The Flea Palace (52 page)

At the beginning I used to draw circles around Bonbon Palace, brief walks that did not end up anywhere. Step by step the circles started to widen. Over time I started to veer, sometimes on foot, sometimes by car, into the far-flung neighbourhoods of Istanbul. It was the writings on the walls on the streets I was after.

When Ethel told me she wanted to keep me company on these urban trips, I did not object. While I took notes on the writings, she filmed them one by one with her digital camera. With the honey Cherokee, we snaked the rugged streets of destitute quarters, steered through the middle-income vicinities flickering with the ambition of opportunities long lost, toured around mansions, derelict grasslands, sanctums and dens. At squares, courtyards, construction sites, squat houses, places of worship: far and wide the writings were everywhere. Most had been written on the walls with paint but there were also some written with chalk, pencil, coal and brick on doors, cardboard and assorted signs. Just like garbage, the writings about garbage had also been scattered everywhere in the city.

At the places we went, we were immediately noticed. Children followed us curiously. Women suspiciously spied on our every move from behind the lattice tulle of windows. The most inquisitive among the artisans surrounded us each time and showered us with questions. When forced to offer a plausible explanation, we told them it was our school project to gather the ‘Garbage Writings’ of Istanbul. Despite the
absurdity, it made sense to them. It did not at all stick out that both Ethel and I were too old to be students. In their eyes somehow school was deemed untouchable – a place where every absurdity was considered permissible.

Finding the people who had written these things proved to be more arduous than finding the writings themselves. We had to accept the fact that nearly all the writings were anonymous, but I did once manage to find out the perpetrator behind the writing on the wall of a dilapidated, soot grey edifice. ‘Don’t make me swer, I’ll say bad things to garbage trowers. He who trows plaster here, come and get it, don’t trow agen and make me swer.’

The children of the street knew the man who had written it. Though nobody knew his name, they knew his profession. He was a gatekeeper at one of the universities who had resided there with his bedridden wife and mother-in-law until last spring. While the adjacent construction continued, he was so infuriated at the construction workers dumping plaster in front of his house that he had gone out and written that. The man had passed away in the fall, the construction had ended right afterwards, but the writing on the wall had stayed all this time.

‘Can’t you dress more modestly seeing as we create a centre of attention wherever we go anyhow?’ I grumbled at Ethel after we left the neighbourhood of the gatekeeper.

‘Don’t pick on me. Our subject matter is not my clothing but your guilty conscience,’ she snapped as she changed gears. ‘This mess we are in is your “PAGHHC”, not mine.’ She pushed on the gas pedal though the road was getting rougher, narrower ahead. ‘We hit the road for the “Project to Acquit the Gentleman’s Heedlessly Hardened Conscience”! All your life you saw yourself as different from, if not superior to everyone around you, but the moment you realize you’ve messed up the whole lot, you need to prove to yourself that, after all, you are like everyone else! Only that conviction can ease your guilt. You seem to hope that the more we go around collecting garbage writing, the more uncontestable your innocence will
be. “God what have I done! On me resides, if not the blood, the curse of an old woman. I am paying heavily for treating people lightly. At long last I saw the devil and with my very own eyes. I indeed saw him but believed in you, my God. I’m just like everyone else. Look, your other subjects too have written on the walls of Istanbul. Thus what I had done in the past was way too ordinary. Accordingly, I wasn’t as extraordinary a man as I thought I was. Thank God for my ordinariness! If you do love them, you can forgive me as well… You will forgive me God, won’t you?” Pull yourself together sugar-plum! You won’t get anywhere with such futile hopes. Don’t you see the irony in your efforts to purify yourself via garbage?’

After a while, we began to classify the writings into groups. Ethel would transfer the pictures she took to her computer the same day, filing them separately, scrupulously. The most packed category comprised those writings with a slur or smear in them. “He who dumps garbage here is an ass,” was undoubtedly the most popular one. In Galata, on a wall at the Old Bank Street rested: “HE WHO DUMPS GARBAGE HERE IS SON OF A *****!” The rest of the sentence was scrawled out. In Fatih, just at the corner of Usturumcu Street, both fronts of a house with its plaster falling apart were entirely filled up with garbage writings, as if inscribed by someone punished by the teacher who had to write the same thing over a hundred times: “SHE WHO DUMPS GARBAGE IS A WHORE.” Again in the same neighbourhood, in the Broken Water Pump Street it read: “HE WHO DUMPS GARBAGE HERE IS AN ASS WHO IS ALSO THE SON OF AN ASS.” Though swearwords were widespread, the variety was rather limited. In Dolapdere, on the wooden sign tied onto a mulberry tree with a string was written: “IF THE PERSON WHO DUMPS GARBAGE HERE IS A WOMAN, SHE IS
A WHORE, IF A MAN, HE IS A PIMP.” A few steps down the street, another bit of writing caught the eye, this time in front of a house: “THOSE WHO THROW GARBAGE HERE DESERVE ALL SORTS OF SWEARWORDS.” In Örnektepe, on top of a wall that was falling to pieces, there was loads of writing in black and white. Each bit of writing seemed to have been produced on top of an earlier one, augmenting the bedlam. One among them, written in indigo, looked pretty new: “HE WHO DUMPS GARBAGE HERE IS A SON OF A BITCH: ONE WHO IS A HUMAN BEING WILL UNDERSTAND WHAT I MEAN.” The most vulgar in the swearword file was some writing in Dolapdere: “HE WHO THROWS GARBAGE HERE, FUCK HIS MOTHER, WIFE, SISTER, HIS PAST, HIS FUTURE, HIS WHOLE FAMILY.”

