Save the Last Bullet for God (13 page)

“OK, fair enough,” Fatin said, despite the
red sparks flashing in his eyes.

By the time the assistant declared that we
would be on the air in thirty seconds, all of the panelists had
taken their places and were busy sorting the notes in front of
them.

“On air!”

“Dear viewers, it seems these exciting and
intriguing topics have affected our panel greatly. We will continue
our provocative discussion by consulting our cleric about
apocalyptic signs. We will ask for Dr. Özel’s thoughts on the
creation and functioning of the universe and to make it clear
whether what Ms. Gizem has said about the presence of various
energy clusters at the center of the Milky Way is possible. But
first, provided that he is calm, I’d like to turn back to Mr.
Fatin. What are the sensations and statements you have received
from the jinns? And please observe decorum while speaking.”

The so-called journalist was fanning the
flames like a lunatic.

Fatin took a deep breath; he was clearly
angry. “When talking about the respectability level of the
program,” Fatin began, “you should consider the person whose name
you bear. Hasan Tahsin went down in history as a journalist, firing
the first bullet toward the enemy in Izmir. You, however, have been
struggling merely to sell a few more ads for the program.”

Fatin grabbed Tahsin’s hand and, as he
continued, his eyes turned up until only the whites were visible,
“By the word ‘level,’ you mean I should accommodate the public? The
public that buys weapons only to increase the suffering of the
hungry? The public that tolerates murder? Thanks to you, now I am a
murderer. The public that uses votes and opportunities and opens
concentration camps filled up with untried prisoners? Thanks to
you, I am now an oppressor. The public that is proud of having
built the biggest prison in Europe, not the biggest library? Thanks
to you, I’m now illiterate. However, I don’t think we should put
the blame on the people who did it. The guilt belongs to the
ministers. Are you asking about the end of the world? Here it
is!”

He withdrew his hand from the journalist’s,
leaving some bloody scratches, and his irises appeared once more.
He was now murmuring to himself, “I’m even sick of it all. What’s
next?”

Tahsin’s face was pale as he stammered. Such
unexpected situations during a live-broadcast generally require a
compulsory break, and indeed, the assistant hoarsely announced that
we would return to air in seven-minutes. Although I had come here
to present my book and talk about the code, at this point, I didn’t
even know where I was.

The time passed quickly, and soon, the
on-air warning arrived. I hoped the journalist would bring the
discussion back to Earth.

“Okay,” he said when the break ended. “We
will turn back to this hot topic and our guests’ projections soon,
but first, I’d like to give some time to a brand-new writer, who
has put forward an amazing first book containing some incredible
arguments.” As he spoke, he stared helplessly at me.

Just then the door of the studio opened, and
someone came inside. I turned and saw that it was Elif. Looking
tired, she slipped inside with a briefcase. She glanced at the set,
the scene, the people sitting at the table, and then turned to the
camera and the hot spotlights. She was angry and I realized it
hadn’t been a very good idea to do something like this behind her
back. I must have forgotten to turn off the computer and now I’d
been caught. Elif’s shrill voice rang in my ears.

“Your book has just come out. We haven’t
even laid the groundwork for its promotion, nor even talked about
it. But you have already thrown yourself into the most difficult
situation: a live broadcast. A little bit of logic would have been
good, but no, you lead with your chin!”

People in the studio stared at her; the
assistant made a muting sign and showed her an empty seat. Then,
everyone turned back to the panel and waited for my response.

I turned to the cameras. “First, good
evening everyone,” I said. I had found the most ridiculous cliché
to begin with. “Actually, everything I could tell you is stated in
my book,” I continued now in a mumble.

“You’re a doctor, aren’t you?” Mr. Tahsin
said to me with a facile grin. “Doctors of medicine must have a
special interest in the finding of a code in our holy book.” He was
trying to make the audience forget his earlier defeat by drawing
attention to me, his new victim.

