at technical stuff. “We have to keep that vent sash open…” he pointed at the ventilation pipes on the ceiling and the wall behind which the bar was located.
“All right, bro. I’ll have that done. But in the evening... Not now. It’s already ice cold in there.” I tried my best to get rid of him.
“Let’s keep that in mind... By the way, the liquor guy is here. He wants his money. There, outside. You take care of him...”
Although I had only twenty percent shares, they had me take care of all payments for some reason. I didn’t say anything and just went out and paid the guy. I was thinking that we’d settle accounts once this burden was off our back.
In half an hour, people started coming. We were in one of the biggest business centers in the city where parking wasn’t a problem. In fact, there weren’t any alternatives in that neighborhood that could be turn into a rival. During the party, each one of us as the partners gave information to a separate group of journalists. Every now and then, I heard the things Askin said in a swanky manner. “I will introduce you to our advisory committee. Come again during the week, and we’ll talk. Extremely good jazz players will take stage, stage... He-re...”
The cocktail party ended at nine thirty. More people than expected came, and they devoured and gulped down whatever was available. I hurried to the office and ordered drinks for the second time. After the cocktail, we were going to charge money for the drinks. The Istanbul Jazz Quartet took stage at an early hour of the evening as we had instructed them to do for this special night. When they finished playing the intro song, Can, the announcer, walked to the stage and addressed the guests in a pompous manner.
“Dear guests and jazz lovers, welcome!”
Applause... Then he introduced the members of the orchestra.
Applause again...
“You’ve just listened to Duke Ellington’s ‘It Don’t Mean a Thing...” After that he made a strange comment about the song and then went on to reading the names of the following songs. Jazzino’s jazzy style would keep on with such ceremonies... After the orchestra played five or six songs, Can would come on the stage, tell a joke or something interesting, and then announce the next session of the band’s repertoire. This was our initial decision.
Our drummer Aydin T. was a real character, who was my classmate from high school and also a graduate of the Berkley School of Music in Boston. His music knowledge was profound, and when he talked, he used much humor that reflected his intelligence and his warm personality. He played the drum with a style as ‘cool’ and ‘swingy’ as that of Elvin Jones. His big green eyes with corners sloping downward made him look like Ringo Starr of Beatles.
Oguz, in other words ‘Charlie,’ played the double bass. As everyone knew, Oguz was one of the most favorite musicians jazz clubs in Istanbul sought in those days because this guy, who was almost as skinny as a skeleton, had a deep bass tone that was as clear as a bone... He was well trained and experienced, and he always fulfilled his part in the orchestras he played perfectly. However, because he was a little too mellow and shy, nobody expected him to perform creative double bass solos. But he accompanied the others with his double bass, which provided some groove that helped the drummer play more dynamically.
Cem P., whose father were American and whose mother came from a family of opera singers, was a graduate of New York Julliard School. This finicky guy was interested in experimental jazz piano styles. He favored composing Acid Jazz rather than the standard kind of jazz music we were all used to hearing in local jazz clubs. This handsome, blonde pianist with blue eyes had an Australian girlfriend named Leda, who started working as a barmaid in Jazzino starting from day one...
Inal D., the trumpet player, was a young talent who still went to the conservatory in those days. In addition to using his instrument dexterously, our soloist performed lyrical improvisations with a natural swing. In the following years, he would become quite known as a noteworthy jazz musician.
The Istanbul Jazz Quartet started the second set with ‘Stella by Starlight’ on our crowded opening night. Two other talented soloists would join us in the late hours of the night. My cousin Tahsin Unuvar, whom I’d mentioned earlier, was an accomplished tenor and soprano saxophonist. Tahsin and a young Turkish woman who was said to have a black woman’s voice would take stage after midnight during the third set. I didn’t know her.
Long story short, the music, the timber and distribution of the sound, the lighting, and the atmosphere were excellent... I received much praise as the person who brought together the orchestra and the technical equipment. Both Askin and Taygun were smiling from ear to ear. Naturally, this night of success also meant good profit...
The Istanbul Jazz Quartet unleashed themselves and played with full excitement, and they enthused the audience, too. The guests had gulped down the free drinks during the cocktail party, and now, everyone was talking like a waterfall. I stopped and chatted at different tables with a few beautiful women I already knew. They had an inviting an attitude that promised things could happen in the night. Or maybe I thought that was the case…
Go for it man! The sky is your limit!
Just as I was about to take a seat next to one of the girls, planning to stroke her legs under the table, Aydin the drummer came and said there were some problems.
“You guys go to the back office,” I said, “I’ll be there in a minute.” He looked upset and somewhat frustrated. I left the sweetie all alone and crestfallen and headed for the office on the right side of the corridor.
This room was the only administrative space Jazzino had: a ten square-meter, windowless room populated with a desk, a big safe box, two armchairs for guests, and a coffee table. Besides, the oil burner and the ventilation system were also controlled from this room. The four cavaliers of the orchestra were waiting inside. The noise outside was incredible. Even though I shut the door, you had to yell inside the room.
I was surprised when Cem, the pianist, started talking with an arrogant attitude. “We can’t work under these conditions. The fret-board of the piano is terrible. I can’t even hear my own sound from the monitors. There’s a horrible echo on the stage because of the mirrors behind us. Basically, everything sucks...”
Aydin interrupted before Cem was done: “Is this a cabaret or what, man? Why the hell is that jerk called Can introducing us? It’s not very becoming to a stylish jazz club!”
I took alternating glances at their faces. I was astonished. Aydin continued with his words: “No such thing is acceptable in a club...”
“And?” I asked. This was all I could say.
“And there are other problems too...”
Charlie and Inal didn’t say a single word. For another five minutes, Cem kept talking non-stop, complaining about the ventilation system and the noise the guests made. Aydin, on the other hand, kept whining about ‘additional’ problems such as the lit candles around the stage. He seemed to have forgotten that he was my friend and criticized us as harshly as he could. “You made this place look like a saint’s tomb! Everywhere is decked with candles. So that the high society frumps like us...”
I remained silent and listened to him. At the same time, I thought with the speed of light and started creating a defense speech in my mind. Eventually, I asked them, “Are you done?”
“No, we’re not, but we don’t have much time for more talking,” Cem said with and even more blatant manner. “We’re going to play the second set now...”
He looked at his watch. I did the same thing. Making sure that they realized I wanted them to remain seated, I started talking. I said, “You don’t have to play the second set. Forget it. We’ll finalize the matter and pay you off tonight,” with a rather calm voice. I poured a glass of water and drank it slowly. They were bewildered. They didn’t really grasp the meaning of my words...
“It seems that we’re not going to make it... There’s such a big discrepancy between what we hoped for and what we’ve got. You’ve been rehearsing for so many weeks. We built the stage from scratch. We bought new equipment. You played and we listened. Apparently, we haven’t listened to you well enough... From the outside, everything looks and sounds good to me, but it seems things aren’t working...”
They were all ears now... I said, “Anyway, it is what it is. Shame on us! Now you guys gather your things silently so that no one realizes what’s going on. And I’m going to talk to Brother Erol and his troop. Actually, they wished to play here. And tomorrow, I’ll find another orchestra.” I put the empty glass on the desk and stood up to leave the room.
It was their turn to be astonished. They glanced at each other. Cem said, “So, aren’t we going to solve these problems?
I took a deep breath and turned around to look at them. With a slightly louder voice, I sad, “Listen, we’re not in America. And Jazzino is not one of those bars you’re used to in Istanbul. You know, bars with five tables only… Empty bars with nothing going on... More than two hundred and fifty people are listening to you in there. I counted sixty people standing in front of the bar only when I was walking here.”
Cem opened his mouth as he attempted to stand up, but I motioned him to remain silent. Now my voice was even louder. “If tonight’s success was related to the music you made, then the bar you worked before here, that place in Taksim, at least twenty or maybe thirty people would come in every evening. At least for once.”
“Hey! Wait a minute!” Aydin interrupted. “Those are totally different places...”
I silenced him, too. By opening my arms wide, I tensed up the atmosphere even more. “That’s exactly what I’m saying,” I said with a determined tone. “It’s not you guys who are different. ‘This place’ is different!”
I pointed at the wall of the room adjacent to the main hall. “It’s like a concert hall in there. The light is good, the sound is good… Wherever you go, they ask you to bring your own digital keyboard, but you guys don’t appreciate the acoustic piano we put here that’s worth thousands of dollars. That announcer you curse upon has been killing himself for weeks to attract as many customers as possible. Let the place look like a cabaret. Who cares! Have you ever seen a damn cabaret in your life?”
Pretending not to take notice of their gaping mouths, I continued: “The customers are happy. They’re having a hell of a time. The personnel realized on the first night that the place will be packed full. They’re already collecting good tips. The newspapers will write about us. They’ll write about you, too. Until today, no venue in Istanbul went into business with such a lucrative opening...”
I heard Cem mutter something like ‘what the hell has that got to do with it.’ I kept talking without paying attention to him. “Has that happened? And if it has, I haven’t witnessed it personally.”
After looking at their faces one by one, I added, “And in spite of this fact, if you’re still bitching up with silly remarks and trivial problems, then it’s up to you.”
Nobody said anything anymore. I looked away and put an end to the discussion by saying, “Well, all the best to you, guys! What else can I say?”
I moved toward the door to get out to the main hall. Aydin jumped to his feet as if he wanted to block my way. When we came eye to eye, I could see that he couldn’t decide what to do... Feeling sure that he wouldn’t be able to make a move, I walked by him swiftly and opened the door. As I passed through the corridor, I thought how courageous I was. Yeah... I was too good at causing trouble for myself, but courage did help when you wanted to solve a problem because it helped me become agile in my actions. Faltering at a critical moment was the main variable that affected the outcome.
If you faltered, you lost.

  2
SERRA

I realized the hall was more crowded now. The exhausted waiters and bartenders were running around among the drunken customers. I had sobered up because of the anger I felt towards that jazzer brothers. I didn’t even feel tipsy. In my mind, I tried to figure what to do if Istanbul Jazz Quartet packed their stuff and left. I couldn’t come up with a solution, so I decided to ease up my tense nerves, which didn’t seem to be of useful for anyone. I pulled myself together right away. Finally, I reached the bar after walking between the tables with difficulty. People I knew teased me loudly as I walked past them, but I wasn’t in the right mood to talk to anybody. I grabbed a glass of gin and tonic from the bar and lit a cigarette. After a few puffs, I calmed down a bit. I was keeping an eye on what was happening in front of the stage. Aydin and Cem appeared at the corridor. They kept talking until the platform and then stopped. They looked indecisive. This was a good sign... ‘That’s it,’ I thought, ‘they haven’t decided to take the risk yet.’ I felt more relieved now and sipped my drink with full pleasure.
I saw my ex-girl. It had been six months since we separated. She was over there, talking and giggling with a chunky fellow, who seemed to be her lover. I had dated her just because she looked like Nuket, and we had separated because she looked like Nuket. Life is funny...
I just couldn’t forget about Nuket, I didn’t know why. The bitch haunted me in my dreams at night... I took a huge sip from my drink. I wondered what she was doing in jail? I hoped I wouldn’t receive any news from her, yet I was dying to know… I was curious.
Oh, sure... Aahh... I was in love with her. Still. But I didn’t know why. The fucking bitch had teamed with Ayhan and turned my life into misery...
Nilufer, who was looking like Nuket, pretended that she has just seen me. She came and congratulated me on opening such a nice place. I asked her how she was doing. In no time, her gorilla-like lover appeared next to us. “Let me introduce you. This is Alper,” she said while grabbing the guy by the arm. “We’re colleagues. We work in the same place.”
“Hi, Alper,” I said with a fake smile on my face. “Nice to meet you.” I extended my hand, and we shook hands.
The asshole started telling me a bunch of crap. I felt I had to escape right away; I wasn’t in the right mind for talking bullshit. Just as I turned to walk away, Nilufer pushed her breasts, which were as big as ripe oranges, into my chest. She knew that those were the best parts of the female body for me.
I took a quick glance at Alper. I was embarrassed. Then I realized that no one, not even Alper cared whether Nilufer pressed her airbags against me or not. So I grabbed the girl by the waist. What else could I have done? I really wasn’t in the mood for getting my brain fucked. I didn’t say anything and I didn’t reply to their blubber. Actually, I didn’t even listen to what they said. Besides, I remembered that the girl’s performance sucked; at the time when we went out, she used to often complain about headaches, and what’s more, she couldn’t even give a good blowjob.
Thankfully, the orchestra and our announcer Can were back on stage. The guests were applauding like crazy. Taking advantage of the confusion, I said bye and left the two idiots. The girl, whose legs I’d attempted to stroke before the Killjoys of Bremen revolted, caught me as I was passing by. She pushed me into a seat next to her, but I couldn’t even remember the slut’s name.
Hey, how good it felt to be popular!
It was almost midnight. Tahsin was on the stage now; he kept blowing his saxophone. The bastard was at his best... I was too, actually. Just when I was getting things going with the girl next to me, ‘she’ went on stage.
I stopped.
I listened to her… I watched her...
She was slightly taller than a normal Turkish woman – almost five and a half feet tall. She was slender, and her complexion was light and smooth. She had lush, brown, curly hair, just like I did. Her huge hazel-colored eyes that looked through long, curled eyelashes, her arched long nose, oval face, and protruding cheekbones were in absolute harmony with her full lips, which were the most prominent part of her face. She wore a long white dress, pearl earrings and a pearl necklace that went well with her white teeth. Her black stilettos, which raised her to my height, added to her elegance. She was singing ‘Misty’ with her eyes shut. At first, she sang like a whisper or a moan, and then like a scream... The music that broke out of her chest through her magnificent voice was changing the whole atmosphere. Then she sang ‘God Bless the Child’ and ‘Sophisticated Lady’… This girl was a real star.
At the same time, she looked beautiful and sexy on stage. I didn’t realize how fast the night went by and had no idea how many songs she sang. I was in a different world. I came to my senses when she came down the stage, and as she took a few steps toward the tables near the windows, I headed toward her. I felt an irresistible urge to talk to her and to get to know her.
Her friends met her at the table she reached. A short, dark young man with a beard was among them. The two kissed each other quite intimately. The young man wasn’t good-looking at all. His hair had already begun to thin, and his shoulders were far from being broad. However, his features were still well balanced, and the fiery look in his eyes as well as his slender body made him somewhat enviable. I stood there and stared at them like a dumb asshole, and when I saw him hold hands with the gorgeous singer, I felt upset. Suddenly, someone touched my shoulder. It was Inal, the trumpet player. He looked at me with a smile on his face. I smiled, too. He pointed at the bar, saying, “Why don’t we over to the bar and have a short chat?”
