Any similarity between characters and places depicted in this book and characters and places elsewhere is purely coincidental.

“Into Round Holes Put The Square Pegs” and

“The Land of Black Photographs” are used by permission of Nisan Tandal.

Chapter 16 is an excerpt from Sir James Belder’s

Witchcraft and Secret Leagues in Europe 1200-1800 (London 1961)

and is used by permission of the author.

The poem that constitutes Chapter 40 belongs to Robert Creely.

Used by permission of the author.

So much peace. A Renaissance madrigal is heard - Cipriano de Rore’s “Alla dolce ombra”. An apartment decorated in Benetton colors -pastel yellow and brown tones- a place in keeping with our feeling of peace. We turn clockwise and see the furniture - the furniture obliges us and turns counterclockwise: this is a young livingroom furnished with taste: nice and comfortable-looking armchairs; reproductions on the wall (Caravaggio’s “David and Goliath”, Antonello de Messina’s “St. Jerome in his Study”, Gustav Klimt’s “Hope I and II”, and Albrecht Durer’s “St. Hieronymus in his Cell”), a desk by the window; a sofa; right beside it a head with a mask painted on its face; a modest music box; a round dinner table with a Japanese lamp above; a largish library. Then we turn back, realizing there’s something wrong - did you say “a head with a mask painted on its face”?

“Who the hell put this here?”

A lovely female voice. An arm reaches out - we venture that it belongs to the same female (for the arm is lovely as well), and picks up the head by the hair -this must be a joke in bad taste, like plastic feces. The young woman goes into the kitchen -we trail her- and opens the fridge with her other hand; for some peculiar reason she puts the head in the freezer. The madrigal continues with unabated indifference. There’s still so much peace.

“Hi, do you carry Salinger’s latest novel?” asks Hakan as soon as he enters the second-hand book shop.

“Jerome David.” Hakan smiles the smile of a customer who, albeit humbly, reminds the shopkeeper what a great blessing it is for a bookseller to have a customer who knows the full name of the author whose book he is looking for.

“And the name of the book?” Some quiz.

“Well, I’m not sure, but I think it went something like ‘The Good-Hearted Fat King Watches the Ducks Having Breakfast on the Frozen Lake.’”

“Salinger hasn’t published for a long time now, as far as I know. Are you sure he has a book like that? When was it published?”

“Oh, quite recently, I think. Around the beginning of this year.”

“Then you’ll have to ask one of the big bookstores that sell foreign books.” She smiles. “The books I have are somewhat old.”

“Thanks anyway.” Hakan heads for the door.

“Hey, just a second, may I ask you something?” asks Yağmur, intercepting Hakan’s exit. “Have you always had that mole on your neck?”

“Excuse me?”

“The mole on your neck. My brother has the same. Doesn’t it heal?”

“No, but I’m told they burn it if you really want to get rid of it. How old is your brother?”

“Seven.”

“Tell him not to worry about it too much. It looks good on some.” Hakan hesitates a little, then adds when their eyes meet, “Have we ever met? Where have I known you before?”

“At Chick Corea’s!” says Yağmur.

“So, do you own the shop?” Hakan asks, taking the salt from Yağmur.

“Legally, you mean? Yeah. My father didn’t like the idea of it very much at first, got extremely paternalistic and protective, said he’d take care of me, give me enough money to live and buy the books I wanted - ‘You can’t make a living by selling books,’ he said. He had a point actually - there are better ways to get rich.”

“What do you do, then, to make ends meet?”

“Tutoring. Father helps out. I don’t pay rent. I survive.”

“For some reason I have the impression you are much more ambitious than that.”

“Fine with me.”

“What will you do after you get your MA?”

“Ph.D.”

“And then?”

“Don’t know. Shall see. I still have to do my military service. I’m praying for a new government that will change the law into something half-decent.”

“Pain in the ass.”

“Total pain. And it goes up some way too. Eighteen months - you’re expected to give it away just like that.”

“Let’s get the bill. We can have coffee at my place.”

A sunny autumn afternoon still reigns outside.

“Hakan, could you also explain this thing called the Uncertainty Principle?”

“Sure. Let’s first get through with the problem set though. Ladies in the back, if you don’t mind, it’s my turn to do the talking now. Thank you. Let’s go.”

“Everybody got it? Okay then. Did somebody ask something a little while ago?”

“I did,” says one of the students; his name is Cem. “You know, Heisenberg’s Uncertainty Principle - what good is it, exactly?”

“Right. This principle states that it is impossible to tell the exact location and the exact momentum of a particle simultaneously. In other words -” He turns to the board and writes the equation

p x = h

and continues, “delta p is the uncertainty in the particle’s momentum, delta x is the uncertainty in its location, and their product is equal to a constant, which is our old friend, Planck’s constant. If the uncertainty in the momentum is small, if you know the mass and the velocity of the particle pretty well, then the uncertainty in the location will be big, you won’t know for sure where it is. If you know its momentum exactly, you won’t have a clue about its location.”

“Does it hold only for atoms and stuff? Does it apply to bigger things as well?”

“Do you drive?”

“Yes?”

“Fine then, watch out the next time you’re driving, take a good look at the speedometer, okay, and I mean a really good look, and be exactly sure of your speed, then look up. You might end up on the other side of Styx.”

Students raise their voices in mock protest, strongly condemning Hakan’s sense of humor. It’s already five minutes into the break, and everyone starts packing up; Hakan laughs, takes out a small bell from his pocket and starts to ring it, shouting “Manumission to all! Be free!” They leave. Hakan stops the one who asked the question and says, “Heisenberg’s principle applies only to very small particles, because Planck’s constant is a very small number. Let’s say a 15 km/hr uncertainty in your car’s velocity would create a 10^-25 cm uncertainty in its location.”

“Insignificant.”

“Life is hard for the insects, what can you do,” says Hakan.

Hakan lives with his father. When he gets back home, he finds him in his usual place: in the red velvet armchair that is the most comfortable of the four armchairs in the livingroom decorated as a study. Under the soft light of the lampshade, he is reading a book - Hakan recognizes from the cover that it is by Bertrand Russell. The study: one feels obliged to read, or at least to browse the thousands of books on the shelves and, if possible, to touch them. Three walls are covered with books in alphabetical order according to their author, from Aackburn to Zustatsky; on the fourth wall there is a large window, below it Hakan’s cushion, and around the cushion newspapers and magazines.

Hakan’s father’s name is Can, but Hakan calls him Alibey. His hair is fluffy and white. Now, sitting in his armchair with his thick, black-rimmed glasses on and having lost himself in the book, he has an air of detachedness about him, the aloofness of a self-confident and superior victor; there is almost pride in it, but not quite - Alibey emanates rays of endearing childishness, so much so that his distance dwindles down to nothing, and we can’t help but smile.

“Alibey, I’m home,” Hakan says from the entrance of the living room, and waits with acquired patience for his father to look up from his book and focus his eyes on him. “Can I get you anything?” he adds.

“Good to see you,” says Alibey.

“Want some coffee?”

“How about you?”

“Nah, I’ve had enough coffee for today.”

“Never mind then, I don’t want any either.”

Hakan fixes himself something to eat in the kitchen, then goes back into the living room, starts reading the paper, the last page first - an old habit. Even though he has no special interest in the sports page, he has read the papers this way for as long as he knows. A friend of his, upon first seeing him do this, asked him whether he was Jewish -this must have been in high school- “They always read the paper backwards.”

“It’s Jerome David, right - Salinger, I mean?”

“I think so,” says Alibey; then, “Why do you ask?”

“Oh, nothing really, there was talk of it in the bookstore I went to today.”

“Nice center page,” says Alibey finally.

Hakan looks up in surprise, and responds to his father’s smile with a laugh.

