The rejected

Dear readers!

After a long time of absence I returned, and decided to start posting those stories, which were rejected by various magazines mostly for reasons unknown. Maybe here these stories will find acknowledgement. Then let us start it with a story taking place in Istanbul:

Eye of the Tepegöz

Dear reader, since the following story contains Turkish words, hereby I include a pronunciation guide for the used letters:

a – as u in sun
c – as j in journal
ç – as ch in church
e – as e in fed
ı – as e in open (it’s a dotless i)
i – as i in bit
ö – as u in turn
u – as u in pull
ü – as u in French tu
y – as y in you

Leaden clouds came with February, blanketing the blue sky above the Bosporus. The clouds burst into a violent downpour. Then it abated, turning into a steadfast spitting, which is the most insidious type of precipitation on this part of the world. It feigns weakness, but in fact it permeates and fills the atmosphere with its implacably chilly touch. Slowly, but more certainly, makes everything damp. And cools the hearts to a murderous temperature.

Istanbul, one of the biggest human anthills, had this unpleasant experience. Its denizens however long got used to this sort of rain and the damp coldness of winter’s last month. So they carried on like good ants on the narrow streets and alleys of the city. Even the ferries continued service, rocking drunkenly between the continents. The real animals of Istanbul, the dogs and thousands of cats, rather looked for shelter from the rain. Only a few gulls cried and screamed above the roofs and the Golden Horn bay, enjoying the mild rain.

Serdal Teke watched the colourful cavalcade of vehicles and people through a great, misty glass wall. No sound could come through that wall. It was early forenoon, but everybody was in a hurry. Many rushed to their work while others fled from the rain. Some of the latter was heading right toward the Büyük Bayran restaurant. Serdal worked here too. Not as a doorman though, yet he opened the door for the customers with a smile. With them the noises of Şişli district entered as well. The din of vehicles with their tooting, the claps of shoes on the rain-soaked streets and the dull shout of a dustman from the side street. But as soon as the door closed, the sounds of the restaurant reigned over again immediately. Serdal however cared little about it. He rather observed his own reflection on the glass.

He had short, dark hair that covered his skull like a helmet. His forehead was particularly plain as no wrinkles ploughed into it. Such contentment reflected in his eyes that widened his nostrils and provoked his lips for a smile. The barely twenty-year-old courier was then woken from his own admiration by one of the older waiters:
“Serdal bey! You’ve got two orders, and one is for your favourite address!” said the older waiter smiling.

The young man’s eyes shone up, he spun around. On the glass-counter, under which various and succulent kinds of Turkish meals exhaled steam, two packages were prepared for him already. While he took both packages, he nodded to the older waiter as a kind of thanks, and set toward the other end of the restaurant. Behind the forepart, which was loud with the din of cutlery, he entered a less stately, but more practical chamber. An oven, a so called tandır was sank into the ground in the middle of the chamber. Around it headscarved women hustled about, baking thin breads in it, which were also called tandır. Serdal had to stop short as one of the women, with a long wooden tool, lifted off a bread from the oven’s wall. She then immediately set to butter it. Meanwhile the young man took his crash helmet from a shelf then hurried on.

Not even a hint of goodbye he said to these women. He didn’t like the “turbaned” as he called his conservative compatriots. Albeit he himself originated from a conservative village by the Black Sea. Hence, the honouring of traditions had a great role in his upbringing. Perhaps this led him to hate customs so much that, at his age of seventeen, he fled to Istanbul from his tyrannical father and bigot family with the help of his only friend: his scooter. Thus the enforced traditions turned Serdal toward the Western values, new friends and the great city. And for him these all were like a refreshing breeze from the sea on a sultry summer day.

Reaching the street, he put both orders in the trunk then he hopped on his scooter. He only entered one of the addresses in his mobile’s map. The other he knew by heart. He started his scooter, and silently like a jinn, since it was electric, rode away quickly.

The real work of Serdal, or of like other couriers, just began, and it was a little bit more than work as well. He not only made his scooter move with the twist of the throttle though. The power of acceleration cast ecstatic ripples of freedom in his soul. And his vehicle’s nimbleness endowed him with the quickness of wild colts. He needed the latter, especially when he zigzagged amongst the cars on the main roads.

