Crows and Seagulls

CROWS AND SEAGULLS Everyone has a childhood trauma, İbrahim. But I was just very bored. Why, brother? Because the world used to smell beautiful once. Now, everywhere reeks of filth. Is that why you came up here? Will everything smell beautiful if you end your life? No, I just won’t smell anything anymore. Why, brother? It’s not about why. Some things don’t need reasons, İbrahim. People look for reasons for everything. But sometimes, you just do it. Like me. I’m bored, so very bored. Are you tired of evil? Did they do evil to you? Or did you do evil? I’m the kind of man who changes his path so as not to startle birds. But evil? I don’t know, maybe I’m a very bad person. Doesn’t a person know the evil they’ve done, brother? Look, for example, I stole a wallet the other day. If you ask, it’s very bad, isn’t it? But if you ask me, it fed me for two days. Evil is evil, even if done for good reasons. Do you have a cigarette, İbrahim? No, brother, I’ve never touched one. If I give you money, will you go and get some? No, I swear I won’t leave you here. I promise I won’t do anything until you come back. But you have to promise too—no police, no bringing anyone else here. Tonight, it’s just the two of us. Alright, if I get them, will you give up jumping? Let me tell you a story. A young man once decided to commit suicide but didn’t have the courage to go through with it. He couldn’t hang himself because he was afraid of suffocating. He couldn’t jump because he was afraid of heights. He couldn’t take pills. He thought he couldn’t bear the pain of slitting his wrists. On one hand, he wanted to die, to escape his suffering as soon as possible, but he believed there was an obstacle to every method. He couldn’t do it. Later, he got married, had two children. His children graduated from university, got married themselves. When this man turned eighty-seven, he bought a gun and pressed it to his head. Do you understand me, İbrahim? Once you’ve decided to die, you’ll pull that trigger eventually. Don’t, brother, I’m begging you. Death is no joke. You take death too seriously, İbrahim. It’s serious. Wrong… Living is serious… The plague of modern times is living. Death isn’t such a serious matter. It’s raining, brother. … Then we’ll get wet too… You were in your thirties. I don’t know if it’s the best age for a person, but you were at your best. Your clothes, your scent, your shave were impeccable. You looked like the actors in movies I’d never been to. Your mind was clearer than ever. You were just very tired, but no one noticed. When I found you, you were on the rooftop of an abandoned building. You were sitting there with your legs dangling. Even in that state, you looked flawless. At first, you didn’t want me there. Did you want to be alone? Or were you afraid of me? But I was only fifteen, and I was already used to being unwanted. When I understood what you intended to do, I wanted to stay by your side. I don’t know why. Maybe I just wanted to be there. It felt like you had the most right to live at that moment. Maybe I should’ve died instead of you. I had no reason to live, dressed in rags, homeless on the streets. It seemed like death suited me best—forgotten, discarded, feared, and reeking. No one would care if I were gone. Not even the third pages of newspapers would mention the suicide of a glue-sniffing street kid. Even your perfume couldn’t mask the stench of decay on me. If I could go back a little, tell you how a child could end up like this, I’d start with the beatings I took—at home from my father, on the streets from older kids, from everyone. I’d tell you how I survived without going to school, selling tissues on the streets, cleaning car windows, only to have the few coins I earned taken from me by force, beaten again for not earning enough, always beaten, and then thrown out onto the streets. If only I could tell you. Should I have killed myself instead of you? It was just past midnight. I was staying in the abandoned building you climbed onto. It was autumn. Winter was coming, and for those staying in such derelict places, winter is a nightmare. Your romanticized snow is our nightmare. I didn’t tell you these things, of course; we were talking about your troubles. Tell me if you want, brother. Even if I can’t do anything, maybe talking will help. Do you read books? I’m not very good at reading and writing. I come across a lot of books while collecting paper, though. I don’t understand why people throw them away. But I’ve never opened any of them. Except once, I read something and memorized it. What was it? It was short. It said, “The rich start wars, the poor die in