Save the Last Bullet for God (21 page)

Regardless of everything, I treated him with
motherly compassion, caressing his head while sitting beside him in
front of the screen and sipping my coffee. I watched him in
silence, thinking about what to do: whether I would be able to
survive or if I would lose him as he lost his mind. My God, I
didn’t know what to do. He was with me at home, but he was only
semiconscious. I hoped he wouldn’t deteriorate.

In the evenings, when I came back from work,
and saw him like that, although I felt sad, I would always ask him,
“How was your day, honey?” His disconnection from the world
prevented him from taking care of himself. He forgot to eat most of
his meals and began to lose weight. Most of the time, I would force
him to stand up from his desk to eat something.

Turgay visited a few times and even brought
his psychiatrist friend on the sly for one of the visits. Turgay,
albeit timidly, said to me, “We think he is really schizophrenic;
he will have to be observed—we would normally hospitalize someone
in his state.” I begged, cried, screamed, and put up a fight, and
in the end, I convinced them to give me one more chance and not
take him away from me. They were hesitant, but I counted on love:
It would overcome everything.

And just like that, months passed and the
seasons turned again.

One evening, when I returned from work,
exhausted, I heard cries of joy in the dark house. Having lit a few
candles, Oktay stood happily before me with shining eyes. He was
holding some crumpled pieces of paper that he had tried to wrap
with a red ribbon from the rubbish bin. While looking at this
miserable man in shabby clothes and collapsed shoulders, I was
overcome by an indefinable sadness and a hopeless pain. It was such
a strong sorrow that I couldn’t even cry.

To my confusion, following a kiss, he gave
me the roll of papers as if it were the biggest gift in the world.
“It’s finally done!” he yelled before using all the remaining
strength of his weak body to hug me and try to spin me around. His
movements were clumsy, and, instead, we rolled on the ground and
laughed. He was laughing for happiness. I was laughing because I
didn’t know what else to do.

“No one would believe me, but I did it: I’m
done with the book!” His jubilant screams bounced off the walls.
Watching him like that, I wept for a long time: for myself, for
what I’d lost, and for love. Love was there, but beaten.

That night, I hugged him and tried to calm
him down with my whispers and make him sleep. I hugged whatever was
left of him, and when the candles went out, we were still holding
on to each other while sharing the melancholy sea view through the
window.

The next day, Oktay stated that he was
inexperienced in these matters, that he didn’t have any academic
experience, and that he hadn’t had a book published as I had. He
asked me to be his manager. I had lost him, but I wouldn’t yet
completely accept it. Whatever it took, I promised myself I would
devote myself to this battle. I wouldn’t let them take him away
from me and lock him in a mental asylum. They wouldn’t understand
him, take care of him right, or return him to me.

One night while he was sleeping, I stepped
outside and screamed. It was the scream of a captive soldier whose
army had been defeated and whose friends had all died. I was worn
out. His discovery process had been exhausting enough, and then
there was the writing process. I needed to get some rest and put my
mind together.

The next day, Oktay again asked me to
find an editor, contact the publisher, and help with the
publication of his book, and, for the next few days, Oktay
pretended to be occupied with medical things in front of the
computer while I supported him as usual. I told him it was a tough
process to publish a book as I was trying in vain to keep him busy
while calming him down and distracting him. I answered
Turgay’s
‘How’s-Oktay’
calls
with “fine,” “much better,” and “there is no problem.”

Oktay was patient with the waiting process
at first, but he became bored as it grew longer. Asking if the
delay was normal, he began to put some pressure on me, even
becoming aggressive. Was there something I knew but wasn’t telling
him? We quarreled. He held my shoulders and shook me. Then, after
he calmed down, he confessed his thoughts and fears more calmly.
What if the publisher stole his book with the code that he’d found
and published it as if he had written it? What if the thief had the
money and the fame to impress the media? These worries obviously
troubled his mind, and there was only one way to appease him. I had
to ask one of my colleagues to pretend to be Oktay’s editor.
Fortunately, after some understandable questions, my colleague said
that he would help, and I told him what he needed to say.

