Silent House (34 page)

25

Metin Pushes His Luck and His Car

B
ecause everyone had had such a good time the night before, they decided that the best thing would be to do it again, and that’s how we wound up hanging around Turan’s a second night. But when everyone started complaining about having to listen to the same music, too, Funda started pushing Ceylan to go home and get her best of Elvis album to liven things up.

“In this rain?”

“I have my car, Ceylan,” I said cautiously.

And so Ceylan and I, just the two of us, left the house, and that drowsy, cranky bunch slowly being poisoned by the boredom of the awful music, and we headed off in my brother’s old Anadol. We sailed along saying nothing as the raindrops dripped off the leaves, the wet, dark road suddenly appeared in the light of the old car’s dim headlamps, and the rusty windshield wipers kept up their sad whispering. When we stopped in front of Ceylan’s house, I waited as she leaped out toward the door and followed her orange skirt, which was dazzling even in the gloomy rain. Then when the lights in the house went on, I tried to imagine Ceylan going from room to room
and what she was doing there. What a strange thing love is! A little later Ceylan came running out with the record in her hand and got into the car.

“I had a fight with my mother!” she said. “ ‘Where do you think you are going at
this
hour!’ ” she said, mimicking her mother.

We were silent again, until I drove right past Turan’s house without even slowing. Ceylan asked, nervously, even suspiciously, “Where are we going?”

“I’m getting tired of those guys! Let’s go for a spin, okay, Ceylan? I’m really bored, and it would be nice to get some air!”

“Okay, but not a long one, they’re waiting.”

I went slowly through the back streets, totally pleased with myself. When I saw the pale lights from the little houses of those decent, ordinary folks peering out from their windows or from their little balconies at the trees to see whether the rain was letting up, I thought, Oh, what a fool I am to believe that we could be like this, that we could get married, that we could even have children. But when it came time to go back, I pulled another childish move and instead of heading toward Turan’s, I left the neighborhood and started speeding up the hill.

“What are you doing?” she asked.

I didn’t answer or even turn my head, but just kept going, my eyes glued to the road, like a good race driver. Then, even though she would know it was a lie, I said that we had to get gas.

“No, let’s go back now!” she said. “They’re waiting for us.”

“I just want to be alone for a little bit so we can talk, Ceylan.”

“About what?” she said sternly.

“What do you think about what happened last night?”

“I don’t think anything! Things like that happen, we were both drunk.”

“Is that all you’ve got to say?” I said resentfully as I pressed down harder on the gas.

“Come on, Metin, let’s go back. It’s rude.”
“I’ll never forget last night!” Cringing at the cheesiness of my own words.

“Well, you drank a lot, it’d be better if you didn’t drink so much again!”

“No, not because of that!” I couldn’t help taking her hand, which was resting on the seat cushion. Her little hand was burning hot, but she didn’t pull it back as I had feared. So I said, “I love you,” feeling very ashamed.

“Let’s go back!”

I squeezed her hand tighter and thought of my mother, whom I can barely remember, and as I tried to put my arms around Ceylan, she screamed.

“Look out!”

A pair of mercilessly powerful lights was in my eyes, coming straight at us, so I pulled sharply to the right. A long truck passed like a train with a huge roar, blaring its horrible shrill horn. Since I had forgotten to step on the clutch while leaning on the brake, the old Anadol shuddered to a halt as the engine stalled. And then I couldn’t hear anything but the song of the crickets.

“Were you afraid?” I said.

“No. Let’s go right back, it’s getting late!”

I turned the ignition key, but the motor wouldn’t start. I tried it again, but still no luck. I got out of the car and tried to get it going with a push, but that didn’t work either. Working myself into a sweat, I finally managed to push it onto the flat road. Then I got in, turned off the lights to save the battery, and let the old Anadol slide quickly and silently down the long hill.

As the tires sped up, they made a nice sound on the wet asphalt, and we went gliding downhill like a ship setting sail in the black darkness of the open sea. A few times I said, Let me try the motor, but it still didn’t work. When a bolt of lightning struck somewhere in the distance, in the bright yellow light that filled the sky we could see people writing slogans on the walls. After that I didn’t use the brake
at all, even as we made the curve, and with the momentum from the hill we were able to glide all the way down to the train bridge and after that very slowly as far as the gas station on the Ankara highway. At the gas station I got out of the car and went into the office. Leaning over the table, I woke up the attendant and told him the engine wouldn’t start and the clutch seemed to be broken. I asked if there was anybody who knew about Anadols.

“It doesn’t have to be somebody for Anadols,” the attendant said. “Just wait a minute!”

In a Mobil oil ad that was on the wall, the model holding a can of gasoline looked incredibly like Ceylan. I returned to the car stupefied.

“I love you, Ceylan!”

She was angrily smoking a cigarette. “We’re late!”

“I said I love you.”

We must have just been staring emptily at each another. When I couldn’t take it anymore, I made as if I’d forgotten something, got out of the car, and quickly walked off. I found a dark corner, not too far, and just watched from a distance. In the dim light of the irritating neon sign blinking overhead, the cigarette smoker was only a shadow. I continued sweating as I saw the red tip of the cigarette flare up every few seconds. I must have stayed there like that for almost half an hour, watching her and feeling like a low-class sneak. Then I went to a stand a little ways down the road and bought a chocolate, the brand you see advertised most on television. Finally, I went back to the car and sat down next to her.

“Where were you? I was worried,” she said. “We’re terribly late. They’ll be wondering what happened.”

