films he’d seen in his childhood at open-air cinemas set up back behind the walls of mosques and outdoor cafés. When he watched those black-and-white Yeşilçam Films, critical of their weak plots, Galip used to think that either he didn’t get the whole picture, or else he was being drawn into a world that was unintentionally transformed into a fairy tale, replete with rich but heartless fathers, the penniless Goody-Two-Shoes, the cooks, the butlers, the beggars, and the cars with the fins (the DeSoto, Rüya would remember, had the same license plates as in a previous movie), and just as he scoffed at the audience weeping in the chairs all around him, yes, yes, at that very moment—careful now!—as a result of some hocus-pocus he couldn’t make out, he’d suddenly find himself in tears, sharing the sorrows of pale and pathetic altruists on the screen and the torments of resolute but selfless heroes. So as to be better informed about the black-and-white fairy-tale world of the small leftist factions where he’d once found Rüya with her ex-husband, he phoned an old friend who kept all the back issues of all the political journals.
“You’re still collecting periodicals, aren’t you?” Galip said with conviction. “I have a client who’s in real trouble. Do you think I could use your archives for a while to work up his defense?”
“Sure enough,” said Saim with his usual goodwill, pleased to be sought after for his “archives.” He’d be looking for Galip around eight-thirty tonight.
Galip worked in the office until it got dark. He called Jelal a couple more times but couldn’t get him. After each conversation, the secretary informed him that Jelal Bey either hadn’t come in “yet” or else had “just” gone out. Galip had the uneasy feeling that he was still being watched by Jelal’s “eye” in the newspaper he’d stuck in one of the shelves left over from Uncle Melih’s days. Indeed, he felt the tangible presence of Jelal as he listened to the story of an altercation that ensued among the heirs to a small store in the Covered Bazaar, told by an excessively obese mother-son team who kept interrupting each other, and as he tried to explain to a traffic cop, who wore shades and wanted to sue the government for giving him short shrift on his retirement benefits, that according to the laws prevailing in the land the two years he had spent in the loony bin could not be counted as employment.
He phoned Rüya’s friends one by one. For each call, he came up with fresh and diverse pretexts. He asked her high-school chum Macide for the phone number of Gül, whose name, meaning “rose,” had once entranced him; he needed to get in touch with her in the interests of a case. He was told by the gracious maid of the gracious household that Gül with the pretty name, whom Macide didn’t like, had given birth the day before yesterday to her third and fourth children simultaneously at the Gülbahçe (Rose Garden!) hospital, and that if he rushed he still had time to view the darling twins, who’d been named Hüsün and Aşk (Beauty and Love), through the plate glass nursery window. Figen promised she’d return What Is to Be Done? (Chernyshevsky’s), as well as the Raymond Chandler, and wished Rüya a speedy recovery. As for Behiye, no, Galip was mistaken, she had no uncle who was an agent at the Narcotics Bureau; and no, Galip was sure of it, there was not a hint in her voice that she knew anything of Rüya’s whereabouts. What amazed Semih was how Galip had gotten wind of the underground textile mill: yes, they had indeed put together a crew of engineers and technicians to start a project to actualize the first Turkish-made zipper; but no, since he was not apprised of the trafficking in bobbins reported in the papers recently, he was unable to provide any legal information. He could only send Rüya his most heartfelt regards (which Galip could well believe).
He altered his voice when he made his
“You’re still collecting periodicals, aren’t you?” Galip said with conviction. “I have a client who’s in real trouble. Do you think I could use your archives for a while to work up his defense?”
“Sure enough,” said Saim with his usual goodwill, pleased to be sought after for his “archives.” He’d be looking for Galip around eight-thirty tonight.
Galip worked in the office until it got dark. He called Jelal a couple more times but couldn’t get him. After each conversation, the secretary informed him that Jelal Bey either hadn’t come in “yet” or else had “just” gone out. Galip had the uneasy feeling that he was still being watched by Jelal’s “eye” in the newspaper he’d stuck in one of the shelves left over from Uncle Melih’s days. Indeed, he felt the tangible presence of Jelal as he listened to the story of an altercation that ensued among the heirs to a small store in the Covered Bazaar, told by an excessively obese mother-son team who kept interrupting each other, and as he tried to explain to a traffic cop, who wore shades and wanted to sue the government for giving him short shrift on his retirement benefits, that according to the laws prevailing in the land the two years he had spent in the loony bin could not be counted as employment.
He phoned Rüya’s friends one by one. For each call, he came up with fresh and diverse pretexts. He asked her high-school chum Macide for the phone number of Gül, whose name, meaning “rose,” had once entranced him; he needed to get in touch with her in the interests of a case. He was told by the gracious maid of the gracious household that Gül with the pretty name, whom Macide didn’t like, had given birth the day before yesterday to her third and fourth children simultaneously at the Gülbahçe (Rose Garden!) hospital, and that if he rushed he still had time to view the darling twins, who’d been named Hüsün and Aşk (Beauty and Love), through the plate glass nursery window. Figen promised she’d return What Is to Be Done? (Chernyshevsky’s), as well as the Raymond Chandler, and wished Rüya a speedy recovery. As for Behiye, no, Galip was mistaken, she had no uncle who was an agent at the Narcotics Bureau; and no, Galip was sure of it, there was not a hint in her voice that she knew anything of Rüya’s whereabouts. What amazed Semih was how Galip had gotten wind of the underground textile mill: yes, they had indeed put together a crew of engineers and technicians to start a project to actualize the first Turkish-made zipper; but no, since he was not apprised of the trafficking in bobbins reported in the papers recently, he was unable to provide any legal information. He could only send Rüya his most heartfelt regards (which Galip could well believe).
He altered his voice when he made his
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