Waiting for the fear, p.14
Waiting for the Fear, page 14
I fell for her suddenly in the year 1967. I felt as if love was pouring out of me you have no idea. I really studied the one whom I love I got to know her and I followed her. We lived in the same neighborhood but different houses. I looked into everything about the one whom I love. Wrestling with all the issues the long investigation I made passed after thinking about things down to the tiniest detail from needle to thread I made my intentions very clear (I should insert a comma in places but I can’t bring myself to do it.) I wanted to get married for 6 months I loved her but hid my love, I decided to write the one whom I love a letter, I delivered it in hand (By hand, he means.) She didn’t answer: NOT YES NOT NO (Capitalization mine.) She leaned out the window that day (Which day?) and I saw her: as she shaked down a bedsheet (Absolutely not, he must mean, “as she shook out a bedsheet”) she had a sweet smile on her face (I believe M.C. is telling the truth, but I also think he’s misinterpreted this “sweet smile”; at any rate, the letter progresses and all shall be revealed.) Three months I didn’t stop writing letters (Sending letters, he means) through the mail in hand (By hand.) No answer. Not yes not no (This phrase, “not yes not no,” will eventually lose all its meaning, which is why I call attention to it now.) The whole neighborhood heard about it. Everyone turned on me as if loving was a crime even my family and my siblings. (I also believe that from this point forward, or at least for the time being, M.C. will gloss over some events as if there were some gaps in his memory. As you know, in psychology . . . never mind, moving on.) There were no jobs I couldn’t find any. I was waiting tables. Everybody’s staff was full, nobody had an opening.
All of the sudden I became upset because of my family’s wrong attitude and behavior and because of the harsh words I let them walk all over my beloved with (I don’t want to meddle too much, but does this sentence not need some commentary? The point is not that M.C. can’t establish a relationship with the “one whom he loves,” nor that he allowed her to be walked all over. Rather, he’s hiding things from us. Or else M.C. can’t find the words, which seems more likely.) I was devastated I got an inferiority complex (What, I ask, is this complex doing here?) Of course I took a razor knife (Why “of course”? and what is a “razor knife”?) and attempted suicide 4 times, 4 times I came within a hair’s breath of death. My body and my arms are covered in cut abrasions. My heart and stomach, I took so much opdolidon (Optalidon) that I ripped apart my stomach. The one whom I love cried (I’m as doubtful of this as I am of that “sweet smile”) for some reason or another (Literally “another”; otherwise, wouldn’t she have responded to those interminable letters? I admit that instead of sympathizing with M.C. I get annoyed with him; more precisely, he grates on my nerves in such a way that I actually find rather difficult to express; I mean, the mere fact that he says “for some reason or another” at such a moment drives me a bit insane. Never mind.) When I was discharged from the hospital those 4 times I came back home. (He seems to have gotten out of his parents’ house before attempting suicide by waiting tables or looking for work, or at least he wasn’t sitting around at home all day. I can’t say I don’t feel bad for him.) There were some female students living next door to our house. The one whom I love (I find the phrase “the one whom I love” as annoying as “for some reason or another”) came to the 7 meter half centimeter house. (I have written this down verbatim.) I was shocked (As am I.) I come back, I go out to the balcony, the girls are there. All hell breaks loose. It was like an earthquake erosion or something (Should I be laughing or crying?) Playing records, dancing. They’re doing it all for me. And the one whom I love is sitting off to the side of the window.
Because of my suicides they prosecuted I spent 90 days in prison during my brother’s wedding. (If only the chief editor that hated my headlines could see this sentence now.) She didn’t know. Since it was winter (Although it was winter) I heard the one whom I love didn’t even leave the balcony of the house she lived at I mean to go inside, she sat there on the balcony watching (I shall never know what led anyone to draw a parallel between myself and this M.C., but this infuriatingly broken manner of expression is . . . never mind.)