“Want to play chess?”

Hakan laughs again; this is one of Alibey’s standard jokes: even though both dislike the game, Alibey has a habit of asking this question. Hakan might be thinking that there was a scene like this in a film they saw together. As a matter of fact there wasn’t.

Had Hakan known that day that Alibey would die unexpectedly a short while later, would he have taken his father’s invitation seriously and sat at the chessboard, engaging in a mock-quarrel over who would have the white?

“And why were there two times seven words in the first sentence you uttered when you walked into my shop?”

Hakan regards this as a manipulation to change the subject. The shame, yes the shame, he repeats to himself, of what has just come to pass is still burning inside him. It was so great at the beginning, though. “What are you talking about?”

“You mean the name of Salinger’s book was a coincidence as well? You know the man doesn’t have a book like that, couldn’t you make up something else?”

“There’s nothing to it, take the derivative twice, set it equal to zero, and you’ll have it.”

“Let me do it.”

“Go ahead then,” said Hakan, then brought his chair closer to Pelin’s, letting his breath touch her neck while he pretended to see how she solved the problem. In all honesty, he didn’t have noble principles like refraining from showing special intimacies to students he tutored. “Who would have thought - legs!” he smiled to himself; when he had his hands confirm what his eyes had just seen, Pelin slowly put down the pen in her hand, turned her face toward Hakan and lightly kissed him. When she suddenly bit his lower lip Hakan reflexively pulled his head back, but then embraced and kissed deeply. Hakan remembers the body he caressed under the T-shirt.

“What?”

“Have you heard about a religion called Kronk?”

“Called what?”

“Kronk. Underground religion. They seem to have a big organization. I was reading up on its history when you came into the shop. They go back to the Middle Ages, to some place in Germany. Anyway, they have a prophet now, but there’s a secessionist sect whose members believe that a new prophet will soon appear. There’s a sacred text that they think supports this view. I’ve read an article on that, too. Hakan, are you listening?”

Or that fling in Bodrum a couple of years ago. He had slept with this girl, literally, much to his chagrin. What was her name, something strange, maybe Tulip. She had fallen asleep after too much wine, so Hakan had slept beside her.

In short he lacked hard experience, but of course he wasn’t ignorant, one could even go so far as to say that making love came to him naturally - he greatly enjoyed giving and taking pleasure by kissing, touching, caressing. He also knew where things went, although -now his cheeks flush again- he didn’t exactly know how. Thus, when the love-making -which had gone pretty well until then- reached uncharted lands, Hakan had started to panic. The maneuvers to attain a more comfortable position proved to be too clumsy and detrimental for his erection, and when his penis failed to successfully enter her vagina on the first attempt, it decided to sit down after having risen to the occasion, going totally soft and pushing the limits of shriveling up.

“Are you still a virgin, by any chance?”

Saying nothing, Hakan nodded.

“Don’t worry. You’ll get better in no time!”

“You have all the signs that are written there. You came in while I was reading a book on Kronk and uttered two times seven words - seven is the sacred number of Kronk. You are 27 - there is 7 in it. I am 28 - multiple of 7. Then you gave the password of the organization. You hold the spoon with your left hand. You have that brown mole on your neck. I bet you have two small moles like a colon on your ass.”

A train station for some reason. Opposite the ticket office, we see a wall clock. It’s twenty-six past three. Our gaze turns down and we see two men in overalls; they put up a ladder against the wall, one of them holds it while the other climbs up and changes the time. Now it is a quarter past five. He comes down; they go away. We watch them from behind. We remind ourselves of their faces and wrists: too thin, almost delicate, to belong to workers. We are somewhat surprised that nobody protests and what’s more, that a few people actually adjust their watches according to the wall clock, but in the faces of the people we scrutinize this surprise finds no echo, so we pretend to think nothing of what we have just seen and move on.

“He’s fine, I guess. Doesn’t go out much. Says he’s got a headache.”

“The last time I saw him he looked very worn-out. His back was hunched, poor thing. Does he work too hard, or what?”

“Who’s this Osman you’re talking about?” Nisan will come in.

“Someone we know,” Hakan will say. Something broken in his voice, as if he’s taken aback. “How about Nigar?”

We will switch from face to face as they speak, like following a ping-pong ball. Tthe speaker will be in close-up.

“Oh, she’s fine. Got a haircut the other day.”

“A haircut? I hate her with short hair.”

“I don’t think I know Nigar either,” Nisan will protest.

A man looks out of a window. His back is turned toward us - he has broad shoulders, and wears a cool suit. His right hand is raised and rests against the side of the window. He leans slightly that way.

“What do you think? Could he really have come?”

He is talking to a kid, maybe twenty years old - the kid wears a checkered shirt and a pair of old jeans. “They say he’s got all the signs.”

The man turns around in anger; a long, broad, bearded face. “A stupid coincidence.”

“You think so? The Seconders have already started jubilating.”

A cynical smile. “Treason, my friend?”

The man’s eyes.

“No, of course not,” the kid says in a hurry. “You know that I am an avid believer of Kronk, His Book and His Prophet. But He has been silent for too long now. And the one who first met the second -”

“Right, okay, we know all that bullshit. So who the fuck is this guy anyway?”

“We are looking into it. It seems he’s a student at Boğaziçi University.”

The broad man turns back toward the window with majestic contempt. Down below on the street -we are on a high floor- a policeman talks with a man in his car, who apparently parked where he shouldn’t have. The policeman tells him with angry gestures to get out, the man gets out, and the policeman suddenly starts hitting him. He hits and hits. The bearded, broad man was funny, like he had watched too many American films. This is not. Probably because we are startled by what we have seen, our gaze slowly recoils and rises - we watch the rooftops for a while.

Hakan was very old and had been ill for a long time, bed-ridden. One morning he said to the woman who was as old as him and came in to draw back the curtains, open the windows and let in some fresh air, “To whom do I owe a rooster?” The woman didn’t understand, and thought he was talking nonsense again, because Hakan seemed to have gone senile lately. “The rooster, I said. To whom am I supposed to give it?” The woman laughed. Hakan laughed, too; “Too much light, call the doctor, quick!” he said, still laughing. The woman liked this a lot, laughed out loud, shaking her head from side to side as if saying, “You old devil, you.” When Hakan pressed down both hands on the bed cover and said “Fuck!”, still laughing, the woman bent double in mirth. Hakan laughed a bit more and then died.

The book he is reading at the moment is a big, brown volume entitled Witchcraft and Secret Leagues in Europe 1200-1800, one of the best works in the field; the author is none other than the famous Cambridge historian, Sir James Belder.

Hakan puts an album by Eberhart Weber on the CD-player, gets his coffee from the kitchen and sits down again. He had skimmed through the pages of the book a few minutes ago; now he turns to the page earmarked for his reading, takes a look outside the window, and starts to read. From the way he sits and the position of his head it is clear that he will not lose his concentration for a long while, and that he will remain immersed in the subject of witches and underground organizations. We turn from him to the window, get a little closer and see what it is that drew our attention: a green, small frog, as if brought by the rain, sits outside the window looking in. We have no idea how it made it up to this floor. It just sits there, blinking every now and then, all the while staring inside.

In 1457 Judge Thompson was killed in his house the day after he sent Laudrec Evans, Carrie Winstmill, John Beshamoore and Mary Dubin to the gallows. The murderers did not flee from the scene of the crime as criminals are wont to do; instead they put the corpse of the judge in a wheel-cart and went around in the streets of Aberdeen. More surprising at first glance was the fact that neither the townsfolk nor soldiers interfered with them in any way. The year 1457 was to be a very bloody one for Europe - especially for the men of law, the men of religion and the men of letters avowed to fight against witches, sorcerers and secret organizations in league with the devil.

