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 Hakan immediately afterward.

WRITER: Even though the meaning pointed at and symbolized by pen and paper can be regarded as nothing more than the physical projection of spiritual pickpocketing that has to be endured without any prejudice or preconception, still even more than that it is the sort of “dying a death” that deserves a repercussion in one’s head with its multiplicity of dimensions - sometimes it is tangent to life itself: these are the instances when luck smiles at one’s face; more often than not, however, it just misses what is or what we think is essential - it creates a void and demands you to fill it with your inner resources; the void created by anyone who Writes reflects that inner void, so that grasping it is by definition unbelievably and dishearteningly difficult for the who Reads - it requires assimilating that void to one’s own, which is akin to finding your twin brother or sister.

HARLEQUIN: (Jumps up from his seat; to the audience): The point is to put the point like having an “organism” after a long session of love-making.

“Yesh please,” Hakan says cutely. He looks after them for a while, then walks around to find a less crowded spot, succeeds in his quest, leans against the wall and starts to wait. The slender and good-looking woman we have just seen strikes his eye because she is looking at him, doing the Kronk salute. Hakan hesitates, then walks up to her.

“Do you know where the ducks that land on the lake during summertime go when it’s winter?” he asks cautiously.

“We have waited for you for so long. And now you are here.”

She smiles, asks him his permission with her eyes and shakes his hand reverently.

“It’s a great honor to meet the true prophet of Kronk. I am at your service.”

“Your wish is my command,” Hakan says, probably because he can’t think of anything else to say. “Where have you been? How did you find me? Did you know I was going to be here?”

“Of course we did. It’s the talk of the town that you have emerged from the darkness that surrounds us all. Such things spread very rapidly, you know. We had to wait for the most opportune moment to contact you. Terrorism within the organization has reached unbelievable levels; the Propheteers are massacring us. Your own life is in danger. But we will never let anything happen to you.”

“What, do they kill your men?” Hakan asks incredulously.

“Yes. For the last week alone, there has been at least one casualty a day. I have to go now. I will call you. It would be safer if you told nobody about this. May Kronk be with you.”

Apparently Operation Thin-wrist is proceeding at full thrust. Now one of their men pulls open a small drawer that looks familiar, finds what he is looking for without much ado: a box of condoms. He empties it out, cuts each small package horizontally with a small knife, punctures the condoms with a pin, places the condoms back in their packages and applies an adhesive to the slits, puts these in the box and returns the box to the drawer, stops to look at the result, then pushes the drawer back in.

Hakan looks at his hands as if to see whether they are dirty, but does as he is told. He realizes that the door on the right is for “ladies” - he hesitates, turns back to see if anyone else is coming, then knocks on the door and enters. He looks at himself in the mirror, fixes his hair and eyebrows like a femme fatale - he seems to be having fun. He turns on the tap, but doesn’t wash his hands, then turns it off again. He leans against the wall and waits.

The woman walks in after a while.

“Come on, wash your hands,” she says when she sees him standing against the wall.

“Is that a religious obligation?”

She looks confused. Hakan smiles. He shows her his palms and says, “They are clean.”

“Of course. And why are you here?”

Hakan looks at her in silence, trying to figure out how serious she is.

“This is the ladies’ room,” he says in a whisper, so that we will realize this is an important point.

“Yes. Please do as I say.”

Hakan turns on the tap again, and wets his hands.

“Come on now, what’s this washing business all about, for god’s sake?”

“Someone might be listening to us, that’s what it is.”

“Spies like us. Aren’t we exaggerating it a bit?”

“You have no idea how serious the situation is. At the meeting of the Seconders on Thursday -”

“What’s your name?” Hakan asks coyly, “I hate to go into restaurant washrooms with women whose names I don’t know.”

“Nisan. But that’s beside the point. On Thursday -”

“Listen,” Nisan says, growing impatient, “we don’t have much time -”

“Can’t we go to a more reasonable place? I feel like a teenager smoking secretly in the school bathroom.”

“I will get to that if you’d stop interrupting me,” Nisan says, still sotte voce. “There is a meeting among the Seconders on Thursday night, and you will also come because you are the agenda of the meeting. We have to meet tonight and talk. At half past seven, at the Pink Parrot Bar, alright?”

“Isn’t that place a bit noisy? Plus it gets so crowded - would it be safe to meet there?” We can’t figure out to what extent his tongue is in his cheek.

“Will you come?”

“Deal,” Hakan says with a shrug. He turns off the tap, heads for the door, but then turns back and says, “My iskender has gone all cold.”

“Y.P.”

“Why pee?”

“Your Problem.”

After they go out we hear a toilet flush, Yağmur comes out from one of the cabins, and looks at herself in the mirror.

“How’s my little girl? Does she still have a headache?” says Hakan, with a tone he would use while talking to a child. Yağmur laughs, kisses him and steps inside.

“Isn’t Alibey home?”

“I don’t think so. Maybe he’s hiding himself in the bathroom.”

Yağmur looks at him a sharply, but apparently she detects no subterranean intention in what he has just said, so she relaxes her look.

“What have you been up to today?” she asks, gathering together the papers strewn on the floor.

“You can’t even begin to guess.”

Hakan puts on a CD by the 29th Street Saxophone Quartet, adjusts the volume, then takes Yağmur’s hand, and they go to his room; another hug; together they lie down on his bed.

“I want to tell you something,” Hakan says, propping himself up on one elbow.

“What?”

“I had a close encounter with the organization.”

“Of the third kind?”

“Come on now, this is serious. Remember the other night when we went to see that play? Well, one of the Seconders came up and talked to me. I’ve been seeing Kronkians all over the place since then, they all give me that famous salute of theirs and watch me from a safe distance. Today at the Bursa I saw that woman again -”

“Which woman?”

“The one at the theater. We were like under cover agents. Hi, I’m Crusoe. Robinson Crusoe. Hi, I’m Friday, November 13 Friday. She said she had things to tell me. I’m invited to the General Meeting of the Seconders on Thursday, as the guest of honor. A star is born!”

“What does she look like?” Yağmur asks, coming back to the real topic.

“Don’t be ridiculous. She’s just a colleague, that’s all.”

“Is this the first time the organization got into contact with you? Nobody knocked on your door before this, right?”

“No. Seems they’ve been waiting for the right moment.”

“You look excited.”

Hakan suddenly starts sniffing and kissing Yağmur.

“It ain’t easy being a prophet, babe.”

“But they still haven’t given you the sacred book, have they? What kind of a prophet is that, walking around with no book?”

“You have touched upon a very important point, madam. Now if you’d allow me to touch upon some other important points -” He starts caressing her with a naughty look on his face. He puts his hand under her sweater and undoes her bra.

“Where will you meet her?”

“On Bagdat Avenue, in one of the bars.”

This game of jealousy, entwined with love-making, amuses them both.

“Nonsense,” Hakan says, “Shall we take this off?”

He takes off Yağmur’s sweater, and goes on caressing her naked torso.

“Well, I’ve given you fair warning. Don’t come pitching to me.”

“Are you out and out jealous by any chance?”

“Who? Me? Of that slut? You think you can improve on me?”

“You’ve got a point there.”

“Take off yours, too.”

Hakan unbuttons his shirt, and throws it on the floor. “Are we in a jeans commercial or what?” he says, looking at their pants.

“I think, ‘what’. Are you jealous of me, then?”

“Not at all. Maybe about your ex-lovers, though. What was the name of the last one you ditched?”

“Kemal.”

“Sounds like a loser.”

“Well, what does your name sound like?”

“Hakan? Sounds like a great guy to me. Anyway, maybe I can be jealous of Kemal. Why did you two break up?”

“He was a cross between an idiotic vermin and an imbecilic seal. Then he started taking creativity lessons. You should have seen him, he put on such airs, as if he ordered his underling to create the smaller planets. Finally he decided I didn’t understand him, and fucked off.”

Hakan laughs, squeezing her breast.

“The smaller planets, eh? I like that, actually.”

“Oh, please.”

“Well, seems I won’t be jealous of him either. But Kate, I’m jealous of myself when it comes to you.”

“Shut up and kiss me.”

Hakan gladly obliges her.

When Hakan walks into the Pink Parrot with the promptness of a prophet, he sees Nisan waiting for him at one of the tables. He smiles and goes that way.

“Would you mind it terribly if I attempted to strike up a friendship with you?”

This is the first time we see Nisan smile. Tonight she looks much more relaxed.

“Not at all. Why don’t you sit down.”

“Let me give you this first,” Nisan says, taking out from her handbag an old Bennetton shopping bag - obviously there is a book in it.

“Can’t we be a bit more intimate?” Hakan brings his chair closer to Nisan’s. “Maybe this will help.”

“I’m very curious about the effect Kronk will have on you. As a matter of fact we all are. I guess it will engulf you completely, shake you at your roots. You are the prophet of this religion, and even though this Book wasn’t sent to you, the same Book says you will be the greatest prophet of Kronk. Take it.”

Hakan opens the bag and takes it out. The book has a beautiful cover, made of purple calfskin. Hakan feels its softness with his hand.

“Beautiful binding. It’s slimmer than I thought, though.”

“I know this is needless to say, but I will say it all the same - take good care of it, will you? It’s actually one of the biggest crimes to give Kronk to outsiders. But of course you can hardly be counted as an outsider. Do you think you can read it before Thursday?”

“Are you crazy - I’ll start reading it as soon as I get home, and will not drop it before I’m through, I’ll read it while I’m eating, listening to the radio, while I’m in the toilet - oops, that would be blasphemy, right?”

“I don’t know,” Nisan says in good humor, “you’re the boss.”

Hakan pulls himself together, throws back his shoulders, sticks out his chest.

“But of course. Then I hereby declare it totally unblasphemous to read the sacred book of Kronk while sitting on the toilet seat, be it for the purpose of defecating or urinating.”

