The boy at the smallest workshop in the bazaar and the woman who saw him 

There was a boy who worked in a workshop on the third floor of a passage situated in the narrowest street of the bazaar. The workshop was the smallest among others, yet it was so full that sometimes it would get impossible to breathe. There were all kinds of cloths, threads and ropes, buttons, needles and scissors scattered around. The boy helped his master from dawn till dusk, which meant tiresome summers and easy winters. After dusk, they would leave the workshop together, pass through the maze-like streets and eat at the smallest kebab shop of the bazaar. The boy had spent four years like that, and it seemed like he was going to be spending four more.

There was not much fun during the workday. The workshop had a small window, that barely delivered sunlight. The boy enjoyed staring out the window when the master was not around. The small window had not much of a view, the top left corner had a bit of sky, and the rest was facing the courtyard of an old mosque. The mosque was small, like everything around it, but also did not have a big congregation. So, the boy usually gazed into the Baroque ornaments of the façade and daydreamed. Then the master would come in and the boy would go back to ironing the fabrics or sweeping the floor. 

On one such day, on a sunny April day, the boy was eating cream biscuits and looking out the window. He saw a young woman in the courtyard. He was surprised. Their eyes met. The woman smiled, and the boy waved. The woman laughed and the boy laughed. It was a meeting that made the day better for both. Wasn’t it unbelievable to laugh with a stranger? 

The woman was just visiting the mosque but not for praying. She was there to gaze into the Baroque ornaments of the façade. If she  knew that the boy was doing the same, she would be happy that they share more than a laugh. She would be happy because she was always chasing the impossible. What she would do the make the impossible possible was her secret. So, when she went back home, she thought about the things she does not and cannot know about the little boy. And she wrote a story about it. (original language English)

“Who cares what you think?”

“Who cares what you think, you, old goat?” – I said to myself. I started to loudly breath in and out and looked at the boiled beans. These were the beans he was growing in his garden which was situated 60 km away. A garden that was nothing more than merely a hobby for him. And then he was making pickles with the same beans not to forget the funny traditions of the village. Stupid beans. I don’t like them at all, even fresh, not cooked. Instead of going to university, my monologue about finding a job somewhere near my house was interrupted by my mother’s lively and commanding voice. She was ordering me to bring the plates. My dear elder aunt did what her younger sister requested, and on the way back she was already explaining how to make the tastiest cabbage with eggs. I prayed not to go nuts, because it took her only a second to shift from talking about making cabbage to talking about me making my life choices. “Oh my God, please help me not to go nuts.” One shouldn’t consider too much about the thoughts expressed by the people living in this house. But sometimes it’s hard not to think.

The dinner was over and everyone moved to the big living-room, which on holidays, like the one we had that day, could fit around 20 persons. There were two large armchairs for grandma and grandpa, one big sofa for the elder brothers and sisters, old chairs at the dining table  for the in-laws and several floow cushions for the little ones. All those who were not helping the poor young women of the family to clean the table set themselves on their places. I was not able to find a suitable place for myself and went out to the balcony.

I thought that nobody would come out, so I lit a cigarette. While inhaling the smoke my thoughts were set free and I started to think about our nasty quarrel with Angelo. He was suppressing me again and again, saying that we should be more serious, though knowing very well that I was not ready. I don’t remember how many times we discussed this issue. He kept saying that he was getting older, and he was over thirty-one already. And I was saying that I wanted to live my young life, that I have a lot to be done and fulfilled. I was very sincere saying that. There was a ten-year difference between us. It could be that those ten years were very productive for him, but I had just started to live my life fully. I wanted to leave for some other place and to live my dreams, without asking anyone’s permission or giving explanations. He didn’t understand my heartfelt desire.  The more he insisted on looking forward and moving ahead, the more I seemed to be stuck to the same place. Today, before coming here, I shouted in his face. “I want to be free.” Now, in the smoke of the white cigarette scattered in the dark it seemed to me that I could see his sad eyes. I sighed and took out my phone. Application with my last search results was open on the phone. There were ten missed calls, all of them from him. I thought that it was good I was not with Angelo at that moment. It would have been worse if Angelo knew that he kept calling me.

I heard the whispering in the room and could hardly snap out from my stupor. I threw my almost finished cigarette from balcony and bent down so that nobody could notice me. In this family no one had the habit of talking quietly and in a low voice, that is why I was totally sure that those who were whispering, were discussing something secret.

One of them was Emine, an extreme gossip-lover wife of my uncle, my father’s brother. I could easily recognize her sharp, scratchy and buzzing voice, which I hated. But the other person was talking in such a low tone that it was hard to identify who it was. It seemed to me that Emine wanted to persuade the interlocutor that everything was going to be fine. At least, I thought so judging by her happy and confident buzz. I took two little steps to the balcony door and bent forward. They were also close to the door to conceal the secret talk from those in the room. I could hear them better now.

“She came back the other day”, – Emine said. “I told her, not to be too quick and that time is needed for this kind of things. But she wanted to meet and talk to you. She said that she didn’t want to be misunderstood. I told her that all young people are rebellious nowadays. But her son is not like that, and besides he is very handsome. And I think how good it would be if you would also talk to her”.