In light of the fears that spread like an epidemic and the entrenched values of the day, Evans, Winstmill, Beshamoore and Dubin deserved, without a trace of doubt, to be publicly executed. They had been arrested on the charge that they were the members of the central committee of an organization known as Holey Sevner. They had successfully organized their underground cells throughout England and Scotland, and staged operations, under different names, in France, Germany and Italy. Judge Thompson granted them the right to speak and defend themselves during the public tribunal, but they did not say a word. There was nothing unusual in this; nothing they said would save their necks, and would only drive the crowd even madder. The trial was over in no time and they were found guilty; the real debate took place over the question of whether they ought to be burned or hanged. The popular belief of those days was that burning the people possessed by evil forces inflicted greater harm on the Devil himself, annihilating the servants he needed to establish his earthly kingdom; it was therefore common practice to tie these people to poles and put them on fire. This was, in a way, a result of the belief in Hell and Divine Justice - what could be more natural than for people to fight against the Devil with fire, if God Himself used the same method?

Thompson, however, was adamant in having the quartet hanged. They had accepted the charges by remaining silent and were going to be executed according to the law, but Thompson did not see any reason to turn this into a spectacle of horror; and anyway the practice of burning was already discontinued in many regions. We have reason to believe that in previous trials Thompson took issue with the notion that witches and sorcerers are the servants of the Devil, and preferred to regard them as “poor and sickly souls devoid of mental balance”. According to him, the danger these people presented was not a sort of Kingdom of the Devil, but rather the spreading of this illness which would bring society asunder. The leading townsfolk strongly criticized the judge for his convictions. Thompson threw in his weight in the Holey Sevner case and had the convicts hanged instead of burned. This was perhaps the riskiest decision of his whole career; he had not hesitated in opposing a public so ready for agitation on this issue.

It may come as no surprise that the people of Aberdeen remained silent when Thompson was killed. Yet, even though his insolent murderers were never caught, it is known that the crime was committed not by an anti-Devil, pro-Fire group but by the Holey Sevner itself (an interesting point with respect to the history of the tradition of an organization claiming responsibility for an attack). The real reason for the people’s indifference was not that they secretly condoned the killing of the judge, but the terror the Holey Sevner succeeded in creating.

No documents exist pertaining to where, when and by whom the Holey Sevner was founded. All that is known is how far its influence reached in the two decades between 1445 and 1465, when the strength of the organization was at its zenith. It had succeeded in enlisting high-level individuals and in shaping decisions taken in royal courts, especially in England and Italy. Of a basically mystical nature, this organization claimed that numbers had secret messages, that individual and social lives were determined by the seemingly coincidental –though actually pre-determined- combination and sequencing of numbers. It professed to be the sole decipherer and manipulator of these messages and thereby sought power for its members. 7 and 17 were deemed the most powerful numbers. The religious prominence of 7 added credibility to the doctrine. Even though the Church officially condemned the Holey Sevner for being “the Shadow of the Devil”, it is clear from the scholastic writings of the era that the clergy attached great importance to numerology, and that many of them were secretly but directly involved with the organization in order to predict the dates of certain events. It was claimed that Pope Urbanius III was a member of Inferno Scitarquo, the Italian branch of the organization, and even that he held high office within the hierarchy.

By 1460, Holey Sevner had almost completely infiltrated the seats of power in Europe, but documents pertaining to the activities of the organization after this date do not exist – they either never existed, or have been efficiently destroyed. Indirect information like the fact that Elphinstone, the bishop of Aberdeen, founded a university there in 1494 and supported “research” in numerology, is not very illuminating with respect to the fate of the organization. Turkish sources claim that the conquest of Constantinople in 1453 by the Ottomans came as a rude shock to the Byzantines, because the “goundii nar-i sabaa”, the court advisors who could “read” numbers, had predicted with utmost certainty that no attack by the enemy would be successful that year; nevertheless, these sources make no further reference that may be traced back to the Holey Sevner.

Even though numerical mysticism succeeded in remaining popular to a certain degree throughout the Renaissance, and even though a number of philosophers were still interested in it, there is no further reference to an organization using this knowledge as a source of political power. What became of Holey Sevner is thus a mystery; it is highly probable that intra-organizational struggle for power or “mismanagement” brought about its final demise. The procedure for the selection of leaders is unknown, but according to the generally accepted theory, the organization was based on a system whereby every leader determined his own successor. It is possible that the organization liquidated itself by default, i.e., by the leaders’ refraining from appointing their successors; this explanation, of course, fails to explain the motive.

Much more needs to be known about the Holey Sevner, the most influential representative in the Middle Ages of this mystical philosophy that dates back to the Aztecs, the Egyptians and the Babylonians; a philosophy that is usually monopolized by priests, and is still capable of influencing the lives of many people today, in the form of numerology. If future research and scholarship succeeds in shedding further light on this organization and its message, on its predecessors and successors, an unquestionably fascinating continuity will emerge.

“Alibey, these guys were crazy about seven.”

“Who?”

“This organization called the Holey Sevner. They seem to have wielded quite some power during their heyday.”

“Holey Sevner? Strange name. Were they Hegelians?”

“I don’t know. No, I don’t think so - this was long before him.”

Alibey goes up to Hakan, takes the book in his hand, flips through the pages. He eventually stops at a page, reads for a while, then closes the book and hands it back to Hakan with an air of apparent agitation.

“Where did you get this?”

“Yağmur gave it. She loves stuff like this.”

Alibey opens his mouth as if to say something, then changes his mind, shuts his mouth, and exhales through his nostrils. He looks sternly at Hakan for a while, but then his expression relaxes.

“For all we know, Enid Blyton’s ‘Secret Seven’ was a continuation of the Holey Sevner.”

Hakan loves the idea.

“Alibey, you are a genius in disguise, have I told you that before? Come to think of it, there are two-four-seven-ten letters in Enid Blyton’s name, in other words three more than seven, she’s definitely got something to do with this organization,” he says, dead-serious.

“Definitely,” Alibey agrees, just as seriously. Then a sign of mischievousness appears in their eyes and in the corners of their mouths, with a similarity that suggests they are father and son, which we already know.

We have seen these wrists before, changing the clock in the train station - now the same hands lean against a bookshelf. They go through the books systematically, obviously in search of something. A few books are taken out, they are not it so they get put back; the search continues. The wrists go back and start over again -this is Alibey’s library- they finally find the book, and take it out: something by Max Planck. The wrists put another book of similar size and cover in its place. We hear the owners of the wrists walk away, but we keep looking at the bookshelves.

“What is it?”

Yağmur waits a little, “At first I liked you-” she waits some more, “now I’ve started loving you, and I can’t seem to help it.”

When Hakan smiles she hugs him with great joy, then draws back, and says half-reproachingly, “Even my pillow hugs me with more passion.”

Back to Istanbul: a couple naturally stands out among the others sitting on the breakwater in Kadıköy - they are eating their apples on the rocks. A sunny day - a beautiful stubbornness on the part of the late Autumn weather. They are in jeans like everyone else. Hakan tells Yağmur his half-apple theory:

“In the days of yore, I mean really way back, people were ‘ambi-sexual’. Man and woman resided in the same body. Then something happened, they did something stupid, so God split man and woman. Upon which the poor bastards felt very depressed, of course, and since that day men and women of the earth search for their other half - like two halves of an apple.”

“Look - what’s that?”

“What is what?”

“It floats. Right by the rock. Yeah. That’s a -”

“Yeah, it’s a -”

“a condom. Of all things. How does a condom get here - from a career point of view, I mean? Do they always blow up like that?”

Hakan shrugs. Then he looks at Yağmur.

“Do you like children?”

