Code of Disjointed Letters: ( Doomsday Will Arise From the Past (11 page)

Hidir looked at me in astonishment. “Zamzam water; it has been there since the Prophet Abraham.”

Feryal looked at us with a questioning look.

Hidir explained. “There is some water in the middle of the desert, of unknown origin, that gathers no moss, never dries, and holds no microorganisms.”

“Okay. Special water, water with a special characteristic—let’s call it Zamzam,” Feryal said. “How do you think it could change its form?” she asked, now surprised and excited.

It was my turn to explain. “It is always said that the language of God should be spoken in a holy and special frequency. It is the human larynx and the Qur’an
suras
that provide this frequency. Furthermore,” I explained, “each different energy frequency can turn water molecules into different forms by affecting each of them differently. Thus, oscillation of each voice frequency could turn water into a form we don’t know by entering into a resonance with the water.”

Hidir and Feryal exchanged glances of amazement. When I noticed the shine in their eyes, it was obvious that we had already decided to give the experiment a try. There were only a few days until the final episode, but we had a chance to show the world something new.

The next days passed quickly as we set to work. The cleric read each sura of the Qur’an carefully into a special recording device. The program managers met our demands for a sound-modulation system and brought along the supporting computer equipment as well. Even our demand for pure Zamzam water was accepted, though with some bewilderment. Dr. Feryal Özel’s demand for particular scientific tools were answered without question. I assumed that the excitement of the program managers was an indicator of the mood of the audience. As we worked, we were notified that December 21, 2012 was the day of the final show.

Concerns about whether we would finish on time made us and the managers increasingly nervous. Right before the show, Feryal was barely able to convince the managers to provide her with a special magnetic resonance device with which to perform the calibration process.

The complex machine was installed in my room. As the machine was small, its isolation could be easily maintained, and all the walls of my room had undergone a special process for protection from any external influences.

The night of the show arrived.

Shortly before going on the air, we left the Big Brother studios for the first time since our arrival. We traveled by special vehicles with special security measures. We went to a screening center where we entered a specially calibrated MRI machine. With little time to waste, the calibration and the magnetic proton spin resonance was preserved—as it was identical to that of water. We then went back to the BBM studios accompanied by the same security team. When we arrived, we went directly to my room and to the safety of isolation. All the hustle and bustle made it feel like we were in an action movie. Once we got inside, we were finally alone, and we wished each other luck.

The recording of the final episode began. The show was touted as the most exciting and suspenseful live program in television history, and this only doubled the tension.

Feryal’s machine began working with a slight buzz and we watched the thin transparent tube with its tiny water drop. Just as Feryal had said, the molecules in the drop of water carried cohesive forces that had a certain limit, and when they reached that limit, they would form the perfect water drop. That was our cue to begin transmitting the suras of the Qur’an. From the vibrations of the suras, the water drop appeared to resonate along with the sound modulation formed by the different frequencies.

The tiny water drop completed its formation, and it seemed about to fall down as expected. But instead, it hung in the air for a while and then rose slightly. At the same time, it transformed into a miraculous form of undefinable color, shape, and brightness. This magnificent form remained suspended, and, soon after, another water drop, following the previous one, started to rise, vibrating and changing its shape and form as well. As light passed through these transparent forms, some bright figures and numbers appeared on the wall. As one water drop came close to the other drop, the two merged together. Other water drops were now moving toward the water drops already hanging in the air, displaying colors and shapes that mankind had never before seen or imagined.

As the suras continued being read, and the number of drops changed by the suras’ resonances got closer to 114, a figure began to appear in the middle of the room. It was a hypercube, one that I’d heard about in books but could never visualize, even in my dreams. The cube was four-dimensional cube and formed by amazing colors. It looked like a computer that had different pages of information on each plane. As this masterpiece took shape right in front of our eyes, hanging in the air as if to challenge all the laws of physics, we experienced a feeling beyond astonishment.

We were so stunned that we didn’t notice the sudden arrival of a number of uniformed officers. Breaking the door, they entered with shouts of “Cut the broadcast immediately! Stop everything!” We stood still as they unplugged the device and tried to turn it off. Then chaos ensued.

A BBM coordinator ran in, screaming, “What do you think you’re doing?!” He grabbed Feryal by her shoulders and began to beat her. Hıdır rushed to protect the professor from the coordinator, but I couldn’t move and I didn’t know why. My body and mind were suddenly overcome with exhaustion and I remained still.

I was losing consciousness and my sense of time and space were disappearing. Through my misty vision, I saw Hidir and Feryal on the floor, covered in blood and about to collapse. Before I knew it, everyone else had left and I was alone. Had I won? I wanted to stand up, yell, and fight, but I was too far away to succeed.

The door opened, and suddenly I noticed that my bonds were untied, and I could move. I proceeded toward a lighted corridor.

Elif

It was the most comfortable, peaceful, and happiest period of my life. Istanbul was a very beautiful city, and every moment in the city warmed and welcomed me like a good friend. I was a young assistant at the university, making my wedding plans while trying to finish my thesis in the department of foreign languages. Life hadn’t showed me its challenges yet, and I was indulging in all the excitement of youth.

I went to concerts and presentations or hung out with my boyfriend or went with him to enjoy the nightlife with our friends. To me, life was beautiful. I was young, my dreams were happy, and my worries about work could be easily pushed aside. My future was ahead of me, and I was proceeding joyfully.

Then a storm came. My boyfriend got a job offer with a successful position after his graduation, and he went out to “celebrate” with my girlfriend from school. Through a bit of coincidence, I caught them. I was devastated. The man in my life and all of our future plans were now in the rubbish bin.

