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- Herausgeber: Pushkin Press
- Kategorie: Gesellschafts- und Liebesromane
- Sprache: Englisch
A thrilling historical adventure story from Turkey's most daring young voice We'll create a machine. A peace machine that will put an end to all wars. The twentieth century dawns and the world stands on the brink of yet another bloody war. But what if conflict were not inevitable? What if a mindcontrol machine could exploit the latest developments in electromagnetic science to put an end to violence, forever? The search for the answer to these questions leads Celal away from his unassuming life as an Istanbul-based writer of erotic fiction, and on a quest across a continent stumbling headlong towards disaster, from the Ottoman capital to Paris and Belgrade, as he struggles to uncover the mystery of The Peace Machine before time runs out for humanity. The Peace Machine is a staggeringly inventive debut from one of the most daring writers in Turkey. Özgür Mumcu is a Turkish author, free speech activist and journalist working for the Cumhuriyet newspaper in Turkey. In 2016 he accepted a Right Livelihood award on the newspaper's behalf for its 'fearless investigative journalism and commitment to freedom of expression in the face of oppression, censorship, imprisonment and death threats'. The Peace Machine is his first novel.
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Seitenzahl: 262
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2018
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CONTENTS
1
The Tangles of a Tongue-Twister
“THE COLD CUT ME to the quick / There was an apple that I picked / Plucked from a tree that was taller than me / ‘But you’re a pygmy’ they quipped / ‘No bigger than a pippysqueak pip.’”
Celal had no choice but to run. The only way he could run, however, was by saying tongue-twisters. If he stumbled over the words of a tongue-twister, he’d trip and topple to the ground. And if he couldn’t get started with one, he’d go as limp as a puppet whose strings had been cut.
“Sister, sister, cooking rice in a pot / A rat fell in, plop, plop, plop…”
In fact he was still growing, he didn’t have a sister, and it had been three months since he’d had a bowl of rice. There was a rat in the cellar where he’d been locked up the night before, and he smacked his lips at the thought of devouring it. Still, the rat was anything but pygmy-sized and Celal knew it was bent on taking a bite out of his ear. They tussled and scuffled throughout the night so that Celal didn’t get a wink of sleep.
Nor did he pee. By morning his bladder was on the verge of bursting, but he wasn’t just trying to be civil. No, he knew how to take on grown men in a fight and he had a plan.
“If you can’t win with your fists, use your wits. A trick is only a trick if you’re already strong enough to win in a brawl.” Süleyman had said that. And he was right. Of course he was right. That’s why he had the best pocket knife around. If he hadn’t deserved it, the big boys would’ve taken it away.
The owner of the shop above the cellar was a large man, so big that not even Süleyman could’ve taken him on. But that was beside the point because Süleyman couldn’t have come anyway. Two weeks earlier, he’d fallen over face first after botching a tongue-twister while running, and the blade of his pocket knife had jabbed into his crotch. Blood had squirted from the wound like water from a fountain, spattering Celal’s face. Celal had been so scared that he’d dashed off without even thinking of taking the knife.
Celal had been planning to steal three eggs and a quarter loaf of bread that he’d tucked under his shirt. The owner usually didn’t notice such things, so it was a carpet trader with a pock-marked face who had caught Celal and grabbed him by the ear. Celal hadn’t seen it coming.
Süleyman had once said, “In our holy Hadiths the Prophet says that the poor will get into heaven five hundred years before the rich.” But that didn’t do Celal any good. The shop owner had grabbed his other ear and slapped him across the face so hard that his nose bled till dawn.
The shop owner unlocked the cellar door just before the morning call to prayer. Celal was standing at the ready, his ragged underpants down around his ankles. He fired a stream of urine into the shop owner’s face with such force that the man was stunned for a moment. Celal yanked up his underpants, dashed between the man’s legs and ran up the stairs to the shop entrance. Luckily the door wasn’t locked, which meant that the owner had gone out to do his ablutions before going down to the cellar. All the better, Celal thought. You’ll have to do them again before you can pray!
“…Rat, rat, this is what you get / We’ll throw you from the minaret / There’s a bird up there with silvery wings / And uncle’s pockets are full of shiny things.”