Yağmur laughs. “Talk of sophisticated associations. Do you have anything specific in mind?”

“I mean, do you want some of your own? You know, the flesh and blood and DNA business.”

“I don’t know. Maybe. Though if I were to get pregnant I’d definitely go through with it.”

“What, even if it happened by mistake?”

“Sure. I have two friends who had abortions, I was by their side. I hated it. So watch out! How about you?”

“Come on, what is there to get overkilled about, you really don’t have to do much, it grows on its own.”

“Right, before two months are over you’ll want to strangle the kid.”

“Nonsense. Don’t mess with my kid, okay? Mind your own.”

Hakan nods a fine-do-what-you-want nod.

Hakan’s apartment. Alibey, Yağmur and Hakan are in the livingroom, having drinks and chatting amiably. The two lovers bring snacks from the kitchen, after kissing in front of the refrigerator. We don’t hear what they say, but deduce from the way Alibey listens that Yağmur talks intelligently, and that an interesting discussion is taking place. The music we hear is Herbie Hancock’s “Maiden Voyage”.

After all he has read on the subject, Hakan’s appetite is whetted. He wants to get involved and to reach some first-hand information. He starts out by reading the parts of Kronk that have been disclosed. The first is a legend - the legend arkdarm plus erver.

once but i really mean once way back in the days when the religion of kronk was still not widespread which therefore could be tomorrow for all we know there was a big piece of land where all the people lived circumscribed by two wide rivers an ocean plus a mountain very high as a result of a long process of evolution all the people now held the spoon with their right hands all the people no the people of the village tronl which was located between the big forest plus the ocean insisted on holding the spoon with their left hands they continued their opposition for generations despite all the pressures the villagers were ostracized completely by the rest of the people but they went on holding the spoon with their left hands with curious stubbornness then one day the king put it in his head to bring on an end to this childishness but because the methods of his forefathers had failed he had to find a new way otherwise his reign would never be complete he tried everything organized a competition which only the tronlians could enter the who will hold the spoon most elegantly with his right hand competition the prize was enormous yet the tronlians refrained then he issued a law that forbid the usage of the left hand for the purpose of holding a spoon the people of that land found this a very smart move plus they were proud of their kings because they regarded laws to be above everything plus it was unthinkable for them to disobey laws which was the reason why they had never needed new ones in the past no king was known as the law-giver for that was not the done thing the problem was that the people of tronl lived in a separate realm of reality plus this law did not affect them at all they could not heed it less plus went on living the way they used to the king got very angry his prestige was at stake people started mocking him behind closed doors this would be the beginning of the end like his ancestors therefore he did something none of the other kings dared to even if they had thought about it should not be too difficult to kill all the tronlians they live together anyway

at this stage people began to have disagreements the overwhelming majority wanted everyone to be like them though there was a minority that believed killing the tronlians would be overdoing it but due to the strong anti-“enemies of the spoon” propaganda this minority got smaller plus even though they tried to make themselves heard everybody was in such a rage that nobody protested when the king put all the dissenters in jail his action was approved applauded there was only one enemy left

everything happened much more quickly than one expects of stories like this the army of volunteers attacked the village of tronl the volunteer soldiers would first give a spoon to the tronlians they came across the tronlians would take the spoon with their left hands upon which the soldiers would kill them with a tinge of pity of course they all knew from the start that no tronlian would ever hold a spoon with his right hand but the best conscience is an easy conscience all the villagers were thus put to the sword when the army was certain of its victory it built a huge bonfire in the village square plus it left the village among the long shadows created by the leaping flames

they had however failed to kill everyone in the village two tronlians arkdarm plus erver came out from where they were hiding plus stood by the huge bonfire they cried together pleaded for help they stressed by shouting that this was unfair they did not have a god at the time but kronk heard them plus felt sorry for them plus decided to help them plus he spoke in the forest they say that when kronk speaks lightning beams duel in the sky listen you humans he said i am kronk i have seen what has been done you think you have killed everyone who holds the spoon with his left hand but you are mistaken two tronlians are still alive from now on i command you to hold the spoon with your left hand i sentence you to this maybe you will think better the next time around now go

then all the people of the big country which is to say all the people easily adapted themselves to their new rule now everybody was holding the spoon with his left hand everybody vehemently denied that just the opposite used to be the law arkdarm plus erver were shocked at this situation they tried to remind the people of the past but failed finally they decided to hold the spoon henceforth with their right hands this behavior threw everyone off balance nothing could be trusted anymore kronk was flustered by arkdarm plus erver’s last trick he got them on their knees plus said now look ye here are you mocking me because if you are no said erver we don’t want everyone to accept what is right for us we just want to have the right to be different that’s all only that when kronk heard this he said wow nice talking to you do you realize that a lovely little legend has become didactic all of a sudden because of you upon which arkdarm said you got it all wrong plus messed everything up kronk like you always do but this was not exactly fair kronk hadn’t messed up enough yet to deserve that plus kronk got really mad plus he destroyed all the spoons plus said to arkdarm and erver if you have to be original find something more meaningful than a spoon plus he kicked them out of the island from that day on everybody had to eat his grapefruit by slicing it aeiou eioue oia psinoter

“I am sorry, but I cannot understand you at all.” We have seen this broad-shouldered, broad-faced, bearded and well-dressed man before and came to the conclusion that he was a big wheel in the Kronk hierarchy. Now, from the respect in his gestures and the tone of his voice, we conclude that the person he is talking to is even more important.

This time he is not looking out of a window, and anyway this is a different room - a big office decorated in a modernist style, books on a shelf and a Bedri Baykam reproduction on another. The man is again standing; he is by the bookshelf and occasionally turns his eyes to the books, but obviously doesn’t see them.

The one sitting at the table is a woman - we are behind her and as of yet have only seen her back and her hair. She seems to be computer-friendly - she is working at something now, but we cannot read what is on the screen. She does not talk.. This must be what drives him nuts.

“This may result in a serious crisis for the Kronk organization - I hope you realize that. It was difficult enough to get the Seconders to behave - do you know what will happen if they find out the prophet they have been waiting for has suddenly popped up? I can’t even begin to tell you how bad this is. The shit is about to hit the propellers. Won’t you say anything?”

She doesn’t exhibit the slightest sign of perturbation, goes on writing on the PC, then leans back, takes a pen in her hand, and we hear her laugh - we recognize her when she starts to talk.

“Calm down, Cihan. For godssake sit down, you’re making me nervous.” She waits for him to sit, then goes on: “Do I need to remind you that I would never, I repeat never, do anything that would in the least way be detrimental to either Kronk or our Prophet, and that I would never allow that to be done by anyone else?”

“Of course not. That wasn’t what I meant. You have worked for Kronk as much as our Prophet did. Maybe more. You are his ears, his eyes, his mouth, his arms and legs. Of course I have complete trust in you. It’s just that -”

“Don’t worry. I don’t think there is, at this stage, a danger of the proportions you have in mind. We are lucky that I was the one to first meet him. Things could have been radically different had it been someone from the Seconders. Now I have total control over the situation. I know every breath the guy takes. Hakan is not dangerous.”

“What if he becomes dangerous?”

“Then we’ll take the necessary action, won’t we?”

“How about his father?”

“Yes, I am more concerned about the father. Apparently he has told Hakan things about the Secret Seven. It may have been guesswork, but it is possible that he knows that all the books in the series are secondary sources of Kronk, written in a secret code, and that he knows who Enid Blyton really is. We have to find out how much he actually knows.”

“Why don’t we just get them involved in a tragic car accident or something and get rid of both?”

“Do you really have to be such a dunce?” Then, in a calmer voice, “Cihan, what is this, too much candy in your diet? I told you not to worry, leave it to Grandma. Remember what the governor of Ankara once said: ‘If we need communism in this country, we will be the ones to bring it, thank you.’ Okay?”