Behind the restaurant, at the end of the alley, a taxi stood. The passenger was paying the fare. The courier slowed down, but didn’t stop, instead, jumped on the deserted sidewalk, bypassing the yellow obstacle. Then Serdal twisted the throttle again to regain his original speed. He couldn’t hold it for long however as he reached a busier street. He slowed down once more, but just like in the case of the taxi, he didn’t stop, but dynamically joined the traffic jam. After a few metres though he had to stop. But he didn’t loiter for long, only as long as he surveyed the situation. Then he made his way forward, zigzagging amongst the cars, busses and the crossing pedestrians like a videogame’s protagonist. Once he drove on the sidewalk again, but left it quickly. There were too many pedestrians. At length, he reached a wider avenue where the traffic flowed continuously.

Later, he had to take one of the side-streets, but a sign forbid to turn left. Meanwhile the lamp turned red too, so the more compliant pedestrians could cross the avenue at the proper crossing. Serdal had an idea: following the pedestrians he crossed the avenue, and from the sidewalk he rode into the side-street. From there he turned into another alley. Once again he twisted the throttle, and the scooter raced along.

On top of a parking car, a gull rested. The bird quickly noticed the courier. She leapt, and flew together with him. Serdal felt as if he had climbed to the clouds, and so he just stared at the majestic sight of the soaring gull. The bird then beat her wings and ascended above, crying.

Serdal considered this as a good omen since he was somewhat superstitious. No matter how modern his thinking was in general, he inherited some of the beliefs of his despised family. That was the reason he wore a muska around his neck. It was a pouch, an amulet in fact. This pouch was made of leather, and weird signs were carved into it. The courier esteemed this amulet as he got it from a cinci, a mage, who made it personally for him. At least that had been told to him since he was too young at the time to remember that. Besides the pouch around his neck, he also had a nazar bead dangle on his scooter’s key ring. This is another amulet of sort, usually made of sapphirine blue glass, and it’s round or teardrop-like in shape. It’s used usually against the evil eye, but sometimes against general bad luck as well.

Naturally, these artefacts don’t protect the wearer from physical harm. Hence Serdal too almost had an accident. He was so absorbed in the staring of the gull flying away that he didn’t notice the minibus in front of him. The situation was quite alarming, but the courier didn’t lose his head. He pulled the rear break, but not suddenly, and not completely to avoid locking the wheel. It seemed he was about to collide with the bus because of the wet, slippery asphalt. Finally he pulled the front break too. He stopped just a few centimetres from the minibus, but the scooter’s back rose from the ground owing to the momentum. Serdal expected this, and he didn’t fall.

He was about to yell swears at the driver, but he saw that it was a school bus. And the driver stopped because he watched as his little passenger was properly swallowed up by the door where the child lived. When the student got home, the minibus drove on. Serdal was sweating under his helmet, and his heart was racing like moments before his scooter did. He opened his helmet’s visor to let the spitting rain cool him down a bit. He then sighed, closed the visor and twisted the throttle.
He barely rolled a metre when he stopped short again. A fat, one-eyed cat tried to hurry across the alley in front of him. The cat flinched and raised his single eye on him. He involuntarily gripped the dangling nazar bead on his keys because the Turkish believe that the blond and blue-eyed people have evil eye mostly. Though in front of Serdal wasn’t a man, but a yellow furred cat with blue eye. Unpleasant feelings gripped the courier’s heart. He shouted and honked at the cat, but the furry obstacle didn’t move at all. And as if the animal wanted to defy man’s will, sat down and began to groom himself. Serdal then got off his scooter, and angrily, threateningly started toward the cat. The presumptuous predator looked at him, and rather scurried away. The courier jumped back on his scooter and he too scurried away. He found this encounter with the cat a bad omen. Yet he hoped that the gull’s good omen will extinguish the power of evil.

He quickly delivered the first order. As soon as he stopped, an old lady, from a window above, inquired was he the one from the Büyük Bayran restaurant. Serdal answered yes. And the old lady, who lived on the fourth floor, lowered a small basket with enough Turkish lira in it to cover the meal’s price. Serdal counted the money then placed the package in the basket. The old lady thanked him, and pulled the basket up. The courier nodded, pocketed the money, and in an instant he was riding on.

The second address, which the old waiter called Serdal’s favourite, wasn’t far now. Serdal however, didn’t like the address itself though. It was only a pharmacy on the fringe of a slum, where people lived in century-old, dilapidated or wooden houses. And in winters they heated with whatever they could find. Hence, always some kind of nose-wringing smell lingered in the neighbourhood. Sometimes tear-exciting smog curtained these alleys. And the neighbourhood looked haggard, as drawn as a face distorted by unfortunate predicaments. No, he didn’t like this address at all. Only the pharmacist was dear to his heart.

Gönül Aksoy was more mature than Serdal Teke by at least ten years. Her long and wavy hair was velvety black. In her dark eyes coquetry gleamed, her features however lent her a cold countenance of an empress. Faint freckles adorned her celestial nose above her curved lips.