Celal snatched a chicken from the yard as he ran out. He hadn’t planned on killing it right away, but it kept clucking under his arm, making him forget the words to the tonguetwister, so in order to say the tongue-twister he had to break the chicken’s neck. It was as simple as that.
So be it, he thought. The chicken will get into heaven all the sooner!
The fate of a chicken can be fraught with surprises. First you go from being a hatchling to a chick and learn about the difference between pebbles and corn kernels, and then before you know it you find yourself stuffed under the arm of a bloody-nosed boy with a shaved head, as he bolts down a deserted road which is a three-week journey from the town of Shkodra, panting tongue-twisters all the while. And there you are, your head flopping back and forth on your broken neck.
But since history is never written by the losers, the chicken’s tale ends there. Celal cooked it up and gobbled up half of it. The rest he traded for a ragged felt blanket, and that was the last he thought of the bird. The blanket, however, wouldn’t be forgotten so easily. Winter had swept in with unusual ferocity that year.
That winter, and for many winters to follow, Celal had to say tongue-twisters to save his hide.
“Work till you’re dead / For a simple piece of bread / But the cat stole my lunch / Crunch, crunch, crunch.”
One time the head of the beggars’ guild tried to break Celal’s arm, and Celal headbutted him so hard that the bone of the poor Pomak’s nose was shoved into his brain. Afterwards, Celal ran not one but two provinces away.
“My stomach is rumbling / Well, stop your grumbling / And run to the mill / But the door is locked / And the stork’s bill is pocked.”
Those were the words he said as he ran off at midday from a bathhouse furnace where he’d found work with six other boys. Celal had put up with the bullying from Long-Legged Cafer, the head furnace keeper, but when he tried to send Celal to work as a bath attendant on account of his youth and comely features, he’d emptied a shovelful of burning coals over the furnace keeper’s head and run away.
“Down by the bay / Baby goats and billy goats browse day by day / I said, Why do the baby goats and billy goats browse by the bay? / They said, Baby goats and billy goats browse and play / Baa-bay bay-baa it’s always been that way.”
The older he got the faster Celal could run, and the faster he could run the longer tongue-twisters he could say. He took up stealing goats in the hills of Edirne, but over time he grew weary of being driven off by angry shepherds. He sold the last goats he’d stolen in a small village and bought two suckling lambs. With the leftover money he bought himself some new clothes, and in return for the lambs a butcher promised him a job at a slaughterhouse in Istanbul.
The sun was rising as a French mail ship sailed past Sarayburnu. As the ship approached the Karaköy quay, the passengers on deck took in the stillness of Istanbul. A curtain of silence hung over the city, and the only sound was the squawking of a gull.
As the morning call to prayer drifted from minaret to minaret, the metropolis was still groggy but slowly stirring itself awake. It was the middle of spring. Judas trees bloomed along the shores of the Bosphorus as if by divine command, casting a purplish-pink glow on the strait’s waters. Dawn gave way to day, lighting up the city’s seaward windows one by one with a reddish glimmer until the hills along the Bosphorus seemed to erupt in flames.
The ship cleft the calm sea like a blade, leaving behind a wound that closed with splashes of foam. The packs of dogs that haunted the shores of Karaköy joined the emerging chorus of seagulls with their yips and barks. Everything was just as it should be on a glorious spring day in the year 1880.
The passengers could now see people moving about on shore. Some were heading towards mosques and others were opening their shops, and beggars sleeping on the streets began to waken. One of the more astute observers on deck saw that there was a bull pacing back and forth at the end of the quay. The bull paused, looked at the approaching ship and the shores of Üsküdar across the strait, and then it lowed mournfully. Scratching at the quay with its front hoof, the bull slowly turned and looked back. A crowd was approaching, but when the people saw its firm, fierce gaze, they stopped, and with a bellow that echoed through the streets of Karaköy, the bull leapt into the Bosphorus.
After swimming past the ship, the bull paddled calmly towards the Maiden’s Tower. Once there it got caught up in the current and disappeared beneath the waves, but moments later its head reappeared. A young gull swooped down and landed on one of the bull’s horns, and it swam the rest of the way to Üsküdar. Now that it was on shore the bull tossed its head, sending the gull on its way, and shook the water from its coat before ambling to Mihrimah Mosque, where it entered the courtyard. The sun shining down between the mosque’s two minarets blinded the bull for a moment, but soon enough it curled up in a corner and fell asleep.