Hiding my displeasure, I answered with a
slight sigh. “My profession aside, I am a human being. A human
being that thinks. I feel an urge to share my thoughts with other
people. Moreover, the only advantage of my profession in this case
is that it brings me a scientific perspective and the ability to
perform a systematic analysis.”

I had gotten a grip on the topic now. Since
I held the cards, I didn’t want to miss the opportunity to explain
my findings. “It all began with a question.” I began reciting the
lines that I had memorized on the way to the studio.

When I began to talk about the transparent
sheets—which I had used while discovering the code—I began to gain
the audience’s attention. My passion for the subject propelled me
as I pointed at the book in my hands and showed its pages to the
camera. Everything was going fine, and the atmosphere was calmer
now, but I could see Elif losing her patience. Before I could
finish, Elif stood up, and, because it was a live broadcast,
suddenly the producers and crew had panicky looks on their faces.
However, they were too late to stop her.

Elif stepped into the shot, put her hand on
the table and, in a calm but frustrated tone, said, “Oktay, my
dear, can we go now?” It was not a question.

I looked at her, considered the cameras, and
wondered if I could still do something to pull it all together. I
continued to talk.

“Here is Elif, who is the light of my life.
She is the only one who has supported me throughout my writing
process…” My hand was raised in the air toward Elif, who, along
with the confused looks of the audience, the helpless and
frustrated looks of the assistants and other personnel, was on full
display in a live broadcast.

Elif spoke louder now, “You’re not ready
yet. You’ve still got time. You came here without informing me. You
will make a fool of yourself and of me.” I supposed she was right.
I was a doctor and writer who was being scolded live on
television—no matter what she said now, my reputation had already
been ruined.

The host attempted to save the situation.
“Ma’am, we’re live at the moment and discussing very important
issues,” he said.

Elif raised her voice and began to yell.

The cleric, sitting beside me with all his
courtesy and dignity, spoke to Elif as well. “Young lady, please
sit down and calm yourself. The things happening here—”

As he was trying to put his hand on Elif’s
shoulder, I also tried to hold her, and, in the midst of the
struggle, the cleric inadvertently struck Elif’s face.

There was a moment of complete silence.
Then, a thin line of blood appeared between Elif’s nose and
mouth.

She ignored all of the forthcoming apologies
and excuses. I was sure the camera was zooming in on all our faces,
especially Elif’s. Time had stopped, and I really didn’t know what
to do. I was paralyzed. Elif tried to wipe the blood away with the
back of her hand. Then she took my hand and growled, “The show is
over!”

I’d never seen Elif that angry before. As
for me, I felt like a kid who had dropped his candy. I had almost
finished my lecture; I had almost fulfilled my duty by telling them
everything. But, the sandcastle got destroyed before I could
finish.

Neither she nor I uttered a word until we
got home. Elif used a tissue to wipe away the blood and her tears.
I thought of stopping at a gas station and proposing she wash her
face, but I kept my silence. At home, having still not uttered a
word, I surrendered myself to the darkness and slept in our room
alone.

I was relieved when I woke up from my deep
sleep. What had happened during the program no longer loomed as
large; I had done my best and made an effort. I had already made
significant progress on my first day of publicity: I had appeared
on a live TV program and promoted my book. But I couldn’t wrong
Elif. I couldn’t take the risk of losing her for any reason,
especially for a book or fame. I decided that she was jealous of
me; I even felt my manly pride flattered by her fear regarding my
possible fame. There was no need to make a fuss out of this; she
had been hurt, albeit accidentally, and she deserved a big kiss, my
forgiveness, and my sympathy.

As the raw light of the morning slipped into
the room through the curtains, the door opened and Elif, in all her
simple beauty, entered the room. She spoke, first hesitantly, then
more quickly. She told me that I had been right and had done the
right thing and that she had acted wrongly because of jealousy on
her part. When she finished, I relieved the tension in the air by
saying, “Let’s just forget about it!”