“But it seems to me he has been silent for quite some time now.”

“So much the better. We spread the word that the Prophet is dead. That way he’ll either come out, or remain silent forever.”

“Wonderful.”

“And anyway we think he’s silent because he’s expecting you to appear on the scene. I think the Organization forced him to censor the part in Kronk which announces your arrival; otherwise his authority would have taken a serious blow. But the Prophet knows you will come, and maybe even hopes you will. If you confront each other, maybe he will step back and leave his throne to you.”

“And if he doesn’t?”

“Then an open clash will be unavoidable.”

“We will dig out the battle axes?”

“They are out already. There was another casualty today.”

“Are you Christians in disguise?”

“Why?”

“You always seem to be turning the other cheek. Don’t you ever retaliate?”

“We haven’t been able to bring together a force of any consequence, I’m afraid. We are a much smaller group than the Propheteers. That’s why we count on this meeting. We need you.”

“Yeah, but how do you know I’m up to par?”

“I don’t have the slightest doubt. To honor!” With this, they raise their glasses.

“How about going out for a walk?” Hakan says, “Let’s get some fresh air.”

They finish up their drinks, pay the bill and go out - Randy Crawford’s “Rainy Night in Georgia” bids them farewell; a cold March evening and a wet Bagdat Avenue meets them. They walk toward Göztepe. Hakan looks down, as if examining the pavement.

“Tell me about yourself.”

“What do you want to know?” says Nisan, looking at him.

Unlike Hakan, Nisan looks straight ahead.

“You’re married?”

“I got divorced last year.”

“What seemed to be the problem? You quarreled too much? Did the neighbors complain?”

Suddenly she stops talking.

“You know Yağmur?”

Nisan is still silent. Her left hand works on the buttons of her coat. Hakan insists.

“Does she know you are a Kronkian?”

Nisan doesn’t say a word. She nods. They walk without talking.

“Nothing. Yağmur was going to tell you all about it anyway. My mistake. She’ll be furious. I’m such an asshole.”

“I’m listening.”

Hakan can’t believe his ears.

Hakan snorts contemptuously.

“I mean it. She protected you against the Propheteers, she let the Seconders know you came, and she did all this as the Prophet’s right hand and the head of the Organization. Calm down now, please. She meant to tell you this, but she feared you would blame her for not having done so right at the start. She was afraid you’d feel cheated.”

“Cheated? You said ‘cheated’? How about ‘made an ass of’? How about ‘sold out’? How about ‘treated like horseshit’?”

Nisan looks wretched; it’s clear from the way she waves her hands and from the way her voice has changed that she deeply regrets having spilled the beans.

“Hakan, please don’t do this to me. You mean everything to Yağmur. She’d do anything for you. I’ve never seen her like this. Can’t you see?”

Hakan is silent. Suddenly he stops in his tracks and turns to Nisan.

“Do you want me to take you home?”

“Thanks, you don’t have to. I have my car.”

“Fine then. Take care.”

On that note he turns and walks away fast, leaving her standing there.

“Get up and get your ass to the kitchen. I want to have a word with you.”

“Are you out of your mind? Why did you wake me up like that?”

“You have things to tell me.” He pours out a cup of coffee for himself.

“No coffee for me, thanks. What things?”

“You can begin with Nisan, for instance, and it would be great if you covered Kronk and your relationship to the Prophet.”

“Did Nisan tell you that? Bitch.”

“Why didn’t you tell me yourself? How could you manipulate me like that?”

“I’m sorry.”

“You are sorry. Of course you are. You will be a lot sorrier pretty soon.”

“Listen to me. Come here.”

“What?”

“Kiss me.”

“Go fuck yourself.”

“Don’t talk like that. I didn’t tell you in the beginning, because I didn’t know you well enough. It’s not the sort of thing you can share with someone you have slept with once or twice. And then it was too late. I mean, it got harder with time. Like it says in the Manifesto , ‘Words unsaid have a habit of getting heavier.’ But I was going to. I had no idea what an idiot Nisan could be, fuck -”

“Don’t be ridiculous. It slipped from her mouth while she was telling me about her ex-husband. You are cheap, did you know that? You’re so cheap. I hate you for that. How could you hide this from me - it’s not even that, you lied to me.”

“But you kept secrets from me as well.”

“What secrets?”

“Come on. How did you get the Manifesto?”

“What are you talking about? God, are you really that retarded?”

“You said you wrote it yourself, but then how come you ended up with the same manifesto that’s in Kronk, word for word?”

“Where?”

Yağmur turns the pages of the book and finds what she’s looking for right away. Hakan pulls the book from her hands, starts to read, turns the pages.

“Exactly the same, isn’t it?”

“Yes. How can this be?”

“Are you serious? Where did you get this Book?”

“Nisan gave it to me.”

“When?”

“Tonight, when we met. I haven’t seen the Book or the Manifesto before this. I wrote it that day at school. How can this be?” he repeats.

“I don’t know. You’re the physicist.”

Hakan pours himself another cup of coffee, takes milk from the fridge, puts some sugar in his cup.

“Thanks, I don’t want any right now,” Yağmur says, again without Hakan having asked her. He ignores this, takes a sip, then gets up, pours his cup into the sink, and heads out of the kitchen. Yağmur attempts to follow him, but he stops her with a shove.

“Don’t you come near me.”

“What, do you want me to sleep on the couch?”

“Do whatever you like. I don’t ever want to see your face again.”

There’s more hurt in his voice than anger. He turns around and goes.

A Thin-wrist walks up the dark stairs of an apartment building. When he gets to the door he is looking for, he pushes the envelope in his hand under it. Then he calmly walks down.

Hakan wakes up in the morning to an empty bed. On the bedside table he finds a note from Yağmur:

Dearest darling,

Have to go out early - will call you

later on. I love you. (And I’m a bit

mad about you.)

Yağmur

Hakan was back in high school again, walking fast in the hallway, apparently trying to make it to a class. Suddenly a stranger appeared in front of him, and asked “Are you Hakan?” Hakan recognized the voice - the man had to be Ismail Bey, his professor of literature. “I thought you were dead,” Hakan said. “No, I didn’t die, but I’m crippled,” said Ismail Bey, pulling up his shirt - Hakan wasn’t very surprised to see a big pair of breasts. “You have bermafato, professor?” “Yes. When will you give me back my stone?” Hakan felt a great uneasiness. He said he was late for class, just as his physics teacher came out of the classroom and said Hakan had come up with a very good equation for the stone, and if he could take its integral he would win the science prize. But Hakan had lost the stone, so it was impossible for him to take its integral. He tried to explain this to Ismail Bey, who began to suck on his own breast; “I’ll wait here, my guardians are on the opposite hill, go get it, it’s not a very big stone anyway,” he said. Hakan ran to the dormitory, but at the entrance door he saw a sign saying the dormitory had been converted into a Citeaux monastery.

Hakan remembers that he tried to wake himself up by repeating “If I can’t wake up, I’m done for,” and that he finally succeeded.

In the kitchen, Hakan picks up the note that is squeezed in the spout of the kettle, and makes tea. This note is a bit longer:

Osman saw Nigar the other day. He got up

and went to her. When she saw him she started

to cry. “Cry your heart out, it will do you good,”

Osman said, and he was right - she relaxed. He

caressed Nigar’s hair, and she hugged him hard

in return. She squeezed him in her arms, as if

they hadn’t seen each other in ages. It was a very

touching moment, and Osman started to cry as

well - now how do you like that?

I love you so much, you bastard.

Yağmur

Hakan laughs. Alibey walks in.

“What was all that racket about last night? Did you have a fight?”

“Something of the sort,” Hakan says; he feeds his turtle. Alibey follows him with his eyes for some time, unsure as to whether he should consider the subject closed. He takes a cup for himself and sits down.

“You’re not going to school today?” Then he adds, “Am I asking too many questions?”

“No, not at all. I have a headache,” Hakan says, serving out the tea. “I want to go and see Cem, so I’m cutting class today.”

They have their tea together and eat a little.

“What organization?”

“The Secret Seven. Kronk. What’s more, she’s the Prophet’s right hand.”

“And this came as a surprise to you?”

Hakan stares at Alibey’s face, but says nothing.

“I’ve got something to tell you,” Alibey says, “it might sound a bit strange, but I’ll say it anyway. Don’t mess with this gang. It may not turn out to be as funny or harmless as you think.”

“Why not?”

“Just a hunch, let’s say. I don’t like telling you what to do, but this is serious. Stay away.”

“Yağmur didn’t surprise you.”

“Have you broken up?”

“No. You want us to?”

Alibey notices the hidden anger in his son’s voice. “I’m going out. Will be back late. Have a nice life,” Alibey says. He opens the door and gives the envelope he finds on the floor to Hakan, because the name on it is his.

A purple sheet of paper comes out of the envelope, with a short message written on it in white.