Noticing the target of my attention, he pointed at the singer and said, “Serra sings fabulously, doesn’t she? I like her style, too. We played with her for quite some time in Bodrum.”
Trying to act cool, I said nonchalantly, “Who’s that guy with her?”
“Her boyfriend Baris. I guess they got engaged last year...”
“Oh,” I murmured.
We walked to the bar.
Inal was a good guy. He was probably six or seven years younger than I was. As I sat on a high bar stool, I put my hand on his shoulder in a friendly manner. The bar wasn’t crowded anymore. The tables were almost empty. Aydin was packing his stuff on the stage while he chatted with Brother Erol. He was in a good mood. Cem wasn’t around; maybe he had already left... Charlie had come across some acquaintances and was buried in a conversation. Inal wanted to have a glass of cognac, so I ordered some. The musicians were allowed to have two free drinks at the bar every night, but since they had all exceeded the quota tonight, I motioned the bartender to let him know the drinks were on my account.
“Man, that talk we had before, it really hurt, you know... It really upset me...”
“Take it easy, Inal. Such things happen. It’s not your fault,” I said and winked at him as I smiled.
At that moment, I caught glimpse of my own reflection on the bar mirror. I was wearing a dark turquoise t-shirt fitting my body, a dark blue-checkered Dormeuil blazer, and smoke-colored canvas pants. My hands were my pockets. Displaying a groundless self-confidence, I had the air of a fatherly boss. “Did you guys get paid?” I asked.
“Yes, bro. We’ve found out you ordered the cashier to pay double the amount for the night. Thanks a lot. We appreciated it.”
“You’re welcome. You’ve been working for so many weeks, and you played for a long time tonight. We thank you, too. You were quite a success.”
I glanced at my watch. It was really late. I was dying to introduce myself to Serra. “Anyway, forget about it,” I said. “Introduce me to that girl. Come on. I think it’s a good idea that she should join us as the guest singer whenever she’s available.”
I stood up. Inal looked as if he had more to say. I knew what he wanted from me, but having that talk now wouldn’t be to anyone’s advantage. I had always refrained from having such talks, and I had stayed away from gossip all my life. Gently, I pushed him to Serra’s table. Seeing us approach, they all stood up. Only four of them were there at the table: Serra, Baris and two other women, one of who had passed her prime years, and another who didn’t look too shabby. Inal knew them all. They hugged and kissed each other. Serra smiled at me while flickering her eyelids. Inal turned around with an exaggerated curtsy and said, “Let me introduce you the boss.”
We all laughed. I shook their hands one by one. Then I took the seat next to Serra and congratulated her on her performance. Her fiancé Baris was talking to one of the other women. I praised Serra lavishly. “You sing well. I really loved your voice.”
She was pleased. With a sincere tone, she said, “its very kind of you. And this is a magnificent place. I’d like to congratulate you, too.”
“Thank you. Let me order some drinks to celebrate, then,” I said and snapped my fingers to attract Tevfik’s attention. He immediately sent a waiter, and everyone ordered. They all wanted to have coffee. Meanwhile, the headwaiter whispered into my ear to inform that they would be closing off for the day and asked if we wanted anything else. I told him not to take any money from the table. Like we had agreed in the morning, he would put the earnings of the day into the big safe in the office together with all the related papers...
We made some small talk and joked around with each other. Everyone seemed to have a good time. After Inal gulped down the rest of his cognac, he bent over and whispered into my ear. He wanted to know if they would be working the following night as well.
“For the time being, yes,” I said. “We’ll talk about the details later. Does everybody want to keep on playing here?”
“Yes, yes! No one’s got a problem. I guess there was a misunderstanding,” he blurted.
I cut him short. “All right, then. We’ll keep on like we agreed. Tell the guys good night for me, will you?”
“Got it. Thanks,” Inal said. He lowered his eyes as if he had failed to get what he wanted. Then he carried on chatting with the others at the table. I didn’t linger. All I thought about was Serra.
In fact, I was searching for someone who would fill Nuket’s gap. Someone to heal the wound… This feeling wasn’t new. I was feeling constantly unsatisfied and deserted. I needed to be loved. I needed to feel passion. I needed to fall in love. Being wanted by other women, being desired, having sex embellished with womanly games, flirting in a way that boosted my pride, and enjoying coquettish amusement... None of such things could fill the gap choking my heart. But I had hope: a woman like Serra, maybe... A powerful, emotional, beautiful, and intelligent woman... That could heal me.
Mysterious…
Talented…
I was starting to feel a stronger desire to spend more time with her, and my longing turned into words that flowed out of my mouth. I stared into her eyes with a determined expression on my face and made my offer: “Would you like to work with us here in Jazzino?”
She faltered. Then, she looked away. After taking the last sip of her coffee, a crooked smile appeared on her face. “I’d love to, but at the moment, I’m booked for four days a week. As a principle, I don’t work on Mondays, anyway. I rest.” She was gentle and elegant.
I insisted. “Then we want to have those two free nights. Is it possible?”
She lowered her eyes as she assumed a serious attitude. Then she said, “I have to think about it. Can we talk later?”
I was disappointed. For some reason, I had thought Serra would fly at my offer. All I could do was murmur, “All right. But please don’t take too long to let me know about your answer. Okay?”
Inal, who was laughing with the others, turned to us and interrupted. Maybe he sensed the uneasy feeling between Serra and I... Pointing at me, he said to Serra, “You know, the boss is a musician! He plays both the guitar and the saxo. He composes, too.”
Serra asked with feigned surprise, “Really?”
I felt embarrassed when all the others turned and looked at me. Trying to sound modest, I said, “No! Inal is exaggerating. I’ve newly started playing the saxophone. I do play the guitar, but nothing like jazz or stuff. Other types of music… Well, you can call it a hobby...”
Baris and the other two women remained silent. Before they resumed their conversation, I added quickly, “But I can tell you that, as a listener, I know about music pretty well. Especially jazz, rhythm and blues, soul and stuff like that.” I could easily be proud about that department. I directed the subject back to Serra by saying, “That’s why I really liked your style.”
Opening her eyes wide, she said, “Really?”
Putting a meaningful expression on my face, I said, “You remind me of a singer I adore. Billie Holiday…” I had realized Serra was trying to sing like her.
“She’s my idol! You realized it so fast,” said Serra. “What an awesome woman she was.” Her eyes became misty.
“I admire her, too,” I said. “And you, how can I express it better... You are like a ‘reincarnation’ of her.” Then I came to the point. “Therefore, I really want you to sing here, in this club.”
Serra didn’t look happy with that ‘justified’ way I insisted, too. Her attitude astonished me because in those years, there weren’t too many jazz clubs in Istanbul, and finding a job was a difficult task any jazz singer here had to overcome. “I’ve never had a boss like you. I hope we can work together one day,” she said before turning to the others at the table. She was keen on cutting it short. I, on the other hand, was trying my best to convince her.
“It’s too early to discuss the financial aspect of such an arrangement, but you can be sure that I’ll make an offer that will please you.”
She paused. Then she started talking by picking her words with much care, yet she still didn’t give a definite answer: “Money is not important. Besides, I really like this place. But as I’ve said, I must think it over.” She sounded distressed.
I felt like asking her, ‘Hey, what the hell is your problem?’ but I listened to my common sense. Instead, I decided to try another tactic. I said, “In that case, I’d like you to be my guest here this Saturday. I suppose you work on Saturdays. You can come here after your performance again. In Jazzino, the music stops at 2 a.m. and as you see, we’re open till three or four in the morning.”
“Time’s not a problem. My program finishes at midnight in the club where I sing. Maybe I can even come and sing a couple of songs as the guest singer,” Serra said.
Now this sounded like a beacon of hope. Serra turned to Inal and said, “If it’s okay for Inal and his friends, of course. They are the bosses on the stage.”
I wanted to let everyone feel that in Jazzino I was also the boss of the stage and said, in perhaps an unnecessarily arrogant manner, “I decide about everything related to music here.” Then I stood up. “And I don’t let it be discussed either.”
For the first time, I noticed a glimmer of jealousy in Baris’s eyes. Nobody said anything. I wished goodnight to everyone and left for the office. After putting on my coat and beret, I hurried out.
The nightman at the car park – a man named Pala who was the champion of the world’s biggest moustache competition – tried to button up his coat out of respect before opening my car’s door for me. He gave me the keys and bowed as I got in. I gave gas without lingering. In those days, I used to drive a manual transmission Toyota – the latest model. On the way home, I kept thinking what to do. I felt weary. Later, I couldn’t even remember how I got home and fell asleep.
Thankfully, things that bothered me didn’t occupy my mind that night. I must have dozed off as soon as putting my head on the pillow.

3
GLAMOROUS NIGHTS

As I’ve explained before, Jazzino was opened at the end of January and became popular starting from day one. Our club was full. People loved the music so much that they couldn’t stop dancing. The press featured us frequently. Hurriyet, the biggest mainstream newspaper, published a half-page cover story about us in its popular Sunday supplement: ‘From Casino to Jazzino’. They placed colored pictures of the stage, the orchestra, the hall, the bar, and of course me, the boss...
In other words, they interviewed me.
The same article talked about the celebrities who frequented Jazzino. In fact, there’s no reason and no other way the jazz-loving high society flocks to a club. In other words, this is the best advertisement: the fact that famous actress Demet A., pop singer Nil B., famous sports announcer of the first channel Halit K., and well-known banker Hamit B. preferred to come to Jazzino... You know, you say to your friend, “We were in Jazzino last night. Guess who sat at the adjacent table? So and so...”
Everyone knows such celebrities, of course... “Really? I can’t believe it!”
“And so and so was sitting at the table behind us...”
“You are kidding!”
Let me not exaggerate, but believe me, I had almost become one of the top one hundred young Turkish bachelors, whom the girls of Istanbul considered attractive. All because of Jazzino! The fame was fabulous, and my financial situation had become super, too. I call it super because as an absolute dreamer, I hadn’t thought I’d make even one tenth of the money I earned through Jazzino. Even after the first night, I had made friends with the biggest stack of cash I’ve ever seen in my life! I mean it. Of course, the heaps of money weren’t as huge as the cotton bales in Cukurova, but they definitely were bankrolls of quite impressive size...
“Hey chef, did we make something like nine grand last night?”
Mr. Tevfik, our maitre d’hôtel, was an honest guy with good manners. He was in his fifties and had gray but lush hair. He was well built and dynamic. Moreover, he always looked clean and chic. Taygun had hired him through the reference of an acquaintance who knew about the club business. And Mr. Tevfik had come to Jazzino with a crew of experienced waiters and footboys.
With a smile on his face, he said, “Yes, sir. Last night’s turnover wasn’t too high because of the cocktail party and the complementary food and drink. Otherwise, it could have been double the amount we made.”
This was a figure I wasn’t expecting at all. After the expenses and the costs were deducted, more than six grand was left. In those times, you could easily buy a brand new car with the revenue of two evenings. I took a look at the income sheet and the chart showing the details. I asked him, “Did you go over the details? Are you checking the statements of the cashier?”
Mr.Tevfik swelled with pride as his smile became broader. Raising his eyebrows, he said, “Certainly, sir. After the club is closed in the night, everything is handed in to me. I do the necessary inspection, compare and count the cash and credit card slips, and then put them all into the main safe.”
“What about your service charges and the tips?” I meant the fifteen per cent service charge add to all bills.
“Very pleasing, sir.”
The tips our waiters collected were combined and then distributed to the entire service and kitchen staff in accordance with the tally sheet Mr. Tevfik prepared. This was how things worked in the entertainment sector back then... And I was the boss and the main inspector for everyone.
In other words, the boss of the money...
In fact, I had made much more than that during the best years of Process Electronics. Besides, I was only in my mid-twenties. I mean, in that regard, I was contented. At first, I didn’t understand why the money Jazzino gave me an arrogant air. But I guess this was the difference: solid cash you get on your hand gave you extra might and power because that money was made through a glittery, made-up and glamorous magic in the deep of the dark nights.
After our encounter during Jazzino’s opening party, I listened to Serra again during the second session of Istanbul Jazz Quartet on Saturday night. Her magnificent voice and pure beauty on the stage mesmerized me once again. She sang Duke’s ‘I’ve got it bad and that ain’t good’ that night... Actually she didn’t only sing but turned the club upside down...
She was amazing on the stage. I cheered and clapped until my hands hurt. This time, Baris, her boyfriend who was with her on the opening night, wasn’t there. After Serra came down the stage, I invited her to the bar and ordered drinks. She drank vodka and tonic. This was her absolute preference as far as I could see...
The drink someone prefers tells you a lot about his or her character. Those who like raki are talkers, but sometimes they tend to be braggers. Those who drink whisky like luxury, showing off and money, of course. Those who enjoy wine look for different tastes, beauty and love. People who prefer beer, on the other hand, have the spirit of a young rascal. But for some reason, I had always thought that those who drank vodka were a little harsh and ruthless. Although I liked drinking raki and wine every now, and then according to the setting and atmosphere, I used to go for gin and tonic in those days. Perhaps because I needed the energy the quinine in the tonic gave me.
“Once again, you were amazing” I said to Serra, praising her.
She said courteously, “Thank you. I couldn’t see you here when I arrived. Weren’t you here?”
Serra kept talking with a formal manner. Actually, that style is kind of sexy, but I’m a man who corrupts every situation quite fast. Pretending not to be too impressed by her appearance, I said, “I had some work to take care of outside. Besides, I thought you wouldn’t come because you didn’t call.”
“No, no. I came here right after my program at the other place ended. Just like we had agreed,” she said.
“Welcome, then. And this is to you.” I toasted. She did, too. We clinked our glasses. As she stared at me with her hazel eyes adorned by dark, curly eyelashes and smiles, I realized that my interest in her had increased in the week we hadn’t seen each other.
Serra was probably in her mid-twenties. Although her face had the youth and childishness of a college student, she had a mature, womanly figure. I couldn’t tell by looking at the dress she wore on the night I had first seen her, but the low-cut neckline of her black blouse tonight displayed her big breasts, satiny cleavage and slender neck. Her well-rounded legs were visible through the generous slit of her skirt.
No, I’ve never been a man quick to fall in love. On the contrary, I loved one woman, one single woman endlessly in my whole life… But there was something about this girl that enticed me more than her looks. I had a hard time understanding the situation. To tell the honest truth, physical beauty had never been a factor that affected me on its own.
Serra and I chatted for a while, and the longer we talked, the more I was drawn to her. She told me that she had been singing jazz since she was very young, and that she no longer wanted to anything else. I asked her, “Did you think about my offer?”
She looked at my face and said, “Yes.”