I met the one whom I love face to face in the year 1970 (Three years after suddenly falling for her), the one who never answered YES OR NO (Oh, for God’s sake!.) “I sent you my response,” she said. “With who?” (The quotation marks are mine.) My friends. (And now it seems better without them.) No one said anything to me, I want to hear it from your mouth. That’s what I said. What’s your answer? I said. She didn’t say no. She said I refuse, refuse, refuse. Not yes not no. I refuse, refuse, refuse she said. Thank you. I left her and went home. I felt horrible. I bought a lot of records. I started playing them for her. I played —— the most (As this letter is not an advertisement, I’ve redacted the artist and the song.) I didn’t stop playing it for 3 years straight and the one whom I love listened (How do you know? How can someone so pitiful feel such self-confidence? It’s maddening. And how could one even listen to such an insufferable song for 3 straight years?) She really listened (No she didn’t.) Then one day the one whom I love’s female student friends came to the house, they talked in my room with my little sister-in-law. I was on the balcony when I saw them, I moved to the side (He was ashamed.) They saw the record I always played at home and her picture and what I wrote on it: of course it said “I will love you until death” (What else would you write? The quotation marks are mine.) Those girls really spoke highly of me to my sister-in-law: Why isn’t he interested in anyone else? Does he go to the cinema? Are his intentions serious? they asked and found out from her. I love the one whom I love so much, all I want is to talk with her and share our trouble pain and sadness together and share everything I have together with her, I waited three years, and touch her hair and give her everything I have, I just love her so much, and be her partner and love and touch her as much as I want and make a happy peaceful and beautiful home and have a child and be a father, devoting everything to her and always giving her my all and having the only eyes in all the world that can look at her, and going for walks holding hands arm-in-arm like children, and going to the cinema after work or to concerts the beach or vacation, playing games, having fun, traveling (I oppose this man.) We had happy memories together (a lie), I really truly love her (Love is something that belongs to you, it’s not about the memories.) I was like a crazy lunatic I loved her so much (we understand) more than the world, I fell in love with her, with her beautiful eyes, her eyes were so beautiful, it was like there was life in those eyes (As there should be.) She gave me the strength power and passion to live. I wrote everything to her from a sincere perspective. For exactly 4 years I constantly obsessed over her without eating drinking sleeping resting relaxing getting fed up or tired. Nothing will stop me from getting my beloved (Who exactly are you saying this to?) I didn’t listen to anyone about it (Nevertheless, I would like to have met you in person, so we could speak on the level, as men, in Turkish.)
School let out. (I draw your attention to these chronological irregularities and, thus, to the absence of any notion of time.) The one whom I love was graduating. (Every time I hear “the one whom I love,” all feelings of goodwill I have toward M.C. vanish.) I decided to write the one whom I love a threatening letter. She took it, put it down her shirt and carried it home (This would be one of those “sweet memories.”) She read it as soon as she got home. (How do you know?) She left. (I publish these next several lines simply as an example of M.C.’s erratic thoughts.) 60 km. she traveled with that letter to her parents’ house. She left the next day. I cried so much. She appeared on the balcony. She came back the next day. Not even the drink I drank could cheer me up. She left the next day. The one whom I love’s father spoke to me. (Things straighten out again from here.) It’s my daughter’s choice son, there’s nothing I can tell you, NOT YES NOT NO. (Capitalization mine.) Her mother found me. We talked. My boy we’ve promised her to her uncle’s son, she said.
I burned inside like a fire (Indentation is mine.) If I lose her I’ll kill. Myself. And her. (Punctuation is M.C.’s.) I showed my body right there to the mother of the girl I love, look mother you see? These cuttings. Me. (The punctuation marks are still his.) She looked. (I thought that M.C. didn’t punctuate, but upon careful inspection of the fading ink on my most recent reading, I noticed these marks. My apologies.) Then her heart couldn’t take it, she looked away. Too much (?). Her mother: My boy, I don’t see much (love from you.) You might love her. And my daughter speaks well of you (Don’t believe it, M.C., her mother is lying. Or else you are. I can no longer tell. Never mind.) It’s just your mother said something about something that my daughter did (We don’t know what it is the one M.C. loves has done.) I begged her, I got down on my knees, forgive her, on behalf of her I’m sorry, I said. I just love her so much, I don’t have eyes for any other girl even though they all make passes at me (Of this I’m doubtful), I refuse to break up with her (My dear M.C., when were you ever together?) Breaking up hurts too much. I’ll be wasting my life on her (this is true), I swept the ground for her with my own hair (Enough, and besides, it’s the woman who says this. Anyway..)