Your Horoscope

An unexpected person will

commit you suicide.

this is not going to work out i think said kronk

what’s wrong

small oscillations around mediocrity

excuse me

that’s the story of the life of the guy i picked out as my prophet what is the greatest unhappiness pain the most terrible tragedy that befell on you in all these years

the most greatest terriblest you mean let’s see i don’t know i guess there isn’t anything very extraordinary maybe the loss of a beloved maybe not being loved or being looked upon with contempt instances of shame regret or separation or not getting what you deserve things like that

my point exactly in your life there is no misery no painful deprivation you haven’t walked down thorny paths the most difficult obstacle to come your way must have been the university exams there are no life-or-death matters you haven’t even gone through torture even though you are a student you don’t have shit man

whoa whoa now ok you’ve got a point there but i suppose you wouldn’t want to blame me for that i never tried to convince you otherwise yeah i sail on along a mediocre line with slight deviations up plus down but i’m very good at extracting the fat of flies the art of reaching at big conclusions plus wisdom by dissecting the pettiest experiences were you looking for a hero

i’m not sure here’s my problem if you go out plus face the crowd with this cv plus tell them things like unhappiness is as important as happiness try to act your part as well as you can enjoy et cetera you will only be bullshitting them what have you got to tell those who fight for the freedom of their people who see their children die of hunger or even those who try plus manage to stay alive from one day to the next in utter destitution in the midst of the city the great jungle even if you do find something of relevance to tell them how convincing can you be

look if one day this stuff gets printed as a book how many people do you think will read it one thousand perhaps two at the most plus who will these people be those who live in the usual big cities like Istanbul Ankara Izmir plus those who if we disregard my cerebral life share the ordinariness of my daily life plus i will be personally acquainted with many of them you are right i’m not very good at highs plus lows but neither are they all they are is a bourgeois bunch that’s all plus about the rest i guess you are taking this business of being a god too seriously you aim to address humanity as a whole good for you of course i can’t say to someone who’s fighting for his life what a nice molotov cocktail you’ve got there why don’t you taste it but you as a god should have something to say plus even though the fact that it is i who is transmitting this message will result in a serious amount of eyebrow-raising what can be done the old masters who could be everything to everyone are history now they don’t make prophets like they used to plus what is true unhappiness true pain real tragedy where can you find them go on then speak let it all out it’s your turn

oh that’s nice thanks for shoving me under the spotlight i like it here you think it’s easy to answer those questions if i were karagöz i would bribe the authorities so that you wouldn’t be hacivat

yeah but kronk it’s about time to deal with this issues the whole nation not to mention the world is waiting hungrily for us look out of the window plus you will see friends romans countrymen the moment you have been waiting for has come your beards did not grow in vain here is the greatest moment in history kronk your god will tell you what the meaning of life is

hey shut up don’t push i have stage fright i forget what i have to say when i face the crowd

it’ll be okay don’t worry if nothing comes to your mind you can always say crazy romans idiots that’s what obelix said in “the cauldron” plus it worked

oh this is great this is more than lovely dear kronk what do you mean if i may so bluntly ask you could have said so in the beginning plus spared us the trouble of inventing the alphabet staging the renaissance staying up for nights on end to go to the moon is it all in vain that we struggle here what are we just a side show some sort of a colorful pattern drawn in the margin of a grammar school notebook what what are we some kind of a fruitcake what’s your choice do you like it with grapes

it’s amazing i just can’t figure it out perhaps it always happens this way man my friend is such a funny creature my son how seriously you take yourselves look i don’t mind your going on that ego trip amongst yourselves putting on airs plus stuff but don’t come to me with all that bullshit about the renaissance the journey to the moon the carrot juice extractor okay there’s one thing that you’ve got to get plus get damn right

On his way to Cem, Hakan thinks about the purple horoscope: apart from the question of who brought it, he can’t figure out its meaning either - “an unexpected person will commit you suicide.” He repeats the sentence to himself. The place Cem works is a three-story building with big windows, standing in the middle of a very big garden; one has to walk over a huge chessboard made of 52 squares to reach it - the missing squares are the ones on the corners and the four in the middle of the columns to the far left and far right. After the white-and-purple checkered square, Hakan climbs the marble stairs at the entrance of the building, reading the sign:

Whether the inexplicable and irresistible

influence that the color Purple had over all sorts of inks,

which resulted in their conversion to that color en masse,

required it to resonate in such a manner in hallways,

we cannot know. The only thing we can know is that

the color of the night is unknowable and indefinable.

The doors are closed. To the right is a computer screen and below it a keyboard. On the screen we read

Please type in your full name, your date and place of birth.

Hakan obliges the computer. A “Welcome” sign appears, and then another, asking him to insert his right index finger in the hole on the right so that his pulse can be taken. It turns out to be 72.

I would like to ask you a few questions.

You will be able to enter the building if you answer

these questions correctly. This is a security precaution.

Thank you for your cooperation.

Then the first question and the answer choices come up.

Why is a mouse when it turns?

a)Because it’s winter

b)When the numbers have all gone home

c)The lesser the higher

d)Voyager - I

Hakan presses the “A” key. A beep is heard.

Sorry - wrong answer. You have one more choice.

Who is the author of the following verse:

“An I has this I, which now is inside U.”

a)Edip Cansever

b)Enis Batur

c)Erdogan Abacı

d)Emre Yunus

When he hits the “A” again,

I am sorry, but you are not Hakan Bey,

and you will be denied entrance because you are an impostor.

appears oh the screen, and then the initial

Please type in your full name, your date and place of birth.

“Damn it,” Hakan says, tries to open the door but this is in vain; of course the door does not open, so he goes back to the computer. His pulse is 80 this time.

If you calm down it will be easier for you to think more rationally.

What was the mistaken question the State and Nature had in common?

a)Quo vadis?

b)Where does the Transoxiana pour into?

c)Et tu, Brute?

d)Hello?

Hakan presses “B”.

How many buttons were there in Napoleon’s jacket?

a)Which Napoleon?

b)Which jacket?

c)7

d)As many as the number of buttonholes

Hakan’s finger rests on “C”, but then he decides on “D”.

Congratulations.

If you answer the following question correctly,

you will be allowed to enter the building.

Why is a mouse when it turns?

“You motherfucker,” Hakan says, reads aloud the question and the answers, finally says “What the hell,” and presses “C”. Fireworks appear on the screen, a fanfare is heard, and after the

screen, the lock is opened with an audible click.

Hakan goes over to the information desk and tells the woman there that he is Cem’s friend, has no appointment, but would like to see him all the same. She first rings Cem’s office; not finding him there she tries the laboratory - there he is. “Please walk straight down the hallway, then take the stairs down,” she says.

Games Inc. is an international company, specializing in all sorts of, well, games. It has successfully penetrated hundreds of thousands of homes with games developed by its experts. It wasn’t long before people realized this is quite a political power to be reckoned with, but apparently the company has been able to protect its autonomy to this day, which doesn’t necessarily mean it does not have schemes of its own.

Cem meets Hakan at the door of the lab; he wears a white coat, but this place does not look like your usual lab.

“We are working on a game project for the Tamil guerillas,” says Cem, pointing to the people busy doing something in the far corner of this underground hangar. The two enter a small but cozy-looking office.

“What’s up then?”

“Lots of things. I’m confused. Things keep happening without showing the courtesy to wait for me to understand them. On top of which I’m starving.”

Cem laughs.

“I’ll get us something. How about beer and sausages?”

“Great.”

Cem orders their meal on the phone.

“The Organization has finally found me. I thought they never would.”

“Is it a nice organization?”

“Very nice. Tomorrow there’s a meeting of the Seconders, and I will honor them with my presence.”

“So you’ve made up your mind to become a full-time prophet?”

“I’m not sure, to be honest. I found out that Yağmur is also in the Organization and that she’s actually a big wheel there.”

“Who told you?”

“And you didn’t know about this before, right?”

“Why does everyone ask me the same question? I feel like an idiot in the third degree. What she has done to me is generally referred to as ‘sticking it up’ in the relevant medical literature.”

“Did you break up?”

“Well, did you write that thing on your own?”

“You have a single aim in life and that is rubbing me the wrong way, right? Of course I wrote it.”

“Let me see.”

Their meal arrives.

“Be careful with the book,” Hakan says, handing him Kronk.

“Nice book,” Cem says, takes a look at the manifesto, and adds, “It’s pretty long, too.”

“Yeah, and it’s the same, word for word. How can that be, you think?”

“It is weird.”

“I guess I shouldn’t be showing you the book. Nisan had a semi-guilty conscience showing it to me.”

“Who’s this Nisan anyway?”

“She’s sweet, actually. One of the Seconders, I told you, remember? Recently divorced her husband. I could introduce you to her - I think you’d like her.”

“Negative. I mean, why would they?”

“Yeah. I don’t know.”

When Cem skims through the pages, the horoscope envelope falls out.

“What’s this?”

“I found it under the door this morning. My horoscope. An unexpected person will commit me suicide. Whatever that means. It’s not ‘someone will commit suicide.’ It’s not ‘someone will kill you.’ How can someone commit me suicide?”

We try to read the meaning in Cem’s eyes.

Only three or four months later Hakan will appear to us in a very different state of mind. At present we can plainly see that he has a significant amount of self-confidence and that he thinks he is on top of things. And yet even now there are foreshadowing breaches - the manifesto incident, the horoscope. Within three months he will witness the complete loss of control he thinks he has, and will suspect that he never was at the wheel from the start. His loneliness will frighten him. Everything will happen at such a pace that he will think events have a mind of their own - which of course they do. The greatest blow to his self-confidence, however, will be finding out that everything he has gone and will go through has already been written down in a book. This is absolutely the worst thing that can happen to anyone - that is why Hakan deserves to be supported and helped as much as possible.

We see a group of 10-12 people, mostly male, gathered around a long table; Yağmur sits at the head; among the faces we recognize is the bearded, broad-shouldered man.

“I will not allow Kronk to take any further injuries, or the Organization to be disrupted in front of our eyes. I sincerely did no expect things to turn out this way, but since they did, there remains only one way to go. Hakan and his father will be killed. Without hurry.”

The big door of the crowded hall is suddenly thrown open and five or six people run in with guns in their hands - everyone tries to run away when gunshots are heard. We watch this in slow-motion.

In the big hall -this is the Suadiye Atlantik Theater, and going by the torn curtain and the condition of the seats, we get the impression that this place has not been in use for quite a while- there are three or four hundred people, most of them gathered in front of the stage, some even on it; we make out Hakan among them, sitting on the rostrum brought in for him to deliver his speech; there is a hubbub, everyone speaks, laughs, shouts; (still) there is an exuberant kind of sentimentality in the air, which is probably what we see in people’s faces.