We slowly go to the front of the desk and see her shining teeth in extreme close-up through her smiling lips. She must brush them after each meal.

We knew that Hakan played the violin, but we have never actually heard him play. Now, as we listen to him improvise to the music coming from the stereo, we decide he is decidedly talented. He walks around the room while playing, and stops in front of a small, green aquarium made of plastic. He quits playing, reaches inside the aquarium and takes out a small turtle. He lifts it up to eye-level and makes a face at it.

“Guess you’ve mastered the violin as well, son,” says Alibey, standing in the doorway. “What will we do with your genius?”

Hakan laughs, seems to be slightly embarrassed that his father heard him play, even blushes a little, then puts the violin down.

“Oh, come on Alibey, I’m too old for that sort of thing.”

“Want to play chess? Or I’ve bought some fresh Easter cake - shall I make us some tea?”

“I’ll do it, you go on in.”

But Alibey doesn’t - he follows Hakan into the kitchen.

“So, how’s school?”

“Dad, you talk like it’s an adventure novel, what do you think, the usual stuff. Ferruh proved himself to be an asshole yet again.”

Ferruh Çam is the head of the physics department and an old friend of Alibey’s; he is not really a friend, Alibey doesn’t like him that much. Hakan knows this, he dislikes Çam himself, and so he frequently tells his father anecdotes to slander Çam’s name.

“There was a 461 exam yesterday, and he put me in charge of the class because he had a guest, and left. The man had prepared questions that were fucking difficult, excuse my Latin, I can’t believe he can come up with questions like that on his own, he must have gotten them from one of these textbooks that have solutions in the back, you know, the books he orders by mail from the States, otherwise there is no way he can solve those problems himself... Anyway, the kids are writhing in pain, it’s supposed to be an open-book exam, right, an hour goes by and still none of them has got it going. A couple of them attempted to hand in a blank paper. You know what an insufferable bastard Çam can be, these kids are supposed to graduate in two month’s time but he wouldn’t hesitate to give them F’s. Anyway, so I give them hints, tell them which page in the book might be helpful, and let them be charitable toward each other. It got noisy, of course, the guy came busting in, shouted at the class, asked me to step outside and gave me the works, what did I think I was-”

“How is your Fabulous Five story coming along?” Hakan stares at his father for a while, says nothing. He reads the worry in his face; gets up, prepares the tea, and comes back to the table.

“What’s wrong? What’s with the length of your face?”

“Oh, nothing. It’s been a while since you last told me about it, that’s all.”

“Well, we’ve got this new religion called Kronk, it’s popping up everywhere-”

“Where? In Turkey?”

“Yeah.”

“How about Europe?”

“Don’t know about that. But the talk of the town is that they are pretty strong here. And then they’ve got this minor setback - there’s a group within the organization called the Seconders, and they believe a second prophet will de-closet himself soon, and there’s this piece of text that describes this new guy and how he’ll emerge so that there won’t be any mistaking it, apparently there was a text that was originally part of the sacred book but then it somehow got purged or lost, depending on your weltanschauung, and this text, the first one, is sort of an article written about the second one, but no one’s seen the original text, and anyway the rest of the organization thinks it’s all bullshit. Now the worst part is that the long-awaited prophet looks exactly like - me!”

We watch Alibey cut the cake, and wonder whether he will drop the knife in honor of Hakan’s exclamation point so that we will know he is surprised, but he doesn’t.

“How do you find out about all this?”

“Thanks to Yağmur.”

“And she?”

“Well, you know, she’s got this second-hand books shop, things like this have a habit of turning up there, lots of people come and go, talking of Michaelangelo...”

“Pure coincidence, you mean.”

“Yeah, I know,” says Hakan, in apparent agreement with the “that’s overdoing it a bit”-tone in Alibey’s voice.

“So how are things with you and Yağmur?”

She is the first to come - we see that it gives Hakan great pleasure to watch the rippling lips and taste the oozing white sap. He makes Yağmur lie on her back and comes by rubbing against her breasts - when he massages her breasts and belly with his cum and enters her, still hard, Yağmur comes for the second time, in jolts.

“Will you get married?”

Hakan looks at his father with “what is this?”-eyes.

“Tell me, is it the wedding cake you are after?”

“I never know what you are up to, that’s all,” Alibey says, trying to make it look like an off-handed question, but he is relieved. “Bring us some tea then. Should be ready by now.”

When he wakes up, Hakan remembers the dream he had: he was back in high school, together with his friends; neither his teachers nor the school had changed. There was an exam in the Grand Hall, but Hakan found out about it at the last minute. When he ran into the hall, he saw that everybody had already started writing the exam. There was a board of examiners at the front, a group of five teachers - Hakan went up and took his question sheet. His English teacher, whom he liked a lot, said, “The questions are pretty difficult this time; you can draw a picture instead if you want to,” but Hakan didn’t think that was necessary. “I know my stuff well, I don’t need that,” he said to himself. When he read the questions, however, he was flabbergasted: there were things like “What will you do when you are dead?” and “Who was the most dreaded enemy of the Corsican pirates?” Right when he was about to start writing, time was up. He apologized to his English teacher; his biology teacher heard this and demanded it to be put down on record.

Then Hakan opened the door of his dormitory room, and saw three of his friends studying. They were glad he was back and so was he - apparently he had been away on sick leave for quite a while. But a change in the room caught his eye - the bunks and the window had traded places. “Your nose is bleeding,” said one of his friends, right when he was about to protest the change in the room - he touched his nose: he could feel it bleeding, but couldn’t see the blood, there was none on his fingers. He remembered that he had experienced something similar before.

When he wakes up, however, Hakan realizes that he doesn’t actually have such a memory, that the reference the dream made within its own universe did not carry over into the universe of waking.

When James Psioidre walked in, Hakan was working on his latest article. He was a world-renowned physicist; although too old to be a “Wunderkind”, he nevertheless provoked profound stirrinds in the scientific world with everything he wrote, sometimes accompanied by amazement, sometimes by anger.

Psioidre, on the other hand, had been Hakan’s assistant for a while, then quit academia and went on writing independently. His book, Science and Coincidence, became a best-seller in Britain and Germany. He was Turkish but preferred to use a pseudonym.

“Where have you been, you cowardly knave?” Hakan said. Going by the light in James’s eyes and the impatience of his gestures, he could tell that James was “on to something” again.

“Just back from Göttingen. Visited Alma.”

“Who the fuck is Alma?”

“You know Alma. Heisenberg’s wife.”

“Is she still alive?”

“Well, yeah, you can call it that. Very old, of course. We were together almost every day for a month... She finally agreed to give me Heisenberg’s diaries.”

Then Hakan remembered: James was doing research on the birth of the Uncertainty Principle. Einstein had originally done the groundwork for this principle, but never accepted what could be termed the logical conclusion of his own theories, spending the last years of his life trying to refute Heisenberg, without success. James was an avowed fan of Heisenberg because of his courage to challenge Einstein and because he defeated the genius of the century in the end.

“So, have you started working on it? Anything savory come up yet?”

“The serious part of it will take a little while, but funny things there are. Turns out that Heisenberg had a lover, but she lived in another city. Heise saw her getting in a car one day and was very surprised, because he was a hundred percent certain that she couldn’t be there that day. You zee, he hadn’t yet come up with the Uncertainty Principle. The moment he knows where she is, he has no idea what she’s up to. Anyway, listen to what he says in his diary after narrating the incident:

if I come across her again, I’ll ask her, “Did the ducks land on the lake and have their breakfast?” If she hits my head with her handbag, the salami ought to be alright.

“What do you think?”