I felt she didn’t want to work at Jazzino as a singer. Feeling slightly offended about her reluctance, I asked, “And?”
“Instead of working here on a salary, I’d rather come here as a guest singer. Just like tonight. Besides, that’s better for you, too.”
I didn’t get it. “But why?” I insisted.
She shrugged her shoulders, saying, “Because then, you won’t have to pay me.”
I said, “But don’t you think that such an arrangement would disturb me?”
She paused. Then she stared at me before saying, “No, I don’t, because it won’t disturb you.”
Perhaps this was a good example to being more royalist than a king.
“What do you mean? It already disturbs me. Not being able to do you justice in return for such a great thing is the worst thing for me! Why are you doing this?” I asked angrily.
I must have raised my voice. She touched my arm gently to clear the air. Politely but with a determined tone, “Please calm down. That’s better. You’ll see,” she said.
She told me that she was the opinion that relationship based on money wouldn’t be good for our friendship and such stuff. Between the lines, she made sure to let me feel that she took a fancy to me since we met. In fact, that was the reason behind her refusal. At the end of our long conversation, I got it: She wanted to have a relationship with me that was more than a friendship. But there was the element of Baris. What would happen to him?
He was an issue. She was planning to part with him. Their relationship didn’t work, and both were aware of that fact.
“Unfortunately, I can’t leave him these days. ” Finally, she had given up her formal way of speaking. “Baris and talked about it and agreed that we had to put an end to our relationship at an appropriate moment.”
I usually try not to stand in a woman’s way. You know, if you infatuate a woman and force her to leave another man for you, problems could pile up. All that ‘if only’ and ‘I wish I had’ talk begins. You can imagine...
She keeps questioning whether she did the right thing to stick with you: ‘I wonder if the other guy would have been a better choice.’ Besides, she always takes such a thing as a commitment, and you might end up having to marry her. Anyway, the right thing to do, in that case, is to stay away from married or engaged women altogether. Even if you’re hopelessly in love, she should be the one to make the final decision and come to you after wiping out old scores.
I let her know what I thought about such stuff. I told her that not putting an end to her relationship with Baris would cause trouble. “It won’t be appropriate,” I said.
She laughed at me. “You look like a very virtuous man.” She was mocking me.
I laughed, too. But then I continued my words in a serious manner: “I surely am.”
She raised one eyebrow. I couldn’t be angry at her for being suspicious about me. I looked like a chaser, to tell the truth. Isn’t it always so? A person suffers the prejudices based on his looks. A young man with the face of a mugger is accused of all crime – theft, robbery, and mugging – committed in his neighborhood and even arrested no matter what a polite and decent guy he actually is. And eventually, the crime he never committed clings to his character for a lifetime. I said, “I don’t leer at anyone’s wife or daughter. And guys who do that piss me off. How can you flirt with a friend’s wife or girlfriend as if no other women are around?”
She broke into laughter. We made other silly jokes and told each other funny stories... But after a while, Serra became serious all of a sudden. “You’re right... Sure,” she said, and added, “but there are also many exceptions. For instance, my relationship with Baris is something that shouldn’t have existed in the first place. I don’t love him. Not at all… And we no longer dream about the future. I mean, we used to do that. Getting married, a house with red shutters, trips, kids... You name it...”
The plans they used to make sounded strange and sadly pathetic to me, but the fact that they had a relationship was stranger than the fact that they were breaking up. “Why are you together then?” I asked directly.
Pretending not to hear my question, she went on talking. “Not too many people know, but he and I are... engaged.”
I did. I knew about it. Yet I had no idea what it meant. “So?” I asked provocatively.
It was natural that I asked this question. I mean, it really didn’t matter if she was engaged or is she was someone’s girlfriend. Only marriage was different. It was because then, it meant that you lost yourself to the institutions of the state.
She answered my question with another question. “Why do you think two lovers who have been together for four long years don’t get married?”
“How do I know? And I don’t understand why you’ve been together for four years either. You know, if the situation is like that...”
I couldn’t ask her openly. If the problem were related to any discord related to character differences or sex, it would have come out in just a single week. It wouldn’t have taken four years to discover such a problem.
“You can’t understand, anyway... Baris has some serious problems, and I can’t leave him and let him solve them on his own right now.”
Was it anything related to money? Did they do business together, and were things going bad? “Didn’t Baris have problems in the past?” I asked.
She looked away. Then she sighed. Instead of telling me openly what it was all about, she started talking about how things were affecting her. “Whether the problem emerged at the beginning or the end of a relationship doesn’t make it easier for you to leave your fiancée. I can’t be ruthless like that,” she said.
Then she paused and frowned. “What we talked about should remain between us, please. It wouldn’t be right if I told you more. I have to leave him sooner or later. So there’s nothing that should annoy you.”
After taking a sip of her drink, she leaned toward me and whispered in my ear: “Let us just keep our friendship confidential. For the time being…”
My relationship with Serra began with that conversation. That night, I set aside my obsession about not tempting another man’s woman and offered her to go to her or my place. She didn’t accept my offer and told me to be patient. “First I must separate from Baris. I don’t want to look like a slut who is playing a double game. I hate such stuff,” she said.
“All right,” I said and dropped the subject. At the same time, I brought my hand to my mouth and made a gesture as if I was zipping it.
In fact, I wanted to sleep with her. I desired her badly. I’m not going to deny that. And I’m not going to feel embarrassed because I was aroused. As I’ve said before, her legs displayed through the slit of her skirt and her smooth, satiny cleavage was so damn sexy...
And that night, I had no one else to kill my loneliness with.

4
JAZZINO HITS TOP
The fun and exciting nights in Jazzino and the club’s popularity continued without cease. Later, fatigue replaced the excitement of the launch and the joy of our success. The workload got more every single day, and the accounts and inspecting them became more difficult. My workday began at midday and lasted till three in the morning, and no matter how energetic I felt, this tempo tired me to death and left me out of breath.
Jazzino opened at seven in the evening. We had a group of loyal frequenters who came after work. They were people who either lived or worked near Esentepe and who liked to have a couple of drinks before going home at the end of the day. They were around twenty people at the most, but since some of them stayed for dinner too, we thought we had enough reason for the trouble of running a full kitchen. Jazzino’s kitchen performance was not too bright. Besides, even if you gave an exceptional service, people didn’t prefer to eat in a jazz club.
In short, when we realized that the kitchen and the cooking meant too much work and too little profit, many months had already passed. We still kept going the same way because cleaning, maintenance, bank and accounting, and purchasing were things that had to be done during the day. So we had to open the office and the kitchen during midday and have some food ready for the personnel, too. The food for the staff usually consisted of tasty stews: chickpea dish with beef, haricot beans with pastrami, peas and rice or baked macaroni accompanied by salad or tzatziki... At an early time of the evening, such as six o’clock, everyone including me ate whatever was cooked that day. Not having anything cooked for the personnel was dangerous because then, I swear, the guys could finish the French cheese and the fillet steaks in the fridge!
The footboys who cleaned the place, the guy responsible for purchasing, the cook and his assistants worked from midday to ten in the evening. The waiters, bartenders, cashier, head chief, and the maitre d’hôtel arrived at six in the evening and worked till four in the morning. In other words, I was the only one who had to stay there and work from morning till evening. Fifteen damn hours every single day! And Sunday included.
Anyway, I shouldn’t be ungrateful. After coming around midday and taking care of the paperwork and inspecting the kitchen and the purchases, I talked to Mr. Tevfik about any problems, and then I left again only to come back around ten or eleven in the evening.
I usually went to bars in Nisantasi, the fish restaurants along the Bosphorus or to other entertainment venues. I used to tell my partners that I followed what was going on in other places run by our competitors. Taygun was already buried in work all day long. Besides, he was married and had two kids. So I saw him rarely. Askin was another story. He was a bachelor, and lived quite near the club. He came there every evening to chat and killed time.
When I returned to Jazzino toward seven that Thursday evening, the club had just opened. By what I could hear, I could tell that the man sent by Cardella, the most famous piano tuner in Istanbul, was almost done with the tuning of our new piano because he was switching from Debussy’s La Mer to tonal harmonies...
Askin sat with two of his friends at one of our best tables. I greeted him on my way to the bar. Jokingly, I said, “Howdy, partner! Have a good evening!”
He cut loose right away. “Hey Cohen, let me introduce you to my pals. You must have heard about Ergun. He’s a painter.”
Ergun was a big and burly guy with a beard. I had heard about him. His paintings sold well. He was wearing a red Che-style beret and a silken necktie. His lips curled into a crooked smile. “Happy to meet you, maestro,” he said.
“Me too,” I replied, and we shook hands.
“Cohen paints too, but he hasn’t managed to become famous yet. I me-an... Ha ha!”
Ergun asked with a scornful interest. “Really? You paint?” Sure, not everyone could become an artist, could he?
I laughed. “Not really. Don’t take Askin serious,” I said. “It’s true that I’m interested in fine arts. I try to learn and understand. I’d be happy to see your work, too.”
“Come to my studio, then. It’s in Ortakoy. Come tomorrow with Askin, for instance.”
Askin interrupted. “Ergun has a fabulous studio. Right over the sea… We can have a few drinks, too. I me-an.”
“All right, we’ll be there,” I said with a clear-cut manner.
I left them on their own and walked to the bar. I had the first gin and tonic of the day and lit a cigarette. For a while, I chatted with our barmaid Leda. She immediately complained that the guy responsible for washing the glasses was doing a lousy job. He didn’t rinse them well enough. “It’s really dangerous,” she said, frowning. “Any detergent left on the stuff causes cancer. I keep telling him, but to no avail.”
After scolding Fikret for not cleaning the glasses well enough –and apparently calming Lena down– I had to deal with the printer who was waiting for me to show the new menus he had printed for us. The list of our cocktails and dishes was full of typos. A catastrophe!
“Hey, bro, we printed what you wrote... So what? There ain’t no mistake!” said Kemal, the printer.
“Kemal, are you blind or what! Or did you write the stuff in French? Is this how ‘Grénadine’ is spelled. We wrote, we corrected, and we gave it to you in perfect writing! And what did you do? You printed it all wrong again!” I couldn’t stop complaining.
He lowered his eyes and waited in embarrassment. I picked up a copy and started correcting the mistakes with a pencil. We were planning to serve four different types of cocktail specials in Jazzino: Duke, Miles, Coltrane and Bird… Of course, we had to write what they contained. Otherwise, we could forget about selling them. After scolding the printer in every possible way for another fifteen minutes, I sent him away to run the corrected copy. As the printer left, Inal came to the bar. He greeted everyone and sat next to me. I ordered a cognac for him, and we started talking. “How’s it going?” I asked casually.
“Not bad,” he replied. “But the school isn’t going too well. They’ve found out that I’ve been playing jazz outside, and they’re really giving me a hard time.”
Having anything to do with jazz was an absolute ‘no-no’ for a conservatory student. In those years, all they were allowed to do was listen to and play classical music and get prepared to play in the symphony orchestra... Inal glanced at the stage and said, “The piano has been replaced, I suppose.”
“Yeah. We received a brand new one from Yamaha today. A baby grand… It’s being tuned now.”
“Cem is gonna lose his mind,” he said, grinning.
“I think I’m gonna make Cem lose his mind, eventually...” I replied.
Looking at Leda from the corner of his eye, Inal whispered, “Don’t let the girl hear please. Whatever she hears she tells him immediately…”
“That’s exactly why I said it,” I replied.
Now we were getting along so well with the orchestra that we were even making jokes about Cem’s whimsical attitude. We even went together to the birthday parties their fans threw. In other words, we were good... They were Jazzino’s voice, and this voice was becoming well heard among jazz lovers. All the prominent jazz musicians in the city came to the club in addition to the usual customers, and these encouraged even new customers to drop by at our place every night. We charged the musicians half the price for the booze. In return, they participated in the jam sessions that began some time in the night, and usually we ended up experiencing nights full of amazing music...
I’ve always been rewarded for being generous in my personal and professional life. That’s how life is: You give and then you receive more than whatever you’ve given. Only if you give, you can receive. How else can you earn without investing?
Cem and Aydin arrived together. We greeted them. They were early today for some reason. Since there weren’t any customers yet, they grabbed their cups of coffee and sat at the bar. Inal and I sat with them. And the conversation went on.
They were planning another repertoire change. They wanted to play more modern and less known songs instead of those with which everyone was familiar. “We’re tired of playing the same tunes every damn night,” Cem said with a blown-up gesture.
Charlie interrupted in an attempt to explain the situation to me. He said, “Everyone wants to play that stuff during the jam sessions. Stuff like All of Me, But Beautiful, Take the A Train…”
Inal completed Charlie’s words: “The first pages of The Real Book, you know...”
The Real Book was a book jazz musician all over the world had in order to play songs in an original way with all the tonality and traffic in place. More importantly, they needed it to be able to play together in harmony. Actually, it wasn’t a real book but more of a notebook consisting of bound copies of scores. Anyway, I felt happy that our guys worried about such stuff. Cem was a real pain in the ass. Yet, I must give the devil his due. He strove to improve the music played in the club and made the band work like crazy every single day. In short, he worked hard...
I left them there and headed for the office. I checked the accounts for a while and thought a little as I sipped my coffee.
I thought about her. Again...
The Saturday following the day we told each other about our feelings, Serra had come to the club to sing. After her session, we had opened our hearts more to each other. As if she was reading my fortune, she had suddenly said, “You have talents you’re not aware of.” We were at a table by one of the windows overlooking the terrace. We were drinking. “Don’t deny it,” she continued, “you think your talent is related to financial things. You think that you’re successful in business, that you have a beautiful house and a fabulous car, that you’ll make even more money in the future, and that women will always admire you for such reasons.”
She was right. I admit. I didn’t interrupt her.
“But what I sense in you is a totally different talent... It’s not an artistic talent either... By using it, you’ll achieve greater success than ever. But this will happen only after you’re forty-five because you don’t take life seriously, and it shows in your lifestyle.”
I felt the urge to make a joke. Shrugging my shoulders, I said, “What does this life have that deserves to be taken seriously after all? Everything’s is transitory. So whatever you can experience you should.”
She acted as if making a joke was out of place now. She said, “You don’t have to tell me. I know that’s what’s on your mind.”
“My, my... You know so much!” I teased her. “So tell me what’s going to happen to us...”
She thought for a while. Then she said, “I’m not going to make you happy. I’m sure about that.” She was serious. She held my hands gently. The club was murky, and the only light was the glittering flickers on the stage. The jazz quartet was playing a Miles Davis song they had recently added to their repertoire. Using a sordino, Inal was making his trumpet talk again...
I whispered into her ear: “But I’m of the opposite opinion. We’re going to make each other very happy.”
