A little Turkish boy with a wooden stick [Anastasia Milko] (fb2) читать онлайн

Anastasia Milko A little Turkish boy with a wooden stick

A man who loves stories and collects them as other collect postcards, can’t but share them, otherwise they will haunt him and might as well start to rule his reality through feelings and deeds. Thus, the only way to let the old pictures go is to give them life. That’s my plan for the rest of my life, even if no one shows the slightest interest in them, there must liberation.

Chapter 1

A new story to tell

Imagine the scene: the oldest district in Fatith named Balat, one of the historically richest places in Istanbul, yet unfairly neglected by many tourists, especially now during coronavirus restrictions. Quietly walking along the curvy paving streets, where famous coffee shops are still closed, a girl is devouring the peaceful scenery with her sparkled eyes barely paying attention to her companion’s words. It’s still early in the morning. The naked sun is covering colorful wooden and stone houses, washing away the sleepiness of the neighborhood. The girl is escorted by a reputable guide who volunteered to show her the fading beauty of utterly amazing ancient skinny tall houses, and most importantly to tell her old forgotten stories behind shabby rusted gates with vines covering the broken locks and fancy Mediterranean style cottages of all the colors imaginable. It was her main objective to hear the precious story of little significance to many, yet not her. The stories of love and abandon, of greedy pashas and noble fishermen, of a little beauty in a tattered cloths noticed by both a kind and plain street shoe cleaner boy and a sinful and lustful merchant. The girl longed to become part of their lives and follow them toward heaven or hell, depending on their choices and intentions.

However, to her utter disappointment, the guide’s English was extremely poor and, feeling that the barrier will not allow her to penetrate into his bright and quick mind, she sighed theatrically and turned away, focusing instead on the decorations of the district, willing to listen to the stories that life itself was ready to confide in a very keen for secrets foreigner. Anyway, these stories couldn’t have been worse than her guide’s ones.

The story she learned that day faded over time, and the memories of the boy started to intermingle with her own imaginative pictures, shall she not lose the thread of the plot, it was decided to let it flow. It didn’t seem right to keep the beautiful story in the dark to your own satisfaction, when someone might have been longing to hear about a brave and decisive boy with a little wooden stick their whole life.

Let it start now.

The story begins late at night on the 22^nd of May.

“Do you even listen to a word I say?” muttered baba Yussuf, addressing his older son Kerem.

“You have aroused envy and wounded some of our neighbors’ pride son, boasting of your new phone on the streets yesterday, using the shaitan expressions and insults!” the father tried to keep his voice firm but without confronting the young man, who looked rebellious and had fire in his indifferent eyes now, father continued his preaching. Indeed, his son was nothing like the boy he used to know just a few years ago. Mr. Yussuf had no idea what was it he had to do as a head of the family now, he prayed for both of his sons in the Mosque as well as at home, sometimes concentrating merely on Kerem. The lovely boy turned out a nightmare for everyone who knew him and cared for him. Even Allah seemed to be too busy to solve the matter. God knew that Yussuf did nothing wrong, never he was strict or touched the sons. His main objective in life was to raise good Muslim men, a blessing of his life.

“Firstly, father, don’t instruct me as if I were Can or your wife” the tone of Kerem’s bold speech stroke his father’s heart, yet he kept quiet to let the boy finish what he had in mind.

“Secondly, I have little concern, if any, for what our neighbors might think of me”

It was dark and still raining; the wind didn’t show the hint of ceasing and everyone was sleeping apart from Mr. Yussuf and his sixteen year old son, who just came home after only God knows what kind of secret business. Whatever had happened to Kerem, the truth was inescapable for Yussuf, his older son, his main merit of the life, was drunk or even high. It was difficult to reject the truth anymore. He dared to come home after dirty deeds, being drunk and absolutely disrespectful, not even planning to pretend being sorry.

“In this case, son, think at least about me and your mother, it is such a torture to go out literally feeling contempt and disapproving look of our friends. Even Can, whom you love more than us, I suppose, suffers from your behavior now”

Yussuf had hopes to shatter his sons defending walls with a sense of pity toward his own family, since public opinion had no effect on Kerem’s conscience anymore.

Yussuf paused for an instance and went on, asking God to give him right words to touch his son’s heart.

“Can is extremely lonely, you know, no one is willing to play with him. Neither have they accepted his serine invitations to come for halva and tea last week. He has crossed the line of being an outsider for what he has no responsibility. Is it fair, son? Think of him please!”