Later that day, the station manager called
the house and told Elif that the previous night’s show had garnered
incredible ratings. The channel, having seen the show’s market
share, had now decided on a new format in which everyone would
display his or her talent in a show called the Big Brother Mystery
show or BBM.

They believed such a program would garner a
lot of buzz and everyone would benefit. I would even be given a
portion of the ad revenue as a reward. The publishing company had
already agreed to come on as one of the sponsors, thus increasing
our earning potential. Elif joined me in my excitement as she
explained that this program, which could last for weeks, would make
me famous and give me more opportunity and time to promote my
ideas.

The more she talked, the more enthusiastic I
became. I knew that my first instinct to join the show had been the
right one. She left the room happily, saying that she was going to
pack my suitcase. I sat opposite my half-opened window inhaling the
brisk air of the morning and drinking my coffee. I sank into
meditation, and then came dreams…

I awoke to the door opening and saw light
from the corridor silhouetting Elif’s form. She walked in, taking
delicate steps toward where I sat, facing the window. Elif’s hand
touched my shoulder in a gesture of approval and support to show
her wish for my success. “Everything is ready,” she said. Her words
hung in the air as we sat together by the window in silence.

* * *

I checked my suitcase and the things Elif
had packed for me. She hugged me sadly and I felt the warmth of her
head as it lay on my shoulder. She let out a deep sigh and used the
back of her hand to wipe away her tears. I didn’t understand why
she was so upset. This was her fate as well, and she had been just
as excited as me at the news of the opportunity.

Elif helped me dress in my best clothes,
combed my hair, and walked with me to the parking lot, trying to
keep pace with my happy steps.

As usual, Elif drove. My happiness, and
enthusiasm prevented me from settling down in the passenger seat.
Despite the heavy traffic, the gray-black asphalt, wet from the
rainfall the night before, flowed rapidly under us. We seemed to be
okay again. When I reached out to switch to another radio station,
she threw me a glance followed by a little smile. She loved me. No
matter how tired she got of my attempts at success, she loved me. I
was filled with a warm feeling. For a moment, I wanted to tell her
to forget it all and just go home. I felt an urge to hug her and
talk about something else. But the desire to do my share for both
of us—and the prospect of a little fame—calmed my thoughts and
feelings.

Taking advantage of the mild atmosphere, I
started a conversation with my eyes on the road. “After the show
last night, the host committed suicide; did you know?” I asked
her.

Elif was silent. I supposed she was
wondering how I had learned this. She looked at me with a smile and
a loving glance. She seemed hopeful and delighted by the fact that
I knew what had happened.

“Yes…yes,” she said. “He committed suicide,
right after the show.”

“
He was a loser, anyway,” I continued.
“It seemed like it was his sole purpose to host a one-night program
and disappear, and he did it quietly without disturbing anyone.
Hasan Tahsin was his own worst enemy.” I laughed at my own
wit.

“We have to thank him,” Elif corrected. “By
his suicide, he drew a lot of media attention to the show…”

She was deep in her thoughts now, and I was
in a state of inexpressible happiness as the car approached the BBM
studio.

The Labyrinth

The studio was gigantic. Once we got inside,
the assistants and studio personnel checked my belongings—mobiles
and any other communication devices were forbidden—and welcomed me.
Elif was only allowed as far as the guest room, so she hugged me
and said, “Take care of yourself!”

In my happiness, I promised her, “We will
win the contest, promote the book, and then we will be rich and
famous until the end of our lives. Everything will be great.”

The farewell hurt more as it grew longer. I
gave Elif a kiss and a warm hug, and then I waved as I went through
the door.

Long, wide corridors, gates with
security, and clean and shiny walls made up the building; it was a
bright and spacious place.
They’ve worked
with a very good architect,
I thought. They obviously
had a large production budget. As we walked, the assistant carrying
my luggage told me about the format of the program. During my time
here, it was forbidden to be in touch with, or get information
from, people on the outside. This was to ensure a fair competition
and to prevent the competitors from changing their behavior in
response to viewer reactions.