She laughed. “You say so,” she said.
“So what is that talent I have that you were talking about?”
“You’re a bright guy,” she said. “But you’re going to be in pain. Actually, you have all the power to survive it, but you’ll have to realize it and bring the power out of yourself…”
She’s kidding me, I thought. I scanned her face, but she looked serious. Still. I changed the subject right away. “Shall we go to my place?”
She sighed. “You know my answer,” she said. “Please don’t make those ‘sleep offers’ to me until I tell you it’s time.”
I couldn’t go to her home, and she didn’t want to come to mine. She didn’t let me call her home or the bar where she sang. And she didn’t leave Baris. We saw each other only when she called me or came to Jazzino. She had still not managed to solve her boyfriend’s top-secret problem –whatever the hell it was– that prevented them from separating. The worst thing was that although I had relationships with other women in the meantime, I couldn’t get Serra out of my mind, and with every passing day, I realized I was attached to her even more. I wanted to spend every single minute with her. I wanted her like crazy. The fact that we couldn’t be together because of Baris increased my desire, making me a less happy and unsatisfied man.
I either met someone new almost every night, or one of the gals I had an affair with dropped by the club. Beautiful women surrounded me, but nothing worked. All I could think about was Serra. I was obsessed with her. I kept avoiding the kind of girls who would make any man’s mouth water, by making lame excuses. After the last Saturday we saw each other, we started meeting outside Jazzino as well. We had dinner, we drank together, we kissed, and we held hands... However, we couldn’t become lovers the way I wanted us to be.
But later, something happened... Serra disappeared at the end of April. She vanished into thin air. She neither came to the club, nor did she call me. After waiting patiently for a while, I took her phone number from Inal and gave her a call at home one evening. I was direct and asked, “Serra, how are you?”
“Hi,” she said with a dry and distant tone.
“Just a hi? I was worried about you! You disappeared for two weeks.”
“Yeah, I wasn’t doing too well.”
“I hope you’re better now. What happened?”
“Just a cold…” She sounded as distant as a stranger.
I didn’t repeat my good wishes. Silence fell. I didn’t know what to say. She wasn’t happy about my call. “I guess I called at a bad time,” I said. “You really don’t sound like you want to talk to me.”
“Yes, I’m in the middle of a discussion right now. I’ll call you later.”
She hung up. It was almost midnight. What kind of a discussion could she be having in the middle of the night?
“Of course! Stupid me!” I said. I shouldn’t have called. She had almost hung up on me.
Discussion, huh?
What had I done to her? Did it become a man like me to run after her like a teen-ager even though she kept pushing me away?
A discussion in the middle of the night...
I was jealous. Badly… I wondered what she was doing. I was obsessed. And curious… Wondering about the bedroom skills of a woman is the ultimate sign of a man’s interest. It shows he wants to know her better. Besides, I’ve always been a very curious man about everything. Why didn’t she tell me about her family, her friends, her childhood, or her friends? Why didn’t she share her feelings with me? Why didn’t she open up? Why couldn’t she leave Baris? What could be the mysterious secret that bound her? I had asked her about it in many different ways. I had asked directly and indirectly. I had tried to find clues about it in everything she told me.
Yet, I had neither an idea nor a clue. Serra didn’t spill the beans. I had even made her understand that I was suspicious about certain possibilities such as the presence of another man. I even told her that I was starting to think that some shit was cooking. “Listen to me,” she once said, “I don’t care about what you think. Don’t expect me to tell you about the private life of someone I’ve been together with for four years. Maybe after some time, when it’s no longer important, not even for Baris, I’ll tell you what it was all about. Please don’t put pressure on me now...”
“All right,” I had said. What else could I have said?
Maybe she was upset because I was giving her a hard time with so many questions. Maybe she withdrew herself because of my pushy behavior. Women do such stuff. They never know what is good for them and where the bright future is. On the other hand, our situation was different. Neither Serra was a young and air-headed college girl, nor was I someone who could offer her nothing except a life of luxury. I was a good-looking, respectable, single, thirty year-old guy. I was making good money, and my success was my own doing. Naturally, I compared myself to Baris and thought that I was superior to him in every way.
What else could Serra want from a man?
Maybe she needed a good beating. Anyway, I shouldn’t get ugly, I thought. To hell with her, if she had some brains and a little bit of foresight, she’d end up with me sooner or later...
When I thought about beating her, I was angry, actually. I have never ever hit a woman. Not in my life. Hurting a woman physically shows a man’s weakness, and causes much harm.
But maybe it was I who needed a good beating. Maybe it would bring me to my senses...

5
THE STUDIO IN ORTAKOY
I kept my word only after many weeks and arrived at Ergun’s studio at five-thirty in the afternoon. Askin was already there. He looked upset and troubled. He had been trying to find a way to talk with me in private since the morning. “We’ll go... go to Ergun, okay?” he kept saying, pestering me.
In those days, the Pier Square in Ortakoy was newly started to be renovated. Most of the houses overlooking the square were wrecks. Ergun’s studio was on top of the only fish restaurant that existed there at the time. It was a flat of about seventy square meters with a breathtaking view of the Bosphorus. A huge iron cast stove blazed furiously in the middle of the front room. Our Parisian looking painter Ergun, a blond lady and Askin were sitting around the stove, sipping their raki. Ergun introduced the blondie to me by saying, “This is Anita, my girlfriend.” She was a chubby North European girl with freckles. She told me how she created traditional stained glasswork at the table in front of the window. After that, Ergun showed us around his studio, paying special attention to his paintings on the walls. If you ask me, his work was pathetically bad, but I pretended to like them.
Don’t misunderstand; I don’t hate abstract art or anything, but I must admit I don’t think it’s an original idea to repeat the same modernist stuff that was done already a hundred years ago to astonish the audience. For me, this was like minimalist interior decoration. Simply, don’t do anything, don’t do any major work, but just put a few metal objects around, paint the place white, and there you go! And then do the same thing again. As a respectable minimalist artist repeat the same work without cease...
Anyway, there are different strokes for different folks. I had been staying away from such discussions for a long time since I really didn’t give a shit what such people came up with.
“I’ve been engaged in abstract work for some time. Only in this way, I can authentically depict concepts as well as the chaotic projections of my psyche in a more holistic manner in terms of quality…” Ergun said.
Instead of replying to Ergun by simply saying, “What the hell do you mean?” I ended up saying, “I understand.” I even nodded in approval. He pointed at a painting on the wall. “You see, here I’m recounting inner indignation within the context of micro cosmos. I assume a slightly postmodernist approach, but it’s a prerequisite here...”
Ergun’s paintings –a plethora of various colors applied by a wall-painter’s brush– looked ‘more beautiful’ to me after such an explanation... I didn’t want to beat a dead horse, so I raised my glass and said, “Cheers everyone!”
Askin backed me up and we succeeded in changing the course of the conversation toward less risky and less boring subjects. Actually, it didn’t matter for Ergun. Whatever the subject was, he was an expert... “Jazz music... Sure it originates from Africa, but it’s not right to look for origin or dialectics in Avant-garde arts. Everything is expressed through metaphors and these projections as well as reflections...”
I had to put the words into his mouth again. “Well said, master Ergun,” I said. “Why don’t we drink? Are we in a mosque courtyard?”
The doorbell rang twice. First two cute girls and then a friend of Ergun – another painter around forty-five – came in. They sat down at the table with us. The other painter, Memduh, had brought along some side dishes, fresh fish and raki. He was a warm and friendly guy. He just acted like himself without any boasting or airs... I found out that he had learned to paint on his own. He introduced himself by saying, “I’m a street painter.” He immediately set up a table of fresh rocket leaves, fava, topik, and pickled beet. Then he placed some small mackerels for us each on the stove after covering the fish with roasting paper.
“Cheers to you, master Memduh!”
Everyone liked Memduh. He was energetic, modest and an entertaining talker. Today he had sold two paintings on the street. And offering everyone drinks and fish was his way of celebrating his success.
At first, Ergun was sour that Memduh was getting all the attention now. However, the conversation had become so enjoyable after the young ladies joined us that he didn’t open his mouth to complain. He adapted to the environment. One joke was told after another. The girls kept laughing and showed interest to all of us. They paid equal attention to everyone.
Arzu and Oya were ballerinas. They worked for the State Opera and Ballet Group. They also did extra work as hostesses for TV shows in order to earn a little more. Askin invited them to Jazzino right away. He, of course, didn’t forget to make passes as much as he could. Toward the end of the evening, Ergun finally had the chance to bring the subject to his own paintings, stressing how fabulous and how popular they were.
Apparently, he was a good example to the painters who learned the craft in the fine arts academy. No one from private high schools, such as the one I graduated from, attempted to study at the fine arts academy. Only kids who couldn’t pass the university entrance exam enrolled after attending private courses where they learned to draw enough to pass the technical skills test of the Academy. Well, after all, you couldn’t expect the professors with rigid brains at the academy to transform an average young person into an artistic genius! They kept imposing their own never-changing styles and schools.
Memduh changed the atmosphere by telling anecdotes about his life as a street painter. When Ergun brought the subject to postmodernism again, I couldn’t stand the temptation anymore and blurted by saying, “I believe an art movement called postmodernism can’t exist. That’s just a fabricated tag!”
I felt like being nasty. Sometimes I got on that wave. Silence fell in the room. Ergun’s face was distorted now. He gulped before saying, “Why not?”
“As the years went by, people’s preferences changed and innovative works of art that went beyond the modernism of the past periods were created. And some wise cracks came up with the idea that such works could be called as postmodernist. However, the modernism of the sixties was different, and so were the modernist movements of the seventies and the eighties. Now, it’s even more different. Okay, I have nothing to say against futuristic paintings and stuff, but I’m definitely not obliged to comprehend the makeshift postmodernism concept, which claims to be an art movement transcending artistic innovation even though it’s devoid of a philosophy of its own.”
I gave Ergun a hard time for almost half an hour. After that, seeing that the atmosphere would suffer, I shut up and started making jokes instead.
Painting looks like a hobby that anyone who learns a bit of drawing and painting can do. Yet, only few can perform it because conceiving a real composition and transferring it to a medium requires a sharp ability to express, quite strong technical skills, talent, a well-developed aesthetic taste, knowledge, and a cultural background. Not to mention creative intelligence that will enable you to come up with original ideas!
Askin and I left Ergun’s place around midnight. We were both dead drunk. We managed not to be caught by the traffic cops in Besiktas. As he drove, Askin told me about his problems with Taygun. Now I was getting why he had wanted me there. He hoped I’d take his side so that he’d feel more powerful in their dispute.
He said, “The customers are begging to be sold to, but he keeps saying, ‘no, madam, you don’t need to buy that. It’ll be a waste.’ Idiot! The other day a guy asked for an automatic home theater screen, and Taygun told him that it was too expensive. And then he offered to sell the guy a mechanical one so that he could just pull it down easily by hand!”
I spoke my mind as if I was an expert. “Then keep Taygun away from the marketing bit. Make him a different suggestion. Do some job-sharing. So what?”
“No, man! He’s a hopeless case! I’m sick and tired, you know...”
Realizing that he was starting to complain really badly, I tried to change the subject. I told him I had problems. “What’s going to happen with Jazzino? I also want to have a few days off. Find a manager. Am I your slave or what?!”
“Hey! Easy man! Don’t move anywhere until we sort out our problems. You know... thing isn’t going to work. I me-an... We’ll end the partnership.”
“What do you mean?”
“We weren’t very kind to each other yesterday. He asks for a load of money to release his part. I told him, ‘You pay me that money, and I’ll leave, but he didn’t accept.”
“God...”
Damn it! So the problem had come that far. Now I had this to deal with as if all the other stuff wasn’t enough... As Askin kept talking, I was thinking that I should transfer my administrative duties in Jazzino to somebody else. In fact, Mr. Tevfik managed and organized everything quite well. All I had to do was the routine work. Besides, I no longer had the ‘decision making and implementing’ responsibilities I used to take care of in my previous company. All I had to do was the daily checks. I had no other function.
“He doesn’t want to hand over his shares in the club. So, we’re in deep shit!”
“Do you want me to talk to him?” I asked. I guess this was what Askin really wanted.
“He’ll be in the club tonight. Let me drop you there and then drive home. Try to talk to him if you can... I me-an...”
“All right,” I said, trying to end the subject. “I’ll talk to him if I have a chance.”
The club was packed again. The Jazz Quartet was playing behind the singer Fatih E., our new transfer from Sweden. They were causing ruckus. Fatih was a jazz singer who had a voice like Tony Bennett, and last month we had signed a contract with him.
Taygun sat with one of the famous hoods in the city at one of the tables farther away from the stage. I knew Ali the Burner from the newspapers. Another guy also sat with them – a short bloke with a funny mustache. As I approached their table, I came eye to eye with Taygun. He smiled at me. When I reached their table, he showed me to the guys and said something about us being partners. I grinned from ear to ear. Ali the Burner gave me a harsh look as he stood up. He was a gigantic man –a heap of muscles– with a bald head and a bushy mustache. I worried he was getting ready to give me a good beating because he thought I was making fun of him. I extended my hand, smiling, and said, “Easy brother, don’t misunderstand! I’m not the guy who needs a beating.”
Taygun and I greeted each other. I ordered some drinks and some fruit right away. And I acted friendly toward the guy. Such guys like me because I act just like myself. I don’t brag. Why would a hood want to beat a skinny guy like me up anyway?
The Burner told a joke, and we all laughed. Then he introduced me to Kamil, his driver and musketeer. When I ordered a glass of raki, Kamil also became my best friend. Taygun was making faces at me. A little later we stood up and went to the office. He was in the mood to talk to me. As soon as we stepped into the room, he said, “Did you see or talk to that wacky guy called Askin?”
“I talked to him on the phone. Why?”
“He’s fighting me. In the end, he’ll force me to hurt him and that’s gonna be it! Big accounts are coming to the company now. And he doesn’t want to share the cash, of course! I bet that’s his main problem...”
“For how many years have you been partners?”
“Four. For four damn years we’ve been investing like crazy. Buy this, buy that, become an affiliate, struggle. And now, just when we’re about to see the color of money, the guy causes trouble. But I’m not buying that crap! I won’t!” He was yelling.
I tried to calm him down. “Hey, isn’t it a better idea to evaluate the alternatives without wrecking your nerves?”
“No, that guy has bad intentions. But who cares. I’ll grab my jacket, put the money in my pocket and get the hell out of there.”
Taygun’s Albanian blood was at work again. I talked to him for a while, only to realize that he was determined to teach Askin a lesson. There was nothing I could do. We returned to the club.
