The Final Performance

The Final Performance "Dreaming," he thought as he quietly returned from his distant reverie. "Is there an age limit to dreaming? For instance, whether you're just starting out at twenty, or at any age with pockets full of money, does everyone dream the same way? Is it the same right to pin your hopes on a dream?" He smiled involuntarily with a faint, broken grin. Just then, the stagehand, the manager's sycophantic lackey, barged in rudely. Adnan, having finished his preparations in the dressing room and lined up his puppets neatly, shifted uneasily on his stool as the stagehand entered. The boy was very young. His freckled face, with a nose that seemed added on later, gave him an even more unpleasant expression. When he smiled—heaven forbid—he resembled a cadaver. He rolled his eyes and stared at Adnan for a while before saying, "The hall is empty. The manager wants to see you." He seemed to derive a strange pleasure from saying this. Adnan, on the other hand, turned pale, his mood souring instantly. When he entered the manager's office, the oppressive smell inside made Adnan dizzy at first, and then the disgusting grin of the manager, sitting in his oversized leather chair with his belly protruding, turned his stomach. Disgust consumed him entirely. "Come, sit down, Mr. Adnan," said the manager casually. The word "Mr." seemed to fall reluctantly from his lips, and there was a condescending look in his eyes. He was in a hurry to speak, eager to finish the conversation as quickly as possible. After taking a deep breath, he leaned his elbows on the desk and began scanning the room. He avoided making eye contact with Adnan as much as possible. "Look, Mr. Adnan, we've had a relationship for quite some time now. You know me; you know how much I value art. But everything has a monetary value. How can this theater survive if it doesn't make money?" He looked at Adnan as if expecting approval. When he received no response, he continued. "You're an old-timer. A master of your craft, an honest man. I won't beat around the bush with you. Your performances haven't sold tickets for weeks. Kids aren't interested in puppets anymore; they don't like them. Their world revolves around tablets and phones. Why would they care about your lousy puppets, right?" As the manager smirked smugly, as if he had made a joke, only one sentence echoed in Adnan's mind: "Kids aren't interested in puppets anymore; they don't like them." "What are you saying, Mr. Manager?" "No need to sugarcoat it; it's not working, Mr. Adnan." "So you're saying it's over, is that it?" "Let's not say it's over; let's say you're not making money." "But..." "No buts... I'm giving you a month. We're paying you for an empty hall. Where do you think the money for this mill comes from? No one asks what I go through here. It's always about me, me, me. What a fine country." "That's not what I meant, Mr. Manager. It's just..." "Just what, Mr. Adnan, just what? I'll give you the money you're owed, don't worry!" Adnan, as if emerging from a great disaster, left the office silently, his head bowed, fiddling with his fingers, dragging his feet, carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders. It was time to pack up the puppets he had made with his hands, dedicated his life to, loved, and cherished. The road lay ahead. He filled his old, torn suitcase with his puppets. He looked at the stage one last time. Slowly, he left the building. As Adnan exited, the manager stood by the window, watching. "I did what had to be done. You can't run this place without money, Mr. Adnan. The boss holds me accountable for these things. People don't like such simple things anymore. Kids aren't curious about your cheap puppets. How long could I have managed? I couldn't. Could I? Maybe. Who cares?" he muttered to himself. Meanwhile, Adnan had already disappeared from sight. He had encountered puppets at a very young age. When he was in the third grade, his father had taken him out of school and placed him in a small workshop near their home in Bursa, where a master made Hacivat and Karagöz puppets. He had been so angry with his father then. But four years later, his father had died, and it had fallen to Adnan to care for his mother. He had embraced his craft with the pride of earning money, and it had even become his passion. Two years after his father's death, his mother had also passed away. He had forgotten his loneliness with his puppets, calling them his companions, his spouse, his children. The laughter and applause of his audience had been enough for him. The past stung his nose. "Still, those were beautiful days," he sighed, wiping away his tears. Now, perhaps, he was angrier at being forgotten than at the manager. Deeply hurt, broken, and disillusioned, he muttered to himself, "I'll never play with puppets again, I swear I won't. I'd rather die than play with them. Why should I? I won't, I won't even touch the control stick again." Like a small child, he shrugged his shoulders as he spoke to himself. He clenched the little more than three coins he had in his palm tightly. Unsure of what to do, he walked toward his home for a while. What would he do now? He had never had any money saved. Nor did he have anything of value to sell. The more he thought about it, the more confused he became, and the more confused he became, the closer he felt to losing his mind. His steps slowed considerably. At a crossroads, he stopped. "I should go home. No, I should first visit