Second in popularity were the ones based on human-animal distinctions. In Galata, at Display Window Street a sign said: “IF YOU ARE A HUMAN BEING YOU WON’T DUMP GARBAGE, IF YOU ARE A BEAR, YOU SURE WILL.” In the Little Ditch Street on the side-wall of a bank was written in coal: “HE WHO IS FAR FROM BEING A HUMAN WILL DUMP GARBAGE HERE”. In Dolapdere, at the entrance to an apartment building was written with chalk “HUMANLIKE HUMANS DO NOT DUMP GARBAGE.” Similar writings had covered both walls of the ancient Assyrian church: “DON’T DUMP GARBAGE, BE A HUMAN”, “THE ONE WHO DUMPS GARBAGE HERE IS AS BASE AS GARBAGE ITSELF…”

In the third category, were those writings we gathered which tried to promote consciousness of citizenship. In Kustepe, for instance, it was written: “HE WITH A HABIT OF POLLUTING THE ENVIRONMENT HAS A HEAD BUT NOT A BRAIN.” Again in the same neighbourhood, on a tin sign hammered on an intersection, was the sentence: “LET US NOT LEAVE GARBAGE HERE LET US NOT DISRESPECT THE ENVIRONMENT.” Unlike most of the
other garbage writings, this one was neatly written. In Balat, around the old well in the middle of the bazaar, one read: “THE ONE WHO DUMPS GARBAGE HAS NO HONOUR. THIS PLACE BELONGS TO ALL OF US”; in Örnektepe, on the wall of a house that looked ready to collapse at the slightest earthquake, was written: “THE ONE WHO DUMPS GARBAGE HERE WOULD HAVE DONE INJUSTICE TO HIS NEIGHBOURS.” The visitors of the Greek Patriarchate in Fener were welcomed from afar by the sign: “HE WHO DUMPS GARBAGE HERE WILL GROW TO BE A MOST DESPICABLE PERSON.”

Quite a number of these writings were left incomplete. Some looked worn out over time, others as if incomplete from the start. “THE ONE WHO DUMPS…” was written at all kinds of corners in Istanbul, with the rest of the sentence not following. In Harbiye at Papa Roncalli Street, across the walls of the elementary school, letters had dropped off the writing: “THE ONE WH DMPS GARBAGE HRE WILL BECOM AN AS.”

Then there were also many bits of writing that gave outright threats. Among them, the one most often repeated was: “HE WHO DUMPS GARBAGE HERE WILL GET INTO BIG TROUBLE.” In Fatih, the historic fountain next to the Three Heads Mosque, was filled with garbage writings loaded with threats: “DO NOT DUMP GARBAGE HERE/OR ELSE YOU WILL BE DUMPED WITH TROUBLE.” Yet the worst among those containing threats and curses was the one written on a piece of cardboard with a felt-tip pen hanging on the wall of a busy street in the same neighbourhood: “MAY THE CHILD OF HE WHO THROWS GARBAGE HERE BREATHE HIS LAST.”

In addition to the insulting, there were also many that were way too polite: “WILL YOU PLEASE DO NOT DUMP GARBAGE,” or “IT IS KINDLY REQUESTED THAT YOU DO NOT DUMP GARBAGE AT THIS SPOT.” In the entrance of the Kaptanpasa, an elementary school, there were
two signs back to back, one written for the students inside and the other addressing the passers-by outside: “PLEASE DO NOT THROW GARBAGE INTO OUR SCHOOL GARDEN FROM THE OUTSIDE.” There was a similar sign on the wooden boards surrounding the construction at the entrance to Asmalιmescit, this time half-Turkish, half-English: “DUMPING GARBAGE IS STRICTLY PROHIBITED, PLEASE!” Once again, at Good Fortune Street: “WHOEVER LOVES GOD SHOULD NOT DUMP GARBAGE HERE IT IS KINDLY REQUESTED.”