I went directly to the bar. I didn’t feel like drinking more after finishing a small bottle of Yeni Raki. So, I ordered a cup of Turkish coffee with just a little sugar. The program was about to reach the end. As I listened to Inal’s solo, I caught myself thinking about Serra. She was the one my eyes searched for in the room. I kept thinking I was hearing her voice. It was almost the end of May, and we had to close the club in latest two weeks. Jazzino had been open for four months. It was a better idea to make a pause for the summer. Then, people would leave with good memories. Summer venues remained open in Istanbul during June, July and August, and the winter clubs closed down until the following season.
I went near Taygun. After asking Mr. Tevfik to join us, we sat down at the adjacent table and had a short meeting. The orchestra had stopped playing. Taygun called them over and told them that on June 6, the club would be closed for the holiday season. We would open the place again at the beginning of September with a brand new image. I teased my ‘blues brothers’ for a while. This time, Cem complained about Fatih, claiming that he spoiled the serious style of jazz and that their repertoires didn’t match. Aydin replied to him, saying, “Then you should get on the stage and sing instead of him!” We all laughed.
I asked Inal about the whereabouts of Serra. I said, “She hasn’t been coming here for a while. Have you seen her lately?”
“I’ve heard she was in Bodrum. She’s working with Metin Cotal and his band. Some place there offered them a contract.”
My heart was wrung in pain. “Can you find out tomorrow?” I said. “And please let me know if they’ve really left for Bodrum. Okay?”
He nodded. I stood up, picked up my jacket and said bye to everyone. Then I went to Ali the Burner and said farewell to him too. I also asked if I could do him any favor. “I’ll see you tomorrow,” he said. All right, I thought. It seemed as if we had better days coming our way...
The future would bring whatever it had in store for me.

6
END OF THE SEASON
I managed the situation with difficulty until the end of the season. Even if Taygun didn’t come every day, Ali the Burner appeared in the club every evening. Askin also started hanging around with a hood – a guy called Muslu Mustafa. Askin and Taygun went so far to separate their offices and they stopped talking to each other. Their business continued through Askin’s initiative. He made the sales. Taygun still led the technical service activities, and he was also the one experienced in import. Anyway, I succeeded in keeping the atmosphere free of trouble for a few more days by keeping touch with each of them. And eventually, we managed to close down Jazzino for the season.
According to what I heard from Inal later, Serra was singing with a trio in Bodrum. The group had gone there two weeks ago, and Baris was with her. They even shared the same hotel room. This information turned me into a wreck.
My tiredness and misery was not only because of Serra. Being a night bird really wore me down: alcohol, cigarettes, and rooms full of smoke, noise, and crowds... Sometimes you couldn’t even breathe, and even the smallest problem depressed you.
One day, when I was enjoying a lazy morning at home, I realized the direness of my situation and prepared a quick detoxify program for the summer. I had grown a small drinking belly and also had dark rings around my eyes because of too much smoking. The building complex where I lived was suitable for staying fit. It had a twelve-acre park and social facilities. The place was green and full of fresh air. Following my goals, first I quit drinking and smoking. Then I started a diet of fresh fruit, vegetables and yogurt.
I had become good friends with Ergun, the painter, on my days off. During the first weekend after the day he welcomed us in his studio, he came to Jazzino together with the ballerinas. We had a conversation during which he kind of said he regretted being a wise crack and that he really cared for me. We spent a nice evening together, and I bought them lot of drinks. The girls looked fabulous that night. Especially Oya, the dainty one… She made quite a few passes at me. However, I didn’t put on the green light. I was off. You know, my mind was stuck with Serra.
But still, I liked Oya. She was sweet. She said, “I sense some sort of melancholy in your eyes all the time.”
I kept replying to her by saying, “Perhaps because life is so cruel.”
I turned down their offers for going out and drinking for a long time. I believed I had to stick with my decision and be strong for as long as necessary. I made new friends at the pool area in the complex I lived. Usually, I stayed there till two in the afternoon. I swam for ten rounds after a tennis match with Semih; a physician, and then played backgammon, drank soda and chatted.
Ergun wanted me to visit him in his studio more often, so he offered to share the rent. I accepted his offer immediately. Not because I wanted to use it for painting, but because I wanted him to feel better about it. The studio provided a nice atmosphere, and the rent wasn’t anything that would hurt me. I don’t know... I guess I wanted a toy to keep myself busy because I was unhappy... And nobody understood why I was unhappy. Ergun, especially, thought that I was being spoiled. He said, “I can’t believe you! You have everything! What more do you want? Look around. People have all sorts of problems... and you... All you think about is a damn woman!”
He was right. But I couldn’t help it, I was such an idiot. Anyway, at the beginning of July, I ended my spiritual and physical diet and started dating my dainty ballerina Oya. I painted in the studio in the mornings, trying to forget Serra. Memduh and Ergun liked my work a lot. Although I had no experience in drawing other than the cartoons I created during high school and I knew nothing about the traditional painting techniques, they thought I had a unique style.
“Naive-expressionist... You’ve got a different style. I haven’t seen anyone in these circles do anything like this before,” Ergun said. “These are gonna sell...”
Memduh insisted that I should have a personal exhibition. He said, “Come up with fifteen or twenty more pieces, and that’s it! Bam! Have your own exhibition!”
I didn’t care about painting or anything else. All I thought about was Serra. I even considered going to Bodrum to see her. One evening, I told Memduh about my feelings while we were having fish and raki at Cinaralti.
“What the hell are you going do there?” he said. “Are you going to wait and watch as her fiancé screws her?” He was damn right. I changed my mind.
In August, I went on a short holiday to Marmaris with Oya. My parents had a small summerhouse there. We sailed and had a good time until the end of the season.
I almost forgot about Serra.
To forget means blocking the access to some of your memory cells. Theoretically, of course… In fact, the brain accurately records every single stimulus created by the senses – everything you see, hear, smell, and touch. Needless to say, it records everything whether you’re aware of it or not... The forgotten information isn’t erased. But sometimes, access to some of the millions of brain cells doesn’t happen easily for one reason or another. Sometimes we want to forget things that give us pain. Sometimes we want to keep them out of our lives. We try to block the access to such cells we dump in the back alleys of our brain, and we think that we’ve gotten rid of them.
Yet, they remain where they are. They wait there like a sinister ghost, ready to attack at the first opportunity.

7
NEW SEASON
We reopened Jazzino on the third of September. The winter season had begun. The club was redecorated, and the place of the stage and the bar had changed. The mirror that had caused the Istanbul Jazz Quartet to bother me for five long months was taken down. The new stage that stood where the bar used to be was elevated with a step, and the area in the background of the wooden floor was covered with burgundy colored curtains. Jazzino looked really stylish now...
I was dumbfounded upon seeing Serra enter the club at a very late hour on the first Saturday after the opening. I got even more excited when I realized Baris wasn’t with her. I was wedged in near the bar with a huge crowd surrounding me. Serra looked around, without realizing I was there. While I was trying to approach her, she walked toward the stage. The orchestra talked her into going up there and singing two songs. She swept me off my feet once again.
I realized I had never forgotten her.
Trying to withdraw myself was useless. It just didn’t work. I had fallen terribly in love with this woman with whom I hadn’t even slept. I’d been mad at myself for a long time for feeling that way, but I couldn’t help it. My mind wasn’t in control. I went near her as soon as she stepped down the stage. Her eyes glittered upon seeing me. Once again, she was the woman I knew. “What is it that makes you lose yourself in those songs and sing them in a way that pierces through one’s heart?” I managed to say. My heart was skipping a beat.
She answered with a smile. “Love,” she said. “Didn’t you get it?”
I replied to her coquettish answer with a sarcastic tone. “Who are you in love with, Serra? Do you mean the love you feel for Baris?”
Her expression froze on her face, and she snapped at me. Puckering her lips, she said, “You’re living in such a material world that for you, love is an ordinary thing. Just a rotten apple...”
I was bewildered. It was Serra who was the cause of this unsatisfactory situation. I mean the impossible triangle in which I was the victim… And yet, she was telling me that I was a materialistic man incapable of loving. I said, “I guess you’re intending to glorify the love you feel for Baris or some other guy and take the credit for it.”
She paused. She was frowning now. “When I say ‘love’ I mean a totally different concept. I didn’t say it to be sarcastic. And I’m not criticizing you for not comprehending. Besides, I don’t expect people who spend their life running after flesh and money to understand what I’m talking about...”
To be honest, I didn’t get what she was saying. What bugged me was that I had left the wrong impression on her. “Do you think I’m a man who runs after women and money?” I asked.
“Sure, you are...” she replied. She was still angry. “But still, I see that you have a slight chance of changing yourself. That’s why I was interested in you and came here again.”
“Thank you very much for thinking of me,” I said. Then I held her hands and placed a small kiss on them. “I’m so lucky to have you. May God bless you! So, what’s that bloody chance I got?”
“You have all the skills required for attaining the truth.” She sounded crankier with every passing minute.
You can probably guess that I didn’t get what she was trying to say. I looked around, acting as if I was searching for someone. I asked. “Where is Baris? Or did you guys separate?” This situation somewhat annoyed me.
She laughed at my words. “So you were looking forward to our separation!”
I couldn’t fight against the urge to grow serious. Getting louder, I said, “Don’t you know that? Where do I stand in your life, Serra? Am I a piece of crap in your life? If that’s how it is, then I’ll act accordingly. Don’t you worry! All you have to do is make a decision because I can’t stand people who can’t decide!”
I added with the same harsh tone, as I got closer to her face. She looked astonished. I added, “Actually, I had dropped you completely. But you know, it ain’t over till it’s over. And you can rest assured that this is the last time I’ll be saying anything about this.”
She tried to defend herself. “I just don’t understand why you’re so mad at me. Did I do anything that annoyed you?”
Her defensive attitude angered me even more. “No, you didn’t. And you know what, that’s exactly the problem. If you’ll keep on not doing anything, then I’d rather be informed...”
I was acting deliriously because of unhappiness and waiting for too long. I would either solve this matter right now and become her lover or cut off the limb and forget her despite the pain. I think Serra saw in my eyes how determined I was. She leaned forward and whispered, “Everything’s going to be fine. I came here to discuss all this with you.”
I had heard that story before. During all our encounters before April, she had told me everything would be fine and that she would leave Baris.
“Right, but this thing between us is no longer something that can be solved by discussing, Serra,” I said.
There wasn’t much to discuss, anyway. I thought now she would call me bluff and say farewell because she understood I would no longer buy the crap she kept uttering. She would grab her handbag and leave Jazzino... I really didn’t want her to do that. In fact, I was ready to accept bear everything, but nothing except angry words came out of my mouth. I just couldn’t stop myself...
I insisted when she remained silent. “In other words, keep this crap to yourself! I want action!” I yelled.
“I understand,” she said as she bowed her head. What did she understand? I asked her what was it that she understood by asking a simple question. It seemed that we weren’t on the same wavelength...
“Did you and Baris separate?”
She raised her head and looked into my eyes. “Yes,” She said. “We parted ways with each other yesterday.”
I held her by the arm and dragged her to a table in the corner. What I had been looking forward to for such a long time had happened, but nothing was like I had expected because Serra looked gloomy. Maybe she wasn’t sure if she was rid of Baris for good. Something didn’t feel right. This time, I asked, “So did you really break away with him?”
She didn’t reply.
“Serra, I want to know one thing: I have nothing to say if you don’t feel for me. Our meaningless friendship can go on forever if not. Baris has nothing to do with this. Whether you’re with him or not, it doesn’t change anything.”
“Calm down, please,” she said. “You’ve been making up such silly stuff. Of course I love you and want to be with you. And it surprises me that you doubt my feelings.” She reached for my hand and held it. Then she came closer and whispered, “Now I’m free, and I’m with you.”
This was what I was dying to hear...
I wanted her to say it out loud. At that moment, an amazing feeling took over me. I felt warm inside. My world became brighter. Suddenly, I realized that a new chapter was beginning in my life. I took her face between my hands... Perhaps because she thought my interest in her had waned in the months we didn’t see each other, Serra held my hand and slipped it through her shirt stealthily in the middle of the surrounding crowd. I caressed her belly. Then she said, “I want to be with you tonight,” with her sexist voice.
I didn’t know what to say. I left everything I had to do at the club, and we left together without waiting for the end of the night. She didn’t say a word in the car. When we stepped into my apartment, she went to the living room and sat on the couch. My living room always felt cozy. I started playing a pleasant music for her: something by good old Lester Young...
The promise of making love to Serra for the first time electrified me. “What would you like to drink?” I asked. I stood in front of the couch, ready to serve her. As a bachelor, my American bar wasn’t shabby at all…
“What’s there to drink?” she asked seductively as stared at me.
I bent over to brush her lips with a kiss. And then I helped her stand up. “Everything,” I said. “Whisky, gin, vodka, cognac, tequila... Come on; let’s have some tequila together. I’ve got Mariachi. It’ll be good for a change.” Then I kissed her neck. Shuddering, she embraced me tighter. I wrapped my arms around her, and we started swaying.
“All right. Tequila be it,” she replied. We grabbed two shot glasses from the cabinet behind the bar. I took out a lemon and the tequila bottle from the small icebox in the living room. I sliced the lemon, and we didn’t forget the salt either. We had two shots right away! We nibbled the lemon and licked the salt. Then, we started giggling...
We danced for a while, we kissed, and then we had two more shots of tequila. When the rhythm of the music matched the rhythm in our minds, I pulled her to the couch and started kissing her. Her cool, luscious lips parted with desire. She bit my lower lip, and then pushed her tongue into my mouth. Like a wild tigress, she embraced me tightly and pulled my body closer to hers. She was hot like fire, and I had a hard time keeping up with her. I had drunk way too much. My head felt heavy.
We undressed each other and went to bed.
Our first lovemaking was like the eruption of a dormant volcano. First I slowed her down. Her movements and her touch became gentler. Then we gained speed again. We worked our way up gradually, and in the end, we reached the top. After two long sessions, we took a shower together, where we kept going. I fell in love with her even more because now I knew we also matched sensually.
It was simply amazing...
What can I say? Would I sound cheesy if I said we were created for each other?
But we were...
Sometimes, in rare moments in life, you think you’ve found the man or woman of your life – or your soul mate, as they say nowadays. Sometimes, it’s love at first sight. And it happens all too suddenly without any apparent reason... Maybe this attraction has some scientific ground. However, I didn’t have the knowledge to define it.
All I knew was that I was madly in love with Serra.

8
DAYS OF LOVE
The heat wave stifling the city at the beginning of September disappeared soon, and Jazzino’s business started rolling. I had almost no interest in the money, the business or the club anymore. I did my things, and everything worked out somehow. But I was there only physically. My mind and my soul were with Serra all the time.