The armed group walks toward the stage. A part of the crowd in the hall gathers around the rostrum. In Hakan’s face there is a bit of surprise, but also a degree of mock-incredulity - as a matter of fact, he is grinning.

“And what is the initial goal of the religion of Kronk?” Hakan asks the old man beside him.

“To impress upon the masses the practice of holding the spoon with the left hand, sir,” he answers.

Hakan laughs, apparently thinking the man is having fun with him.

“Excuse me?”

“Like we are told in the legend of arkdarm plus erver, sir. They are our Adam and Eve; Kronk wants the people of his kingdom to hold the spoon with their left hands.”

“No kidding,” Hakan says cutely, “And what happens then?”

“This will be such a radical change that Kronk’s rules and the Kronkian way of life will automatically come into force.”

“When people hold their spoons with their left hands?”

“Of course.”

“Of course,” Hakan repeats, nodding his head.

A few people from the crowd attempt to stop the armed group - the men hit some of them slowly, almost lovingly in the head with the butt of their guns, and shoot at others with utmost hesitation and regret. The sounds of the shooting guns echo for a long time, reminding us inadvertently of spaghetti westerns.

Hakan gives the Kronk salute with his hands - the fingertips touch each other but not the palms; the thumbs point forward, the remaining fingers down. Everyone gives the same salute, cheering. Hakan laughs.

“And what is the meaning of this salute?”

Evidently the people around him take this as some sort of a quiz; they seem to be oblivious of the possibility that Hakan might not actually know the answers.

“An upside-down vulva,” says a young woman.

“An upside-down what?”

The shock created by the gunshots and people falling down reaches the stage in waves. Nisan pulls at Hakan, trying to get him to run to backstage. The crowd around them is restless - people watch the approaching gunmen, and try to get Hakan out of there safely.

“Calm down. We want only him,” says Broadface - we hear his words at normal speed, but his lips continue to move slowly after his words are over.

“Are you unhappy with the prophet?”

With this question the hubbub increases. People shout that His time is over, that from now on Hakan is their true Prophet, that the old one is a coward, that they love Hakan.

“You can’t be serious,” Hakan mutters.

At that instant the door of the hall is opened.

Someone from among the crowd shoots at the gunmen, then someone else. Bullets fly in the air. Nisan succeeds in pulling Hakan away from all this mess to the back of the stage, though in slow steps - there is real terror in her face. Hakan, on the other hand, seems to be doing what he is told even though he is not too convinced all this is absolutely necessary. As they disappear from sight, our ears continue to be filled with echoing gunshots and shouts.

Nisan’s small apartment.

Hakan and Nisan take off their coats and come in. As Nisan goes to the children’s bedroom, Hakan dials Yağmur’s number.

“Hello, Yağmur?”

“Hakan, is that you?”

“Yeah. Why did you call?”

“Who?”

“Me.”

“When?”

“Now.”

“Cut it out, cut it out! Where the hell are you? How did the meeting go?”

“Not bad. I’m at Nisan’s.”

“What are you doing there?” - a tinge of jealousy.

“I’ll tell you about it all. You want to come here?”

“Now?”

“Immediately.”

Nisan closes the door of the hallway and sits down opposite to Hakan.

“Is she coming?”

Hakan nods. “How are the kids?”

“Sound asleep.”

“You leave them alone at home? How old are they anyway?”

“One goes to the sixth grade, the other’s in the fourth. They matured fast.”

She turns on the TV and zaps through the channels, finds nothing to her liking and turns it off. Hakan inspects the water color paintings on the wall in the meantime.

“These are great. Are they yours?”

“Hmm. Not very professional, I’m afraid.”

“Come on, they are beautiful. You’ve got the touch.”

Nisan smiles.

“Can I fix you something to eat?”

“As a matter of fact, I’m starving.”

“Are you serious? How can you eat after everything that happened tonight?”

Hakan pets his belly.

“You will find out when you get to know me better.”

“Well then, let’s go and see what the fridge has to offer us.” Together they go to the kitchen.

When Yağmur arrives, Nisan and Hakan are at the table - Hakan eats some chicken, feta cheese, and Russian salad, while Nisan accompanies him with red wine.

“Here’s what happened: right when I was bonding with my followers the door of the bar was kicked open and in walked the bad cowboys. They shot around, broke the mirror, put ventilation holes into the piano, then the good guys responded in kind, and while all this was happening the sheriff quietly dissolved in the background,” Hakan summarizes, contently chewing his food.

Yağmur looks shocked.

“What? Did they really try to kill him? I can’t believe this.”

“Oh no, not really. I don’t think they were using real bullets,” Hakan says.

“You didn’t know?” Nisan asks Yağmur, finding Hakan’s nonchalance somewhat strange.

“Of course no. Would I have let him go if I did?”

She gets up and hugs him from behind, kissing his neck.

“All I know was that someone was going to be sent to the meeting, to find out what’s going on. This has gone totally out of hand. Who would dare to do something like this without my knowing?”

“Can be Cihan? He was among the busters and I think he got killed,” Nisan says.

Yağmur obviously enjoys this bit of news.

“They killed him? Good riddance. It must have been him. I should have known. It’s high time for some Spring cleaning in the Organization.”

She kisses Hakan again; she turns his head by the chin and kisses his lips, even though he protests that he is eating. Then she takes Nisan’s glass, fills it up with wine, says “To our new Prophet!” and drinks it down.

The door will ring twice while Alibey is working at his desk in his study. He will get up at the second ring, and find a well-dressed, clean-looking, big-wristed young man standing in front of him when he opens the door. He will ask for Hakan, and when Alibey tells him he is not in he will explain that he is Hakan’s classmate, that he has brought the calculations of the project they are working on, and that he needs to get a book from Hakan. Alibey will take him in, take him to Hakan’s room, say he doesn’t know which book is where, and suggest that they look together for the one he needs. When he asks him the name of the book the young man will say, “The first book of the trilogy,” looking straight into Alibey’s eyes; it will be too late when Alibey realizes the mistake he has made.

“I don’t think so,” Hakan says, devouring his food with an impressive appetite. The two women look at him - clearly both had sensed something was wrong, and they know that they are about to find out exactly what.

“I’m out of the game, my dear friends,” Hakan says, “I’m really bored with this gang stuff, and I quit.”

These words remind us of the following poem by Nisan Tandal:

When blue is the sky, the curled-up regrets on the table

which belong to a cat that hides its face (with its paw)

take our conscience by the hand and lead it to sleep, because

the hot noons that have to be endured with a single brain

are boring. The shadow of the willow throws its weight around

on the belly of the swallow, in our civilization that is the only thing

which one can still throw and be poetically correct,

even though girls write poems posthumously and there’s

no stopping them. Carpe diem is no fruitcake.

It’s the instant version of everything that counts these days.

Take it or take it.

Remember the days when we used to sleep in each other’s arms

like lambs, and come to your senses in horror, that was you, and you

had dreamed that no one saw you painting the grass, but now

that thud with which the eyelids open takes you from that sleep

and gives you back to the real one, so that the giraffe will have

no scruples about being fried while the earth goes on turning.

I feel bogged down. Which road takes me the farthest away

from myself. Our culture is in need of a new on-the-road movie,

don’t you find.

You are able to detect crocodiles only in teardrops and

T-shirts and the only thing you question is the shelteredness

of a broken eyelash which the eyelash itself attempts to drop off

at the neighboring irresponsibilities like an instance of easy love,

only to be hindered by the Weight in one clean session.

Are we and horses brethren, like Nietzsche was?

I told you, didn’t I?

To recap: our struggle is an attempt to stop up round holes

with square pegs, and I hereby quit,

forging my signature.

“Hakan, what are you talking about?” Yağmur says in an incredulous voice.

“What’s he talking about?” Nisan asks Yağmur.

“Did he hit his head while running away at the meeting?”

“I’m dead serious,” Hakan says, still laughing. “You are a bunch of decent-looking grown-ups, but you act like children who take their silly games very seriously. You even kill each other, bang bang, you’re dead, you’re dead I said so don’t get up, right, you must have gone nuts, and what is this bullshit about? You are spreading your lovely religion! Missionaries! Try our new positions that are now available!”

We watch the two women as Hakan speaks - there is an uneasiness in their manner, but also some kind of uncertainty, as if they don’t quite know what to make of this soliloquy. Maybe they feel sorry for him.

Hakan is not taken aback by Yağmur’s child-fooling tone; on the contrary, he suddenly sobers.

“You’re right, let’s go. You are not mad at me because I won’t be your prophet, are you?”

“Hakan, you are the new prophet of Kronk, whether you like it or not.”

“It’s a situation of take it or take it.”

“Absolutely. How can you forget so quickly all the love and devotion people showed for you today at the meeting? There are people out there who risk their lives for your safety. From now on you belong to them, you are ours. And the religion you find so funny is the holiest, most humane religion that mankind has seen to date. We will establish a new order and you will be our leader while we do that.”

Hakan applauds Nisan’s speech and shouts “Brava! Brava!” Then he starts dancing a crazy dance to the music of Manhattan Transfer - it must have reminded Nisan of something, because her eyes fill up with tears as she watches Hakan.

Hakan goes after her, of course. It’s snowing outside; Yağmur walks fast, without waiting for him to catch up. Hakan tries to take her arm, to hold her hand, to hug her, but Yağmur pushes him away every time. No matter how much he begs she doesn’t speak - just looks down and walks on. Finally Hakan pulls her arm and stops her.

“Leave me alone!”

“No I won’t.”

“Let go. You’re hurting me.”

“What’s the matter? What’s all this show biz?”

“Fuck you! I said let go.”

“What kind of language is that now? A young lady like you. What’s your problem?”

Yağmur tries to pull away her arm.

“Are you mad at me because I kissed your leg? Okay, I won’t do it again.”