As the bull lay down, a commotion was rippling through the streets on the opposite shore. People were gathering on the pier, in the courtyards of mosques and in front of shops, and then they suddenly scattered in all directions. A bull appeared on one of the streets, driving a group of people before it. Then there were two bulls, and then three, four, five, and they kept coming until they filled the city’s streets in a frenzied swarm of hooves and horns.
They shattered the shop windows and gored whoever crossed their path, regardless of religion, creed or sect. The packs of dogs wandering the streets were trampled under their feet. They gathered in groups and knocked down rickety wood buildings. As they thundered along, an impenetrable cloud of dust enveloped the city. Blinded, hundreds of bulls tumbled into the sea. The captain of the ship, which was now surrounded by bulls floundering in the water, steered for the open sea. Frothing at the mouth, the bulls struck the ship’s metal hull with their horns, but eventually their strength gave out and they started drowning, one by one.
Like an invading army, bulls took over every corner of the city, and some of them started goring each other. The clattering of horns joined the cacophony of screams, bellows and ululations as people tried to round up the bulls.
Here’s how it had happened: the owner of the slaughter-house where Celal worked was keen on new technologies. For the upcoming Feast of the Sacrifice he had a telegraph sent to a trader in Tekirdağ, asking for a hundred bulls. But the telegraph operator, who happened to be new on the job, ordered a thousand bulls by mistake. Replying that he would need three months to gather the livestock, the trader sent out word to the four corners of Rumelia. He managed to get the thousand bulls, but in the end there wasn’t a sire left in the land. Having sold everything he had, the trader decided to take the herd of bulls to Istanbul himself with the help of some shepherds. When he was unable to pay their wages on arrival, however, the shepherds abandoned the herd, which then went on a rampage through the city.
Why the trader never stopped to ask why anyone would want to buy a thousand bulls would always remain a mystery, because he was the first victim of the stampede. He was trampled to death by fifty-seven bulls in Silivri on the outskirts of Istanbul.
For three days the bulls overran the city, and a regiment had to be brought in from Thessaloniki to bring them under control. By the time it was over, the seven districts of Istanbul were in ruins and seven thousand people had lost their lives, including two government ministers. Among locals the event became known as the “Flight of the Bulls”, and it gave rise to the tradition of painting a bull in bright colours and driving it into the sea. Even today, it’s not uncommon for people to come across the skeletons of bulls when they dig wells.
One bull, which had an eye dangling from its socket—the result of a tussle with another bull—made its way from Tophane to Boğazkesen and started clambering up the steep road. Celal was hot on its heels, clutching a lasso, hoping to get into the slaughterhouse owner’s good graces by bringing him one of the bulls.
According to a certain fortune-teller whose path Celal had crossed some days earlier, his luck was about to change. The poor woman was far from pleasant to behold: her clothes were tattered, she was little more than skin and bones and she walked doubled over. Celal had taken pity on her. He had wrapped up some scraps of offal in greaseproof paper and given them to the woman. Before taking away the spleen, liver and intestines, the fortune-teller spread them on the ground and read Celal’s fortune, saying that his future was bright and that fortune would smile upon him.
On the day of the “Flight of the Bulls”, Celal’s only thought was of rounding up the bull and perhaps getting a few coins for his efforts. As he saw it, it was impossible to know when his luck would turn, if it would turn at all, and he saw no point in putting any faith in the words of a halfbaked fortune-teller.
With surprising speed the nearly one-ton bull made its way up to the Grande Rue de Pera, Istanbul’s most fashionable street at the time, where it started charging back and forth, unimpeded by the presence of any other bulls. When it charged some horses pulling a tram, they reared up, throwing the driver to the ground and trampling him underfoot. The bull continued up the boulevard towards the Imperial Galatasaray High School, wreaking havoc along the way. Trying to stay out of harm’s way, a well-dressed man was huddling against the wall of the high school, but to no avail. The enraged bull approached him, horns lowered. Just as it was about to charge, Celal ran in front of the bull. Staring into its one eye, Celal raised his fist and brought it down on the bull’s head with such force that it toppled to the ground in a heap.