Sometimes, she would come to the club in the night, looking dazzling in a bright colored dress, and I would get in a tizzy when catching glimpse of her. She is there, I would think. Now we can drink together, and then she’ll sing. She’d look at me with her eyes as deep as an ocean and call my name with a voice that would make me shiver. She would remind me the meaning of life...
After that, we’d leave the place hand in hand and gently move into the bright night.
Every night, I looked forward to the arrival of my sweetheart. She was the only woman my eyes saw. I used to feel her as close as sensing her warmth inside of me and as far away as the stars. But sometimes, Serra used to disappear. She didn’t come to Jazzino for many days. She didn’t even give me a call. She would never tell me where she was. She’d feel offended if I questioned her and ask me to never do it again.
And I would feel afraid and do as she told me.
I still don’t know why but in those days, I had become so scared of losing Serra and of not seeing her again that I decided I would be around her at least on the nights she sang elsewhere. So I started going to Geranium Bar, where she took the stage twice a week instead of hanging around in Jazzino. Although the sound system sucked and the band was mediocre in Geranium Bar, her singing didn’t fail to enchant me. She gulped down her gin-and-tonic one glass after another as I sat there mesmerized by her voice. As soon as she left the stage, we drove to my home, had our Mariachi shots, chatted, and then made love with never-ending passion. Until we were exhausted and covered in sweat...
Serra always wanted to return home regardless of how late it was in the night. We would get prepared lazily, get in the car and drove to the other side of the city. I would drop her off at the small apartment in Selamicesme she shared with her mom. I hated it. I wanted her to stay by my side and wake up beside me.
I had never been to her apartment, and I had no idea about the kind of daily life she led. Her life, as far she told me, was full of mysteries. Was her father dead, or did he leave them? I didn’t even know that! I guess she didn’t have any siblings. She had told me that she grew up in Kadikoy as a single child. In a household without a father, how did she and her mother who didn’t work survive? What kind of a person was her mother? Didn’t they have any relatives? She never told me anything that provided me with a single clue about the answers to such questions.
She had strange talents and interests. Sometimes she prophesied about me, asked me to tell her details about my youth and childhood, and listened to me attentively. We researched about my genealogy and created a family tree. She analyzed my character, and attributed certain aspects of my personality to the warrior genes of my great grandfather who was rumored to have been a Georgian pirate from Batoum. She also studied the photographs and documents related to my family with great interest.
I liked it that she was genuinely interested. My grandfather was a respectable naval officer who had his education in Germany and then worked as a harbormaster in Samsun and Istanbul. Serra also researched about my mother’s side. My mother had married my father – a man who grew up in a mansion in Beylerbeyi – in 1955. I introduced her to my mother and aunt. One day they even chatted for more than two hours and dug into the old family photos stuck in an old suitcase in my aunt’s attic. I was bored to death that day...
My mother’s grandfather was a colossal man from Crete who was a janissary soldier. His son, in other words my grandfather, was a smart and courageous man. I knew him as a young boy. He loved me and my brother and took us to the horse races in the hippodrome. He even took us along when he went to the taverns in Beyoglu. He was a lumber dealer who was also a boozer and gambler, but he was probably a cool guy because he had gone bankrupt a dozen times but had always managed to come through again... I kept teasing Serra. According to her, my heritage explained my robust genetic traits. Her viewpoint flattered me. I was starting to see myself as a man who could solve anything and succeed in whatever he pursued.
I was three years older than Serra. She was born in 1962. In other words, she was twenty-seven years old. She also came from a Caucasian family. Moreover, her father’s side belonged to the lineage of Ethem of Circassia according to what she told me. Her father, who came from Trabzon, studied electrical engineering in Istanbul, where he married her mother. They lived in Moda until Serra started primary school, and then they moved to Selamicesme.
This was all I knew about her...
When I asked her why she was being so secretive, she scolded me by saying, “I gave too much information already... Besides, why do you need to know? You see, if it wasn’t for me, you wouldn’t have even found out about your own ancestors.”
In return, I asked her, “But why are you so into my genealogy? I suppose you’re planning to marry me and have my kids.”
“Of course,” she said. “The man whose kids you’re going to have should have good genes.”
When I took it to heart, she exploded and laughed at me. I knew she didn’t intend to get married to anyone. If she had such intentions, she would have married that guy called Baris. Suddenly, I remembered him. What had happened to him really? She answered by saying, “Baris is gone...”
“What do you mean? Is he dead or what?”
Assuming a mysterious attitude, she said, “Well, sort of. You won’t see him again.” This was weird.
She inspired my art. She kept amazing me by interpreting my paintings, songs, poems, and stories in an extraordinarily smart way. The better I knew her, the more I realized that she was informed well enough to talk for hours about the work of outstanding artists of all ages. Her knowledge of music, her sense of rhythm and the way she carried a tune were well developed. Serra had an ‘absolute’ musical memory that allowed her to interpret a melody, rhythm or harmony to perfection even after hearing it for the first time.
At one time, I was really surprised when I saw how she listened to a Sarah Vaughan album in order to expand her repertoire and wrote down the Turkish pronunciation of the lyrics. It astonished me because when she sang, she sounded as perfect as a native speaker. How could a person singing jazz like she did not speak English?
“There’s much more about me that would surprise you,” she said laughing. Then she jokingly bit the tip of my nose.
People thought we resembled each other: lush and curly hair, a slender oval face, fair skin, and similar chins, mouths and noses...
One day when Serra came to Jazzino, she said to me, “The other day, your caretaker Pala told me ‘Your brother has just arrived’.”
I laughed about it, saying, “That Pala guy!” In my opinion, what gave a person a human touch, in other words, what gave her a distinct character, were her movements. Serra and I were different in that regard. Unlike me, she moved slowly and loved sleeping for longer hours. She had a slower rhythm than mine. We had other contradictions, too. Our taste in clothing, the kind of food we liked, the type of entertainment we enjoyed, and even our philosophies about life were different.
In fact, I couldn’t explain to myself why I was so deeply attached to her. Besides, I wasn’t even sure if she was in love with me either.
I really didn’t know...
Serra caused me to feel insecure. I didn’t know if she did it on purpose. I worried whether she’d have other men in her life. The way she disappeared too suddenly perturbed me, and I felt indescribably jealous. I was scared that she’d leave me for someone else. Even the way she embraced me with affection didn’t comfort me, and her mysterious escapes caused me to be attached to her even more blindly.
It was true that I loved her with every passing day, but not even that made me happy. On the contrary, it worried me beyond reason. The fear of losing her that gnawed at me fueled my passion in a strange way, and caused me to act out bedroom games with her based on themes like cheating, forbidden love and bondage. More and more, we were falling into a dark pit of pathetic passion that enslaved us. I was incapable of doing anything about it. I was addicted to her...
Those were amazing nights... Serra would act a woman who entered the wrong compartment on the train. Supposedly, her husband was in the adjacent compartment, and I would make love to her until I was consumed, as I drank in the tunes I listened with that imaginary married woman in the darkness of our room.
In October, I started insisting that Serra should move to my place. At the beginning, she beat about the bush, but eventually she caved in and agreed. One Sunday, I picked her up from her home. She had only two suitcases. For the first time, we spent the night together until the morning broke. She was in my arms when the first rays of the morning sun appeared behind the silhouette of the city. I embraced her, tousled her locks and kissed her neck. During breakfast, we talked about our dreams. We would go on trips together and travel the whole world. We would study the artistic and architectural wonders of Europe and learn about mysticism in the Far East.
“I have to improve my English,” she often said. “Otherwise, you’ll have to be my interpreter wherever we go.”
“You’ll learn English in any case, my dear. Don’t worry!” I always replied.
One day she said, “Let me go to Malta. I’ve heard that there are English language schools over there. Language courses for different levels. Like in England… Besides, they’re apparently much cheaper.”
I studied the printouts she had taken. “Sure! That’s a good idea,” I said, supporting her. “And the climate in Malta is nicer than that of England. In the south of the Mediterranean, even the winters are mild.”
I told her I’d pay for her travel and education costs. She hugged and kissed me. “All right, then. I’ll make the arrangements and secure my place,” she said in joy.
“Don’t hurry. It’s too soon,” I said with a worried tone. In those days, I didn’t want to stay away from her even for a moment. “I think you should first go there and explore the place before you enroll to a course. Then you can register to whichever school you like and stay in Malta for your education.”
I told her that being a little cautious with such stuff wouldn’t hurt. In fact, I wasn’t ready to let her go yet. I wanted her to stay with me for always with no other men entering her life. I told you: I was in love...
Like a happy child, Serra said, “You’re right! Let’s do that.”
Waggling the brochure in my hand, I said, “Most of the schools over there open courses at the beginning of the year. You should go there in December. Let’s make the most of the autumn here. Going to the south when the weather cools down is always fabulous. And when I arrange my business, I can come and stay with you for a while...”
“I’ll let you know as soon as I go there and enroll,” she said and hugged me. I held her tight and kissed the tip of her beautiful fingers.
“Everything’s going to be perfect. I love you baby.”
“I love you too,” she replied from the heart.
We started spending wonderful days together. I made some new arrangements at home to fulfill her film and music taste. For almost two months, we rented the videos of films by the greatest directors and the concert recordings of the legendary jazz musicians. We used to not only watch but also discuss and analyze them for hours, sharing our knowledge. Sometimes we did research together, ruffling the pages of books and encyclopedias or searching on the Internet.
The books Serra read captured my attention. They covered topics such as ‘after-death experiences’, parapsychology and other subjects and terminology that were so weird that I couldn’t even keep them in my mind. One evening, I couldn’t help asking her. Laughing, she said, “I have mysterious powers. Haven’t you realized yet?”
When I asked, “What are those powers?” she offered running an experiment together. She claimed that if I went to the other room and drew a picture on a piece of paper, she would know what I drew. I went to the room and drew a dog. I folded the paper and put in my pocket. I returned, asked her what I drew and she knew. At first, I thought it was by sheer coincidence. But we repeated the experiment on and on that night. In the end, I locked myself in the dim bathroom, where I drew pictures that were more conceptual. Each time I asked her what I drew on the paper that rested in my pocket now, she gave the correct answer. All she asked me before she guessed was to think about what I drew. It didn’t even take a minute for her to make the right guess. She explained this situation by saying, “My sense of perception is just a little stronger than normal people. That’s all there is to it.” Then she added, “I must also develop myself in other areas, but so few resources have been translated to Turkish. That’s why I want to learn English...”
Serra was determined to learn English. In the evenings, she worked with a home study pack. She watched movies with English subtitles, tried to read books in English and bombarded me with questions. In fact, her core knowledge wasn’t shabby, and she kept improving herself.
On December 12th, we booked her flight to Malta and reserved a room in a hotel. She did lots of research, and in the end, she decided to follow my advice. She would fly to Malta and choose the language school on site. Accordingly, we’d decide the date of her return trip. I supported her aspiration in every way: materially and morally, and I felt good about it.
One day after dinner she started pretending she was a fortuneteller. She jokingly said, “Let me read your coffee cup.” We were having Turkish coffee after dinner and enjoying a conversation. In those days, I used to tease her about such stuff, which I really didn’t care about...
“All right, go ahead, please. I think twenty bucks will do it,” I said with a serious attitude.
She took her time staring at my coffee cup. Then she said, “You’re going to have a strange problem. One evening, soon… You’re going to suffer a huge trouble.”
I scolded her by saying, “You’re turning into a doomsayer! A female vulture!” I tried to take the coffee cup from her hand, but she resisted.
She kept telling me whatever she thought she saw. “In three days, three weeks, or maybe three months, you’ll finally be relieved. A bright future is awaiting you. I’ve told the same thing to your earlier. Remember?”
I didn’t tell her I didn’t remember. I just nodded. Then I said with a sarcastic tone, “So what’s that strange problem about?”
“I don’t know. I guess it’s about a man and a woman,” she replied gravely.
“Then it’s about my other lover,” I said.
She took the saucer and let the few drops of coffee flow into the empty cup. “Look at this! The same man has appeared here,” she said. “The problem is related to a woman. It’s obvious...” Then she looked as if she saw other things. She arched her eyebrows, and her eyes opened wider in astonishment. Then she quickly turned the coffee cup over the saucer and put them both on the table. Turning her eyes away, she said, “Anyway... That was it. Long story short, your worries and troubles will eventually scatter away...”
I made fun of the situation, saying, “I’d rather have my troubles become scattered than me.”
“Come on! Let’s watch a movie,” she said as she stood up. “And let’s have couple of drinks and enjoy ourselves.”
She went to the kitchen while I picked the movie.

9
SERRA’S STRANGE BEHAVIOR
By the time it was October, Askin and Taygun’s partnership problems spoiled our business in Jazzino like a virus. Everything went haywire. Taygun’s bullyboy Ali the Burner and his driver Kamil visited Jazzino almost every evening while Askin’s hood Muslu Mustafa appeared there whenever Askin and Taygun had a meeting in the club. As far as I understood, Askin was obsessed with reaping what he didn’t sow because he was taken over by a never-ending ambition. He believed that he no longer needed his partner, whose technical knowledge, connections and good reputation he had exploited for four years, and was trying to get rid of him. He thought, from this point on, all he had to do was to sell and earn more. However, Taygun had no intention to give in so easily. Aware of Askin’s malevolence, he fought back as well as he could. My efforts as a mediator were useless. What’s more, in November, the atmosphere became even tenser.
Actually, I didn’t care about it. Last season, we had earned back all the capital we had invested until May. Besides, we had even made a small fortune, purchased all the necessary fixtures and equipment and paid all of our bills. We couldn’t have done better.
I held a secret meeting with two distributors of alcoholic drinks who also owned ‘Cheminée Bar’ in Sisli. The guys admired Jazzino so much that they offered me a huge amount of cash to take over the club together with the managing company. I didn’t tell Askin or Taygun, who were busy fighting each other, about this meeting. I was planning to inform them once the offer became solid.
A few weeks after we started living together, I realized that some strange stuff was going on in Serra’s life. When she woke up in the morning, she was like a different person. She couldn’t get a grasp of herself until midday. Then she got prepared and left. I couldn’t reach her anywhere until the evening. She told me she went to visit her mother, but she never let me call her there. She told me that her mother didn’t know we were living together. She had told her mother that she was staying with a girlfriend.
She said, “Mom knows Baris well, and she really likes him. She can’t stand the fact that I’m in a relationship with someone else.”
And I believed her.
By the time she got up, I was done with breakfast and had already started reading the newspaper, a magazine or a book. The apartment complex had a tennis court and a pool. In the morning I played tennis with my friend the doctor or swam if the weather was warm enough. I was never able to convince Serra to wake up early even if we went to bed late and enjoy the beauty of the early morning hours. She always said the same thing: “I’m a night owl. You and I have different biological clocks.”