Hakan just smiled.

“Well, I don’t know,” James said, “Maybe it was a code between them. But it just beats me to see old man Heisenberg had such absurd inclinations. I mean, look at that, it’s ridiculous!”

“Hey, don’t get so worked up about it,” said Hakan, with a slap on James’s shoulder. “After all, there is not a single bit of serious evidence that shows life has to be taken seriously.”

“I want to ask you something, it’s the sort of thing you may know.”

“Mm, I love questions. Shoot.”

“Is there an ailment like chronic erection? Mine hasn’t gone down since last night after I left your place. I don’t think it has ever been this big and hard. It hurts. I can’t even pee straight. Here, feel it.”

“Yeah.”

Yağmur looks around, makes sure nobody’s watching, then gets back to the hardness in question, and examines it more carefully with her hand.

“Oh, poor little thing, I mean, poor big thing. There now, I’ll kiss it and it will be okay again. God, this is huge.”

Then suddenly she realizes something is wrong, gives it a quick squeeze and says, “Come on now, what did you put in there?”

“Here, you can keep it,” Hakan says, handing her the cucumber.

“You bet. I’ll slice it up and eat it tonight!”

“We both love you a lot,” Hakan says.

“Who are ‘you’?”

“Osman and I.”

“What Osman?”

Hakan brings Yağmur’s hand under the cover.

“So this is called Osman?”

Hakan nods.

“Why?”

“Well, because of the Ottoman heritage, you know, the house of Osman; I am a proud descendant of the men that forced the city walls of Vienna.”

“Oh, I see. Your grandfathers just couldn’t make it in, right? I see that you are better at it.”

Hakan pulls her hair.

“And what’s the name of this one?”

“That’s Nigar.”

“That’s a beautiful name. Why Nigar, then?”

“I don’t know. That’s the image I have of it.”

“Suits me fine,” she says, and starts kissing him.

“Hey, where you think you goin’?”

“I’ll pee.”

“I’ll come with you,” Yağmur says, following him to the toilet.

“Come on, girl, give me a break, let me pee in peace,” Hakan says, looking at Yağmur in the mirror.

“Go away,” Hakan says, taking his accustomed position, but Yağmur doesn’t leave him alone, sticks in her hand, tickles him.

“Oh well, alright already, here then,” Hakan says finally, but bursts out laughing at the sad sight he is and can’t concentrate on what he is supposed to do.

“Come on my little boy, do it for mama, come on.”

A very low note from a bass reverberates in the dark. After this archaic dramatic effect, a street-lamp in the corner turns on. When our eyes get used to the dark, we see the Thin-wristed Men. They take out the sign that says “Kuşuçmaz Sokagı” (The street over which no bird flies) and in its place put a sign that says “Kuşkonmaz Sokagı” (The street on which no bird perches; also, Asparagus Street).

“Hello,” Hakan says, picking up the phone.

“The Bostancı Slaughterhouse?”

“I’d like to place an order of veal, ten kilos please.”

“Of course sir, right away,” Hakan says, and puts the receiver down before the other party gets a chance to speak. The phone rings again.

“I’m sorry, I forgot to tell you a minute ago - I’d also like to have a pair of ram balls please,” the voice says.

“Comes free with any order over five kilos, sir, don’t worry.”

Laughter on both sides of the line.

“What’s up, pimpledick? Long time no see.”

“God almighty, this must be the legendary Cem, bestowing upon this poor mortal soul such immeasurable bliss that his incompetent lungs cannot help but be intoxicated, thus rendering the aforementioned mortal quite incapable of uttering a few humble words of gratitude for being called upon without deserving it in the least, but then such words will by their very nature be insufficient and will in no way do justice to-”

“Yeah, alright, cut out the jazz standards crap, give me the news. You’re still alive?”

“I seem to be, though there isn’t anything especially interesting going on. I go to school. The other day I found out I am a prophet-”

“What do you mean you’re a prophet?”

“There’s this religion called Kronk, and they’ve already got a prophet, but just want to have a second one. Conspicuous consumption. And they are looking for someone just like me.”

“I don’t follow, how did they find you?”

“Oh, I answered an ad in the papers. No, they actually haven’t found me yet. I discovered them, thanks to the books in my girlfriend’s shop, but I still haven’t met the Kronkians in person.”

“And did you have some sort of a revelation or anything?”

“No. I mean, I don’t think so. I mean, how do you have a revelation anyway?”

“Maybe you don’t need to have anything revealed to you. Are you planning to take an active role in this thing?”

“Don’t know. Have to talk with these guys first.”

“What are you waiting for?”

“Nothing - well, of course I don’t know where I can find them, but that shouldn’t be an insurmountable problem.”

“You’re telling me you’re doing zilch about this, huh? Wake up, my friend, what sacramental lethargy I find you in. How many times in your lifetime do you think you will come across a career opportunity like that?”

“Oh, mock me not, please.”

“I’m dead serious, man.”

“We’ll see - I guess I do have to do something about it. Anyway - tell me about your own very self then.”

“Well, you know, the usual. Listen, why don’t you come over some time? Bring your girlfriend, too. What is she called?”

“Yağmur.”

“No kidding. Must be as beautiful as her name. How long have you been on the ship?”

“It’s been some time now, six months or so.”

“I get the impression that we have shown neglect in keeping in touch, my friend. Okay then, both of you are invited.”

“I’ll give you a ring.”

“Right on.”

The photocopy sheets Hakan holds are very worn-out - this must be one of the Kronkian texts that circulate among a wider selection of people. He reads.

i looked at the overall situation people have been bored for centuries no one’s interested in roots anymore especially in this the twentieth one rat races all over the place i felt bad so you don’t care anymore or maybe you can’t you lack the creativity why is it that there are no new religions good ones i mean forget the stupid ones that did emerge for heaven’s sake only a bunch of idiots for a following where have all the artichokes the wars gone my friends there is an oblomov in every one of you you don’t pay attention unless you see it in the commercials on tv you don’t buy it but entrance to all your dockyards is free you carry out the application of your lives in utter somnolence ambulance somnambulance stop i have decided to shake you up plus wake you down come on now little darlings hey it’s party time come look what i’ve got here for you you will love this much more than anything else

learn to enjoy

learn to enjoy

learn to enjoy

learn to enjoy

learn to enjoy

learn to enjoy

learn to enjoy

got that get that plus i won’t ask for anything else what else can i ask for look i’m not telling you to learn to be happy to love to turn the other cheek to give yourself up no not at all everyone’s so worked up about being happy i don’t know whose idea that was in the first place but it sure sucks can’t you see there is something seriously fucked up about happiness the greatest part of the period you call life passes you by in unhappiness pain distress or at best a strangely erotic insensibility no please keep your pollyanna stuff to yourselves it’s just as dangerous to get hooked up on happiness as it is on unhappiness what really counts is to enjoy as much as possible every situation saturation even institutional destitution how many people do we know that like having headaches ok i’ll give you that it ain’t no pipe but then that head has a reason to ache plus complaining about it will not make the head any better so at least try to have some fun let’s say you had one calamity after another stop oh bone-weary traveler stop just a second plus think what happened what’s going on no seriously what is it

pardon me but i have to say this everybody’s got a role a part in the play what’s more this is the world premier plus everybody’s got to be perfect give all that you have but what is it in the end a part let’s please be more conscientious be more respectful of our parts even if we think they are of a walk-on nature do you know what to do when you’re walking down the street plus the wind blows your hair out of precious shape the essence of being an actor is hidden in the details you can play the always messy woman or the guy that obsessively straightens his hair or the one who throws a glance in the general direction of the sky if looks could kill plus curses under his breath or something else whatever just so that you do it with care being fully aware that every moment that you live adds up to the great sum that will emerge in the end with the addition of the sums of other periods that’s all that is all there is to it there is no such thing as a walk-on part all roles lead to rome plus this is not the five hundredth time you are staging the same fucking play you really don’t have to carry around that bored expression on your face no there are no rehearsals everyone’s talented just really want to be a part of the play that’s enough