The well-dressed man straightened up and took a few unsteady steps towards the bull. In the meantime, Celal was staring at his fist in astonishment. That one act of heroism had shown him how strong he was, despite his youth. The man threw his arms around Celal and took him by the hand, leading him down the street. Celal walked along beside him, his lasso trailing along the ground. After passing through a large garden that was home to two peacocks, they arrived at a mansion. Once inside, the man locked the doors and windows and, with the help of the house servants, pushed a heavy side table up against the front door. He turned to Celal and said, “You saved my life. From now on, I shall raise you as if you were my own son.”
And so Celal the streetwise orphan began to live like a prince. At that moment he swore that he would never say a tongue-twister ever again—it was now time for him to start making promises he could never keep.
2
A Halal Duel
IF CELAL HAD STAYED PUT at the bar of the Hotel d’Angleterre, things might not have ended so calamitously. He was properly attired for the place: navy-blue trousers, a matching frock coat, a white shirt and a camel-hair overcoat. Anyone who saw his cravat, tied in a single knot neatly held in place with a gleaming silver pin, would have surmised that this gentleman must be a regular at the Café Concordia or other establishments frequented by the city’s elite.
As Celal nursed a glass of cognac, savouring its woody flavours, he fancied that he’d make an impression on the women swishing around in their fine gowns. But one cognac led to another, and ultimately he would spend the evening with women of much more dubious character.
Debonair in his frock coat, Celal turned into Flower Street, which rang with the sound of hurdy-gurdy music. He knew that high-ceilinged ballrooms could not offer what he sought—what he needed could only be found in the dingy cabarets around the district of Galata. He picked one at random and went inside. In a corner, a musician was playing a tune that was particular to Istanbul’s Bakla Horani Carnival. A tall young woman with twin braids was singing along, swaying to the music. The cabaret was packed. Celal shouldered his way into the crowd. A mild glass of wine took the edge off the cognac he’d been drinking and he stood there for a while, listening to the music.
Everything should have unfolded rather simply. Someone would catch his eye and then they would head upstairs. But Celal hadn’t yet grasped the fact that simple things have to be handled delicately. He approached a woman who was voluptuous, graced with firm curves. Unfortunately for Celal, however, at that very moment another man was walking up to the same woman. If Celal and the man hadn’t clashed like bulls, everything would have proceeded without a hitch.
Celal later remembered that he had argued with the man in French, but it didn’t dawn on him that he’d given the man his name and address until a letter arrived two days later.
My esteemed Celal Bey,
I am deeply grieved by the fact that we met under such regrettable circumstances the other night. On the condition that you apologize for the altercation that occurred between us, I would like to turn our encounter into an honourable matter rather than one of grievances. My own honour, however, which was tarnished by your untoward aggression, must first receive due compensation. So I have no choice but to await your apology, which shall be delivered by post to the address below. Otherwise,I will have no choice but to challenge you to a duel, which would be nothing short of unfortunate.
Karachiyano, ambassadorial translator
Dismissing the letter as childish, Celal tossed it aside and asked his servant whether or not his bath had been drawn. Although he had become embroiled in an argument, in the end he’d gone upstairs with the woman he desired. And he didn’t go home the following morning, but the following midnight. He was comforted by the thought that a thorough scrub would wash away his weariness and soothe his body, which ached from head to toe.
The bath revived him. After pouring a sixth scoop of warm water over his head, he decided to reply to Karachiyano’s letter. While he found the whole business utterly ridiculous, he didn’t want to give anyone the chance to think he was a coward.
Celal went up to his room and put on a dressing gown. He pulled a pipe from his pocket, lit it and went into his study. He sat down at his cherry-wood desk, which had been delivered just a week before, and pulled a piece of Willcox paper from a drawer. Ever since the invention of cellulose fibres, finding handmade paper had become a most arduous task. Celal had paid American and European brokers a pretty penny to buy up the paper stock that was left over from the local factory, which had closed down twenty-five years earlier. But he wasn’t picky when it came to pens. It was his belief that when someone reads a letter, the paper is what matters. People are swayed by how the paper feels, not how it looks, and in his mind ink was but a trifling matter.