He lets go of her arm. Yağmur gives him a look full of hatred, and starts to walk. So does Hakan, alongside her.

“Where are you going? We’ve passed the car, hey, come on, where are you going?”

“Taksim.”

“To do what?”

“To get laid with every dick and harry.”

Hakan laughs.

“What rage, what passion! Come on now, come here, let’s go to the car, it’s too cold to be fooling around.”

He holds her arm again and pulls her to himself; when he looks at her face he sees she’s crying.

“Sweetheart, what is it? What’s wrong?” he asks in a soft voice, and hugs her. Yağmur starts sobbing. Hakan caresses her hair, kisses her forehead, her cheeks; Yağmur hugs him too, crying in his coat.

“Did I do something wrong?”

This time Yağmur puffs, punches him not too hard on the shoulder, then hugs him and starts crying all over again. After a while she inhales deeply and says she wants to walk. They walk toward Taksim. Yağmur wants to go through the park - Hakan hesitates, but then obliges her.

“I’m pregnant.”

This is probably the last thing Hakan was expecting; he turns and looks at her, his eyes like question marks.

“My breasts are swollen. I wake up to an upset stomach every morning. I have to pee every five minutes.”

“But you had your period?”

“That happens sometimes. My friend Sevda had bled throughout her pregnancy.”

“Are you sure? Did you have a test or something?”

“I went to a doctor today.”

“Who is it?”

“What difference does it make?”

“None. I was curious, that’s all.”

“A guy called Seyfi Üsküdarlı.”

“Okay. Don’t get upset.”

Yağmur hugs him again.

“He examined me. Said I’m in my sixth week. So when would it have happened?”

“I don’t know.”

“Whatever.”

They fall silent. Hakan caresses her hair, distracted. “What will we do?”

Yağmur lets out a strained laugh. “Don’t know.” She starts to cry again. “I don’t want to have an abortion.”

“You don’t have to.”

Hakan sighs. He looks like he’s at a loss for words.

“You’ll catch cold here. Let’s go home. Sweetheart, come on.”

Yağmur finally turns toward him, and they embrace each other tightly. Hakan keeps telling her in a soft voice how much he loves her, kisses her face all over, she responds - they kiss for some time, their hair getting white with snow. Yağmur wipes her eyes.

“He told me come tomorrow for the D&C. Remind me not to eat anything six hours before.”

Hakan kisses her eyes lightly.

“At his clinic?”

Yağmur nods.

“When will we go?”

“Two o’clock. I’ll go alone.”

“No way.”

“No. I’ll go -”

“Shh. We’ll go together.” He kisses her hair. “Let’s go home. It’s cold.”

“Unfortunately none,” says someone from across the table. “It’s unbelievable how he can desert us at a time when we need him most.”

“The last thing we need now is to exhibit attitudes that will exacerbate internal conflicts. The religion of Kronk is our religion, and the Prophet is our prophet. We will own up to the things that are ours. The Seconders may seem to have the upper hand for the time being, but this won’t last very long, I assure you.”

“There are rumors - it is said that some of our top executives have helped Hakan escape. There’s talk of treason. Will there be an investigation about this?” says one of the women.

“Watch what you say to whom,” says Yağmur. “Very soon we will get rid of that nuisance called Hakan. I swear in the name of Kronk. I will also try to find a way to reach the Prophet. Any questions?”

“Hakan Bey, good to see you again. Feels like heaven - do you know my name?” he says.

“How are you, dad? Alles in Ordnung?” He takes a perfunctory glance at his father’s desk. “Something cooking?”

“Yes. I’m doing some sort of a research. Interesting things are turning up.”

“What’s the subject?”

“It’s hard to say at this stage, actually. Something to do with the origins of social movements.”

“Sounds good,” Hakan says, heading for his room. He takes out some clothes from his wardrobe and puts them in his backpack along with some books and notes. Alibey appears at the door.

“Sounds good, eh? Are you alright?”

“Sure. Sort of. I’ll stay at Yağmur’s for a few days. You’ll manage?”

“It’s in the bathroom closet, in the box. Can you feed him once a day?”

“I will, my Lord.”

“Stop it dad. I want to talk to you about that sometime.”

“Looks like we’re in a hurry.”

Hakan straightens up and looks at his father.

“Yağmur is pregnant. We’re having an abortion today.”

“Why?”

“Because.”

“You have enough money?”

“Yeah. Thanks.”

They embrace each other.

“See you then.”

“Right.”

“Are you okay?” he asks her when they go out into the street.

“He’s fine, I guess. Doesn’t go out much. Says he’s got a headache.” Hakan says this while Yağmur is busy with Cem, and he takes the opportunity to look at her at some length, then he suddenly looks down at his plate. There’s unhappiness, some sort of sorrow in his face - we compare this to Yağmur’s subterranean arrogance, her anger, her cynicism, and realize that their relationship has undergone an important transformation.

“The last time I saw him he looked very worn-out. His back was hunched, poor thing. Is it overkill at work, or what?”

“Someone we know,” Hakan says. What Yağmur said and the way she said it has visibly hurt him, and this makes us think he has come some way in collecting samples of such hurt.

“How about Nigar?”

We switch from face to face as they speak, like following a ping-pong ball.

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

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

“I don’t think I now Nigar either,” Nisan protests.

“They used to be madly in love,” Cem says. Both Yağmur and Hakan turn to him in surprise.

“Shall I make some coffee?” Hakan offers after a pause, “Everybody want some?”

“I don’t,” Yağmur says, pushing the plate in front of her ever so slightly. At that instant Hakan looks at Yağmur, and Cem looks at Hakan.

“Did you know that Nisan writes great poems?” Hakan asks Cem.

“Hey, stop that!” Nisan says.

“No. Really?” Cem says. “What kind of poems?”

“Her book was published this month, didn’t you see it? The poems in it are so beautiful,” Hakan says, laughing at Nisan’s simultaneous anger and shyness - he begins to resemble the Hakan we used to know.

“Why don’t you just shut up! It’s none of your business!” Nisan says.

“What is it called?” Cem asks.

“It’s got a long name, plus the poems in it aren’t very good, either. Anyone want to change the subject?” Nisan says in funny discomfort, but Hakan is persistent. He gets up right away, takes out the book from one of the shelves, and says to Cem, “Never mind what she says;” then to Nisan - “Come on, read us a poem, don’t be such a virgin.”

“Hakan, please sit down and for god’s sake leave that book alone,” Nisan says, but now she’s also laughing.

Nisan regretfully takes the book. She protests with a last hope, “But these poems have to be read with the eye, they are not for reading out aloud.”

“It doesn’t matter, just read,” Hakan says.

Nisan thinks for a while, turns the pages, clears her throat, and starts to read.

“You look at me

from behind a dark dream -”

“Just a minute, what is it called?” Hakan asks.

“The Land of Black Photographs.”

“Great. Go on.”

She starts again.

“You look at me

from behind a dark dream ‘will this

be the sum total of our history’ I ask

(to remember, however)

this is impossible

As I die to the waves

to which I approach every time

without getting wet, and run away

at the last second, I pour out everything

to the sand in the form of a footprint

You hit the shore (due to lack of love)

swollen, bored with drowning,

my foot, erased by the water

that carried you, is cut as cold as

the star that no longer shines

(I have to count every single hair of yours)

Open the Photo-History of Mankind:

turn to the caustic lime age:

From behind a dream,

in the name of all the girls

bored with drowning (and being loved),

with slender fingers around which

your hair is wrapped, with my eyes on the calendar

I look, because you can’t,

at our murderer:

the shutter.”

“Chillingly dark,” Cem says, “I liked it a lot.”

“And did you like the things Cem wrote?” Hakan asks her, enjoying himself for being obvious.

“I come across his name all the time, but I haven’t read any of his stuff yet. I will, though.”

“What, you have a book with that title?”

Cem nods.

“Really?”

Cem nods again.

“And there’s a section in it called ‘The Caustic Lime Age’, right?” Yağmur asks. Cem looks at her for an unexpectedly long time and presses his lips for a yes.

Nisan looks upset. “What a coincidence,” she says, “it probably wasn’t such a bright idea in the first place, going by the fact that it occurred to both of us.”

“I agree,” Cem says, “you know, novice cartoonists are always advised not to draw the first good idea that comes to their mind, because probably somebody else has already thought of it. It’s sort of the same thing, not that Nisan is a novice, but.”

“I think it’s strange all the same,” Yağmur says, looking at Cem.

Hakan was in junior high, and the whole class went for a field trip - to a very old, gray, suffocating, concrete and bare building; it was quite tall, its façade had no paint, with only the window openings like black, gaping mouths; there were no windows, and the building lacked a roof; it was a forgotten remnant of war. The whole class was dispersed and lost inside. Hakan stopped for a while in the entrance, because it resembled the entrance of the apartment house he used to live in when he was younger - and sure enough there were lots of letters for him in the mail box. “Damn, I knew it,” Hakan thought, “I have to come here more often, they are sending all my mail to this place.” Then he got in the old, frightening elevator, turning his back to the mirror because he was afraid to look at it. Suddenly he found himself at the top of the building. This was a garden and a very important tea party was in progress. He walked a little, and saw a yellow bed ahead - it was very big, and the sheets, covers, pillows were all a very bright yellow; in the bed was a woman whom he felt was very ugly. He came closer; now he saw the woman more clearly - she suddenly started to shed her skin, like pieces of scab. The veins, tendons and muscles were emerging from underneath, all shiny and colorful. When she was left without any skin, she laughed an infinitely ugly and horrible laugh. Hakan dashed toward the woman and thrust the knife he held in his hand into the sweaty slit between her legs.

We see Nisan and Yağmur shopping in Bahariye. They go in and out of stores - lots of bags in their hands. Nisan suggests that they call Cem when they decide to have lunch.

“Actually, you know what, we could pick him up at work. It’ll be a nice surprise,” she says.