“This is silly. I go to bed at the same time you do. The morning hours are so nice. If you got used to it, you’d love it, too! You really don’t want to?”
She would pucker her lips like a spoiled brat and say, “No, I don’t. And I don’t think I ever will.”
“It’s just a matter of breaking the habit,” I used to insist. But it never helped.
“Why don’t you want to accept that it’s a scientific fact?” she said.
In the end, I gave up trying because nothing changed whether I accepted it or not. After breakfast, Serra always took some colorful pills she kept in a small package in her purse. When I first asked her, she told me they were vitamins. Later, I realized that these pills changed her behavior – and even her character. After nibbling some food, she would take her pills and then spend the next half hour in the bathroom. When she came out, she would no longer be the grumpy, nervous girl with a frown but turn into a fresh and vibrant woman– the sexy woman I was mad about.
I didn’t dwell on such stuff for weeks. Then one morning she told me she forgot her pills at her mother’s place and triggered the events that turned our life into a nightmare. She was unbelievably ill tempered. She fretted and fumed as if she didn’t know what to do. She said, “I’m sick and tired of you and this life! We spend every evening at home like two geeks. You wake up in the wee hours and bother me all the time!”
I remained silent. Her behavior wasn’t normal at all. She was shaking like an aspen leaf. Her fury lasted for about half an hour. I didn’t know what was going on, but I thought it was probably related to the pills she didn’t take. I offered to go to her mother and pick them up for her. Then I added, “Or tell me what they are and I’ll find a pharmacy on duty and get them for you.” I gave her a pen and a piece of paper. “Come on. Write their names down.”
She tore the paper and threw the pen to my face. “Those pills aren’t vitamins! And I can’t get them without a prescription!” she said.
“But what were they?” I asked astonished.
“Drugs! They are damned drugs!” she shouted at me again. “Sedatives… Anti-depressants! Haven’t you ever heard about them?”
When I said I didn’t, she got even madder. She went to the bedroom and got dressed. We got in the car and started driving to the Asian quarter of the city.
Serra sat in the passenger seat without saying a word. I parked the car when we reached the apartment in Selamicesme. She got out and went into the building.
As I sat flabbergasted in the car, thoughts were racing in my mind. She hadn’t answered any of the questions I had asked her during our ride. Could it be that Serra suffered epilepsy or had some sort of a mental disorder? I thought about all the strange things I had perceived about her since day one. But I couldn’t pinpoint any obvious disorder.
Was she schizophrenic?
I’d heard that people displayed such behavior disorders in pathological cases. A neighbor who lived in the same building with us during my childhood used to be schizophrenic. Usually she was just a normal young woman. But on some days, she would change suddenly, attack people around her and utter weird things. Then, her mother would give her small yellow pills, which brought her back to her senses. Did Serra suffer something similar?
In those days, I was dreaming of a happy and peaceful life with her. Were my dreams coming to naught now?
Serra returned to the car. She looked tired but calmer. She dozed off all the way home. When we arrived, she was in a deep sleep. I helped her get out of the car. We went home. I took of her clothes and helped her get into the bed.
A little later, she woke up suddenly and said, “Horrible things will happen. I can feel it...”
“Stop being silly! You’re just dead tired. Get some sleep now,” I said.
“This is what tires me. I guess I’ll die...” She closed her eyes and turned to the other side.
“You’ll die because I’ll kill you if you keep talking nonsense!” I said, brandishing my fist.
She didn’t laugh. I wondered if I should ask her about the pills. Then I changed my mind. She wouldn’t answer anyway. I covered her and went to the living room. I turned the radio on and listened to the news. I no longer had to go to Jazzino every day. Through the help of people we knew, we had finally found a good manager who ran the place. He was doing all the inspection work now, and if he couldn’t find me, he reported to Askin. But today, I had to go to the club. We would have a short meeting with the personnel. My head almost cracked with a headache. It was almost three o’clock. I took a painkiller and set off for Gayrettepe. On the way, I thought about Serra, our future and I. I felt worried and confused.
I didn’t stay there after the meeting and returned home. It was still early in the evening. Serra was still sleeping when I arrived. I kind of felt suspicious and searched through the medicine bag on the bathroom cabinet. There they were: the pills she said were vitamins first although she confessed later that they were sedatives. Akineton, Largactil and Norodol… Neither had a box or a leaflet, and I had never heard their names. They couldn’t be vitamins. That was for sure. Moreover, I had never met anyone who used three different types of sedatives.
I jotted down their names on a piece of paper. I would try to find more information about them as soon as possible...

10
THE NIGHT OF THE CRISIS
I'd completely forgotten the medicine incident after our beautiful days together. The evening before Serra's departure for Malta, I finished up my work at the club to come home early. I wanted to help her pack up and spend some wonderful time with her. It was getting dark. I rang the bell, but no one answered. I took out my keys and opened the door. 
There was no sign of life anywhere in the house. After walking around, I saw that Serra was sleeping in the bedroom. When I put my hand on her forehead after suspecting she could be sick, I realized she was covered in beads of sweat. She didn't have a fever, but it was as if she was shivering from within. With my gentle removal of the blanket, she seemingly woke up. She opened her eyes and tried to see me by blinking her eyelids rapidly under the dim lighting.
My eye caught sight of the black make-up case on the night table. It was left open, and certain things in there didn’t resemble make-up tools at all. I stood up and opened the bag: a set of hypodermic syringes, and another one, a metal spoon, a rubber band, a dropper, and for whatever reason, a lemon salt baggie, plus many such bits and pieces...  
Morphine?
While looking at Serra, I could only ask, “Do you have an illness?” I did not want to hear any words about drugs from her. Her condition was alarming. Shaking her head from side to side, her head fell on the pillow. She started trembling.
My mouth felt dry. I was paralyzed with suspicion. I couldn’t do anything except for struggling to understand what was going on. I repeated my question many times. When I didn't receive an answer, I turned her in bed to lie on her back.
“You okay?” I asked again and kept repeating. Serra shook her head and pulled me close to herself with her hands clamped around my neck.
Like someone giving out her last breath, “I'm dy-ing,” she said with a difficult whisper.
“You have...”
“...no idea what-this...”
“...feels-like...”
Suddenly, I was panic-stricken. Her teeth were chattering while her eyes rolled to the back of her head. Grabbing both of her shoulders, I began to shake her. “I can see,” I said screaming. “What is this Serra? Please tell me, what is this?”
I immediately tried to move her out of bed, and then attempted to call for an ambulance. But she swiped the phone away from my hand. After that, I went to scoop her up to bring her to a hospital. She resisted me like a crazed person. I had to drop her back down to where she was lying. “Are you schizophrenic or is this some epileptic seizure?” I asked. In fact, I knew the real story, but I just wanted to be proven wrong. 
She shook her head again from side to side. She was in cold sweat and breathing heavily. Digging her nails into my arm, she said, “Hero-in...” with difficulty.
“Well?” I asked impatiently, wanting her to continue.
“I had ther-apy...”
“...but I could-n't kick it...”
“You were taking medication,” I said quickly. I could strongly sense our troubles ahead and was hoping for a miracle to make everything better. “What were they for then?”
“They were...”
“...substitute drugs. Three days a-go...”
“...they-ran-out...”
I ran inside and brought back the medicine bag. Only Akineton was empty. The rest still had a few remaining. I removed the remaining ones from their plastic cases, hurriedly filled a glass of water and forced Serra to swallow the pills. With one swift slap, she threw the glass and the pills against the wall. She looked really mad.
“N-need Akine-ton...”
“...ac-tually,” she said.
“The rest-is hot-air…” She then cried, “Akineton-is…”
“…sold with the green prescrip-tion...”
I thought I was losing my mind.
“Or-dered from a-broad...”
I started seeing lightning bolts in front of my eyes.
“Ac-cording to the doctor...”
She gulped again. “I s-should've been re-cov-ered...”
It was like she was out of breath. “But... d-didn't hap-pen, see...”
I was getting more and more puzzled. I asked her what I needed to do. Her shivers had turned into muscle spasms.
“...n-need to f-find…”
“…j-junk.”
Her breath finally gave out.
I stood there frozen. I wanted to run away. “Where do we find such things Serra? I don't know anything about this,” I stuttered. She reached toward the dressing table.
“G-give me m-my b-bag,” she said again with difficulty.
So I did. She pulled out a small red address book. “B-Blind Hüs-rev...” was all she could say.
I shuffled the worn-out yellowish pages and finally found the number. She extended the phone I placed in her hand toward me while making a weird noise that resembled a mute person trying to talk. She buried her face to the pillow and started the hiccups. I dialed the number.
“Hello, who're you?” answered a growling voice.
A sludgy conversation made up mostly of men's voices could be heard in the background. “I was calling for Mr. Husrev.”
“Who the hell is Husrev?”
He spoke so roughly that I stuttered. “Perhaps I dialed wrong? Isn't this Blind Husrev’s place?”
“One minute…” said the horrible voice on the phone… And I really waited close to a minute actually… Then even a more horrible voice said ‘Hello’.
“Am I speaking to Mr. Husrev? I mean Blind Husrev…”
“Yea, whatcha need bro?”
“Well, there is a serious condition here. My lady friend gave me your number. She's having a breakdown herself.” I was dumbfounded as to what I should say. Should I have given her name? I had no idea “I don't know anything about these things,” I continued. “She told me to call you. I am to get some medicine from you.”
He paused and thought for a moment. Then, he said “Hold on there cuz, wait a while.”
I waited. Faint talking sounds could be heard in the background. I couldn't understand any of it.
“Ha much?” he asked.
I couldn't understand what he was asking. “How much, what?” I said.
“Ha many grams you want bro?” he scolded me.
“I don't know, like I said I don't know these things. As much as whatever one dose is…”
“No, we ain’t workin’ that way… Gotta be at least three grams.”
Again I didn't know what to say. “All right then. How much money am I to bring?”
“Hundred fifty bucks,” he said with a murky grunt.
Hesitantly, “May I get the directions to your place?” I asked.
“Course you can,” he said. “Get down to Dolapdere minibus stop. Sutluce minibusses. Center stage… From there, get in the back alley. Ask anyone, they'll point you to our shop… Don't be too late cuz.”
“I’ll be there right away,” I said in fear. I shoved in extra two hundred bucks into my pocket and dashed out. I took one last glance at Serra before I left. She looked miserable. She had gotten out of the bed and taken shelter under the table. She was writhing in pain. I think she had also messed her clothes. The skirt of her nightgown was wet.
Clenching my teeth, I ran to the car. It was almost ten. I raced down to Ortakoy and then hit the road to Besiktas from the coastal road. I was all mixed up. I didn’t want to live a night like this again. But I really didn’t know what to do. I scanned my weary face in the rear-view mirror. Was this I?
As I drove from Besiktas to Taksim, I thought I should perhaps ask someone’s help. I gazed at the sea that appeared below the Dolmabahce Stadium. Then I changed my mind.  It would only stir up more trouble. What was I going to tell people? ‘My girlfriend is a junky. I found out about it tonight.’ Wouldn’t they ask me what the hell did I have to with her and couldn’t I find a more decent girl to fall in love with?
Instead, I told myself that I should buy the fucking shit so that she could take it and fall asleep... After putting her on the plane to Malta in the morning, I would make a plan with a clear mind and separate from her upon her return.
I would send her to her mom’s home, and that would be it.

11
BLIND HUSREV’S TAVERN
I found the center stage and the minibus stop after much searching. I parked the car right there. There were many dark alleys opening to the square. Feeling uncomfortable, I finally brought myself to ask a guy standing there and smoking. He showed the place to me with a move of his hand: “Aha! Right there…”
Blind Husrev’s tavern in Dolapdere was buried in smoke. When I stepped in, all the customers – a vulgar herd – turned around and looked at me... The smell in this blast hole was beyond description: a combination of sewage, rotten fish and damp tobacco. Around twenty-five people were seated at perhaps ten tables in this long, narrow den. To convince you how difficult it was to profile the people inside, I can tell you that at first glance, I was able to spot apprentice mechanics dallying with freaks who haven’t transformed into women yet but who were clearly cheaper than transsexuals, gypsy beggars flirting with retired prostitutes, and jail breakers who fixed their bloodshot eyes on the passersby... I realized that refraining from any eye contact would be the wisest thing to do. So I lowered my eyes and found a place to sit after walking between the scrappy chairs scattered around the place. The stone floor was covered with wood chips while the walls and the ceiling were decorated with fishnets covered with seashells.
A toothless, haggard looking old man came with a tray of white cheese and honey melon slices. He also placed a small bottle of raki on the table. He asked what else I wanted. I said, “I’m here to see Blind Husrev. It’s urgent...” I felt uneasy.
Only by reading the expression on his face I was able to realize that he asked me who I was.
I made up a name and started eating some cheese and fruit as I waited. I also gulped down a shot of raki to calm myself down. Soon my heart started beating slower and my mouth felt less dry. A little later, a man with the scariest face I’ve ever seen appeared at the door next to the fridge. He limped all the way and sat at my table. The left side of Blind Husrev’s face must have burned severely. He had similar scars on his neck and his left hand, but none of them could compete with the disgusting scar on his head.
As he came closer, he affectionately said, “Easy, cuz! Pigs don’t set foot in my tavern...”
At the end of the sentence, his faked gentle voice turned into a grunt with the ‘r’s resonating as if they passed through a wet cloth before they were heard. “Neverrr!”
As the man gave out a laugh, bubbles of spit appeared between his brownish yellow teeth protruding from his mouth. He put his hand on my shoulder and clenched it. “Welcome,” he said. Then he called the old waiter and ordered lots of appetizers and seafood for me.
A crowd of beggars occupied the adjacent table. They ranted and raved with a dialect I didn’t understand. At the same time, they worked up a scruffy woman who looked like a whorehouse mistress. The bluish light of the two fluorescent lamps on the ceiling made the atmosphere even more infernal.
In desperation, I managed to say, “I’m in a hurry,” but no one heard me. Then I leaned toward Blind Husrev and talked into his ear, “Sir, you know, I have a patient who’s suffering an attack. That’s why I’m here...”
Suddenly, the guy started yelling: “Bastards, they’re bastarrrds!” His looked even more hideous now. “Nobody cares about how we sufferrr! Those bastards spare even a bit of remedy we buy with our own cash! But what do foreignerrrs do? The patient goes to a clinic, where all the doctorrrs respect him! Then they give him a dose of reliefff...”
He banged his hands on the table, and then raised his head toward the ceiling as if he was about to start howling. “And no charrrge... They even treat him without a piasterrr...”