Karachiyano Efendi,
Commonplace arguments only bruise the honour of the weak. The fact of the matter is that I cannot rectify this situation by apologizing to you. Nor would sending you to your maker set things right. You see, apologies cannot instil in a man a robust sense of honour, which in most cases is a characteristic produced at birth. The only solution for you is to be born again of firmer stuff. I would like to kindly request that you awake from your delusions. A matter concerning a defect of birth cannot be solved with a bullet or the blow of a sword.
Yours truly, Celal Bey
*
Arif Bey was perhaps the wealthiest man in Manisa. He had made a fortune exporting the figs, grapes and olives that grew on his estate, shipping them as far afield as France and Italy. A gentleman of fine tastes, he was fond of reading and writing. He was a reserved man, as quiet as they come.
After losing his wife in a boating accident, he sold off part of his business. When that wild boy came into his life, Arif Bey straightened him out by arranging private lessons for him. Celal was steadfastly loyal to Arif Bey, who had saved him from a bedraggled life of living on the run and working in the slaughterhouse, up to his ears in animal intestines. Until then, Celal had never felt loyal to anyone. Arif Bey’s generosity, which blew into Celal’s life like a gentle breeze, changed all that.
Thanks to his governesses and the lessons he was given, Celal quickly outlearnt the other children of his age. Encouraged by Arif Bey’s friends from France, he went to high school in Marseille, where he worked at the company’s local branch, learning about the export trade. When Celal had completed his bachelor’s degree with honours, Arif Bey summoned his adoptive son to Istanbul and enrolled him in the newly founded School of Law.
After settling back into Arif Bey’s mansion in Istanbul, Celal found that he was confronted with a quietude that grew heavier with each passing day. The joy that Celal had brought into Arif Bey’s life pulled the merchant, even if just a little, from the well of melancholy into which he’d fallen, but it didn’t take long for him to plummet back into its depths.
Still wracked with pain over the loss of his wife, one day at dawn Arif Bey went to the neighbourhood of Bebek. Generously tipping the beardless owner of a rowing boat, he set off by himself, rowing straight towards a mail ship that was approaching the docks in Karaköy. The mail ship may have been old but it wasn’t so decrepit that it couldn’t pulverize the tiny craft in an instant. As Arif Bey was drowning, it occurred to him that perhaps he should have given the owner of the rowing boat a more sizeable tip.
Devastated by the fact that he’d been unable to console Arif Bey and that he’d lost his adoptive father, Celal dropped out of the School of Law, which he’d been attending solely out of a sense of devotion, and went on living in the mansion, which he now owned, together with two servants.
As the result of a few unwise investments, Celal lost a large part of his inheritance, but that didn’t quite spell disaster because he still had a means of making money which was, to say the least, anything but ordinary. One day, after sending one of his servants to the Italian consulate to deliver a missive, he sat down at his desk for a light meal and then took a rather ordinary piece of paper from one of the drawers and started writing.
He was picking up from where he’d left off working on a novel. But this was not your typical novel. It was one of those notoriously popular French erotic books, the kind that was strictly forbidden yet read in secret by students, corporals, generals and parliamentarians alike. They would clandestinely meet up to slip each other the volumes they’d finished reading in exchange for others.
In France, the police were searching high and low for the author of these novels that depicted the harems of sultans, garrulous nights of drinking at caravanserais, women’s sheer face veils, and gowns that fluttered in the breeze. Their efforts, however, were in vain.
For nothing the police hauled in and beat up a journalist who wrote about the Eastern Question.
At the Sorbonne they raided the office of a renowned Orientalist, leaving his library in a state of complete disarray, but it was an exercise in futility.
They interrogated a naval captain who was infatuated with Istanbul, and while they didn’t learn anything useful they did come upon some unthinkably perverse gadgets at his home.
Celal sent the manuscripts he wrote to Jean, a high-school friend who was living in Marseille.
The French clerk on the mail ship was paid off so he’d overlook the parcels. The books were then sent section by section to five different addresses in Paris, where they were compiled at a printing shop set up expressly for that purpose in the basement of a photography studio. The Assistant Commissioner working at the police station next door didn’t object to the opportunity to use the basement to question prostitutes a few times a week.