it’s a matter of attitude a person might be unhappy plus she should be plus if your neighbor is acting the part of the unhappy neighbor plus she’s good at it go on plus congratulate her give her a barely visible wink let her know you know don’t forget that actors need an audience to thrive be each other’s audience whenever necessary

tayfun boykul one of my prophets once told me about his dream where he is a kid plus this man kidnaps him in kindergarten so here is tayfun on the man’s shoulder plus he thinks to himself don’t worry this is only a dream you will wake up anyway plus he relaxes watches within the dream how the dream will evolve or once outside the realm of dreams he goes inside the bakery plus asks for a loaf of bread plus watches to see what will happen the baker stares in awe at his face plus arms which are painted in watercolors tayfun loves surprises like that he greatly enjoys himself the fact that the baker was dumbfounded for a couple of seconds suffices to make his day nice move he says to the baker winks at him walks out of the shop

that’s the sort of attitude i’m talking about that’s the way life ought to be met plus that’s how you should take an active part in it good luck

let’s recap here’s the basic philosophy life plus your own self are the only things you possess no life is always up there are downs as well it’s in its nature therefore you have to learn to enjoy the downs which will give you a life full to the brim plus pain is not something you have to endure

i said that it doesn’t matter whether you are happy or unhappy what matters is to enjoy every crap you have to take well doesn’t that sort of kill the enterprising personality the protestant work ethic i mean someone who has perfected this technique could just lie down do nothing get a great kick out of it does that then count as the good life (that’s not fair dad) no (thanks dad) because as life gets more complicated variegated refined the pleasure you get out of it becomes so much more intensified complicated variegated refined up to a point of course that point depends on the person everyone is obliged to find his own furthest point you can get off at the corner if you feel like it

Hakan visits Cem alone because Yağmur is in Ankara spending a week with her family.

Empty coffee mugs on the table, crumbs in the plates, a piece of petit beurre in one of them. We hear Tchaikowsky’s “1812 Overture”.

“Let me show you the photocopies I have,” Hakan says, and takes out the Kronkian texts from his backpack. He hands them to Cem, who gives them a cursory look and puts them on the table when Hakan starts to speak. Suddenly interrupting him, “Let’s take a drive,” he says, “we can talk in the car.”

Cem drives fast on the inter-city highway. We see his hands, the steering wheel, his legs, then his and Hakan’s face, then Hakan’s hands. But most of the time we watch the road, the dangerous over-taking, the lines of the road rapidly disappearing underneath. The sound of the engine is irritating. They are driving much too fast.

“What were you saying?” Cem asks after a long silence.

“Did you notice something about the texts - they have nothing to do with the, shall we say, otherworldly air that the usual sacred books have. The language itself is young, don’t you think? The legend of Arkdarm and Erver, for example, it’s almost hip, and then the ‘enjoy’ stuff, I mean, this god must be pretty young.”

“What’s wrong with that? Do all gods have to be old? Do all of them have to say things like ‘Had Allah so wished, He would have destroyed their ears, their eyes, their very selves. There is no doubt that Allah is omnipotent’?”

“You mean this is seriously the work of a god?”

“I don’t mean anything.”

While they speak, Hakan fiddles with the socket of the safety belt.

“Fasten it if you want to,” says Cem.

Hakan doesn’t say anything, but does not fasten his belt either.

“Don’t worry, nothing will happen,” says Cem after a while. Hakan looks at his face, then turns around, looks ahead.

Again the sound of the engine and of changing speeds. And the road that comes toward us.

As I sd to my

friend, because I am

always talking,- John I

sd, which was not his

name, the darkness sur-

rounds us, what

can we do against

it, or else, shall we &

why not, buy a goddamn big car,

drive, he sd, for christ’s sake, look

where yr going.

They have stopped at a roadside cafe to have some tea. Cem watches the road in what appears to be total disinterest. Hakan, on the other hand, talks in a hurry, as if he wants to fix his thoughts with words before they vanish.

“This is turning into an obsession,” Hakan says, picking up his line of thought from where he left off, “I was buying tomatoes the other day, the grocer gave me seven, I looked him in the eye and whispered ‘The good-hearted fat king watches the ducks having breakfast on the frozen lake.’ Can you imagine, it’s like a slapstick joke, naturally the guy thought I had gone nuts, but he pulled himself together and asked me whether I needed anything else.”

Cem listens without averting his gaze from the road, by the side of which some men are doing something, like picking up things and putting them into boxes, but we can’t really make out what.

“Then a couple of days ago, there was this man in one of the pictures in the paper, giving the Kronk salute in the background. Got me tachycardic. It keeps popping up in unexpected circumstances, but I can’t get into contact with them. Of course there is the possibility that with the luck I have I’ll bump into the ones that follow the first prophet. Fanaticism, you know - it can be such a bore.”

“Nobody’s met this prophet?”

“That’s one of the stranger things about this business. Apparently nobody’s ever seen him. Does that make sense to you? I can’t work it out. Maybe that’s why they are looking for a new prophet. The need to attach oneself to a charismatic leader.”

“Well, if the guy has a following as a prophet without making any public appearances, I’d say he’s got some charisma going for him,” Cem says. He looks at Hakan, then turns back to what he has been watching - the activity by the side of the road. Hakan seems to be lost in thoughts, his hands playing with the teaspoon. Then he comes back.

“How’s the book coming along?”

“Badly. I’m afraid of producing something conventional. Or something like the previous ones. I’ve had enough of this life I’ve created for myself. I can’t work full-time and write at the same time...”

“Why not?”

Can’t concentrate. I get bored. I don’t know what to write on my calling card. I’m in a constant state of mid-age depression. Et cetera.”

Cem is thirty years old, has published three books - Anthology of Intersections of a Point, History of Mankind in Photographs, and Tarot and Reverse Causality. Plus a few translations. He works as a game engineer. Now he gets up, leaves some money on the table for the tea, and says “Let’s go back.” We look at the place he was watching while sitting at the table, but we still can’t make out much. The two of them enter the frame on the left, and exit on the right without talking - we don’t follow them; we slowly go forward and see: there’s a corpse on the ground, in pieces - the man must have been dragged for about ten meters by the truck that hit him - his innards are all over the place. Two people are now pushing with sticks what look like intestines and lungs to the side of the road, and they slowly put the stuff into a cardboard box. The name of a popular wash detergent is legible on its side.

Hakan will be a five-year old kid called Melih, and he will walk alone in the streets of a city he doesn’t know. No one will turn to look at him, everyone will mind his own business as usual. A cloudy and bleak day, even the sidewalks a dark gray - Hakan will not worry about the fact that his name is Melih; he will be wearing yellow pants, and will walk as if he knows where he is headed.

“What the hell is going on here? What is this?” Yağmur says, still smiling - she has missed him.

“It’s a rain dance. See, it worked right away and you’re here.”

“You are crazy.”

Hakan calms down, holds her by the shoulders and gives her a little shake.

“I’ve missed you.”

“Me, too.”

“I wrote this for you. Want to take a look?”

“What is it?”

“Just read.”

THE WAY A RELATIONSHIP OUGHT TO BE

THE FIRST MANIFESTO

1. A relationship cannot be content with only sitting on the edge. No ship can sail if the people involved sit timidly or half-heartedly on the edge, side or corner, or if they just pretend to sit. Even if it is a bayonet that you are going to sit on, you have to sit down fully.

