The Building

The Building

I agree, reading someone else’s diary is unethical. But believe me, if you were the one who read the diary I’m about to tell you about, you’d have a much bigger problem than ethics. Let’s go back to the day I found the diary…

Even if the real estate agent hadn’t insisted I rent this house, it would have been impossible to find a better one given my financial situation. I was starting a new life and planned to manage with the money in my bank account until I found a job. Besides, it would have been foolish to pass up a furnished house this cheap. The landlord wanted the rent in cash—probably to avoid taxes, according to the agent—and since he was living abroad, he wouldn’t be back for two months. I said fine; after all, finding a house under these conditions was the best thing that could happen to someone.

The moment I stepped into the house, I felt at home. This two-bedroom, one-living-room apartment was cozy and comfortably furnished. It had everything I needed, so there was no need to buy anything extra. I inspected the closets and rummaged through the drawers. They were all empty—except for one. That’s where I found the diary, and yes, I shouldn’t have read it. But admit it, if you had found an ownerless diary and a pair of binoculars, you’d have read it too.

And that’s exactly what I did. At first, I skimmed through the pages. The diary started with a mix of meaningful and nonsensical writings and doodles. And then?

July 15, 2019

My mother called. It’s been so long since I last spoke to her, I ignored the call again. I wonder if her hair has turned gray. She’s been through so much because of us, poor woman. Just as I was sitting there, feeling guilty, my package arrived. Bushman P50X50 Professional. 50X magnification, central focusing system, 50mm lens diameter. There are much better ones, but they’re too expensive; this will do. I tried it immediately. I looked at the street for a while, the avenue, the people, the sky. I realized it wasn’t suitable for stargazing, but I could watch the birds in the trees. Birds don’t come to the windows here much.

July 16, 2019

Today, I looked at the building down the road, next to the neighborhood office. I hadn’t really intended to, but I got stuck watching a woman in a tiny skirt leaving the building. A taxi came and picked her up. She left in her tiny skirt, and I couldn’t look away. When she was gone, I examined the building a bit. Six apartments, all with their curtains wide open because it’s hot, and no one here can afford air conditioning. I only saw one child in the whole building. Then two middle-aged women appeared at the windows of apartments two and three on the second floor. The rest of the apartments showed no signs of life. I got bored. I looked at the neighborhood office for a while; people came and went. They were probably getting proof of residence to document the soulless walls they live in. How empty.

July 17, 2019

I lay in bed all day, crying. I only got up once to pee. When I saw the circles under my eyes in the mirror, I got scared. Then I lay down and cried some more. And then I saw that bastard; the one living in the opposite building, the father of the only child I’d seen. He beat his wife, the child’s mother. I saw it all—the child, the woman, the punches. He came home at dawn. The child was sleeping in the woman’s arms. He kicked her awake. She whispered, “Don’t, please don’t, the child is sleeping, damn you, don’t hit me!” He hit her mercilessly. She cried a lot. I was too small to save her.

July 20, 2019

I’ve had a terrible headache for two days. I don’t even have clean sweatpants left to wear. I need to do laundry, but I can’t bring myself to. I do nothing but watch the building across the street. That building has become almost my entire life. How strange—I haven’t met a single person in my own apartment building. I don’t know any of them. None of them know me. But the building across the street? I know them all. Especially the bastard in apartment three. He’s a complete scumbag. He cheats on his wife with the woman across the hall. Today, he went to her place while his wife was home alone. I saw it with my own eyes. I watched them. Apartment four: a married couple lives there, no kids. The husband clearly works hard all day; he always drags his feet when he walks. A gentle man. If he found out what was going on, he’d probably die on the spot.