Now it became clear that Emine was acting as a matchmaker, something that suited her perfectly. But it was still not clear who she was talking to. Was it my younger auntie? Or the wife of my uncle Mehmet? They would be happy to have their eighteen-years old daughter married. I felt sorry for Zeinep. She was a quiet, introvert girl who would not oppose a wedding planned through a matchmaker. Then, finally, I heard the voice of the second person behind the door. It was slow and low, but at least comprehensible. It was a woman older than Emine. I could hear that she was a bit skeptical about the topic, but at the same time it was not difficult to understand that the thought was accepted positively. The second speaker was my mother.

My heart sank. I closed my mouth with both hands so that the strong smoke of the tobacco wrapped in a roll would not suddenly make me cough. My body was frozen, all my muscles contracted, I remained standing still without moving a millimeter. Seeing my mother’s calm reaction, Emine spoke more and more excitedly, like a merchant smelling the impending sale. Her growing excitement made my mother speak more carefully, their whispering voices becoming louder and louder. It was a kind of a patriarchal tango, spiced with traditional sauce. My mother put an end to this dance and said: “Whatever happens, the father will have the final word.”

Of course, Emine had to agree. The mention of my father put an end to this tango and to the music and to her excitement. Even I was surprised that Emine was not able to predict my mother’s possible response. Though my mother, the middle daughter of Haji Hussein, was the most dominant figure in the family, but she knew the hierarchy, next to her husband and would never argue or contradict him. When Zeynep and Gule giggling opened the door, Emine and my mother kept silent. My mother asked them angrily: “What happened? Why did you run away from the living room?” I wish she would behave alike with Emine.  Fortunately, they didn’t allow the girls sit alone in the room. When the switched off the light and left, I went to the bathroom without uttering a word.

I closed the door of the bathroom and locked it. My uncle was planning to take the locks out, since he was afraid that my grandmother could fall down and stay locked in the bathroom. Fortunately, the sluggard had never brought the screwdrivers. This family was unaware of the notion of privacy, and anyone wishing to maintain the privacy should always be vigilant in their vicinity. I also had to find a solution to take control over my life. A solution that would disrupt Emine’s plans and my mother’s positive response.

I took out my mobile and looked blankly at the screen. My hands were shaking. What was I supposed to do? I opened WhatsApp, swiped the screen from top to bottom. Angelo’s name was on the top: he sent me a green heart. I inadvertently entered the archive and opened our conversation. I checked the time when he was online the last time ․․․ a few minutes ago: I turned off the phone. I grabbed my head with my hands and started to grind my teeth. “Damn it, damn it, damn it, fuck such a life ․․․ let it be whatever it should be. ” I didn’t even try to lower my voice, because I am also a member of this family, aren’t I?  But now, at this very moment, I was going to change that reality.

In order not to change my mind under the influence of the moment, I, moving my fingers at the speed of light, found Angelo’s number, and pressed the call button. He answered after the second call. His voice sounded upset, but he was trying to sound happy. This scared me. I talked to him very seriously, I had never talked to him so seriously.

When I turned off the mobile, I realized that I threw the match into the haystack. I went out of the bathroom, trying to hide my heartbeat and shaking hands from my relatives. They couldn’t see it, but what if they felt? At the end of the corridor, I met my youngest aunt with a plate in her hand. “Fatosh, honey, could you please take these plates to Ayshe Granma?” I nodded my head indefinitely, took the plates and went out. It seemed that my soul was exhausted. I couldn’t walk and was heavily dragging my legs.  Ayshe grandma was old and talkative. While I was waiting for Angelo to call, she was telling me for the fourth time how her son was cheated. Her story was a kind of therapy for me; it calmed me down. Angelo finally called; he was in front of the house. I quickly got up and ran to him at such a speed so that my grandma couldn’t follow me. I was not happy seeing him here, in front of my grandpa Haji’s house. I couldn’t allow myself to hold his hand in the street, so, I dragged his arm, and we entered the apartment block. My senses were heightened. The door heavy as hell closed behind us with a muffled knock. I could smell the odor of the fried fish mixed with damp smell: “we are fucked up”, – I said. Though, I tried to envisage all the risks, still I never thought that I would feel ashamed about Angelo to see my life, every detail of me.

We stopped at the apartment door; the door which I always dreamed to knock and run away, but never could. I didn’t want Angelo to see that I was nervous. I wanted to look proud and confident. And even if he knew what was on my mind, would he still be interested? I don’t think so. “He will understand soon,” said a voice inside me. “That’s what I’m afraid of,” I replied to my inner voice. For a moment I was seized with doubts; perhaps I should have told my family about all this earlier. But now there was no way back and rang the doorbell.