Among the garbage writings, ‘prohibited’ was the most frequent word. On the walls surrounding the Wallachian Palace, engraved with big letters, was: “IT IS VERY PROHIBITED TO THROW GARBAGE.” Likewise, on the side wall of a famous tailor in Harbiye, the writing was short and to the point: “GARBAGE HERE FORBIDDEN.” The word ‘absolutely’ was just as widespread. On the humongous wall of the SSK Okmeydanι Education Hospital Polyclinics, highly visible from down the street was: “DUMPING GARBAGE IS ABSOLUTELY PROHIBITED!” and a few steps away from it: “TO DUMP GARBAGE DEBRIS FORBIDDEN UNCONDITIONALLY.”

There was almost never a name given under any of the writing. They remained absolutely anonymous. Still, now and then we bumped into some exceptions. In those situations where the need to invest the writings with some sort of authority was crystal clear, the name of the head of the neighbourhood was encountered the most. On the Mesnevihane Street it was written: “IT IS REQUESTED THAT NO GARBAGE BE DUMPED, OTHERWISE A FINE WILL BE APPLIED!/THE NEIGHBOURHOOD HEAD.” Municipalities also got involved in the business: “THE MUNICIPALITY WILL UNDERTAKE PENALTY PROCEDURES CONCERNING THOSE DUMPING GARBAGE HERE.” Sometimes the inhabitants of the neighbourhood owned up to the writing, as seen in Zeyrek:
“MAY GOD BRING MISFORTUNE ON THOSE WHO PARK OR DUMP THEIR GARBAGE HERE/NEIGHBOURHOOD RESIDENTS.”

Writings concerning religion and faith came next. Around the remains of the palace rebuilt by the Moldavian Prince Dmitri Cantemir during 1688–1710, it was written: “FOR ALLAH’S SAKE DO NOT THROW GARBAGE HERE.” Like the Private Fener Greek High School, the surroundings of various mosques too were filled with similar writings. At Kagithane Smoky Street was a computer print-out: “THOSE WHO HAVE RELIGION AND FAITH WILL KNOW BETTER THAN THROWING GARBAGE HERE,” and a hundred metres down: “MAY THOSE WHO DUMP GARBAGE BE ETERNALLY PARALYZED.” On one of the side streets opening up to the Kadiköy Square was: “GOD WILL POUR CALAMITY ON THOSE WHO DUMP THEIR GARBAGE HERE.” In Fatih, at a garden wall swathed with political campaign posters it said: “PLEASE DO REFRAIN FROM THROWING GARBAGE HERE. THEY CURSE YOU.” In the same borough, an old cemetery squeezed between two apartment buildings had also had its share of garbage writings. The front of an apartment building facing the cemetery was painted from one end to the other in capital letters: “FOR ALLAH’S SAKE DO NOT DUMP GARBAGE.” Then in Cihangir, on a historic, dry fountain we chanced upon some writing, looking awesomely familiar: “THERE LIES A SACRED SAINT AT THIS SPOT. DO NOT DUMP GARBAGE.”

The smell of Istanbul reached the writings everywhere: at an unexpected arc, on a secluded hill where genies congregated, in an ancient cistern, on the long lost remnants of a mansion; in dead end streets, flea markets and bazaars; on the façades of stylish apartment buildings, dingy headquarters or hospitals with an appearance so awful it made you sick; in cold looking schools and at shrines the names of which were not even included in God’s maps…in each and every spot where the
aged and the recent intertwined there was garbage writing scattered all around…

It did not take Ethel long to get bored. Before I knew it, she drifted away from both the garbage project and me. In her warehouse of lovers wherein each lover remained as just another unfinished project, I too became an unfinished project.

‘What are you going to do with so many photographs?’ frowned the Blue Mistress, discontentedly scanning my flat, which increasingly resembled a depot more than a house. ‘What purpose will they serve?’

‘I do not accumulate them to serve a purpose.’

‘Why on earth are you doing this?’ she insisted.

I do not have the impression of doing anything. I guess in the last analysis, all my actions are determined more by not doing than by my doing; lack of action rather than action. I cannot help searching: when I search, I find, what I find I collect, what I collect I accumulate and what I accumulate I cannot bear to throw away.

‘What is going to happen next?’ asked the Blue Mistress adamantly.

‘WHAT IS GOING TO HAPPEN NEXT?’ asked my cellmate adamantly.

‘There is no next. The guy just accumulates garbage writings that will never be of any use to him.’

‘Nonsense!’ said my cellmate. I wasn’t offended. After all, that is the coarsest way ever invented of saying ‘You have a fanciful mind!’ and he might be right. Whenever I get anxious and mess up what I have to say, am scared of people’s stares and pretend not to be so, introduce myself to strangers and feign ignorance about how estranged I am from myself, feel hurt by the past and find it hard to admit the future won’t be any better or fail to come to terms with either where or who I am; at any one of these all too frequently recurring moments, I know I don’t make much sense, but nonsense is just as far removed from deception as truth. Deception turns truth inside out. As for nonsense, it solders deception and truth to each other so much so as to make them indistinguishable. Though this might seem complicated, it’s actually very simple. So simple that it can be expressed by a single line.