I borrowed 1000 lira from people that only do business illegally. When the coffee house I worked at went under and fell into foreclosure (foreclosed) I didn’t get paid, I couldn’t pay my loan back. They forced threatened blackmailed and pressured me saying they’d kill my love, I’d go to jail and dragged me into their thieving. (I wish I’d never read this letter. Like M.C., I too feel as if I’ve been dragged down a dark path.) By pressuring and threatening me they used my love as bait. They forced me to rob the cash drawer at the coffee house and I got caught (Such is the fate of people like you.) I spent 3 months in jail. Then they stole a —— (As something to be stolen, this item is so strange that I don’t feel comfortable identifying it here in this pathetic story.) They forced threatened blackmailed and pressured me to (the next few words are indecipherable) threatening me with a gun. They made me go in first. And if I report them to the police they’ll kill my love (No, they won’t, although you’re probably saying this to justify your actions.) They know who she is, they’ll explain everything to her (They certainly may.) This is why I didn’t rat anyone out.
Time passed, I got caught, I spent 17 days in jail, then I was released and left. As soon as I got out I went looking for the one whom I love. I went up to her school. I wrote her an answer. (Meanwhile, some unmentioned events have evidently taken place.) I could never kill you, but you’re killing me. I love you. Weather (Whether) it’s YES OR NO (capitalization mine), just give me an answer (What else can the poor girl do?) I won’t come inside (I honestly cannot imagine this scene; I mean, is he literally writing his letter at the school gate and passing it on to her from there? It’s hard to believe that a provincial all girls’ high school would be so lax.) I begged pleaded got down on my knees (It appears that, based on the next sentence, the person he gets down on his knees for isn’t the “one whom he loves” but the school headmaster—or headmistress. In terms of school discipline, this is, again, difficult to believe.) Sir, please (The headmaster probably says this.) I was polite. I am a very honest upstanding honorable young man, sir. I was going to kill myself for her (This is private, you can’t just reveal this to everyone you meet.) But I’ve never hurt anyone or stabbed them in the back (You did threaten to kill the girl.) I never beat her, cursed at her, confronted her in the street, climbed up to her window (Oh, what else!), or banged on her door, I always loved her so much in an honest upstanding noble and manly way, my actions have been gentlemanly polite kind generous brave humane and courteous (Some of these adjectives don’t belong here.) I never made any passes at her (?) for whatever reason I never sent my parents to talk to her, just my mother (Well, which is it?) The girl said the same thing; my father won’t allow it, I can’t get married. I didn’t send my mother again, sir.
The girl didn’t write back. I went to her school to meet the headmaster. (Who was it you’d just spoken with then? Perhaps he’d been addressing me—that is, Dr. Akın Korkmaz. If so, who was it who’d said, “Sir, please,” to M.C.? Certainly not the guard at the gate. I’ve yet to conclusively decide either way and leave it to the reader. I’m merely passing it on.) The headmaster took me to his office. The one whom I love came in. (I suppose these things happen more often at rural schools than urban ones.) She was cold and serious. To me. The girl spoke first: Go ahead, talk. I met your parents and spoke with them, I said. “What did you speak with my father about?” she suddenly said (The quotation marks are mine.) Don’t you know? (I said.) No, she answered. So I said: The choice is yours, I said. Give me your answer. I refuse, refuse, refuse. I thanked her. On the one hand I was angry, I got flat out angry at her. I asked her permission, I asked to go someplace deserted and empty where no one was around so we could speak in secret one on one and alone. Don’t be upset, I’m begging you. Please. I really pleaded with her. The headmaster went out the door: as soon as he came back, he sat back down at his desk (My dear M.C., you’ve got the headmaster behaving as inexplicably as you now.) This time the girl (now that he’s angry with her, he no longer calls her “the one whom I love”) said, “Speak freely, you can tell me here.” With your permission miss what I want to say only concerns you (For God’s sake!) You might get embarrassed annoyed or become shy. In this regard, miss, if you don’t mind I have a right, I said. Go ahead, speak freely. I openly seriously firmly honestly honorably and bravely love you, I said. Please give me an answer, I’m pleading with you.