Gönül liked Serdal since she was impressed with his courage, and that he had feared not to leave his family and come to Istanbul without basically anything. She also liked that his courteous character and good humour didn’t change despite the hardships he had to endure. Sometimes Gönül too pondered about what it would be like to live together with him. She knew however that the courier wasn’t educated. Yet she felt that his gentlemanhood wasn’t just a thin glaze or role, but Serdal was indeed a natural born gentleman. The only thing she couldn’t stand in him was that he had the superstitious nature of a toothless old village woman. She thought however that all his shortcomings could be mended. That is why she never refused the courier’s approaches.

Serdal came to a quite spectacular stop in front of the pharmacy then he jumped off his scooter. While he took the package out of the trunk he looked up at the pharmacy. The sign redly glowed into the clouded, grey day: Aksoy İksir Eczanesi, which meant Aksoy’s Arcanum Pharmacy. He took a deep breath, and then he exhaled slowly to calm himself. He was always excited when he met with Gönül. He always wanted to show his best side.

Thus he joyfully entered the pharmacy, whistling. But only the pharmaceutical products, and not the pharmacist, welcomed him. The thick silence soon hugged him so tightly that it made him shiver. The courier didn’t expect this unfriendly desertion, but he didn’t let it to thwart his plans.

“Gönül hanım!”

Serdal first used an official address. He was afraid that behind a shelf perhaps a turbaned skulked, who would later gossip about the situation, eyes rolling. Or moreover she would discourage other customers of the pharmacy since people didn’t speak respectably enough here. However, no answer came. Meanwhile, Serdal looked around thoroughly. But he found nobody, so he tried again differently:

“Gönül, are you here?”

The answer, if that could be considered an answer, was the same as before: the deserted silence of the pharmacy. The courier waited for a few more seconds, then he ventured deeper. He could see that the door communicating with the storage room was open. He deduced that Gönül must had gone back in the storage. He went to the door, and called her again. Yet he still received no answer. He pondered a bit about entering the storage since if they leave it together while someone entered the pharmacy then they themselves will provide a reason for gossip. And Serdal didn’t want to cause any trouble for Gönül.

Then his mobile sounded up like a kemençe of the Black Sea, which is a kind of bowed lute. It played a curt and simple melody, and he knew he got a message. He checked it, it didn’t come from Gönül, but from the restaurant, hurrying his return. He pocketed his mobile a bit vexed since he expected a different message. He hesitated for a few more seconds then entered.

The storage wasn’t as well lit as the shop part of the pharmacy. And the products didn’t form a line on glass shelves, but waited in brown boxes on metallic shelves. As Serdal entered, a motion detector switched on some more lamps. The courier called Gönül again without success. Thus, he ventured deeper with the food in his hand. He walked along an aisle and reached the back of the storage. The pharmacist wasn’t there. He was about to go back in the pharmacy’s shop part to wait for her when he noticed something strange in a corner.

It was a great, cylindrical and verdigris coloured object. Its crown was cupola-shaped and on top of that a little sickle moon rose. And Ottoman inscriptions adorned its side. This cylinder reminded Serdal of those brass cannons behind the Istanbul Maritime Museum, in the Barbarossa Park. Yet this wasn’t a cannon, but it seemed some kind of an ancient container. Serdal thought it was some old Ottoman water dispenser as there was even a tap on its side. The courier stepped closer to the tank.
He timorously passed his hand over the side of the tank. His skin touched the rigid smoothness of the verdigris, and his fingers scaled the hills of Arabic-Persian letters. Then his fingers touched a small key with adorned bow that he didn’t notice before. Maybe because it was dressed in the green of verdigris like the rest of the tank. Serdal stared at the arabesque filigreed bow of the key, then tried to turn it. The key turned easily. Serdal didn’t expect that, and thus he involuntarily opened something. He heard a silent hiss or rather a sigh-like sound. He didn’t know what it was as nothing happened for a while. Yet a few seconds later the side of the tank began to lower.

Serdal was afraid that he had broken something, but then he realised nothing wrong happened. Behind the brass cover there was an uneven and smudgy glass wall, which made the contents of the tank visible. Reddish-brown liquid billowed slowly in it. And it seemed something was floating in the fluid; something spherical. The veil of the liquid however only allowed guessing about the exact shape and details of that object. It was as big as a man’s head and probably it was reddish-brown just like the fluid. And this sphere-like object revolved slowly like a planet around its own axis. Serdal hoped to find out what it was. He tapped on the glass. A faint quivering ran along the sphere, or at least that was what the courier thought to see, but it didn’t make it rotate faster.