“Look, I got you a present.”

“Oh, hazelnut! I don’t like that one.”

I told her I loved her; she didn’t react; I tried again, then let my head fall on the hand she had in her lap. And from there I was able to quickly kiss her nervous fidgeting hand a few times, and then, as if I were afraid of something getting away from me, I took her hand
in mine. After kissing it some more I lifted my head up so I could get some fresh air, and so that I might not drown in the despair I felt engulfing me.

“People are watching!” she said.

I retreated for the moment and went over to watch a family of laborers returning from Germany for the summer. They’d stopped for gas, but the light above the pumps must have been broken, because it just kept blinking on and off. I really didn’t want to, but my feet carried me back to resume the same pointless idiocy inside the car.

“I love you!”

“Oh, come on, Metin, let’s go back!”

“Let’s just stay a little longer, Ceylan, please!”

“If you really loved me, you wouldn’t hold me hostage out here in the middle of nowhere!”

I was trying to think of something to say that would seem more meaningful, but when you get down to it, words aren’t very useful at baring our souls, they’re just something else we hide behind. As I was looking around helplessly, I saw something in the backseat: a notebook. Faruk must have left it there. I started flipping through it in the neon light, and then I showed it to Ceylan, trying to keep her from exploding out of boredom or anger or both. She read a few lines, gritting her teeth, before suddenly throwing it into the backseat of the car, exasperated. When the guy finally came to repair the car, I got out to help him push it to where he could see better, and in that harsh light I saw Ceylan’s cold empty face.

Later, after the mechanic and I had checked the engine, and he’d gone off to buy a part, I looked again and saw Ceylan still had the same cold and bored look on her face. I walked away from the broken Anadol in the rain, which had started again, full of confusing thoughts about love and cursing all those poets and singers who glorify this disastrous and destructive emotion. But then I remembered that there was something about this terrible feeling that made people put up with it and even enjoy it. Even so, I couldn’t take Ceylan’s resentful look, so I slid under the car with the mechanic while he
was working. There, in the dirty greasy darkness, covered by the old car, I felt Ceylan just fifty centimeters above me and yet very far away. Eventually, the engine turned over, and from where I was I could see Ceylan’s lovely feet and long beautiful legs getting out of the car. Her red high heels carried her first a few steps to the left, and then changed course and took her to the right, before she got really annoyed and, finally figuring out where she meant to go, headed there in angry determination.

When her orange skirt and broad back finally entered my field of vision I realized she had gone into the office. I quickly slid out from under the car and, telling the guy to “make it snappy!” ran after her. Inside, Ceylan was eyeing the telephone on the desk, and the attendant sitting there, still sleepy, was eyeing Ceylan.

“That’s okay, Ceylan!” I shouted. “I’ll call them.”

“Did you just think of that now?” she said. “We’re very late. They’ll be worried, who knows what they’ll be thinking … It’s two in the morning …” She was going on, but, thank God, the sleepy attendant went outside because a car had pulled up to the pumps, and I was spared further humiliation as I opened the directory and immediately found Turan’s family. As I was dialing, Ceylan was saying, “You’re really inconsiderate!”

Then I told her again that I loved her and, without thinking, added, with conviction, “I want to marry you!” but nothing I could say made a difference anymore; it was amazing how much Ceylan looked like that woman in the poster she was standing next to, except that Ceylan was scowling, so angry she couldn’t even look at me, only the telephone in my hand. I don’t know what unsettled me more, the hatred on her face or her magical resemblance to the Mobil oil woman, but anyway I was ready for the worst.

After just a couple of rings, someone answered. I recognized Fikret’s voice right away. “Is that you?” I said. “I’m calling so you don’t worry about us!” At the same time, I was wondering what he was doing answering the phone at Turan’s with so many other people there. “Who’s there?” Fikret abruptly asked. “It’s me, Metin!” “You,
I got, but who’s there with you?” “Ceylan!” I said, taken aback. For a second I even thought the two of them were playing some gag on me, but Ceylan’s face was expressionless: she only kept asking, “Who’s on the line?” Fikret said, “I thought you were dropping Ceylan off at her house!” “Well,” I said, “actually we’re here together, at the gas station, but we’re fine, don’t worry. Okay, I’ve got to go now!” “Who is that, who are you talking to,” Ceylan asked. “Will you please give me the phone?”

But I wouldn’t give it to her and kept trying to answer Fikret’s annoying questions. “What are we doing at the gas station?” I said. “A minor repair,” and I quickly added: “But we’re on our way back, Okay? So, bye!” But Ceylan, now yelling so she would be heard on the other end, said, “Stop, stop, don’t hang up, who is it?” Just as I was about to get off the line, Fikret said in a cold, unpleasant voice, “It seems Ceylan wants to speak to me!” I reluctantly handed the receiver to Ceylan and went out into the gloomy rain.

After walking a short way, I turned and looked back at the bright room where among the shelves, ads, and Mobil oil cans, Ceylan had come to life and was still eagerly talking on the phone while twisting the end of her hair, and I thought how I would forget about all this when I was in America, but then realized I didn’t want to go anymore. As Ceylan shifted her weight from one beautiful leg to the other, impatient as a stranded child, I muttered to myself, She is more beautiful than any girl I’ve ever met, and I stood there in the rain like a schoolboy, helpless and resigned as he awaits the punishment being decided for him. Soon Ceylan hung up the phone and came outside, completely happy.