“Maybe we should call first, he might be busy.”

Nisan finds a phone booth -this is before the cellular phone- and calls Cem, telling him about the plan.

“Great,” Cem says, “but you don’t have to come all the way here. Tell me where the restaurant is, and I’ll meet you there.”

“Oh, it’s no big deal, you’re almost around the corner. Plus you can show us your office.”

“Sure, that’s a good idea. But isn’t it a bit too hot, what with all the midday traffic - I’ve got a car, I’ll come right over.”

“Cem, what’s the matter with you? What are you grumbling about? Something you’re trying to hide?” Nisan says in mock-shrewness. “Are you banging your secretary, or what?”

“Come on, what secretary.”

“That’s settled then. We’ll be there in five minutes. Sit down and wait for us.”

Cem sighs - we think, but we can’t really figure out why.

“Okay then. As you wish.”

“What does it signify?”

Cem puts his hand on Nisan’s shoulder in a familiar manner. They walk over to the car.

“I put that on the back cover of my first book - it’s a quotation from one of the stories. Our boss liked it a lot, and had it inscribed over the door. You see, the favorite color of the company is purple.”

“Really?”

“Sure. What’s more, the boss is also interested in the occult and the supernatural, and he has an inscription in Latin in his room, beneath a reproduction of a drawing from the 15th century - it says, “Contrary to what most people think, Magic does not come in two types, black and white; all magic is red, and all magicians are purple.”

“What’s the name of your book?” Nisan asks.

Cem smiles.

“I don’t know,” Cem says with a shrug.

“Your boss sounds like an interesting guy - who is he anyway?”

Cem smiles at Nisan, who is sitting at the front, and says, “You wouldn’t know him.”

“Is he good-looking?”

“I wouldn’t know, I’m out of that sort of business. Anyway he isn’t here now, he’s been abroad for a while.”

“When will he be back?”

“We don’t know yet,” Cem says, looking out of the side window.

“Who takes care of the company in his absence, then?”

A noticeable pause ensues.

“I fill in,” Cem says, in a hardly audible voice.

“So, where are we going?” Cem asks.

“It’s a surprise. You’ll see when we get there,” Nisan says.

“The inscription is very interesting, don’t you think?” Yağmur asks Nisan.

“What inscription?”

“You know, the one at Cem’s work. We could use it as well, actually. Very suitable for Kronk, I think.”

“What’s Kronk?” Cem asks, still looking out of the side window, “A cartoon hero?”

The following Kronkian legend is given here possibly because it will be of future use.

the village was in a big valley wide long with a river flowing through it the villagers had not gone out of the valley for generations there was everything there why should they what counted was survival plus they survived so what more could they ask for animals crops the sun had not yet turned into a dangerous serial killer although that time was not very far away the surrounding mountains were high but not insurmountable it was as though natural selection favored lack of curiosity the cat people were thus in the minority for example mrtyr it was as if his genes had gone foul and produced a handicapped brain plus he was the only one among the village people to come up with the idea of climbing up the mountain to the west one early morning he did not tell anyone

it took mrtyr three days to find a passage to the other side of the mountain what he saw after wiping the sweat that got in his eyes made him collapse right there plus then what is this it can’t be he went down to take a closer look no i saw correctly but why this is horrible he trembled there were tall thick metal stakes driven into the ground no space between them to pass through he touched them pushed them with all his might the stakes did not budge cry the beloved son the stakes went on as far as the eye could see in both directions return home without waiting for the morning to break a sense of catastrophe

it was harvest time the village was silent tired who is this lunatic shouting his head off outside i am telling you i saw the stakes on the other side of the mountain they go on forever we are trapped here wake up

we can finish the harvest in two week’s time if we work at this rate

i said we are trapped

come inside lie down now his wife said what about your field you have been gone for days time passes

time doesn’t pass time is here we are here no one can pass between the stakes not even time

you don’t say

i haven’t baked bread yet

hope it doesn’t rain

give me my mask then i have to go to the end of the stakes

something sinister brushes against his wife’s legs i’m telling you don’t go last year when the village was flooded plus three children of our neighbor died didn’t i say so seven days in advance three years ago when all our houses were ruined because of the earthquake didn’t i warn everyone beforehand don’t go those stakes are dangerous your life is at stake

exactly mrtyr looked up took another deep breath he always did you did that’s why i have to go

are you mad

when you told us about the earthquake what did we do nothing when you said there’ll be a flood nobody took heed of the trees we just stood around plus waited hopelessly if we wait again the fence will be much more dangerous for us i’m going

he went he went alone when he reached the fence he walked alongside the stakes a long calendarless walk for the stakes would not end he went south keeping the fence to his right the surroundings were bare lifeless except for the grass the trees plus the sound of water that pretended to come from afar then one day he saw a woman coming toward him on the other side of the fence he saw her coming toward him but he did not believe what he saw he waited yes this was a human being fenced in on the other side of the stakes eye contact

i’m dynn the woman said looking at the sun on the top of a stake let’s get out of here

they walked together separated by the stakes where the fence would end was a question that tightened the stomach because the possibility of it not ending was a devastating cramp exhaling continuously without ever inhaling the shriveling up of lungs they walked mercilessly they had to mrtyr couldn’t pass to the other side he couldn’t even walk side by side with dynn the stakes were always there between them plus they couldn’t find anything to eat anymore no water their strength deserting them drop by drop leaving a trace behind them the fence goes on not a sound not from anything the grass of silence

one day they saw some figures on the stakes ahead like humans with one last effort they rushed there yes people dead on the sharp end of the stakes a lot of corpses blood skin but no smell there’s no smell dynn said plus they realized their own smell was disappearing

damn it said mrtyr they walked on reached the point where the corpses ended there was a ladder on the ground plus dynn collapsed touching each other’s shadow with their own without frightening them she had lost her smell almost totally mrtyr said hold on i’m coming there he understood that she would die before reaching the end of the fence he wanted to die on the same side with her no matter what so he picked up the ladder climbed up saw that the fence went on forever he attempted to jump to her side right when he does he gets stuck his belly is torn open an odorless heartless blood pours out almost solid he tries to free himself which makes things only worse plus dynn has come to her end

mrtyr jumps down with a ruptured body he crawls up beside dynn crawls some more takes dynn’s face in his hands presses it against his belly the smell of blood is registered for the last time on this side of the fence then everyone goes on dying

“Are you hungry? I just made some pasta, there’s some salad and fruit -”

“Yeah, that would be nice, thanks. Let me wash up first.”

Yağmur goes to the kitchen. Hakan sees Cem’s book on the sofa.

“Are you reading the Anthology?”

“I’ve just begun.”

“How is it?”

“Not bad. There’s a guy called Hakan in the story I’m reading now. He resembles you in some ways.”

When Hakan comes into the kitchen, she goes on talking without looking at him.

“I want to ask you something. Remember the Manifesto-”

“Oh no, not again.”

“Just shut up and listen for a second. When did you write that? I was gone for a while, to Ankara, was it then?”

“I don’t know. I don’t remember. No, it was after that. Yeah, you and I were supposed to visit Cem, but you weren’t here and I had gone alone; I hadn’t written it yet at the time.”

“Did you tell Cem about Kronk?”

“Yes.”

“Why? You know you’re not supposed to.”

“Oh, come on. I was the prophet, remember, I could tell anyone anything I felt like telling. Plus Cem is my best friend.”

We are curious as to whether Hakan will eat humble pie again.

“See you later, alligator. I can’t believe you’re taking this Kronk business so seriously.”

“Pretty soon you will.”

“I’ve had offers from humor magazines. I’ll sell the story to the highest bidder. Your dumb religion will finally be of some use.”

Yağmur calmly empties her glass of water onto the table.

This is the Prophet’s way of sending his messages to the Organization - on the average a standard letter produces a message of two or three sentences. There exists a unit within the Organization whose job it is to solve the crossword puzzle, break down the code, and decipher the whole “Discussion” section on a daily basis - the reason why the high command is doing it today is because one of the letters is by Ahmet Yelsoy - a pseudonym the Prophet has used once before.

Before long, they manage to extract the following message from the letter:

friday next week a dress ball at

grand hotel suadiye all the organization

plus hakan be there i will come too

There is great excitement at the Organization headquarters.

“So finally He’s coming out of the dark,” says one of the people in the room.

Yağmur seems to be enjoying herself immensely.

The door rings. When Hakan opens it, he sees a Thin-wristed Man standing there. He gives Hakan an envelope, smiles, turns around without saying anything and leaves. “Dear Hakan,” the letter in the purple envelope unsurprisingly begins.

“You’ve probably been expecting this for some time now. You must have wondered why I was hiding or at least why I didn’t contact you. I am aware that there are many questions to be answered, and that is why I have decided to write you: more light.

I know about your negative feelings concerning prophethood and to some extend I think these are justified - yes, Kronk is the strangest god we have ever had, perhaps the most absurd and possibly the clumsiest one; and yes, the Organization of the believers of this religion is as childish as the Secret Seven. But give me this much: Kronk is an unusual religion, and, at the risk of bragging, it is an extraordinary religion. It has succeeded in gathering a sizable following - you probably noticed that we have infiltrated all segments of society, we have become a political power to be reckoned with, we have penetrated thousands of homes. Our number is relatively small, but we can be very influential.

At this stage, Kronk needs a much more dynamic leader than I. Unfortunately, I can see very clearly that I can’t carry the religion any further, even though the Organization -apart from a few individuals- cannot yet see this. I haven’t been around for a long time, hoping that a solution would present itself, a solution I wouldn’t be a part of; I hoped that they would establish a new order, that a new “prophet” would spontaneously emerge, but as far as I can see, my silence has resulted not in a new order but in the increase of entropy and anarchy.