He patiently waited. He was spinning his keys around his fingers meanwhile. Slowly the orb almost turned around finally. Serdal stepped closer to see it even better. Then the sphere suddenly stirred. Through the rusty mist of the liquid a tiny, teal-coloured rhombus shape could be seen. Then the whole sphere stuck against the tank’s glass wall. The rhombus-shaped pupil dilated, flooding the courier’s face in its teal glow. The courier’s eyes sank deeply into the blueness. But as soon as the light touched the nazar bead the pupil constricted at once. The whole thing barely lasted more than a twinkling.

As Serdal stared into the eye of a Tepegöz, a Cyclops, he became wiser with experiences of centuries. Memories, which he could barely process, beleaguered his mind. The eye of the Tepegöz, wasn’t just an organ of vision, but it was a brain as well. The courier lived through the life of the one-eyed from its birth to the moment when its teal pupil flashed on him.

He heard centuries old languages in his mind, the languages of Oghuz, Seljuk and Ottoman Turks. Some of them he could barely understand. Yet when he was about to grasp the meaning of some words those quickly faded into the murk of his mind. Then he experienced how the Cyclops was captured, how its single eye was carved out only to make healing elixirs for the Ottoman sultans. And the centuries hurled into deafness began because the Tepegöz was only able to see from then on. When the glory of the Ottoman Empire waned, the tank was acquired by Kemal Aksoy, the great grandfather of Gönül. That’s how the ever weeping eye of the Cyclops granted the livelihood of the Aksoy family.

Serdal staggered and was on the verge of queasiness. The foreign memories only made his head ache. The experience however, which weakened him didn’t weighed on his mind, but on his heart. The eye of the Tepegöz offered glance into regions almost unfathomable by the human mind. The courier saw many things, but everything in a different way. So weird and alien was this form of vision that its inscrutability frightened him. But the despair in his heart was caused by those creatures, which he saw through the eye of the Cyclops. He thought to see distorted wraiths or ghosts at first. Before long however he realised these were not spectres at all, but intelligent and sapient beings. They kept watching, examining the humans, and searched for their weaknesses. The strange and inexplicable pains and feelings in the body were all caused by their touch of fingers or feelers as they probed somebody. Still, they remained invisible for everybody. Perhaps certain madmen were the only ones to be able to detect them, yet nobody believed them since no one else was able to experience the same. And these beings surrounded almost everybody like a smack of jellyfish. Their mob instilled pathological fear into Serdal’s soul.

His newly acquired ochlophobia paralysed him. He looked around with dread, but saw nobody. Perspiration gushed from his face like water from the cataracts of the Sakarya River. And he shuddered with terror. Still, in the sober fragments of his mind, he was thinking about leaving Istanbul as soon as he regains his strength and courage. He was thinking about leaving Turkey to find shelter from the invisible beings in the solitude of Syria’s deserts.

His paralysis didn’t last more than a few minutes, yet they seemed as long as the millennia-old life of the Tepegöz. Gönül found him at length.

The pharmacist turned her eyes away while she closed the lid of the tank. Quickly, she got a plastic cup from one of the boxes, and opening the tank’s tap, she half filled it with the rusty-coloured liquid. Then, using a pipette, she dripped a few drops into the courier’s bloodshot eyes. And Serdal fell into a deep dream that abutted unconsciousness.

Meanwhile Gönül arranged everything. She notified the restaurant that their courier felt unwell, hence he was unable to continue his work that day. The courier woke the following day, early morning. He was tired and exhausted. His muscles hurt like as if he had steeled them for hours. He groaned, and as though this had been a signal, his waking immediately became more pleasant: Gönül leaned over him. The pharmacist invented a fake sickness and with that she explained the courier’s state. Serdal wasn’t interested about it of course since the woman he loved leaned over him. And he also felt something else for her: gratitude. He wasn’t able to explain why, he couldn’t remember anything.

From that time, the relationship of the courier and the pharmacist forged closer links between them, tying them in marriage at length. There was barely a happier man than Teke. His happiness mantled the truth from him. Albeit the pharmacist was happy too, but she didn’t marry the courier because she loved him that much. But she felt guilty for what had happened with her husband. She didn’t want to leave him alone as she knew, the tears of the Tepegöz didn’t cure him, only temporarily stifled the unpleasant memories and experiences. It still happened sometimes that he woke from feverish nightmares on which only Gönül could help with a new dose of eye drops. She however, bore the fate of her own choosing since Serdal would later become a good husband to her. Thus they lived together until the end of their days.