My sister opened the door and her eyes focused on Angelo. She turned to me looking as if she had just witnessed a murder. Then she looked at Angelo again. I could feel Angelo’s smile but could not find any courage to look at his face. My mother called from other room: “Fatosh? Is that you? What took you so long?” A second lasted like a lifetime. “Move, let us take off the shoes”. I turned too Angelo and gestured him with a half-smile to come in. Luckily, he knew some of our customs. Trying to keep calm, I walked the short corridor and entered the living room. At first, no one noticed me. I took a quick glance around… In front of me there was a peaceful scene of a family, where no conflicts exist, where everybody love and support each other. My grandpa was laughing at a story, told by my uncle Mustaffa; my grandma was lulling the youngest grandchild Metine on her laps. They were turning their glances to me, one by one, and immediately the usual emotion could be seen. Indifference…This was all I could get from them. Was it a crime not to love fish and beans and prefer crackers instead? I was staring at them trying to catch the moment when they would notice Angelo.

And the moment has arrived. Angelo came closer to me and put his hand on my back. My mother’s and aunt Lale’s eye pupils dilated at the same speed. I could hardly suppress my laughter. Their sudden silence caught the attention of others. They turned around and looked at us. To the dismay of the latter, I happily said: “I have a guest to introduce to you.” At that very moment I started to hate myself for doing all that. Why did I have to endure everything not to breach their peace? My grandfather said “oh, God” and took his rosary. Blood rushed to my head. My mother took two steps towards us and said: “Fatosh, who is this?” There was no going back! “Mom, this is Angelo, my boyfriend.” I turned my head and looked at Angelo. He was still smiling, showing his white teeth, and his long, braided hair contrasted with the atmosphere of the living room. I turned back to those sitting ․ “I wanted you to get acquainted with him. He also really wanted to get to know you. Recently he proposed to me, and I said yes.”

And here, everybody turned into living statues. I realized that I was smiling and courageously held Angelo’s hand. My elder aunt was uttering loud sounds, but the only phrase that could be singled out was “Oh, God!” In a flash, with an unexpected agility she attacked us, trying to separate our hands, and saying “Fatosh, let him go. Oh, my God, what is going on?”. Her lips were tense with anger. Despite her stubbornness, Angelo held my hand even tighter. The more she wanted to separate us, the closer Angelo was dragging me to him. Before this scuffle turned into a fight, my elder uncle quickly approached us and tried to drag my aunt from us. It was as if we were playing a pantomime in the middle of the living room, in deep silence, in front of twenty people.

My uncle managed to get my aunt away. Angelo was not smiling anymore. My mother had not said anything yet. I couldn’t even move. My aunt was shouting, insulting us furiously, which was not typical of her at all. If she were not Haji’s daughter, she would have cursed for sure. And she could not stop. Finally, Ali, the son of my elder uncle, approached us and without looking at Angelo, took his hand and said: “Hey, bro, let’s go to another room”. Angelo’s knowledge of Turkish language allowed him to understand what Ali said. He looked at me and I, desperately nodded my head and gave him a sign to go with Ali.

“What were you expecting?” I was constantly questioning myself. “What were you expecting? Tender hugs?” I was about to cry. “What were you expecting? Smiling faces?” My lips were bruised, because I kept biting them. “What were you expecting them to do? To agree with smile and happiness and marry me off?” To get married? What are you talking about? And here I saw the whole picture. The whole life which I cannot escape no matter what I do, all my responsibilities, which tie my hands. Is it so that the only way to run away from my family is to get married to Angelo? My mom was dragging me to the kitchen. I stopped for a second and looked at her. “Why are you looking at me that way? Why, tell me. See what you did? Why did you do that? What were you trying to prove?” Mother, oh my dear mother. For the first time in my life her questions were so reasonable. “Mom, wait.” She got angry. “Why on earth should I wait? You totally lost the sense of reality not having a slightest idea about how the things are done here”. On the contrary, I was well aware of it. But when I wanted to escape from such a life, which my family lived I was going to hand myself to someone else. I thought of Angelo. Why him? We have never been suitable for each other; all our desires were different. It turns out that I found my rebellion in those differences. Starting from the color of his skin to the language he speaks.

My eyes filled with tears. My mother kept speaking, telling me things I couldn’t understand. She thought that I was crying out of shame. “I’m so sorry, mom, I’m so sorry”. I couldn’t find some courage to say more. I ran out from the kitchen where women gathered. I ran out of the house. In the corridor I saw Ali and he said: “What should we do? This guy is still in the house, waiting”․ “I’m so sorry, Ali, but I’m leaving”, – it was all I could say. I ran towards the bus stop. My heartbeat was so severe, that it seemed to me that my heart will explode because of the agitation or the tension. I took out my mobile. Without hesitation I called him. “Don’t say anything. I have always been against this, but now I’ve changed my mind. I’m not saying it because of the dozens of missed calls. Don’t ask me for a reason. I’m on my way to you and will never be back.”

Arrival: Starting point

I’m taking a long, long journey
Leaving you,
There were many roads to take
Boldly, greedily I pick one.
I didn’t wink
I can see all the passers-by
Those who stop and those who leave.
But the life,
Alas, the life
Is just a pile of mistakes.
Life is approaching you though escaping from you
Life is becoming a new you without you,
Life is the moment I think I found what I longed for
Life is accepting my being another person.