could distract himself.
But he couldn’t write. He sat idly watching me out of the corner of his eye while I wrote contentedly. ‘What are you writing?’ I read to him about how impatient I’d been returning home for vacation in a one-horse carriage after my first year of studies in engineering. But I had loved both the school and my friends; I read to him how I’d missed them while I sat alone on the bank of a stream reading the books I’d taken with me on vacation. After a short silence Hoja, as if revealing a secret, whispered suddenly: ‘Do they always live happily like that there?’ I thought he’d regret it as soon as he asked, but he was still looking at me with childish curiosity. I whispered too: ‘I was happy!’ A shadow of envy passed over his face, but it was not threatening. Shyly, haltingly, he told his story.
When he was twelve years old living in Edirne, there had been a period when he used to go with his mother and sister to the hospital of Beyazit Mosque to visit his mother’s father who suffered from a stomach ailment. In the morning his mother would leave his brother, who was still too young to walk, at the neighbours, take Hoja, his sister, and a pot of pudding she’d prepared earlier, and they would set out together; the journey was short but delightful, along a road shaded with poplar trees. His grandfather would tell them stories. Hoja loved those stories, but loved the hospital more and would run off to wander through its courtyards and halls. On one visit he listened to music being played for the mental patients, under the lantern of a great dome; there was also the sound of water, flowing water; he’d wander through other rooms where strange, colourful bottles and jars shone brightly; another time he lost his way, started to cry, and they’d taken him to every room in the whole hospital one by one before finding his grandfather Abdullah Efendi’s room; sometimes his mother cried, sometimes she listened with her daughter to the old man’s stories. Then they’d leave with the empty pot grandfather had given back to them, but before they reached the house his mother would buy them halva and whisper, ‘Let’s eat it before anyone sees us.’ They’d go to a secret place by a stream under the poplars where the three of them would sit with their toes dangling in the water, eating where no one could see them.
When Hoja finished talking a silence descended, making us uneasy while bringing us closer together with an unaccountable feeling of brotherhood. For a long time Hoja ignored the tension in the air. Later, after the heavy door of a nearby house was thoughtlessly slammed, he said he’d first felt his interest in science then, inspired by the patients and those colourful bottles, jars, and scales that brought them health. But after his grandfather died they did not go there again. Hoja had always dreamed he would grow up and return alone, but one year the Tunja River which flows through Edirne flooded without warning, the patients were removed from their beds, the rooms were filled with filthy, turbid water and when it finally receded that beautiful hospital remained buried for years under an accursed, stinking mud that could not be cleaned away.
As Hoja again fell silent our moment of intimacy was lost. He’d risen from the table, out of the corner of my eye I saw his shadow pacing the room, then taking the lamp from the middle of the table he stepped behind me, and I could see neither Hoja nor his shadow; I wanted to turn around and look but didn’t; it was as if I were afraid, expecting something evil. A moment later, hearing the rustle of clothes being taken off, I turned around apprehensively. He was standing in front of the mirror, naked from the waist up, carefully examining his chest and abdomen in the light of the lamp. ‘My God,’ he said, ‘what kind of pustule is this?’ I remained silent. ‘Come and look at this, will you?’ I didn’t stir. He shouted,
But he couldn’t write. He sat idly watching me out of the corner of his eye while I wrote contentedly. ‘What are you writing?’ I read to him about how impatient I’d been returning home for vacation in a one-horse carriage after my first year of studies in engineering. But I had loved both the school and my friends; I read to him how I’d missed them while I sat alone on the bank of a stream reading the books I’d taken with me on vacation. After a short silence Hoja, as if revealing a secret, whispered suddenly: ‘Do they always live happily like that there?’ I thought he’d regret it as soon as he asked, but he was still looking at me with childish curiosity. I whispered too: ‘I was happy!’ A shadow of envy passed over his face, but it was not threatening. Shyly, haltingly, he told his story.
When he was twelve years old living in Edirne, there had been a period when he used to go with his mother and sister to the hospital of Beyazit Mosque to visit his mother’s father who suffered from a stomach ailment. In the morning his mother would leave his brother, who was still too young to walk, at the neighbours, take Hoja, his sister, and a pot of pudding she’d prepared earlier, and they would set out together; the journey was short but delightful, along a road shaded with poplar trees. His grandfather would tell them stories. Hoja loved those stories, but loved the hospital more and would run off to wander through its courtyards and halls. On one visit he listened to music being played for the mental patients, under the lantern of a great dome; there was also the sound of water, flowing water; he’d wander through other rooms where strange, colourful bottles and jars shone brightly; another time he lost his way, started to cry, and they’d taken him to every room in the whole hospital one by one before finding his grandfather Abdullah Efendi’s room; sometimes his mother cried, sometimes she listened with her daughter to the old man’s stories. Then they’d leave with the empty pot grandfather had given back to them, but before they reached the house his mother would buy them halva and whisper, ‘Let’s eat it before anyone sees us.’ They’d go to a secret place by a stream under the poplars where the three of them would sit with their toes dangling in the water, eating where no one could see them.
When Hoja finished talking a silence descended, making us uneasy while bringing us closer together with an unaccountable feeling of brotherhood. For a long time Hoja ignored the tension in the air. Later, after the heavy door of a nearby house was thoughtlessly slammed, he said he’d first felt his interest in science then, inspired by the patients and those colourful bottles, jars, and scales that brought them health. But after his grandfather died they did not go there again. Hoja had always dreamed he would grow up and return alone, but one year the Tunja River which flows through Edirne flooded without warning, the patients were removed from their beds, the rooms were filled with filthy, turbid water and when it finally receded that beautiful hospital remained buried for years under an accursed, stinking mud that could not be cleaned away.
As Hoja again fell silent our moment of intimacy was lost. He’d risen from the table, out of the corner of my eye I saw his shadow pacing the room, then taking the lamp from the middle of the table he stepped behind me, and I could see neither Hoja nor his shadow; I wanted to turn around and look but didn’t; it was as if I were afraid, expecting something evil. A moment later, hearing the rustle of clothes being taken off, I turned around apprehensively. He was standing in front of the mirror, naked from the waist up, carefully examining his chest and abdomen in the light of the lamp. ‘My God,’ he said, ‘what kind of pustule is this?’ I remained silent. ‘Come and look at this, will you?’ I didn’t stir. He shouted,
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