July 21, 2019

My doctor called today. Naturally, I didn’t answer. Three months ago, when he came for a routine check-up, I didn’t open the door. When he came back a month later, I still didn’t open it, so he stopped coming. Now he’s worried, I guess. He’s not wrong—I haven’t taken my meds in three months. He’s an idiot too; he knows I won’t answer, yet he keeps calling. The janitor, on the other hand, has completely figured me out. He always follows the note I leave on the door: “Don’t ring the bell. The list and money are in the bag. Bring the groceries and leave them at the door.” As usual, he hung my grocery bag on the door today and left. When his footsteps faded, I took the bag. I ate something, felt nauseous. I looked at the building, but there was movement only in apartment one all day. An old woman lives there, very poor, you can tell. A lonely woman. Looking at her makes my heart ache. I thought how nice it would be to reach out, bring her to my place, take care of her, stroke her hair. Maybe she’d let me rest my head on her lap and tell me stories. I closed the curtain and lay on the couch. Cried a little.

The man in apartment five woke up around evening, opened the curtains. His place is always crowded, people coming and going nonstop. They drink a lot—alcohol and mostly drugs. Last night, a bunch of people came over again, partied until morning. I feel like I know him well; he believes the arrogant world revolves solely around him, and he’s heading for a bad end.

July 22, 2019

The woman in the tiny skirt is a prostitute. She leaves the house at night, usually picked up by luxury cars. In the mornings, she comes back in a taxi. For the men, everything is fine while they’re picking her up, but once they’re done, she’s left alone. She enters her apartment, oozing with the filth of her soul, trying to cleanse herself. She disappoints her loved ones and will die all alone—she knows it too.

Sixty percent JP-4 jet fuel, forty percent benzene, polystyrene until it gels… Super napalm, and a truckload of it. I’m driving the truck. Without lifting my foot off the gas pedal, I crash through the entrance. My favorite song plays in the background. What a magnificent spectacle it would be. Like a black hole sucking everything in and then vomiting it out in pitch blackness, this building is corrupt and incapable of grasping life fully. It stands right in front of me. I fix my gaze on them all, judging them. Filth has spread everywhere; it’s cursed, with nothing pure left inside. Maybe the child. Maybe the old woman. Maybe apartment six.

July 23, 2019

I don’t feel like writing today. I only watched apartment six. How serene it was. How beautiful it was to watch it. For hours, he stood by the window, smoking a cigarette.

July 24, 2019

I want to kill the woman in apartment three for not leaving her husband and taking her child with her. He beat them again, terribly. The child’s nose was broken, the woman was covered in blood. He locked them in a room. The man in apartment four wasn’t home; he went there. The child was in so much pain.

Apartment six seems to sense these disasters. He rested his head against the window, watching the street.

The prostitute left the building with her head down. It was almost midnight. Everyone peeked at her through the curtains. They judged her, ignoring their own filth.

Let’s pause here. Reading a diary might not be my thing, but spying on a building certainly isn’t. So, while I continued reading these events with curiosity, I didn’t look at the building. Some days, he hadn’t written anything at all; on others, he had only drawn pictures. These were the words of a strange man. I didn’t want to sleep; I examined every word, every drawing. He had drawn the child and the man in apartment six. A frail child, a handsome man. And fists—ugly, dark, hopeless faces. He had no personal memories. Only the building. I was going mad wanting to look at them, my hand reaching for the binoculars, then pulling back. I kept reading.

August 1, 2019

I was very tense today. Apartment three kept its curtains closed. The man in apartment four came home in the afternoon and drank raki. The man in apartment six spent the whole day pacing inside his apartment. He talked to himself, sometimes getting angry, sometimes calming down. He went to bed early. When he went to bed, I decided to go to bed too.

August 2, 2019

Apartment three still hasn’t opened its curtains, but I know he left. He went with the woman across the hall. The child sat on the sidewalk in front of the building all day, crying. Will the mother and child pack up and leave now? Where would they go? They have no one. No bread, no money. The child will grow up too fast now.

August 3, 2019

Around noon, a moving truck pulled up in front of the building. They loaded a few broken, bitter pieces of furniture. It wasn’t hard to figure out who was moving—apartment four left. He didn’t say goodbye to anyone; no one said goodbye to him. Only I watched him go.

August 4, 2019

Last night, apartment five partied until morning again, the scoundrel. The old woman in apartment one came to the window, watered her two potted plants, loved them, talked to them. I wish I could manage to be with her. My chest ached; her hair had turned white.