the landlord and ask for more time for the rent. There's no food in the cupboard either; I should buy something to eat first. What does it mean they don't like puppets? Puppet-making requires effort, patience. It's not something just anyone can do. If it's not realistic, it's worthless. Hah! They say they don't like puppets. Who would like you? I won't play with puppets anymore, but I'll give them their due; puppet-making is hard. Anyway, I won't play with them. I'll buy bread and some pasta," he thought. Turning toward the grocery store, he made a small purchase that barely filled a bag. He didn't like being indebted to others, but he had to explain his situation, no matter how difficult it was. He went to see his landlord. He was very embarrassed and upset. Trying to suppress his pain, he managed to say in a trembling voice, "Peace be upon you, Mr. Rüstem. If you have a moment, could we talk?" Rüstem was wealthy, not from inheritance but from his own efforts. He owned many houses and shops in the arcade, all rented out. Yet he was a miserly man, never satisfied. He wouldn't give away even his sins if you asked. His sunken eyes always looked down on people, and he spoke hurriedly. Seeing his tenant, he immediately seized the opportunity to boast. "Oh, Adnan, what a pleasant surprise! Did you smell the food? Come, come. Pull up a chair and fill your belly." The landlord's attitude annoyed Adnan, but he hurried to get to the point and end his torment. "No, thank you. Enjoy your meal... I wanted to talk about the rent." "Hmm... Go on." "I know, Mr. Rüstem, I owe you rent, but I was hoping to ask for a little more time. I lost my job today... Until I find a new one, just a little more time. I promise I'll pay as soon as I find work. I swear." The landlord's face turned from purple to red with anger. He couldn't stand the thought of anyone owing him a penny. When it came to money, nothing else mattered to him. He started yelling like a madman. "What are you saying, man? Is this a joke? No one gives me anything for free, so why should I give you anything? This is a house, a house! I don't care if you lost your job. Are you my father, my brother? Vacate my house, get out of my house! And bring me what you owe as soon as possible. I swear I'll go to the police and drag you through the courts!" Adnan felt his legs give way, as if a hand was choking him. His heart was tight, cold sweat dripping, and he wished the ground would swallow him whole. He left his last bit of money in front of Rüstem without saying a word and walked away. He had never wanted to die more than at that moment. "I wish I had died instead of hearing this," he thought. What he had gone through had worn him out, leaving him with no strength to endure. If it weren't a sin, he would have ended his life right there. But he couldn't. He had no choice but to go home. He packed his two suits, a few pieces of clothing, and the materials he used for making puppets, and silently left the house. Dragging his feet into the unknown, he walked until nightfall. He didn't know how far he had walked. The air had long since darkened, and the streets were nearly empty. Amid the faint scent of freshly bloomed flowers carried by the gentle breeze, he collapsed by the curb, unable to go any further. It was at that moment that he heard the only kind words of the day. "Uncle! Are you okay, uncle? Someone bring water for the uncle!" The voice belonged to a dark-skinned, reasonably handsome young man who had rushed over from a coffeehouse across the street. He had arrived like a godsend. "Uncle? Are you dead? Get up and give us a hand, let's help the uncle. Did he hit his head when he fell? Did anyone see?" Adnan slowly opened his eyes and looked at the young man for a while. Then he said: "I'm fine, I'm fine, son. Just got a little dizzy. Help me up, and I'll be on my way." "Are you sure, uncle? Should we go to the hospital?" "No, son, bless you. I'll go. Thank you, bless you." "If you say so, uncle, but it would be better if you stayed a bit. Come, let's have a hot tea at the coffeehouse." Adnan tried to walk away, but the young man, noticing his hesitant, directionless steps, had already picked up his suitcases and started walking toward the coffeehouse. Unable to resist the young man's persistent and insistent questioning, Adnan began to recount what had happened, tears streaming down his face. The teacup trembled in his hand, and his delicate, pure, and still handsome appearance, despite everything, added an extra layer of sorrow. The young man, with his big heart, had no intention of letting this much grief continue. After some thought, his eyes lit up with a brilliant idea. "My dear uncle, listen to what I'm about to say. I don't know if you'll accept, but there's a house. It's my uncle's house. It's a shanty, but it's clean. They left. To France. His wife, kids. They went as workers, you know, but they're doing well. The house is empty, and I have the key. Don't worry about the rent. Let's get you settled in, and the rest will be easy." Adnan was both moved by this offer and deeply pained by the thought of one of the greatest puppeteers falling to such a state. He held his head in his hands and cried like a child. While he cried, the young man consoled him, and eventually, he managed to convince Adnan. After walking for a while through the small, charming shanty neighborhoods, with the young man leading and Adnan following, they arrived at the house. It wasn't in bad condition. Compared