Normally Kerem never hesitated to speak his mind, however it seemed extremely difficult to blame not the neighbors or even his parents but little brother Can, who was a real angel, especially comparing to him. Still, it took him just a few seconds to jump from love to hate.

“You want me to feel sorry, don’t you father?”

“Well, well, well, I do feel sorry for being your son, for living in a shabby and stinky house you funnily call home. I will also tell you something for just your ears” he stood up staring death his father, “I don’t care what’s going on in your or your little bastard’s life”

Silence dropped.

Two men standing face to face, feeling outraged.

Mr. Youssuf never heard someone cursing in his house before, not had he ever imagined being a witness to his own precious son swearing his family. It was more than he could bear, but it was still not enough to lay a hand on his son.

Unfortunately, this exact time not only father’s ears heard the hurtful sentence of a beloved son, little Can was wide awake, listening carefully on his bed upstairs. He was extremely worried about Kerem, telling himself he would not fall asleep until his brother would return in the bedroom. He didn’t, but it might have been better for him to break his word and to be asleep now than feel that the whole world was falling to the ground.

“How dare you speak this word, have you no fear of Allah?”

“Go to Jahannam with your God” blurted Kerem, narrowing his foxy blurred eyes

With tears in eyes Mr. Yussuf bowed down his head, it was too much now.

“Go away. I will not tolerate a man like you in my family. You are a real disappointment to me, and I will probably take my responsibility for raising a devil like you, but till that time you will not be named my son. Go now”.

It was for the first time that Kerem had heard anything sharp from his kind father, still this exactly was not a mere plea, it was an imperious command given with deep sorrow yet with high determination. Kerem was feeling a bit tipsy, though he felt he was not ready to give in without a battle. It was time to go. He left grinning evilly. At the doorway he paused, waved his hand and nodded as if he was talking to someone visible only to him. He chuckled darkly, and then spitted at the doormat.

The door slammed.

Mr. Yussuf sobbed the whole night, next door Can couldn’t sleep a wink either but his eyes were dry. The moon’s silver beams and innumerable stars sparkling high in the dark blue expanse were the only hope for Can that his elder brother would be guided and protected in that dark and disturbed night. He had no grunge for the word Kerem had called him, he was not even sure about the meaning, yet it must have been something beyond what father could have tolerated, and there was little he couldn’t when it came to his precious son. Believe it or not but this seven year old boy didn’t lose neither love nor peace in his little brave heart this night. Realization that it was not his brother talking but a dangerous spirit of alcohol came immediately to Can, and he felt sorry for his brother who must have been captured in its hands.

Chapter 2

It will never be the same boy or a Bulgarian artist in a straw boater

A tall artist from Şişli happened to meet Can a few days before his brother Kerem would leave the house and disappear as disappears an early morning fog with the first rays of waking Sun, under a very peculiar circumstances. Can was strolling around alone, kicking a little stone, a little mad with his so called friends who wouldn’t play with him anymore. If it hadn’t been for a strong kick of the stone that made the latter strike a skinny beard man with a canvas on his knee, Can’s life would have never changed so drastically. For worse or for better but it did.

“Jesus my Lord!” cried the artist out with pain, leaning to rub his pulsing knee.

Can was about to approach the man to apologize before the curses would break free and to plea this tree-of-a-man not to report parents on him. One second later, when standing just in front of the artist, the boy finally managed to digest the exclamation heard by the stranger. Being under genuine surprise, he forgot the reason he initially came to the man and with a false irritation asked:

“What did you say, Mister?”

The man seemed to notice the boy for the first time. He smiled broadly, gaining back his posture, and examining closely a gloomed grimace of skinny, yet strong kid with a wooden stick in his left hand.

“I said,” narrowing eyes appeared to be the color of the Bosporus. “Why not to be a bit more careful, friend, right?”

The man was grinning like a Cheshire cat, thought there was nothing scary or fishy in his sincere broad and quite appealing smile, though his teeth were uneven and might have been judged as too long for the mouth of their owner.

“No Mister,” Can was not satisfied with this lame attempt to change the torrent of the conversation.

“No?” laughed the artist, shaking his head in utter disbelief of the boy’s insolence, yet absolutely in love with it.

“I mean yes” the boy rolled his eyes “but I was trying to tell that you didn’t answer my question, Mister!”

“I did not? I think so, young boy, you are right!” The artist steered away from Can and took one of the brushes lying on the palette, planning to concentrate on his work once again.