Istanbul became a city of sadness. The dark water of the Bosphorus scared me with its currents and swirls. The city seemed as if each location was in another dimension or another time, and these dimensions and times were all in layers. When I was in one half of the city, the other half was always in another land—on another continent.

But it was a city of infinite possibilities, so I remained strong until my storm passed. I did everything I could think of to pass the time. There was no one special in my life, old or new, but I wasn’t exactly alone. I met up with old friends. In the back of my mind was the cliché, “time will heal everything.”

No matter where I was, my mind was always with me, and when I realized I couldn’t run away from my thoughts, I made a new friend: alcohol.

I was also introduced to quanta during that time. I understood it, assimilated it, and beautifully adapted it to my life. The only thing I would give to the outside was uncertainty.

That’s when I met Oktay.

The research campus that led the world in conducting Turkey’s experimental studies related to quantum mechanics, and the area where it gathered all its genius people, was known as Istiklal Street. It was known as the center of wandering—a good street to practice the principle of uncertainty. Istikal is also home to the Jazz Stop, the only place you can indulge in smoking indoors until four in the morning while listening to live music.

It was past midnight, and I had just cleared out all my acquaintances by boring them with quantum philosophy (my friend, alcohol, and I were having a deep talk that night). Feeling a little too relaxed, I stumbled back onto somebody’s lap.

I offered my prince a false apology, but, then, I took a second look and my furtive glance showed me a man of medium height, wavy blond hair, green eyes, and a little charisma. But still, I didn’t cut him a break.

“Why are you looking at me like that?” I said.

He leaned forward and asked in a timid voice, “Do you have a name?”

“None of your business,” I said.

“Pretty name, but your parents must not like you very much; why else would they give you a name like ‘None of your business?’” He was being absurd, but it made me take a second look.

My second impression was mostly the same, but this time, I realized he had more self-confidence and that his eyes were blue. I felt a sudden spark.

…

Istanbul once again became a narrator of beautiful tales. It told stories of two hearts blessed by love and fate.

Once, during the first few days of our relationship, Oktay took off my glasses and said, “You’re more beautiful like this; you’ve been unfair to yourself all this time.” So after that, no glasses. My vision was a little fuzzy at first, but then it improved.

Oktay was my fabulous new disease, and his initial side effect was memory loss. I forgot all that was old and bad. It was a fairy tale, and we were flying rapidly on its wings. Oktay promised a magnificent wedding and a honeymoon on the Monte Negro coast. Love was everywhere.

We moved to Tuzla, at the edge of Istanbul, because it was close to the hospital where Oktay worked. We bought a house with a sea view in a building among pine trees. The scenery captivated us for hours. Most evenings we simply lit our candles, turned off the lights, watched the scenery, and held each other. We would sometimes stay like this until sunrise. We were always together.

Although a bit late in my academic career, I transferred to a university near where we lived. After a busy day, I would run home to Oktay. Sometimes I would even make up an excuse to escape from work early. He was also working at an intense pace, but once we were home, we were ourselves again. We were happy, and each day was a feast.

From our house, we watched the turn of the seasons, and years quickly passed. Oktay recently knocked into middle age, was working in an ordinary private hospital, and was living an ordinary life. He was smart and intellectual but not very social. But I liked that he spent all his time with me at home. Like most other people, he enjoyed watching football, and he never got tired of watching sports or sports-news programs on TV. He always had an opinion on Fenerbahce. He didn’t think there was a need to add to our life. He was satisfied having dinner with relatives or going to the cinema with me. I sometimes watched him as he wrote MR reports online, read a book, or browsed the comics, and he made me read the jokes that he liked the most.

Eventually, he grew interested in more mysterious subjects, such as the symmetry of the universe, time travel, evolution, the lost continents of Mu and Atlantis, astrological divinations, life in outer space, ancient civilizations, and particularly the secret code in the Holy Qur’an. When he found a book on one of these topics, he got completely absorbed in it, and, if he saw a related documentary, he was glued to the screen. Our house suddenly overflowed with books, CDs, and DVDs. As time went on, the time that Oktay set aside for such pursuits began to increase.

Our conversations became shallow, empty small talk, but I still believed love was there. During his manic-depressive fluctuations, he lived as if by himself. He was either closed off or outwardly rejoicing, but the rest of the time, he was still my Oktay.

As the house continued to overflow with books, our conversations and his statements became shallower. His love for me hadn’t decreased, but it seemed hidden behind his poor expressive style. As he went through his mood swings, he would sometimes turn in upon himself and at other times overflow with emotion. But he was still my Oktay.

That was only the beginning. I began finding Oktay staring out the window for hours or talking to himself about worms eating a book. He began to struggle as things at work started to go wrong. I noticed a few warning signs that he ignored. I thought the best idea would be for him to take an unpaid holiday and avoid the damage that his carelessness might cause. He was a radiologist, and the reports he wrote could affect the lives of his patients. Once he agreed and got the holiday, he was free to make more time for himself.

I admired his determination as he tried to arrange texts with Arabic letters, dots, and lines. It gave me some peace and, since I was in my own battle with my thesis supervisors, peace was essential for me.

As Oktay secluded himself in his room, I saw that those tiny cubes had begun to form into a giant sculpture comprised of tiny, transparent cubes forming large and small layers of squares. Oktay told me about the beauty and magnificence of his masterpiece, how the planes were squared in the process of production. (I had no idea what he was talking about.) He called it a puzzle and talked about things like disjointed letters and cubes. After each big discovery, he would run out of his study, hugging and sometimes kissing me and telling me with great excitement about his splendid achievements. He was like a kid: cute, but always hungry for understanding and love.