Celal was the secret driving force behind a booming industry. Aside from Jean, no one knew about Celal’s role in the business. When he was a student in Marseille, he had started writing the stories for fun and as a way to earn some spending money. Now, while he didn’t really need the money, he was making a small fortune from the books he wrote. At the time, however, Istanbul was crawling with Sultan Abdulhamid’s spies, so if sizeable amounts of money were sent to a bank account there, someone was inevitably going to catch on. So Jean kept the money in an account in France and sent Celal modest amounts of money that wouldn’t draw the attention of the authorities.
When Celal had finished writing a scene in which he described how some odalisques managed to rouse the manhood of the harem eunuchs, he looked at his watch. He knew that the French mail ship would still be going through all the rigmarole necessary to leave port. The French weren’t just exporting their fashions and language to the Ottoman Empire, but their procedures and bureaucracy as well. There were so many formalities that they had to stop loading the ship two hours before it was due to depart, because that was how long it took to take care of all the forms, stamps and signatures.
After finishing another scene involving a eunuch and two odalisques fawning over the sultan’s favourite mistress, Celal folded up the pages and placed them in a large envelope. He had been writing non-stop, and dawn was now breaking. Getting to his feet, he stretched and considered taking a quick nap. When he realized that he only had an hour to deliver the envelope, however, he hurriedly dressed and rushed out. As he quickly walked in the direction of the docks, he thought, “I wonder if it would have been better if the sultan’s mistress had been bowing and scraping before the eunuch?”
Just as he was passing Kılıç Ali Pasha Mosque, Karachiyano stepped into Celal’s path. At first, Celal didn’t recognize him. It was only when Karachiyano threw a glove at his feet that he recalled who he was. Celal didn’t refrain from showing his displeasure at the persistence of this particular Christian Istanbulite.
Without batting an eye, Celal picked up the glove and stuffed it into his pocket, and then continued on his way to deliver his story about the odalisques and eunuch to the post office clerk. He picked up the money that had been sent and saw that Jean had shipped him a rather large parcel. While he couldn’t wait to open it, he knew that he couldn’t do so until he got home. Part of the reason why Celal was somewhat obsessed with the pictures that accompanied his novels was the fact that the artist was a woman. Celal sometimes gazed at the pictures, running his fingers over them, and sometimes he scrutinized them with a magnifying glass. He wondered if the artist had included pictures of herself in some of her illustrations. If so, which one was she? For days Celal would be plunged into thought, pondering over the pictures. Celal created the female characters and the artist drew what he imagined. Over time, he started to notice the characters whom he hadn’t described in sufficient detail. That woman, who piqued his interest more than any other, was somehow able to create drawings that filled in the gaps in Celal’s descriptions. And it occurred to Celal that anyone who can do that must always draw their inspiration from themselves. Eventually Celal started trying to get the artist to draw a portrait of herself. Every story that he sent to France had one character who was described in only the vaguest of terms. He would, for example, leave out a description of a woman’s nipples, and then he would take note of how she had drawn them. Sometimes he would fail to include a description of a woman’s hair, or he would offer only the briefest rendering of a woman’s eyes, lips or hands.
When the artist joined in the game, Celal raised the stakes. For example, he wrote a scene in which a Circassian odalisque climaxes, but he left the description rather bland. When the illustrated book arrived in the post a month later, he looked through it to see how she had depicted the woman’s climax. He had written scenes in which fear, compassion, betrayal, admiration, disappointment and passion were all roughly sketched out, certain that the author and artist were winking at each other through their work. He had good reason to be more excited about this package than the others. In his last novel he had included a woman who was an artist, so he felt certain that he was going to come face to face with the woman of his imagination.
As he approached the mansion, the afternoon call to prayer was echoing through the streets. When he got to his room, he ripped open the package and started flipping through the pages. He found the illustration he was looking for at the back of the book. The drawing depicted an artist’s studio. A woman was lying sprawled out on a canvas that had fallen to the floor and a man had his face buried between her legs. The woman was looking out of the drawing, as if gazing into Celal’s eyes. Minutes went by, and they gazed at each other. Celal climaxed.
