“Is that Inspector Candaş?” “Speaking.” “I am from the neighbouring patch.” Already the alarm bells were ringing, I started to feel panicky and happy at the same time. “How can I help you? “We had a report relating to a Mesut…” He did not need to say anymore, as the distant memory flitted through of what must have been 6 years ago, I smiled then panicked oh god after all these years a complaint that I was drunk. “Can you help, you visited him as we all know a number of years ago?” “Sorry, I missed the last bit.” “Can you carry out a welfare check? One of those big noises from İstanbul is worried about him, not seen him for God knows how long.” “Sure. Sure, will do.” “Thanks Inspector Candaş.” All of a sudden, I felt all warm and fuzzy at the thought of visiting that delightful place and of course Mesut.
Mad, bad, good to know
I took the coastal road, going down to the town centre, I thought I had got lost but there it was, the name of the town. The small fishing boats gone, the burger and pint bar gone, the tea house where they repaired fishing nets gone. instead, plush restaurants and coffee houses and concrete replacing the ancient houses. Oh god this is ugly and I sped along to the village, but there was no joy here. One off-license had been turned into a boutique shop the other closed. The whole place reeked of money, these were tiny mansions. Locals had been bought and wiped out. Ah, but at least Mesut was still here.
I parked the car outside a run-down two-storey flat, is this Mesut’s? The bottom flat was empty and looked gutted. Before knocking on his door a man appeared, very dapper arty type. “Hi I’m Can, it was me who called the police. He won’t open for me, just calls for you, will you tell me what you find?” “Yes,” I replied nervously, this didn’t look or smell good.
I knocked on the door with trepidation, whispering my name. “Come in, come in, I’ve been expecting you.” The voice sounded cheerful and upbeat. I pushed my way in against a tidal wave of newspapers and bills that fluttered in the air like paper confetti. The house appeared dark, stuffy and unkempt, as did Mesut. I caught the outline of his white hair, beard and worn-out clothes. “Sit down, sit down.” His blue kind eyes still beaming. “What happened?” I whispered almost embarrassed to say and feeling awful when I did. I turned my eyes away from the unmarked bottles of rakı and fixed my eyes on the table and the bright yellow and red warning notice to vacate the property. “Life, my boy, that’s what happened, look.” He handed me two pieces of paper, one his pension the other the rent. “This leaves you with nothing!” “Exactly, so I stopped paying anything. Come on inspector, let’s go on the balcony for old times’ sake.” My feet felt like lead butI was giddy. “I’ll rustle up some breakfast for you.” He came back with a piece of bread and cheese and poured from the unknown bottle, I declined. The balcony still had its charm but these were mere cinders now. “You have to leave by 9am tomorrow, the bulldozers are coming,” I said with a lump in my throat. We chatted a bit more but I was so sad even to look at him, I got up to go. “Don’t worry about me, they won’t do anything, trust me.” Did he see my tear.
I phoned Can and told him. “Bastards. I’ll knock on every bloody door in the neighbourhood, we’ll stop them.” He sounded revolutionary and certain, I wasn’t.
The morning brought nothing… Can nailed a few planks to the door but the promised resistance didn’t even amount to one. He was pushed aside as they smashed the door down, Can followed. Mesut was lying in his chair with a foul smelling bootleg rakı in hand. Dead. The workers carried on following orders as the body was taken away to the morgue. Can fell to his knees as if he had been shot, he was in bits, his tears falling like rain on the ground.
We sorted out the burial for just us two and a patch of earth in the woodland overlooked by his now abandoned balcony. I volunteered for patrol duty that night, aimlessly driving round and around.
In the main square a projection screen was installed which began to show old Turkish movies. People stopped and stared in delight. Then followed the title “A life in a day of Mesut Aydın, by Can Yıldırım.” Interviews and tales of Mesut followed, a darkened room then appeared on screen and the harrowing discussion with the officer. The audience turned away, no this is not happening they appeared to be saying. Some became very vocal towards Can and his team. The police were called. “Are you in the area Inspector? Go to the square immediately, backup is on its way.” The film hovered over his dead body with glass in hand, the bulldozers, then the lonely plot of land. “What is this???” screamed the crowd. Missiles were thrown at the screen, the police rushed. “Arrest him officer.” “I can’t.” And I walked away throwing my badge on the ground. The following day the funeral past in silence and we parted ways.
6 weeks later I got a call from Can and we arranged to meet at my house. “So, what happened to you?” said Can bluntly. “I’m suspended and likely to lose my job. And you?” “Can’t complain.” And he put a stacked brown envelope on the table. “The film, well, it’s not a blockbuster here or even shown, but in Europe and the US it’s selling. Well, here’s your share. 50/50” “Really?” “Yes.” I thanked and held his hand in warm gratitude.
“Off we go then.” “Where? What?” In a few minutes we were sitting on the rubble of Mesut’s drinking rakı and eating lavishly as he should have done till the end. When people complained we gave them a mouthful of abuse and then the nomination for the Cannes film prize The Golden Palm came on screen. “And the winner is…. A Life in Day of Mesut Aydın by Can Yildirim.” “We’re sorry we can’t be with you tonight but this is the only place we want to be.” Thunderous applause could be heard via the video link.
The tears and rakı flowed way into the night. You won Mesut even though the country lost, YOU.