to the streets, it was a palace. It had a small yard, though treeless and barren, two rooms, a kitchen, and a bathroom combined with a toilet. One room had a bed, the other a sofa, a table, and chairs, and the kitchen had a small amount of cookware—more than enough for his needs. Embarrassed, shy, and most of all grateful, he thanked the young man. The young man promised to return, told Adnan to let him know if he needed anything, and said he should get some sleep now. He gave Adnan a big hug and said goodbye. Adnan, however, didn't sleep. He didn't even take off his suit. He sat awkwardly on the edge of the bed, waiting for morning. With the first light of day, he had just fallen asleep when he was awakened by sounds outside. Women were walking by with market carts in their hands. When he stepped into the yard, his sleepy, tear-swollen eyes noticed that they were heading to the market, and he realized the neighborhood market wasn't far. The market was an opportunity for Adnan. "So what if I don't perform? I can make small puppets and sell them," he thought. Making and selling puppets was like selling his children to him, but no other solution came to mind. He would make puppets and sell them at the market. After all, it was a matter of earning a living. "Besides, I didn't swear not to make them; I swore not to perform with them," he convinced himself once more. Summer had arrived. Adnan was making and selling puppets, earning just enough to get by. He had even convinced the young man to let him pay rent for the house. The neighborhood residents had accepted and grown fond of him. Since the weather was nice, he now made his puppets on a rug spread out in the yard, sometimes reading the newspaper, rolling his tobacco, and trying to find happiness in this place where he could hold on to life. It was during these days that he began to notice the window of the house across the street. Every time he turned his head in that direction, the curtain would move, and the shadow behind it, a small figure pacing back and forth inside, piqued his curiosity and stirred his sense of wonder. The mystery was revealed days later, transforming into a pair of large, brown eyes watching him intently. Perhaps the most attentive eyes he had ever seen in his life, they had abandoned their previous furtive, secretive, and timid demeanor and were now locked onto Adnan as if transfixed. Whenever he stepped into the yard and picked up his chisel, the eyes would appear at the window, rocking back and forth while fixating on Adnan's hands, never looking away but never meeting his gaze either. Adnan had waved a couple of times, gesturing for the child to come over, but each attempt ended with the child retreating inside. The only certainty was that this peculiar pair, bound by a strange connection, were deeply curious about each other. During one of the young savior's visits, Adnan couldn't hold back and asked: "Who is this child?" "Burak, uncle? Burak is a gem, but he's a bit peculiar." "How so?" "There's something about his mind, uncle. He's not crazy, actually sharp as a tack, but he's got odd ways. It must have been two years ago or so when this rascal ran away from home. The whole neighborhood searched for him. His mother was terrified. We found him later near the TV shop down the road. He was crouched in front of the display, knees pulled to his chest, rocking back and forth while watching the television. When his mother grabbed his arm, Burak let out a scream, a scream like a train whistle. He was hitting his head, crying, jumping. We were scared; we couldn't approach him after that. His poor mother couldn't say a word to anyone, just dragged him home. Later, his father told us at the coffeehouse. He tried to run away a couple more times. His mother scared him, told him all sorts of lies to keep him from running away. Since that day, he hasn't been able to leave the house. He's just stayed like that, poor thing. No school, nothing." "What lies did she tell him?" "Well, uncle, she badmouthed people, said they'd kidnap him, cut him up, make him beg. She also told him not to go near anyone, that they'd kill him." Adnan was deeply saddened by what he heard. As the young man said goodbye and left, Adnan thought to himself, "Poor child. What beautiful eyes he has." For days, he pondered how to connect with Burak. The boy's delicate, beautiful face, his light brown hair, his pale, sun-deprived skin tugged at his heart. He began to imagine him as the son he had secretly longed for. The boy was ill, too. Children liked Adnan; maybe if he talked to Burak, it would help. Should he talk to his parents and tell them he wanted to talk to Burak? Would they allow it? He doubted it; they were afraid for their child. Even if they agreed, Burak wasn't communicating with him at all. He wouldn't even look at him, let alone talk. Adnan was old enough to be his grandfather, but he wished they could be friends. An entire season had passed, and autumn had arrived. Adnan could no longer go out into the yard. The cooling weather, combined with the increasing dampness in the house, had weakened him and made him ill. He no longer had the strength to go to the market, but his thoughts were always with Burak. Meanwhile, the house across the street was going through nightmarish days. Burak had become even more withdrawn, more unhappy, and irritable. No matter what his parents did, they couldn't calm him. His nails were gone from biting. He had always bitten them, but