Two days later, I showed up with the
‘editor.” It was worth all the effort to see the relief on Oktay’s
face. We hosted my friend for a while, and in response, he repeated
what he had memorized: everything was magnificent; he’d read
everything, from the beginning to the end without touching even a
letter. Of course, Oktay was ecstatic. The book was expected to be
a great success. The editorial stage had only been longer because
the book was very comprehensive and contained a great amount of
mathematical data.

Oktay held my friend’s hands with an
indefinable joy as he cried with happiness. He kissed the man’s
cheeks and ran to his room, ignoring the surprised expression on my
colleagues face.

During the following days, the house was
like a festival. Every evening, when we sat face-to-face at the
dinner table, Oktay shared his excitement. Though his talk was
nonsense, I listened to him like a mother whose son had won an
essay contest. We were having meals together like the old days.

Later that night, as he was watching
the moonlight, I, afraid of losing him, tried to scratch every
memory I could into my mind: Oktay’s face, the moonlight, and Orhan
Gencebay in my ear…
God, you are almighty;
God, you see all. Stop the time; let your servants
smile
.

I knew, now that the book had been
“accepted,” I would need a new distraction. In order to please
Oktay, to keep from losing him, I would say whatever was necessary.
“All the agreements and legal procedures are being completed,” I
told him. But it was hard to satisfy him, and he asked more
questions. It didn’t take long for him to press me about the
printing and when he would see the first copy in his hand. He was
increasingly obsessed with his desire for the printed book.

Every morning he would ask me if the book
had appeared. The unrest he felt while waiting for the book made me
extremely tense. I hated seeing him in this condition.

I searched the marketplace for a graphic
artist. Finally, I got a graphic artist friend to draw up a book
cover. I glued the image on three blank books of the same size. It
wasn’t a stroke of genius, and it didn’t take much labor, but this
act came out of my despair. I knew it was no cure.

When I came home with three “rough drafts”,
feeling guilty, Oktay became indefinably happy, and I definably
sad. He grabbed one copy from my hand, kissed me on the cheek and
ran to his room in childlike happiness. I was all alone in the
middle of the living room with two books in my hand. I felt like a
soldier alone on a battlefield, sword down, defeated, and unable to
move. That was the longest and most painful night of all. It made
me realize that there was still more to lose, and I was all
alone.

The next morning, as I was rushing out of
the house as if to run away, Oktay slipped the two remaining copies
of his book into my hand. One of the books was for Turgay, he said,
and the other for his little brother. These were only two of the
thousands of pains I would go through.

I took the books and wandered around the
streets of Istanbul, quietly asking the dark water of the Bosphorus
if it wanted me. I consulted the planes in the sky to see if they
would take me to another land. I asked my brain if there was some
mechanism to shut it down or reset. When I finally turned back home
that evening, I was empty-handed, while behind me two signed books
bobbed and sank in the water of the Bosphorus.

As I was thinking that I’d seen the worst, I
entered our house and immediately found out I was wrong. Oktay had
put chairs around the table in the living room and decorated the
walls with weird patterns and paints. On the table, there were
papers, a jug, a few glasses, pens, and a notebook. I stood there,
shocked, as I blankly watched the scene.

My Oktay was gone, and a lot of characters
with different tones of voice and expressions were talking through
his lips—sometimes slowly, sometimes fast. Some were peacemakers,
and some were aggressive. With each character, his facial
expressions and posture changed. Sometimes, he sounded like a
professional broadcaster moderating a discussion. At other times,
he talked like someone leaning over to speak in the ear of someone
else. Sometimes he answered himself, and sometimes he became
someone who spoke distinct nonsense that he believed in. I
occasionally recognized my Oktay among those characters, but then
he would immediately disappear. Rearranging the chairs, he kept
talking while assuming different postures.