them.” Sartre… I don’t know who that is. But he said it well. For example, I have no money, and the rich are killing me. That’s not exactly what he meant in that sentence. How do you know, brother? I think that’s exactly what he meant. We’re fighting a war for bread, and the rich started this war. They always wanted more, stuffed themselves to the brim. They have more money than they can carry in their pockets. And we poor people die for a piece of bread. Because of the rich. Because of their insatiable greed. You’re not entirely wrong. I hadn’t thought of it that way. Anyway, İbrahim, go now. “Go now.” How easily you said it. Yet I thought you were different. No one ever said “stay” to me, no one ever said “come.” They always said, “Get the hell out of here.” Curses flew through the air. You didn’t want me with you either. Even so close to death, my presence bothered you. “Some things don’t have reasons,” you said, but maybe if you asked, if you wondered why I was on the streets, it might heal us both. We’re both ghosts of the city. They don’t see you when they pass by, and they fear me when they pass by. I couldn’t say it. I just bowed my head in silence. Could you kill a fly, İbrahim? Yes, because it’s a pest. No, because you have the power to do so… Could you kill a lion? How could I kill a lion, brother? What about a human? Why would I do that? No, I couldn’t kill a human. You’re wrong. Under the right conditions, you could. What about yourself, İbrahim? Could you kill yourself? It’s a sin, brother, a great sin. And why would I want to die? For example, you. Why do you want to die? I don’t have any of the things you have, but still, life is a beautiful thing. You could. Either you’re very brave for it, or very cowardly, and you’ll never know which one. I think it’s cowardice. You’re a coward too. There’s just a beast in my head, İbrahim, trying to break free from its chains. My brain is going to explode from the pain. You were in so much pain, I knew that, but I couldn’t understand it. Were there really greater pains than being homeless and starving on the streets? You had money in your pocket, a car, a warm home, meat to eat every now and then, friends… What more could a person want from life? The rain had intensified, leaving us drenched. You didn’t care because you were about to die. But I was cold. I was cold, hungry, and shivering. Still, I had no intention of leaving you alone. You had chosen to go, you had made up your mind. I didn’t know how to turn you back. I was fifteen, and I didn’t know how that night would end. Do you think it’s time, İbrahim? No, brother, not now, not yet. There are still so many beautiful things to do. Please, come down. Let me show you where I stay. Come on, brother, not now, not today. Not like this. I’ll be your friend, you can visit me sometimes. Don’t do it, please don’t. No, İbrahim. Go away. Brother, let me tell you about my life a little? Then you’ll change your mind. Brother, don’t do it! You stood up. You were on the low wall of the terrace. The rain made the night even more alive. Your hair was shining. I thought, how could death suit someone so much? You were calm. I was calm too, by then. Part of me wanted to run and grab you, another part wanted to let you go. I let you go… When you let yourself fall, I thought you’d flap your wings like a bird. As if you’d rise toward the sky. I waited, but it didn’t happen. You gently descended downward. I ran to the wall after you, looked down. You were lying motionless on the pavement. A crowd had gathered around you in an instant. Their screams echoed through the street. Your death had made you visible. I’m twenty-seven now. I got twelve years. Normally, they would’ve given me twenty-four. But because I wasn’t yet fifteen, they gave me twelve. The people at the scene testified. They saw me looking down after you from the rooftop. Your death had made me visible too. Yet they didn’t see the tears in my eyes, didn’t hear my cries. The police didn’t believe it was suicide. “You pushed him,” they said. They said they’d investigated you. You had a normal life. A good job, a house, enough money. You had no reason to commit suicide. They didn’t understand you. They didn’t understand. They said I had a reason to kill you. The money in your pocket. But only twenty-two liras and ten kuruş came out of my pocket. I didn’t take your money or your life, I said. They arrested me. For twelve years, I thought of only one thing. The way you glided down like a pure white seagull. That’s when I understood that even seagulls get cold, and that even as a child, my dark side would never be cleansed. Just like the crows. - deri