Mesut lived at the bottom of the road at the top a two-storey apartment, with a clear view of the comings and goings of the street below thronged with tourists in the season. He was not mad or bad, maybe life had just thrown to many obstacles for him to come through unscathed and the alcohol that built up in his system during the day was his only escape from it all.
He spent his time sitting on the balcony watching his TV through the mosquito mesh of his door frame. smoking copious amounts of cigarettes, stroking his thick glowing white moustache matching his hair, there was no way of mistaking him. And he, but not his life, was well known to the locals.
He started the day well with a lush Turkish breakfast of the finest olives of the region, some feta and fresh bread and would then sit himself on the balcony, where he would spend the rest of the day. Opening his first beer around mid-day, flicking through the endless gossip channels before settling for the news ones of which there were about 10 (is there really that much news in the world!).
He would quickly get irritated at what he saw standing up and shouting obscenities at each and every politician.
“You lying bastard.”
“Hypocrite.”
“Thief.”
“Jail them all.”
“You Nazi.”
“God you’re pathetic.“
“You nasty shit.”
“You bloody devil.”
And…
“You ox!”
(Why such a rather nice animal is such a bad word in Turkey I have no idea. I mean, it’s like calling someone a zebra).
These words and more quickly became the vocabulary that the children who passed by learnt first, way before they could count to a hundred or describe where they live.
“Grandma.” “Yes dear” “You’re pathetic.”
“Erkan, would you like some chips?” “No mother, you nasty shit.”
Residents pleaded with him to stop, as did the school with teachers complaining that they could not teach above the chants of You Ox You Ox throughout lessons. But nothing changed.
Tourists were often taken unaware. Super slick high-flying young couples from Istanbul, each decked in the latest fashion and hair styles would think the comments were aimed at them
“Idiots” he would scream.
“What did you say? “
“Idiots, fuckin idiots.”
Sniggering to himself half realising the effect he was having, in disbelief they would eventually walk away in despair and if they told the police, they would shrug and say “It’s just Mesut.”
As day turned to night Mesut remained on the balcony, cracked open the rakı and nibbles and started to watch old classical Turkish films from the 70s. The format was always the same. A famous beautiful singer or actress played the lead female role. She falls for a young dashing man with a thick layer of black carpet for hair and matching moustache. But spurns him because she feels he will not accept her for the evil things she has done, like, wearing a skirt, working in a circus or God forbid, she has been kissed before. In a fit of self-loathing, she pledges herself to some rich banker older than her grandfather. But in the last minute we find that the dashing prince is really not that fussed about what she has done as long as he can get his hands on her, urm I mean he loves her for who she is, and they all live happy ever after.
Mesut knows all these films by heart but this doesn’t stop him from falling into drunken melancholy and melodrama, treating them as if they were true. One such evening he was more boisterous than normal. Crying and screaming uncontrollably.
“Go back to him! “and “I love you” and “What is to become of you, in the name of Allah?”
The locals put their ear plugs in; the tourists turned to the police. A neighbouring town’s police car was dispatched to investigate the commotion.
The unsuspecting young officer called up. “What is happening?”
“Come quickly” he shouted, “you must stop this.”
He quickly climbed the stairs and burst onto the balcony truncheon in hand.
“Now sit down and watch,” pleased that the police were here to intervene and save the poor wretched girl.
After the initial shock the officer sat down watching the evidence unfold, becoming more and more engrossed, “This is outrageous.” Mesut pointed to the officer’s note book signaling he should take notes, then passed him some rakı and the officer without thinking took it. Before long they both were in floods of tears.
“She’s so beautiful.” “She is,” replied Mesut putting his arms around him. Tourists were still calling the police even more incensed that they could now hear two wailing voices. All calls were diverted to the officer on the scene, who replied each time.
“It’s a terrible situation,” kicking the empty rakı bottle in despair. “Hopeless, girl, him, he loves her she loves him. Please tune into Channel 7, now that’s an order, this can’t be allowed to happen,” pleased that he at least had done something to save her.
A faint hum could slowly be heard across the village getting louder and louder turning from anger and sadness to joy as the young couple found each other and married, a joyous hurray ringing out.
The police officer and Mesut embraced with tears in their eyes, collapsing and falling asleep till morning. The officer leaving with a gentle nod.
From then on things were different...
When the tourists heard him shouting “fuck you” at the screen, they would reply with a beaming smile, “Fuck you too Mesut,” a grin forming on his face.
Even now at night many years hence if you listen carefully above the barks of wild dogs and screams of cats, you can hear the faint cries of the people sobbing gently and then finally a great HURRAY.
From Türkiye’de Bir İngiliz.
What became Mesut? All will be revealed… Next Saturday.