Watching him, I recognized an Oktay beyond
my control, divided into multiple personalities. I couldn’t stand
it anymore; I didn’t have any strength left. So, when I finally saw
the character of Oktay reappear and begin to speak, I pulled him to
me and asked, “What are you doing? Enough! I can’t take it
anymore!” I started to cry. One of his other characters returned,
and I fought with him as he tried to calm me down.

I kicked the chair covered with blankets
that was supposed to be the camera and upended the discussion
table. I pushed lit lamps to the floor, and their electrical cables
emitted little sparks. I had the right to lose myself, too. This
was too much!

Oktay walked up to me, and, while trying to
hold me, he slapped my face.

I froze.

My nose and mouth were covered in blood and
my feelings shifted between anger and hopelessness as the salt from
my tears mixed with my blood. Oktay was shocked and stood in front
of me unable to speak. He finally mumbled something but then fell
silent again. I took a deep breath and wiped the tears and blood
from my face with the back of my hand.

I took Oktay’s hand, led him to his room,
and made him lie down on the bed. Putting Oktay to bed was like
carrying a full glass of water. His situation was critical, and I
knew that the slightest mistake would cause the glass to overflow.
I had to put him down safely without allowing my hands to
tremble.

When I returned to the living room, I
surveyed the memories of the night’s violent episode.

I slowly put the room back in order. First,
I picked up the lamps and chords, then removed all the papers from
the table and walls. When I was done, I observed the living room
for a moment and turned out the lights. With a tissue covered in
dry blood, I sat by the window until morning.

In the morning, I was worn out. Not just
from fatigue but also from the decision I had made. I called Turgay
and explained everything to him. He was alarmed, and I calmed him
down. At that moment, I felt like someone who had to calm everyone
down.

“Turgay,” I said, “you must arrange for
hospitalization. I’ll pack his stuff and take him there.” I knew I
had to prevent Turgay from coming to the house. If Oktay saw him at
home, especially after such a night, it would be a disaster. I
convinced him by saying that if anyone but me took Oktay, they
would hurt him and wouldn’t understand his condition.

I tidied up the living room a bit, putting
Oktay’s things aside. I opened the door of his room and cuddled
next to him in bed. I knew it was the last time, and I hugged him
tightly and buried his head in my bosom. I stayed still in the room
with the curtains closed, caressing his head.

God, you see all. Stop the time; let your
servants smile…

I do not know how much time passed before we
woke up. Staring at me, he listened as if he would believe
everything I said. I told him that last night’s TV show had made
incredible ratings, that the telephone lines were all tied up, and
that everyone had listened enthusiastically to everything that he
had said about the book. The TV channel, having seen the ratings,
had now decided to create a new program where everyone involved
would have a chance to display his or her talent.

I told him the show was called BBM and would
be full of conspicuous characters, including Oktay himself. I
explained how he would get famous and, more precisely, get more
opportunities and time to promote his thoughts and his book. I
explained that the program would last for a few weeks (with the
possibility of elimination).

God, how happy he was! He confessed to me
that he’d expected something like that to happen but hadn’t told
me. After all, he had performed miracles last night. I made him sit
opposite the living-room window while I packed his stuff. I left
the window half-open so that he would get some air and relief. As
for him, he took a piece of paper to study and sat, waiting for me.
When I finished, I went back to the living room. He was sitting on
the edge of his chair with his face toward the window. The wind,
through the half-opened window, carried a few raindrops.

I slowly put my hand on his shoulder.
“Everything is ready,” I said. After a pause, he stood up and
closed the window. He came to the living room and checked his
things one by one. Then he hugged me, and I couldn’t resist burying
my head on his shoulder to give him some warmth. I was looking for
an opportunity to cry on his shoulder for the last time, to touch
him, to lose myself in him.