now he was tearing at his skin until his fingers were bloody. Most nights, he cried himself to sleep, only falling asleep from exhaustion by dawn. When his father left at the crack of dawn to collect scrap, his mother faced even more challenging times at home. Burak would constantly run to the window, opening and closing the curtain repeatedly, doing this for hours on end. Then he would run to the door, sit down, and start rocking back and forth while crying, sometimes falling asleep there. These moments terrified his mother the most. What if he left again? What if they couldn't find him this time? What if something happened to him? She tried to keep him away from the door, saying, "If you step outside, they'll kill you." This drove Burak mad. During such times, the boy, who already spoke very little, would retreat further into himself, his pain evident only in his eyes. His parents didn't understand him. The mother's other great fear was winter. Whenever it snowed, Burak would become even more uncontrollable, staring at the falling snow for hours, not eating or drinking. Winter was approaching the shanty neighborhood, and Burak was in this state. After days of illness in bed, Adnan had finally decided what to do for Burak. He chose his finest piece of wood. Taking his chisel, mallet, and brush in hand, he began to carve the wood he had clamped into the vise. With the onset of the cold, his fingers and hands cracked, causing him pain and sometimes bleeding badly. But he didn't care. He had to create the most beautiful puppet of his life. First, he carved a nose, mouth, and eyes into the wood, smoothing it with sandpaper and cleaning it with a brush. Each step felt like a sacred ritual. He painted the face delicately, varnished it, and prepared the hands and arms. He was nearing the end. Now, he wouldn't fear leaving nothing behind after his death. His masterpiece was nearing completion, ready to go to the one who deserved it most. Winter had come early. Adnan's hands could no longer endure the cold. Despite being close to finishing, he had to take frequent breaks from the puppet. He missed Burak more each day, no longer even seeing him at the window. Sometimes he heard the screams from their house, filling him with sorrow. One night, he was startled awake by Burak's voice. A single word echoed through the empty street... "Grandpa!" He knew it was meant for him. Burak was calling him. He wanted to run to Burak, to say, "I'm here, my dear," but he was afraid of his family's reaction. There was only one thing he could do: finish the puppet. Ignoring his bleeding fingers, he worked through the night. By morning, as the sun rose, he had finally completed the marionette that even he found awe-inspiring. It was only then that he thought to look outside. Everything was white, covered in snow. He placed his stool in the middle of the yard. As he lifted his head, he locked eyes with his dear Burak. Tears streamed from Adnan's eyes, while light radiated from Burak's, meeting in the space between their gazes. For a brief moment, they remained like that. Burak pressed his face against the window, filled with curiosity. Adnan sat on his stool. Slowly, he revealed the puppet he had been hiding behind his back and took a deep breath. He had sworn never to perform again, yet now he was slipping the control stick into his fingers with delight. In a soft voice, audible only to himself, he murmured, "For you, my dear, for you. One last performance." Burak's mouth fell open, his eyes wide with wonder. If the entire world had gone silent for a minute, they could have heard each other's heartbeats. On a stage of pure white, there were only Adnan, the puppet, and a pair of large brown eyes. Time seemed to have stopped for everyone else. Burak watched for a while. Snow fell heavily, but neither of them noticed. Hoping for one more moment of eye contact with Burak, Adnan turned his gaze toward him, only to see the boy close the curtain and retreat inside. Adnan, frozen with disappointment, waited for a while. Until the creaking of the wooden door broke the silence. Standing there was Burak, a frail figure just over a meter tall, with a pale face. He wore nothing but his pajamas and a thin knitted cardigan. Barefoot, he stood in the doorway for a moment, looking at Adnan. Adnan, with an uncontrollable smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, continued his performance. The bare feet took their first step onto the snow, producing a crunching sound. Shivering from the cold, Burak hesitated before taking another timid step. Cautiously, he moved closer, stopping just half a meter away from the puppet show. His hands, cold, were clasped in front of him, and his eyes saw nothing but the puppet. Silently, he watched his private performance. One played, the other watched, both appearing at peace. Burak took one final, confident step. Under Adnan's astonished gaze, he reached out, took the puppet with his thin fingers, and slipped his hand onto the control stick. Though clumsy, he manipulated the puppet as if he were living in another world, calm and serene. Adnan watched as one by one, the wooden doors creaked open. Children emerged from their shanties, watching Burak from a distance, smiling. Adnan's final performance had become Burak's first. The manager and the landlord had been wrong. In a forgotten shanty neighborhood, there were beautiful people and children who were different, who thought differently. Hope was there, somewhere... deri