Can had already heard once that people of art are the most peculiar characters, who never seem to act according to the rules of common sense. However, it became a matter of great interest to involve the man in a conversation, hoping it would help him to kill some time before returning home for lunch. Mother promised to bake potato Borek, a mere thought of which made Can fly over the moon with craving for its perfectly crunchy pastry, a perfect Turkish salty cake he adored to be served with sweet Yougurt or Ayran.

“What are you painting?” Can looked behind the canvas, pushing the amazed artist away, “why did you called Jesus to be your Lord?” asked the boy with no anger, not even taking his eyes off the landscape on the greyish surface of the canvas. The artist stepped away to let the boy get the whole view of the painting, feeling upcoming wave of affection to a brave witty kid. He used to be exactly like this, he reflected on some flashes from his own poor but happy childhood back in Bulgarian village. He was a real pain in the neck for all his family, full of beans, always ready to contradict and pursue his own truth, seeking the sense, feeling deep and powerful longing for answers no one seemed to be able to satisfy. The torture he suffered at a young age before the truth itself found him, was very possible prospect for this naturally open-minded and curious boy.

“What do you see on the canvas?”

“Well, some buildings from the street, and there are white walls of the old abandoned Greek church from the hill, standing out from the rest of the huts on your painting. Oh, and there is a fig tree next to the bench, where a real cat is sleeping, but you forgot to put the cat there, instead you lied and put the non-existent tree.”

Can sighed gloomily and turned his chin toward the artist.

“You are a liar, Mister, aren’t you?”

“All men are liars, I suppose, kid. Though, I will not call myself a regular liar.”

The sun was still shining bright, playing with sparkles on a sweaty face of the man. “I mean, boy, there is no possibility for a person to be always honest even with himself, let alone with other people. However, I pray to have enough courage and be honest at least about my own life. You seem to be puzzled with my answer, I can totally understand”. The artist didn’t give an impression of having a heavy burden on his shoulders, he spoke calmly and sincerely. Then paused for a split second and went on.

“Considering the non-existent tree, I would say that it is not a lie but a rebirth of a real tree that used to be growing here many years ago. And when it comes to the cat, well if you think it’s an important element of the scene I would definitely put it there too.” He cut the last sentence shortly with no hint of going further into the explanations, in fact the artist decided to check the boy’s intentions and see whether he would try to fish out the answer he had tried to get for two times already.

Can, overwhelmed with this metaphorical explanation, stand in silence, not knowing how to pick something else from the artist’s speech to underestimate or contradict but couldn’t find anything. And he also felt a blurred affection that spooked away the fear of a stranger in a child.

“I see, he raised the head and spent a long time staring at the man’s calm face. “Well, you lied about God, what is your justification for this Mister?”

“What an inquisitive boy you are!” the artist exclaimed, throwing his dirty with colors hands high. “Here I must confess to lying”

The boy straightened up, ready to carry the palm of victory.

“I should have told ‘our Lord Jesus’ and not ‘my’, I wasn’t very attentive to my words when faced the pain of your stone, yet I never lied, boy. And now, if you let me, I would like to go back to work while the light is good.”

Chapter 3

A seed of knowledge. May 22

It was early in the morning, Can’s bed was put along the sunny side of the room and he got used to waking up with the first rays touching his long and curvy lashes. The family had only one alarm used by mother to set time when she was busy baking, father woke up at the same time every single day to be fully prepared for Fajr. Morning Prayer became an essential part of his life. It was somehow easier to imagine Mr. Yussuf forget to drink a cup of morning coffee or even brush his teeth than neglect one of the five prayers during the day.

Can was up even earlier this particular morning, still a little confused by the quarrel he overheard late at night. The boy stretched in bed mumbling a simple prayer for his brother. It was not a custom for Can to pray at all, he had never fully understood who this God was and why he never heard his father when it came to Kerem. He paid the honor to God, attended the mosque when needed with the family, but never felt anything toward the mighty creature his father was so afraid of.

Can got up and approached a small spotty window gazing at the empty streets for a long time, recalling a peculiar dialogue with the artist. The artist told him about love being God, and that people will never be able to satisfy the thirst they have without Jesus. Who, as he believed, was a real testimony of loving God. That Jesus was the Lord himself having come to our world to safe us all.