I waited half an hour. (The indentation is mine. Because M.C.’s sentences ceaselessly inexhaustibly continuously rush forward like a flood.) She looked at the floor. She got quiet. No answer. She always gets quiet. She’s still quiet. My parents disowned me you know. (See how the “one whom you love” has gone quiet, M.C.? Now why can’t you?) They’ve thrown me out. So I’ve been working. I have a clerking job in a government office, I can work the typewriter good and fast. I’m a cultured civilized understanding knowledgeable literate and understanding young man. I get my work done myself, I get along with everyone (I doubt that), I keep my exposed sides closed (?), I fix my wrongs (And do the laundry, and stitch the rips in my clothes; you, M.C., shall never be a man.) For 1 year I was a clerk in a government office. I was working for her. I wrote everything, I wrote (I told her, he means) my job and occupation. The money I’ve made . . . If you don’t believe me come ask and see (M.C. lives in a fantastical world: he truly expects the girl to come to his office and ask about his salary?) I tried two different doors: I wrote knowledgeable civilized understanding cultured caring respectful long and detailed two faced letters for 4 years and sent them by post in hand (The end is nowhere in sight.) The letters that came back to me at the office were filled with vulgar curse words threats blackmail distant arm twistings verbal abuses and some of the worst kinds of insults calling me a —— (I’m not writing the next word), I got 15 of them. Anonymous. No name. They weren’t unsigned (Weren’t signed, is what he means. He may be trying to tell me something. Me, Dr. Akın Korkmaz, or the one whom he loves, or the headmaster, or the person in his head who said he was “working for her”? It’s anyone’s guess, and if you ask me, he doesn’t know either.) My male teacher friends (Who’d apparently lost their minds as well) came up and surrounded the girl and made her talk. Here are the recorded expressed and explained things that came out of the girl’s mouth sir (The “sir” is me):
1—I don’t accept. She is not clear about why sir.
2—This boy does love me, he wants to marry me, and his intentions are very serious.
So what do you say? (They ask the girl this.)
I know he loves me, I believe him (per article 2.)
What kind of a boy is he?
3—Gentlemanly polite and honest. He isn’t interested in anyone else (The greatest virtue there is.)
Has he ever hurt you or tricked you?
4—No, never.
5—Conclusion: no answer, she won’t give any (M.C.’s comment.) (An aside: what, I ask, are these “male teacher friends” from an all-girl’s high school doing accosting one of the students to ask . . . Never mind, I withhold my comments.)
I went back to my hometown (I’ve already pointed out his tenuous grasp of place and time.) I sent her (the one whom he loves) a girl singer’s record I like stamped and sealed in plastic (he’s careful with the details now) to school. 15 days (went by) and I came to work and there on my desk, a record, in plastic. I opened it, it was ripped, the paper broken. The record was old and scratched up. (He mentions a song here, and a certain male singer. And yet, it was a girl singer he’d spoken of just two sentences ago.) There was some anonymous writing on the envelope: the girl whom I love’s handwriting (How handwriting can be anonymous, I have no idea.) It came from: the post office (Where else? Here another possibility arises. Perhaps M.C.’s beloved has sent back a different record. For a girl who says she refuses, refuses, refuses, such an action strikes me as awfully strange. Furthermore, it boggles the mind as to why the girl would write to him anonymously. Wouldn’t M.C. recognize the handwriting?) Whoever wrote the letters came from there (From where? He’s hiding things again, and now the addled youth has forgotten what they are.) That’s why I said the writer is anonymous (This is just baffling.)
That’s my job and occupation (I’ve indented again because he can’t produce these words independently of the course of events he’s described in his long—that is, inner—monologue unless he’s sitting at his office desk and staring at the envelope that this anonymous record sender sent.) If you don’t believe me come to my office and see ask find out (Drop this infatuation already) I have a manager over me and work friends, an accountant, a pay clerk, an editorial department. The answer I got: (Here’s another possibility: M.C. may have written all this down after speaking with this girl and sent it to himself) Who’s the manager, your father? Or don’t you have any parents? Why don’t they give you a hand? Why are you the one always putting in the work? they say. (Again, my suspicion grows. What does he mean by “they say”? And who is saying it?) 3 years you’re running around the neighborhood, passing by this girl’s house (I’ve stopped trying to figure out who says this.) My parents ruined my love, they ruined everything. They wouldn’t even go talk to the girl, they were too scared and afraid. (Thank God this nonsensical conversation didn’t last much longer.)