This is why I have decided to come on stage for the last -and actually the first- time. You may think I sound like an old man, and come to think of it, maybe I am. Whatever. I want you to be the leader of the Organization. You have to do this, even though you may not see why now - trust me. You have to take over before all balances in the Organization are thrown off. There will be a dress ball at the Grand Hotel Suadiye next week on Friday. All of the Kronkian Organization will be there. You and I will be there, too. That night I will declare you to be the true Prophet and step down. This will be a tough job - I understand that there are those who want to see both of us dead; the passion for power has driven them blind. We have to protect ourselves and Kronk. Help me. You may find it strange that I should be asking for your help. I find it strange, too, though for different reasons. I have serious doubts about the extent to which either you or I can change or affect what will happen from this moment on: you see, everything has already been written.

Contradiction, you say? If everything is predetermined, what can we do? I have asked that question myself - you see, being a prophet doesn’t necessarily mean you’ll know all the answers- and I’ve come to the conclusion that we still have some time left although it is diminishing fast, and that not everything is exactly fixed. I believe we can still do it. Think about it, Hakan.

“Hello?”

“Yes?”

“How are you?”

“Who is this?”

“You don’t recognize my voice? This is your Prophet speaking.”

Yağmur apparently thinks this is a practical joke, but then realizes it can’t be.

“How did you find me?”

“Very healthy, I must say. Only joking. I have something to tell you.”

“I’m at your service.”

“What is your honest opinion regarding Hakan?”

Yağmur pauses a barely perceptible pause.

“The Seconders are very enthusiastic about him. For us he is a serious threat, and therefore has to be incapacitated in some way. We can’t let them take over the Organization - you are the true prophet of Kronk. Allow me to say that the dress ball idea is perfect, by the way - there everything will be played out in the open and Hakan will be history. Under your leadership we will once again be strong.”

“I thought Hakan was your lover.”

Yağmur laughs.

“Business is business, right?”

“What if he doesn’t give up - will you have him killed?”

“Things don’t need to deteriorate that badly.”

“What if I support Hakan?”

Yağmur pauses - this time for a full second.

“I don’t think you can do that.”

“Why not?”

“Don’t forget that the Organization has its own power and desiderata.”

“Like your power and desiderata, Yağmur Hanım?”

“I have decided that Hakan shall be the Prophet to succeed me,” the voice on the line says. “I will make this announcement at the ball. Use whatever power you have over the Organization in this direction.”

“You use ‘no’ way too much. Such a negative attitude.” Then, in a more serious tone, “I warn you. Watch what you say to whom.”

“What if I don’t? Will you turn me into a cartoon hero like yourself? I will never let you!”

This time it’s the other side’s turn to be silent. Then, with an almost cheerful voice, “But it was a good line that, wasn’t it?”

“It was the best,” Yağmur says, laughs, and hangs up. She puts her token in her pocket and steps out of the booth. Then she remembers, goes back, and calls Hakan.

This dream has a curious effect on Hakan - he feels very dejected in spite of, or perhaps because of, that happiness in the dream. He has difficulty in interpreting what he has been dreaming of, but one thing is clear enough: with each dream he goes back in time. He wonders how much younger he will get - “On the seventh I’ll see myself in Mother’s tummy,” he says to himself. This idea makes him smile - or maybe he smiles at the ease with which the number seven worked its way in. Immediately afterward we see anxiety on his face.

“You’ll see when we get there, you sweet ass,” says the one next to him.

The road is almost totally empty - the old car goes fast, but makes a lot of noise; the lights of the road rapidly pass them by. Around Maltepe they leave this road by the sea and turn left, going up to the E-5 inter-city highway.

“Drop us off by the side of the road and we won’t file a complaint,” Yağmur says, “the head of the police department is my uncle, and he can sure make you sorry for this.”

“Send over your uncle and we’ll fuck his ass off,” one of the men sitting at the front says. They all find this hilarious.

Hakan looks at the door, but decides against it - it’s impossible for him to reach the door, and even if he could, it would be extremely dangerous to jump out of a car on this road, at this speed.

When they reach Pendik, they start going uphill on a narrow and bumpy road with almost no lighting. They drive for quite some time. In the light of the moon, one can make out the sea in the distance, the lights of ships, and the docks. They stop at a deserted place in the hills of Pendik.

“Hold that bastard, don’t let him get in the way,” the driver says to the guy sitting next to Hakan. “Come on then, everybody get in line!”

Tears in Hakan’s eyes. He begs them to leave her alone, he curses them, tries to hit them - to no avail; three guys jump on him each time.

When he sees that Yağmur cannot hold out any longer, that the man they call Mıstık has started to take off her clothes, Hakan rips his shirt, pulls off his belt, and shouts, “Come to me, leave her alone, come to me!”

All of them are surprised at this - even Mıstık looks up.

“Open it up then, let’s see what you’ve got,” the driver says.

Hakan takes off his clothes in a hurry. Some off the men get out of the car with him. They squeeze him, kick him, push him around; when he falls to the ground, one of them starts to rub against his face.

“Want to eat my cock?”

“Take this, you asshole, bite me and I’ll fuck your mother,” one of the men outside says to Hakan.

Another gets behind him.

“Spread your legs, you fag!”

“Swallow it up, you piece of shit, you don’t like my taste?”

“Get them in the car, let’s go!”

Before reaching the highway they stop the car and throw Hakan and Yağmur out, together with the remnants of their clothes.

“Don’t you forget this fuck!”

Hakan reaches home when the day breaks. He goes to the bathroom once he is inside, washes his face, brushes his teeth - better not to talk about his eyes. Passing in front of his room he sees Alibey lying on the floor - he stands there at the door for a while, then goes to his side, kneels down, says “Father?” over and over, shakes him gently, opens his eyelids, shakes him faster. We can’t be sure he realizes his father is dead, because he’s doing all this despite the fact that there’s a huge blood stain on the carpet. He lies next to his father, holds his arm, and falls into a dreamless slumber. The Swingle Singers sing Mozart’s fantasy in F minor.

Hakan wakes up in the afternoon and looks at his father, as if trying to remember what happened. He gets up goes to the bathroom, takes a long pee. He brushes his teeth again. He turns on the water heater. Takes off his clothes. Goes to the living room, calls the police and calmly informs them of his father’s death. He asks whether it is possible for someone to come over, and gives his name and address. After he hangs up he goes back into the bathroom and takes a shower.

The door rings as Hakan is looking through the papers on his father’s desk. Two police officers are at the door. They open the windows of Hakan’s room and the living room; they ask Hakan to give them a bed sheet to cover his father’s corpse, which they examine for some time, and they ask Hakan a number of questions in the living room - when he found his father, where he had been, who he thought could be suspect, etc - the usual stuff. Hakan gives them short answers, sitting in his father’s favorite armchair.

“Her uncle? No. But you could say that she used to be my sister.”

Hakan looks up at him. Halil Bey gives the Kronk salute. Now he is very serious.

Halil Bey goes over to the desk and examines the papers as he speaks.

“It is reported that your father got hold of top secret information about Kronk. They must have thought that this posed a serious threat to the security of the Organization. You yourself are seen as a serious threat. It’s clear why the Propheteers would think that way, but there have been murmurings among our group as well, especially since the rumor began to spread that you were intending to sell some inside information about Kronk to a leading daily newspaper. Personally I don’t believe this, of course -most of us don’t- this is just another tactic of the Propheteers.” He stops, and goes to Hakan’s side. “This will be a tough and ugly fight, but Kronk is waiting for you, Hakan Bey. You are our prophet from this day on. You know about the dress ball?”

Hakan nods.

“If they can’t kill you before then, they will try to get you at the ball. But we will not let them. That ball will be your night of victory. And Kronk’s, needless to say.”

“Are you on my side?”

He gets up, walks around looking at the books, then turns to Hakan again.

“My men will be at the door - for your protection. I have to ask you not to leave your apartment until the ball - you will be too easy a target if you do. You can tell them anything you need. Rest assured, this pack of murderers will get the punishment they deserve.”

Hakan nods. Halil Bey goes on talking for a bit more, although we seem to have tuned out - then we tune in again, he wishes Hakan a good day and leaves the room, but quickly comes back.

“There’s something I forgot to ask - do you have any idea about what your father might have found?”

Hakan shakes his head. Halil Bey apologizes and leaves.

We see Hakan putting some clothes in another backpack. Then he goes to open the door upon hearing it ring. One of the police officers is there.

“Sir, if you will go to Kirazlıyalı with Cem Bey, I have to inform my chief.”

“They killed my father,” Hakan says. Cem looks at him, but says nothing.

“Yağmur gave the order. They are going to kill me as well, it seems.”

“Isn’t this her house?”

Hakan shrugs.

Time for sunset - right above them there are gray clouds full of rain, covering most of the sky; the other side of the bay and the sea reflect the same grayness. Only where the sun sets the color is different, showing a hue of pink. Cem looks that way, points to it and says “Beautiful.”

“Yağmur has committed me suicide. Remember the horoscope? It’s Yağmur, she committed me suicide.” Hakan nods to himself.

“You think so,” Cem says.

They have dinner, sitting in the armchairs in the light of a small lamp. Monteverdi in the background - “Baci, soavi e cari.”

“Everything is written in the Kronk Trilogy and nobody knows where the other two books are, you know?”

“I know,” Cem says, looking at Hakan.

“You know.” Hakan nods.

They fall silent.

“I’ve received a letter from the Prophet,” Hakan says. “He loves me. He will announce me as the new prophet at the ball. He’s on my side. He asks me to help him, think of that. The Prophet himself. Yes.”

“I thought you decided not to be the next prophet.”

“Sometimes decisions take themselves,” Hakan says. “The Prophet needs me. I can’t desert him now. He wrote me.”

“Maybe you’ll get another letter,” Cem says.

The door rings.

Hakan does not ask the Thin-wristed Man what he’s doing there - he just takes the purple envelope, and closes the door.