As he gazed at the disappearing shadows, Can saw a striped gray stray cat watchfully cross the road with its tail raised and bristled. Was it afraid of something? Can was about to open the window to call for the cat when out of the sudden a bigger monster of a cat sprang upon the first tiny grayish kedi. Guttural meowing sounds were a slap in the face of the morning silence. Can felt a freezing sense of fear when his witty mind made an analogy between the poor tiny cat being beaten so severely and his own brother Kerem. His Kerem was just a teenage boy alone in a big crowded city where anyone can get lost forever leaving no trace at all, becoming just a faded memory for those who once knew them.

Nobody seemed to notice the noise. Was there anyone who could help that skinny cat and his brother?

Suddenly a peculiar thought came over the boy. The Bulgarian artist told him that even parents are not able to love their children as much as God does, that people are deeply loved by Jesus and they need just to believe in his grace and ask for forgiveness and help. And our prayer will never pass unnoticed, especially given by the heart full of love and acceptance. Can reasoned for a second whether he should pray for Kerem since his dad certainly did it anyway and it was in vain.

“Maybe I need to ask this Jesus for help”, Can didn’t know much about him, and he was still uncertain about him being God, but maybe, just maybe, he could at least try, there was nothing to lose anyway.

“Jesus, I beg you to watch over my brother. You are said to be a very loving God and the one who really cares, so please forgive me my many mistakes I have already made and help my brother to come home safe. He is not bad and you love him more than my father, that must be very much indeed, I suppose. I will pray you every time I hear the calling, so please Jesus, help him”.

He finished his praying, opened the eyes and saw no cats on the street. Only tiny pitches of little birds filled the air.

Chapter 4

The Bosporus is ready to devour

A few days later, around nine in the evening, the telephone rang. As soon as Kerem heard Mehmed call for him, he knew that there would be some bad news waiting for him. He lived now in a shabby room with five other men of different age, no one of them had families or friends outside the gang. They did not have a legal job either. They were obliged to carry out any assigned task by the boss. No surprise, in most cases it turned out to be some kind of fishy business, including alcohol and drug dealing, recruiting women from poor remote neighborhoods to work for their boss, or just begging in the crowds. The latter was primly for kids and teenage boys with pretty faces who could easily woo public sympathy. Kerem was appointed to beg with two other boys in different places every day for at least ten hours, he thought of it as being fun first, feeling strange vibes of freedom from his monotonous life he used to have before. The intoxicating joy of owning his own money at the end of a shift made him feel like a king. However, the joy of a new lifestyle had not been eternal and it began to be washing away.

Once, when Kerem finally arrived with his friend from a night shift at around two o’clock in the morning, they overheard some pitchy screaming in the apartment. They stood in fear and then saw their boss with a guard come out of their room, the guard was carrying one of new boys with some bruises on his young and pale face.

No one explained anything, and Kerem’s gut told him to stay out of this, minding his own business instead and trying to be as quiet and reliable as possible. During the drinking night they would have from time to time, Kerem could not but think of his little brother Can, even though he did try to steer clear off any thoughts attached to his family, his brother’s innocent eyes were fixed on Kerem’s inner conscience. He got a sharp sense that all his new friends were worthless pieces of nothing to the boss and even to each other. Everyone kept quiet and never touched upon what they had witnessed in the morning. It must have not been the first and only accident like that to happen in those walls.

The telephone rang and Kerem already knew that it was bad news coming about the boy beaten in the apartment the night before. They were to become partners for begging soon, but the boy must have done something wrong, he must have stolen or lied, or somehow stood in the way of a mighty figure in Istanbul, or attracted too much of attention. It was a riddle with no answer. Kerem had no idea but when he heard that the boy had “got missing” and never came home, he pretended to be surprised. He knew that neither a large crowd of policemen nor his so-called friends would help him escape now, he felt dead already and thought again of the family he exchanged for this horror-of-a-life. Having nothing to do, he got ready for a new shift with his neighbor, trying to put on a mask of carelessness and confidence. The day began.

Mr. Yussuf was on the edge of despair that day, the anguish of what had already happened and what the future might hold for his son, made him sick. His wife, to her own surprise, felt deep in heart that the road would bring her son back home, sooner or later he would appear at the porch and knock on the door like the prodigal son to her warm cuddle. The same assurance of a happy end came over little Can. He already managed to address Jesus a few times with his heart full of hope and belief that Jesus would spare his darling brother. It was still uncertain when it would happen and how, yet it was to come the best way possible. He had no doubt about it.