I pretended to be interested and surprised. Blind Husrev summoned again the old waiter, who was having a hard time serving all tables at once, and whispered something into his ear. I thought I was going to die of impatience. I was damn worried about Serra, and I wanted to race home as soon as possible. When the old waiter nodded and scurried away, I couldn’t stand anymore and whispered into Blind Husrev’s ear: “What about the dope, you know...”
He kept talking from where he had stopped: “Of course, everybody has free dope overrr therrre...” He didn’t care. He gulped down the rest of his drink and banged the glass on the table. Then he stared at me.
“We’ve orderrred. The dude will bring it rr-rright away. You get the dough rrready, cuz. Got it, rr-right?”
I wanted to make sure. “Hundred and fifty, right?”
All of a sudden, Blind Husrev got mad. He pointed toward the door as he yelled at me: “Fuck off, bastarrrd! Fuck the hell off!”
I didn’t understand. I was astonished and upset... Hadn’t this guy and I agreed on the amount of cash on the phone? “Listen, I only want three grams of...”
He cut me short. “That crap ain’t enough even for two grrramz!”
“All right, I’ll have two then... I’ll pay whatever it costs... And why are you doing this? The only thing missing is a beating!”
My words infuriated him more. Foaming, he yelled. “What da hell are you sayin’ bastarrrd!”
This guy was an absolute nut head. Without saying anything further, I accepted whatever he wanted. I told the waiter that I wanted to pay. I wanted to speed things up. They ripped off twenty bucks from me for two glasses of raki and the appetizers I couldn’t even eat. I ended up paying two hundred bucks for two grams of some queer looking white powder, which Blind Husrev dropped into my lap in a tiny envelope. Moreover, I had become the target of the mockery and insults of Blind Husrev and a bunch of odd-looking guys. I wasn’t in a mood to care about it, so I rushed out as soon as I got my hands on the envelope. When I reached my car, I saw two young bummers fiddling with my windshield. I yelled and chased them away. Then gunned the car up and took the slope to Taksim.
My mind was numb. As I rode from the square in direction of Dolmabahce, I thought there could be spot checks on the main roads because it was Friday. Squeezing money out of drunk drivers was one of the most important sources of income in this city. Suddenly, I remembered the envelope in my pocket. What if they did a body search? Come on, I said to myself. Why would they search me? But to be on the safe side, I took the junk out of my pocket and put it in the secret compartment of my wallet. As if they can’t find it there, I thought... I had no idea how you did this shit. I had considered asking one of the terrifying guys in Blind Husrev’s place, but I had failed to take heart. I had thought I could call someone up and ask...
On the way home, I went through the contact list on my phone. I knew people who smoked pot. Maybe one of them knew. Just as I reached the letter D, the battery, which had been causing trouble for a while, made a beeping sound and died. I swore out loud at everything, everyone and at myself...
Then I forgot about everything. There was a road check in Besiktas, and I had drunk a good bit of raki. One of the two cops who stopped me motioned me to line up behind the other cars waiting. I rolled down the window and put my head out.
When the second cop approached, I said, “Officer, I have a sick patient waiting for me.” When he cast a blank glance at me, I added, “I’m a doctor. The woman is dying. I have to make it there!”
Obviously, the policeman didn’t believe a word. He asked for my papers as he took out the small breath test unit from his pocket. When I didn’t give him the papers and insisted on being a doctor, he tore off the package and pushed the device to my face. Forcing himself to remain courteous, he asked me to breathe into the breathalyzer. I pushed his hand away and took out my wallet.
“Please don’t, Sir,” he said.
I lifted my head and stared into his eyes. “I have to,” I said and took out two twenty-lira notes and pushed them against his palm. In those days, that was good amount cash no one could reject.
After taking a look at the money in his hand, the cop faltered for a moment and then said, “You can move on, doctor.” I gave gas right away.
As I got closer to home, I wondered what would have happened if the cop refused the bribe. Maybe I would have broken away. They would have chased me. For sure…
I wish things had happened that way. I wish they had caught me and put me behind the bars that night…

12
GOLDEN SHOT
By the time I got home, it was probably past midnight. Serra had come out from under the table and gotten into the bed in the bedroom. When I reached for her forehead with my hand, she suddenly sat up and started screaming. “Who are you? Who? Tell me, right now!”
I quickly lit up the lamp on the bedside table. ‘It’s me, Serra. I’m back. Look, I took care of it....”
I shook the tiny envelope filled with the white dust in front of her eyes. She blinked while she took one look at it and then jumped for it with the hunger of an animal. She struggled to get out of the bed but couldn’t, and fell down on the carpeted floor on her knees. She was shaking in a strange manner. Her arms and legs were bending inwards like a disabled person’s would. I offered to help her and took the envelope from her hands. It was impossible for her to get the syringe ready in this condition.
“How do you take this? I asked her.
She couldn’t answer. I repeated myself. “Do you snort it up your nose?”
She shook her head no and pointed to the bag on the bedside table. The sweat beads on her forehead were shining under the light from the lamp. I left her lying there and grabbed that infamous black bag. “What do I do with this spoon? Do I put the powder in it and melt it over the fire?” I asked in deep worry this time.
I remembered seeing something like that in a movie. I think the man in the movie was adding a little bit of water, melting the powder in the spoon, and then injecting it into his arm... I emptied the contents of the bag on the table and started preparing the fix based on what I could remember from the movie. Serra was just looking at me with pleading eyes. She would occasionally open her mouth and make a strange throaty sound.
“All I need is for you to nod,” I told her.
She nodded.
“How much of it do I melt in the spoon?”
“H-half...”
“.... a pea,” she could barely get out.
With a pocketknife, I separated some of it from inside the envelope and held it up to her. “Is this good? Enough?”
She nodded her head no. She wanted more.
“Serra, please pay attention and tell me how much it has to be. Let it be less, not more. I’ll make it for you again, all right?” I said abruptly in desperation. When she shook her head no and tried to reach for the envelope with the heroin this time, I slid back and poured some more of the damn thing from the envelope.
“Okay now? Enough for you?” I said and stood up. I went into the kitchen. I poured half of what Serra said to be an enough dosage back into the paper envelope. I was scared shitless of having to go through one of those overdosing cases I remembered from films and books.
Serra was no longer able to describe the rest of the procedure to me. I mixed the powder in the spoon with some water from a dropper and started heating it up on the stove. My hands were shaking from worrying about how I was doing all this out of secondhand information and things I’ve heard from around. The powder, although already boiled, would not melt. I went inside and asked Serra. She asked for her bag and her cigarette pack... I handed them to her, and with her shaky hands she pulled out a piece from a lemon powder bag, motioning for me to put it in the spoon. On my way out, I tripped on her elbow and everything in the spoon spilled on the floor.
Serra started screaming at me at the top of her lungs. She was speaking in an extremely foul language I’ve never heard her use before.
“All right, calm down. There’s more than two grams of it in the envelope. I’ll make you more right now,” I told her and managed to quiet her down with difficulty. After preparing the solution again and adding lemon powder to it this time, I attempted to prepare another dosage along Serra’s moans. I was distracted by the strange noises behind me. Serra was collapsed on the kitchen floor carpet and throwing up everywhere.
This time I added the damned white powder to the spoon in a rush, without measuring, and I wasn’t sure if it was less or more than the dosage before. I could feel my mouth dry and my forehead wet from sweat. At last, when I left the spoon with the melting powder in it on the counter and went back to get the syringe, I saw Serra straightening up from where she was lying, taking out the smoking filter from her cigarette and holding it up to me. Through her gritting teeth, she barely managed to get to words to come out to tell me how I needed to add the filter to the melting solution and dip the tip of the needle into the liquid and suck it into the syringe from there. I wasn’t sure if I was doing the right thing at all. I needed to call someone and consult. This thought kept running through my head.
I used the plastic injector to inject the melted mixture in the spoon and let it cool, meanwhile thinking of whom I could call.
Who in God’s name could I call?
Serra suddenly jumped out of where she was and rushed to the kitchen counter, grabbing the syringe in a storm. Using her mouth and her left hand, she wrapped her arm right under her shoulder with the rubber serum hose. She was waiting for her vein to bulge and swell when I got worried and grabbed the injector from her hand. “Serra, listen to me.” I said. “Do you realize what we are about to do? How about not doing it? Let’s not do this, I beg you... Let’s hang tight, it’ll all pass...”
“It w-won’t...”
“I… know,” she said in a fury. Her teeth were clanking together. “When I do this... I’ll relax.”
She reached her shaking hand towards me. “Give m-me that t-thing... in your hand…”
I thought there was nothing more I could do and gave her the syringe. She took it and stabbed it in her vein instantly, injecting what was inside. First, a faint expression of delightfulness came across her face, and then, the stillness spread in waves to the rest of her body. Her legs, neck, arms, and everything else loosened up and relaxed.
“Y-you’re amazing,” she whispered to me. Then her speech turned to normal.
“You got... the good stuff,” she said. “Very good...”
I held her by the waist and brought her over to the bed to lay her down. She wouldn’t let go of me and caught my lips with hers. It was a brief fumble of kisses for a while before she dozed off and I went to take a shower. When I came back Serra was still sleeping. I covered her with a blanket and went over to the living room. I lit a cigarette and poured myself a glass of raki to calm down.
I felt terrible. The awful incident that led my joy for living to disappear and the revelation of the real face of the woman I loved had killed me. I thought about what I was going to do. I couldn’t think of anything.
It was inevitable for me to break up with Serra. What else could I do? A relationship with an addict would go nowhere. It was clear that sooner or later our relationship would suffer a bitter end. I didn’t have the strength to take the risk.
Ahh, why was I so unlucky? What was the reason for this unfortunate spell on me, throwing me of from side to side? I felt myself choking up whenever I thought of it.
When I went back to the bedroom about an hour later, she was fast asleep. First I felt relieved, but then a wave of suspicion hit me. It was unusual for Serra to sleep this deeply and quietly. Usually she made a sound and had slight snoring because of her sinuses on one side of her nose. I put my hand on her forehead. She wasn’t sweaty but a little cold. Scared that she wasn’t breathing, I rushed to light the bedside lamp. I ran back to the bed and whispered, “Serra, get up, come on... Serra, are you OK?” in her ear.
There was no response. I got very worried and tried to get her on her back. Her head fell sideways. I held it and pressed on her cheeks, but now there was foam squirting out of her mouth.
My God! Oh no, there was something wrong! There was something else going on here. No, my God, I’m not here...
The lack of any visible sign of life in her body drove me crazy. I couldn’t think straight anymore. I caressed her body and pressed it to me, trying not to scream, and carried it to the bathroom. I turned the water on and got under the shower, fully clothed, with Serra. Under the ice-cold water I tried to get her to breathe by breathing into her mouth. When I realized it wasn’t working, bumping into the walls left and right I brought her heavy body into the living room in rising panic. She wasn’t moving at all. I put her on the couch. I was sweaty and exhausted and started slapping her in desperation. I was out of breath. When I still couldn’t see any sign of movement, I started crying. I found the house phone so I could make an emergency call. I didn’t know whom to call. I sat on her body and did CPR, trying to blow in her mouth.
None of it was working!
Serra was dead. This was most certainly true, but I was fooling myself and didn’t want to believe it. I still cried. For several minutes, I tried to get her to move, shaking her arms and legs... It was of no use. None of it...
I checked her pulse, put a mirror to her mouth, and got her eyes to open. When I realized none of that helped either, I collapsed on the floor and lay there like a corpse staring at the ceiling.
And I thought of her. The best days of our relationship, the days when I couldn’t even imagine a life without her, when I didn’t have any desire or a future without her... It seemed like the magic would never end.
It was like we would never die.
How could this have happened? How is it that a person finds himself on the edge of a cliff so fast, and everything changes so abruptly?
There was a dead person on my bed: a corpse, the body of the person I loved the most, my dear love... My beautiful lover had turned into a lifeless, cooling body now. She was gone... I got up with difficulty, climbed onto the bed and stared at Serra’s sleeping face. Her angelic face...
And that was the first time I realized I was indescribably afraid of the creature called death.
I don’t know for how long I stayed in bed. Just like waking up from a dream, I landed a soft kiss on the slightly parted blue lips of the now ice cold Serra and got up feeling dizzy. My head was spinning, and I felt sick in the stomach. Sweating and shivering, I crawled to the bathroom and threw up.
I threw up again and again, until my insides hurt. Then I washed my face and brushed my teeth. Once I looked at myself in the mirror, I saw the reflection of my unrecognizable face. I fixed my hair with my hand. I had to pull myself together. Not only was my situation unbelievably hard and miserable, but I also had no one I could turn to. I was all alone.
Now, I said to myself, pull yourself together and think hard.
What exactly happened?
My girlfriend who lived with me was a heroin addict. I didn’t know until tonight. She asked me to go somewhere in Dolapdere. I purchased two grams of heroin there and came back home. She described the dosage to me and I gave her half of it. She injected herself and then she died.
Was I guilt of this?
I thought about it...
Yes, I was. I was very guilty. Why hadn’t I called a hospital, paramedics or a clinic but instead went off to get junk at that damned fucking place from the worst fucking dealer?
Let’s say I did… Why the hell did I turn it in without question to an addict in fit of hysterics without even consulting anyone?
Let’s say I did all this as well, but why the hell did I not think it would end the way it did? Why didn’t I think about the consequences? What an idiot I was! Have I not seen any films or read any books?
Do I not have any common sense at all?
Defendant, please rise!
You are found guilty of causing death... You are guilty of committing murder.
Purposefully or consciously, but still, you are...
I tried to analyze my emotions. Maybe I wanted Serra dead. I was, indeed, very upset at her on my way to Husrev’s place. Yes, I wanted to be rid of her and thought I should definitely break it off with her. But don’t all lovers have secret thoughts of breaking it off with their significant others, of breaking loose from them, somewhere in the corner of their minds?
There is no logic in love...
Even if she was a heroin addict, I wasn’t ready to break it off with Serra, and maybe I never would be... Let alone kill her.
Have I wanted this?
No. Why would I want this? I tell you, I was madly in love with her...
Covering my face with both hands, I started to cry again. They would lock me in even if they found me innocent. For how many months, who knows... Even if I were dismissed and free of all charges, how many days, weeks, months would pass until the courts proceeded... I had seen it all. I had stayed in prison for over two weeks. Would I make it?
It was impossible.
Let’s assume I endured it for two or three weeks... What if I was found guilty?
I would be in prison for years.
I thought long and hard, and thought again. I cried again. Sniffing, I went into the kitchen and made myself a cup of coffee. Then, I lit a cigarette.
This time I thought of how I would get myself out of this...