2. A relationship that is unwet is unthinkable.

3. In reality there is no such thing as a relationship; everything is a lie. Two people can keep each other alive only to the degree they don’t mess with each other. The fiction of going through changes together is an asinine legacy of the Middle Ages.

4. If it’s not working out, don’t force it: there are other and just as meaningless things to do than putting sugar on a tasteless slice of melon, but finding them is difficult.

5. Everyone has the right to eat shit instead of a tasteless slice of melon.

6. Do not forget that the shadow of the notches in the wall will be deep and get deeper as time goes on.

7. Words unsaid have a habit of getting heavier.

8. It is an unquestionable fact that everyone needs some darkness of one’s own.

9. There is no such thing as a fact in a relationship. It follows that you can’t know how much it weighs.

10. Lawyers and policemen are doomed to fail in their attempt to bring love under the jurisdiction of property laws.

11. Bodies take their time to get used to each other. The same is true for brains as well. Small blue demons will attend to this issue.

12. Each new day brings on an advance in the art of giving pain. The aim of every relationship is to strive to perfect this art form.

13. Everyone has walls. Every wall has breaches. Honesty in a relationship is directly proportional to the accuracy of the maps couples exchange, which show these breaches. The constant of proportionality is 1.7.

14. Please do not urinate on walls.

15. Everyone has the right to get bored of being a doormat.

16. To wait is not a virtue but a form of helplessness.

17. On a basic level, people are alone. Nothing can be said with any certainty for the upper levels.

18. Solitude cannot be shared. If it is, it loses its point.

19. In the long run, it is sheer utopia that the one who wakes up first prepares breakfast.

20. In the long run we are all alive.

21. If you can get bored on your own, work on this talent.

22. In reality there is such a thing as a relationship. The fact that everything is a lie changes nothing. Love is a possibility in every relationship. Life too is a possibility in every relationship. Therefore, although we do not know for certain what love is, life is love. This article does not contradict article 3.

23. Mopping up the other’s shit does not prove the existence of love. Mopping up the other’s love proves the existence of shit.

24. Metal fatigue is something like a screwed bolt or a bent sheet of metal getting tired after a while and snapping. In a similar vein one can talk of relationship fatigue.

24. You don’t WORK at a relationship. You don’t get paid by the hour, nor are there any bonuses. Take your work ethic and stick it up your ass.

26. Simultaneity is impossible to achieve in relationships. The fact that there is one mountain there doesn’t change the fact that you see different things from different angles.

27. Dreams are as important as memories, and have to be taken heed of.

28. Everybody is obliged to create and sustain his own legend. Only in the presence of individual legends does it become possible to create a common legend for the relationship.

29. Language must be the last means to use in communication. It may seem like a contradiction, but you do have to talk with each other. This in no way precludes the importance of sniffing and telepathy.

30. The fact that the road is narrow and long does not mean you have to travel down it day and night.

31. The end of a relationship is determined at the outset.

32. If a relationship can end, it will.

33. The fact that this is the first manifesto does not mean there will not be a second one.

“Where did you get this?”

Hakan is unaware of the state she is in, he laughs without taking his eyes off the road.

“I told you, I wrote it.”

“What do you mean?”

“What do you mean what do I mean, Yağmur, I just sat down at my desk and wrote it with my pen. I hope it isn’t excessively funny.”

“It’s very nice. It’s great.”

Yağmur opens the door of her apartment and rushes to the telephone. She dials the number angrily and hurriedly, looks at the clock on the wall, and then starts to speak.

“Do you serve blackberry tea?”

“Certainly. You can have as much as you like if you come to the house by the old mill.”

“Something very strange is going on. Please come to my apartment immediately.”

“Now?”

“I said immediately.”

We are back in the car. Hakan proposes to eat out.

“Where?” Yağmur says in an unenthusiastic tone.

“Don’t know. How about some pizza?”

“Oh please, I’m pizza inside out.”

“No. It’s too late for pasta, don’t you think?”

Hakan thinks for a while.

“What do you say to kebap then?”

“Could be.”

“Let’s go to Bursa Kebapçısı.”

“We always go there.”

Hakan looks her in the eye.

“Darling, we don’t have to eat out if you don’t want to.”

We recognize the person Yağmur called on the phone: the broad man. He now sits in the living room. Yağmur is standing. Both smoke.

“Guess what happened today.”

“Something important.”

“Warm.”

“Something unbelievable.”

“Warmer.”

“A calamity.”

“Hakan gave me the First Manifesto today.”

“The Manifesto? How can that be? Do you think he got it from one of us?”

He wrote it himself - at least that’s what he claims.”

“But that’s absurd. Any similarities with the one in Kronk?”

“You wouldn’t even think of doing something like this, of course.”

“Of course not,” Yağmur says, barely able to check her anger, “Why would I tell you if I did?”

“What’s the matter with you?”

“I don’t feel like it. I have a headache.”

“I have a headache, the ground is too hard, not now John, the kids will hear, the referee has a moustache.” Hakan has a cross look in his eyes. “You don’t have to make up excuses. Just say so if you don’t want to. It’s yours for the asking.”

“I’m not making up excuses; do I owe you a lie or something? It’s really my head.”

“You’ve been acting strangely since this morning anyway. Everything okay?”

Their eyes meet. She nods.

“I have complete faith in you, but you have to accept that you are not making things easier for me.”

“As you wish. If you think I’m suspect, you know where the door is. I’m sure you can take care of yourself from now on.”

“Alright, don’t flare up on me now. We have to keep our calm. What’s your explanation then?”

“I don’t have one. There must be a leak. No other way to explain it. But as I said, Hakan knows no one, and no one would dare to do this.”

“Let me look into it all the same. You never know. And in the meantime, let’s do our best to keep things under control, shall we?”

“Hakan is under my thumb. You mind your own men.”

“Maybe it was one of the Seconders.”

“But he looked very innocent when he said he wrote it himself. Why would he tell such a lie anyway? If someone from the organization or one of the Seconders had given him the Manifesto, Hakan would have told me that. Unless...”

“Unless what?”

Yağmur lights another cigarette and takes a long puff just as we expected.

“Unless he has found out about my involvement with the organization. Perhaps someone did give him the Manifesto or the complete Kronk, and he wanted to show me he knew...”

“Is that possible?”

“Yağmur comes back from the depths and looks up at him.

“I don’t know.”

Hakan stops the car in front of Yağmur’s building.

“Want me to come up with you?”

“No. Love. My head is killing me. I’ll go to bed straight away.”

“Right then. Call me tomorrow?”

“Sure.”

“You love me?”

“I’m mad about you.”

She kisses Hakan, then hugs him - with feeling. “You’re great,” she says.

“I know. Take care.”

“You, too.”

“Let me bring up the bags.”

“See you,” Hakan says, taking the stairs on his way down.

The broad man gets up with a broad expression on his face.

“I guess you have some business to attend to. You get some rest now. I’ll see you later.”

Yağmur walks him to the door, and locks it twice after he is gone.

Some serious questions have been raised. Does Hakan know about Yağmur’s connection with Kronk or not? what’s the truth about the Manifesto business? To what extent is Hakan really under Yağmur’s control?

We immediately remember a previous scene we have witnessed: Alibey and Hakan are in the kitchen, waiting for the tea; Hakan tells him what he knows about Kronk, and the following conversation comes to pass:

“How do you find out about all this?”

“Thanks to Yağmur.”

“And she?”

“Well, you know, she’s got this second-hand books shop, things like this have a habit of turning up there, lots of people come and go, talking of Michaelangelo..”

“Pure coincidence, you mean.”

“Yeah, I know.”

There are two divergent views here:

As we can see, the questions above have no definite answers. The only definite thing is that the Seconders established contact with