August 12, 2019

I’ve been bedridden for days because of the pain. I only occasionally looked at the building, at apartment six. Whenever I looked, he was there, as always, by the window, smoking and watching the street. Today, the police came to the building. They asked everyone questions. A murder had been committed the other night; the man she went home with killed the prostitute. No one was sad, no one was hurt. I was devastated.

August 13, 2019

The building is sinking deeper into darkness, creaking. Apartment six is restless tonight, preparing something. He dragged a table to the window, smiling. I saw him smile for the first time. He brought a chair, paper, and pen. For a while, he rested his elbows on the table, staring blankly at the paper and pen. Then he hummed a song. If it were me, if I were to sing, I’d sing Müzeyyen Senar’s “Kimseye Etmem Şikâyet” (a classic Turkish song). My mother used to listen to it on vinyl when I was little, before everything happened, when I was nothing. I sang it; he listened. He wrote something. He smiled. He filled his palm with pills. I said goodbye to him; he didn’t hear me. He said goodbye to me; I didn’t hear him. It was almost five in the morning; the street dogs barked, and we both heard it. He stacked the papers on top of each other, stroking them even though he knew no one would read them. He looked at the street, and our eyes met. He left, everyone left. There was nothing left to write.

I flipped through the pages quickly; the rest was blank. It couldn’t end like this; I needed to know everything. I grabbed the binoculars. The sun was rising. I approached the window, opened the curtain. I took a deep breath, pressed the binoculars to my eyes, and looked at the building. There was nothing to see. How had I not noticed? The binoculars had no lenses. They weren’t broken; the lenses had been carefully removed. I felt like I was going to lose my mind. I don’t even remember when I put on my shoes and left the house. I ran to the building. It was right in front of me now; I couldn’t even look at the windows. All I wanted was to get inside and talk to them. Then, just as I reached the door, I was startled by a voice behind me.

“Where are you going, brother?”

“Huh?”

“Where are you going?”

“Well, I’m going into the building, I have business here.”

“Are you blind, can’t you read?”

“I don’t understand.”

“For God’s sake. Brother! Are you blind? Can’t you see the sign?”

I hadn’t seen it. There was a huge warning on the door.

“According to Article 2 of Law No. 6306, this is a hazardous structure. Entry is prohibited.”

It felt like boiling water was poured over me; my whole body was trembling. With one last effort, the words forced their way out of my lips.

“Since when?”

“Since it was built. It’s never been used. The contractor had a legal dispute with the municipality or something. Someone pulled some strings, I guess, so they haven’t demolished it yet. Kids play around here; they’re going to get hurt…”

The man kept talking, but I couldn’t hear him anymore. My head was spinning. I flailed my arm into the air, trying to grab onto something, but there was nothing to hold onto. Someone grabbed my arm and kept me from falling. I immediately recognized who it was—my dear real estate agent. I was so startled when I saw him that he spoke calmly.

“Sit down somewhere, let’s talk.”

“No!” I shouted.

“What’s going on? Tell me, who are you?”

He took a deep breath, held it in, and I held mine too.

“Dissociative fugue.”

“Disso-what?”

“You’re experiencing a form of memory loss. Due to trauma.”

“What trauma?”

“Everything. And most recently…”

“What recent? Speak!”

“I found you at home, about to die… You were supposed to take your medication. Your mind replaced your memories with others… Look, I thought returning to your home might help. This isn’t exactly what I expected, I’m sorry.”

“Sorry?”

“Please, try to stay calm now. Come on, we need to go to the hospital.”

“The hospital? Memory loss? My memories? Who am I? And you?”

He was my doctor. I was forgetting. I had forgotten my own home, my own life, my memories, without realizing I had forgotten, replacing them with other things. He had pretended to be a real estate agent and rented me my own house. The bastard had applied experimental treatment. I was supposed to reconnect with my own memories, to remember. And I did. I remembered the memories that made me draw pictures of a five-apartment, empty building. I remembered what my father had done, my prostitute girlfriend, my broken nose, all of it. There was only one thing I hadn’t remembered—until I realized my apartment number was six.

deri