Indeed it is said that the sincere prayer of a child makes a tremendous difference in the life of the one for whom it is given.

The guardian angel was definitely on duty that day, staying close to Kerem this airless evening, willing to perform the Father’s will toward the lost soul mingled with the bad crowd. Cigarettes, alcohol for kids and already damaged adults, dirty jokes and the devil’s songs floating in the air. Kerem had already drunk more than was enough for his still growing body and forming mind. He dreamt of getting out of this fake independent and mature life, he would be the happiest boy on earth if there were a chance to get home to his cozy bed. But there was not such a luxury anymore. He was stuck with this gang. So far no one left the “family” on their own will, there would be no exception for him.

One of the oldies held out a plastic glass with something hot inside to make them have fun tonight and get into oblivion of a blurred mind.

‘Again? No, teşekkürler.’

‘What do you mean by this “hayır”?’

The man look perplexed at this sharp refusal. Kerem lowered his head and admitted feeling really bad. No sooner had the man decided to say something “funny” than Kerem felt nausea and with no chance to turn away vomit on his knees and got the man dirty too.

‘Ahhh, man! Get away now, filthy pig’

Kerem felt stomach spasms again and slowly crawled to the edge of the embankment to throw up into the Bosporus next time.

It was getting darker, not many people on the seaside alley. The seagulls scream and fly above the ships nearby. Kerem was shaking, shivering and nauseous. He bent over the strait and for a split second it seemed to him that he saw a huge monstrous shadow behind him in the reflection of the black water, he turned sharply and immediately lost his balance. One shaky step and Kerem fell into the cold waters of the Bosphorus.

Underwater silence, deep darkness and the body ready to survive. Kerem’s head was cleared and the cool water healed his stomach spasms, he surfaced, trying to stay afloat. His company was already far away and out of reach, it seemed they had not noticed anything in their drunken stupor. The current kept carrying him, and Kerem tried to figure out how to get out soon, because the embankment wall was very high to climb it up without help. He started to pray, hoping to get out not only from the water but from this horror in general. If he could survive and escape, he would never touch alcohol, nor would he attack his father. His kind and fair father Yussuf. Kerem wanted to ask for forgiveness for everything he had done. He was afraid not to see his family, not to say “sorry”.

‘God, let me live, please’

Chapter 5

The parable of the lost son

May 26. Late at night

Can’s dream was uneasy. He saw the quarrel between his brother Kerem and father again. In the dream it was not less painful to witness the battle of the beloved ones, which it had been in real life. Kerem was furious and screamed ‘You ARE WRONG!’ the father humbly tried to reason his son, saying Kerem was just being stubborn. The fight continued but now there was no sound, it was like it had been muted by someone. Can frowned and looked at two mute figures throwing hands and shaking heads. Then Can heard the voice. Deep and clear voice. It said that they both were wrong, and then it said that Can managed to safe the cat that might have not been spared otherwise. The boy saw the street cat again. It was peacefully sleeping on the bench. The one, the Bulgarian artist depicted on his canvas. It was safe and sound.

Can woke up, sweaty and both scared and comforted by the dream. He jumped on the cool floor and approached the window. He kneeled and cried, uttering a prayer again. He was afraid he would never see his precious brother. He was talking to Jesus now, as if it had been his own father.

‘May you take me, if you wish, please, but I ask you to rescue my brother’

The silence was overwhelming and profound. He tried to hold the sobbing away when suddenly there came some knocking on the door.

‘Who could come in the middle of the night?’

Can stood up, waiting for another knocking, and there it came again. Can looked up at the moon and suddenly realized who was right there behind the front door.

‘Kere-eeeeem!’

He flew from the room to see that his parents already opened the door. The young boy looked miserable. He was shaking and frozen in his wet cloths, but also he looked obedient and tired. He waited a second and then jump toward his parents, hugged them and started to cry. First it was a sobbing and then came torrents of precious tears. Kerem came home.

‘Thank you God’

Can burst out crying too, knowing exactly who saved his bother. He was full with emotions, full with the new realization he was yet to fully accept soon in the future. Nothing was sure yet, but everything would be different from now on.

The end

***

This story was told by the streets, trees and the walls of the old Greek Church. The girl knew she had to tell how miraculous events happen in the lives of very ordinary people if they have courage to belief. To belief like little Can did. She opened the notebook and started to write, there must be liberation. You hear the story, you live the story, and you tell the story to repeat the cycle of its life.

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Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5