“This one’s purple, too,” he says, looking a Cem, “like everything else. We like this color, don’t we.”

He sits down in his armchair again and opens the envelope.

“It’s a short letter - do you want me to read it aloud?”

“Okay.”

“Dear Hakan,

It puts me to great shame that I have not been

able to prevent the killing of your father. Can you

forgive me? Alibey had found out about the trilogy

and there were parts in it that had to do with you.

They could not let that pass. Do whatever you can.

Everything depends on you.”

“That’s it?”

“That’s it. Everything depends on me.”

“Yes.”

“I know,” Hakan says, and without taking his eyes off the point they are fixed on, he asks,

“But still everything is already written, isn’t it?”

“Who knows,” Cem says.

Hakan smiles with the detached smile we are accustomed to.

“And they call electrons uncertain.”

Hakan has the sixth dream that night - a dense darkness, a blackness that turns magenta every once in a while, surrounds him. He hears muffled sounds, but mostly a steady rhythm. He feels wet. And soft, secure.

He tells Cem about his dream as they have breakfast the next morning.

“I was in my mother’s womb in my dream.”

Cem listens without saying anything.

“But this was the sixth dream. I thought there would be seven.”

Cem takes a sip from his tea.

“I guess there won’t be a seventh.”

“Maybe,” Cem says.

Yağmur finds Nisan in front of her when she opens the door.

“I’m fine, don’t worry. Come in.”

“Did you two have a fight? You’ve got to tell me,” Nisan insists worriedly.

“No, we just had too much to drink the other night, and then tried to make love.” Yağmur chuckles.

“Is he in the same state?”

“I don’t know, actually. Haven’t seen him since. He’s not home.”

“Kirazlıyalı? And they are there now?”

“Listen, I’ve got a great idea - let’s go there and surprise them. I told Cem I have to work. It’ll be great fun.”

“I don’t know.”

“Whatever. Let’s go and find out then. Do you want to get some stuff from home?”

“Yeah, alright then, I’ll go home now, and pick you up in an hour. Or will we take your car?”

“Sure.”

Great then. Let’s move.”

“You’re leaving?”

“I’m leaving.”

“Do you know why the police aren’t here?”

“Maybe they are.”

“You think so.”

“Take care,” Cem says, as he goes out of the door.

“You, too.”

“You want me to leave the car to you?”

“No, that’s okay. I’ll find something when I’m coming back.”

“Don’t be long.”

“I’ll be there for the asking,” Hakan says, smiling. Cem takes off his black sunglasses for the first time, and we see his eyes - brown, bright, surprisingly soft.

“Why don’t you come with me.”

“Nah, I don’t think so. I want to stay here and figure things out.”

“Your call,” Cem says, putting his glasses back on. He drops his bag in the back seat, turns on the engine, and goes out in reverse.

“Maybe it is,” Hakan says, waving him goodbye.

When he hears a car enter the backyard, Hakan looks out of the kitchen window. He hesitates for a second when he sees who it is, then grabs the bread knife, rushes upstairs, and hides it under the bed. The door rings at that instant, and he shouts down, “I’m coming!”

“It’s us!” Nisan says, all smiles. Yağmur is by the car, locking the doors.

“So it seems,” Hakan says.

“Missed you,” Yağmur says sweetly, kisses him on the cheeks and goes in.

“Where’s Cem?” Nisan asks.

“He left an hour ago.”

“Damn - see, we’ve missed him,” Nisan says, her enthusiasm suddenly deflated.

“Yes,” Yağmur says, her eyes fixed on the armchair Cem used to sit in. “Run Cem run - see how far you can go.”

“Right,” Nisan says, “You can’t run away from me!”

We see them in the boat - Hakan is at the oars. The sun has gone down, it’s almost dark.

“Have you been here before?” Hakan asks Nisan.

“Oh sure, plenty of times. I just adore this place. It relaxes me. You know what, I’ve done most of my paintings here.”

“Will you paint this time?”

“Maybe. I brought my stuff.”

“Great. I’ve never seen a painter at work,” Hakan says. His detached and self-absorbed air seems to have vanished.

“We’ve come too far away from the shore, let’s go back,” Yağmur says.

“Yes, the wind is blowing us farther away,” Nisan says.

Hakan starts rowing harder, but one of the oars fall into the water because they are not tied to the tholes, which also makes it hard to row. Nisan lets out a small scream, tries to catch the oar, but the strong current carries it away. With only one oar they go after it, and it is after quite some maneuvering that they finally catch it. The small boat slowly slides back to the shore against the wind. Nisan is frightened, and holds on fast to the sides.

“We’re almost there,” Hakan says. Yağmur puts her hand on his knee. They look at each other.

When they make it to the shore at last, Nisan says “Got to pee!” and runs off.

They have dinner on the veranda. The weather has calmed; it’s raining, but it’s not cold. Nisan lifts her glass:

“Let us drink and be merry! This ain’t no mosque!”

There is vodka on the table, orange juice, and rake; they eat beef, rice pilaf and salad - a simple but apparently satisfying menu.

Everyone is in high spirits. Yağmur and Hakan seem to be getting along very well, which surprises us.

“You call that making love?” Nisan chides Hakan, “Your bed must be a fucking war zone! Look at your girlfriend, she’s all swollen and bruised. Shame on you!”

Hakan glances at Yağmur.

“Well, I’ve bruised him, too,” she says.

“Where? He looks healthy as a horse.”

“Show the lady your object of envy.”

They are having fun.

A dark-colored car, its headlights down, comes slowly and stops at a small distance from Yağmur’s house.

“Now why can’t I have orgasms, Hakan? I demand an explanation. Am I not deemed worthy? Why can’t I have a fucking orgasm anyway?”

“You will when you grow up.”

“But I want it now! Yağmur says she has them all the time, why can’t I?”

“Orgasms don’t come easy,” Yağmur says, “You have to work at it. Remember the adage of our grandmothers - ‘no pain, no gain.”

They laugh their heads off.

They are in front of the big mirror in one of the rooms upstairs, painting their faces with Nisan’s watercolors.

“Let’s go to the ball like this,” Nisan says, busy painting herself into a clown.

Hakan agrees. “Why don’t you paint your breasts, too? It’ll look great.”

“Hey, that’s a very good idea,” Nisan says.

“It’s hard to paint this way. I can’t do it.”

“Hakan, go on, paint her,” Nisan says, “she’ll love your brushstrokes against her breasts.”

“Oh, stop it!” Yağmur says, laughing.

“You do it, I’m no good at painting,” Hakan says.

Hakan finds himself in a nightmare. He feels like his insides are torn from end to end, the slit reaching up his lungs, the blood bursting up his eyes; it’s not so much the pain he feels but rather the viciousness of it, the quality of unconcealed hatred and revenge that scorches his brain; he is barely able to hold on to the mare that runs like she has gone mad, cutting through the night like a spear and breaking all the rules of the blackest dreams. His father’s name pours out from his mouth - in his mother’s voice.

“How are you?”

“Where’s Nisan?” Hakan asks - now we know why he was picked out to be a prophet.

“In the other room, sleeping like an angel. She’s a funny woman - a bit on the slow side, don’t you think? She doesn’t have a clue. She still thinks I’m an undercover Hakanist.”

“Have you heard of the Kronk Trilogy?”

Yağmur is taken off-guard for an instant.

“What about it?”

“It is written there that you won’t be able to take over the Organization, and that you will be crushed in your war against the Prophet.”

Yağmur roars with laughter.

“Your coward prophet will crush me? The yellow bastard that ran away an hour before I got here? Take this down, Cem, mark my words if you dare: you barely got away this time, but I will kill you with my own hands at the ball. You are no prophet. This pathetic creature lying in front of me is no prophet, either. I am the prophet, you hear me? I am the one those people know and obey. And all you are is a pitiful writer doomed to remain in his little corner - if you ever dare to come out of it, I’ll step on you like an insect, I promise I’ll do it personally!”

“God, you’re such an idiot, can’t you see he deserted you and ran away? He used you as a bait to save his own ass, he offered you as a sacrifice. You don’t understand, do you. Are you still waiting for him to get you out of this? It’s too late for anyone to save you now. You don’t exist anymore!”

I committed Hakan suicide once before, in a story entitled “The Noses of the Gods Also Itch”. A deal was made then: in return for his accepting to die by jumping off the Bosphorus Bridge, I was to include Hakan in my new novel. “It doesn’t have to be the leading part, it can be something simple, I just want something decent and a bit original, and please spare my life in the end,” he said. You are my witness that I stuck to the first part of the deal - and amply at that, I think. Then again, as you have witnessed, I couldn’t help sending him off to his death. I am fully aware that I behaved like a Dickinson rascal - and I did that throughout the book. For some reason I was almost obsessed with Hakan’s dying; when the book was still an idea in my head, when nothing was worked out yet, one thing I knew for certain: Hakan was to die in the end (at the beginning). I sincerely felt pangs of guilt throughout the process of writing this novel, and I continually had second thoughts and changes of mind. The least I could do was to face the music and tell him what was in store for him, and I tried - you know I did. I wanted him to intuit - for such things can become the object of communication only through intuition and “sensing”; when they are expressed more overtly they lose their “realness” completely. Up to the last moment, however, despite the fact that “everything was written”, I did not lose my belief, in any case my hope, that some things could change, that Hakan could shake off his lethargy and come up with a solution. I even used Alibey for this purpose. The dress ball was my last vestige of hope: it was designed to bring about a reshuffling of cards a la Heisenberg - knowing for certain where Hakan and I would be necessarily meant knowing nothing about what we would do. But, alas, it was not to be. The only thing I can do now is to apologize to Hakan for not keeping my promise due to my aesthetic obsessions and caprices, even though I know this won’t do any of us any good.

P.S. I was detained from attending the dress ball due to health reasons.