Around 19:75, after the power lines—strung like a swing between the wooden poles in front of the garden wall of the blue-painted detached house that looked as if it were pieced together from playing cards—clashed with the storm and showered sparks, the lights of every house on Kızılsakal Street went out. At that moment, Chao was sitting on the red wool rug with his legs splayed, playing with his toys; even if his mother and father hadn’t been dozing off right then, they wouldn’t have been able to notice by candlelight that the hourglasses, which had suddenly appeared where his pupils should have been, were turning upside down.
As the thunder and lightning accompanying the storm exploded incessantly one after another over Kızılsakal Street, the pipes of the cast-iron stove burning in a corner of the room had turned glowing red, and the whistling teapot atop it was liberating the water within it, cloud by cloud, from its aluminum spout. The neighing of horses mingling with the thunder following the tug of a halter, the creaking of the carriage pole, and the clatter of the braked wheels scraping against the cobblestones were not enough to awaken the man and woman, who had drifted off in the heavy heat of the stove.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
Wiping the drool leaking from the corner of his mouth with the back of his hand, the man, heavy with sleep, prodded the woman as softly and gently as possible to wake her.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
“Kicmec, get up, someone is at the door. We both fell asleep, the power is out, and the boy…” he said, and trailed off. In a panic, Kicmec and the man simultaneously began to shake Chao, who sat motionless as a statue on the rug with his legs splayed.
“Chao, wake up! Oh God, please spare our child! Aflak, do something, the boy is dying!”
The woman’s shrieks were not only drowned out by the thunder. Whoever was at the door did not seem inclined to show any understanding, despite the frantic panic inside.
Knock! Knock! Knock!
Aflak stormed to the door in anger and threw it open. As another flash of lightning illuminated the night, he saw standing before him a tall, exceedingly thin, and ugly man resembling a tombstone, holding a whip in his hand, wearing a tall black top hat and a tailcoat. The man greeted Aflak with courteous politeness.
“My name is Mortua, sir. I shall be taking Chao for a short ride,” he said.
Aflak stepped back as if bewitched, allowing Mr. Mortua to enter. Tears streamed from the pupils that had sat like peppercorns in Aflak’s large black eyes up to that moment, rolling down his cheeks. Kicmec’s wailing had morphed into a silent prayer; her lips moved breathlessly as she made every promise to God that came to mind and offered every vow, pressing Chao tightly to her chest as if wishing to thrust him back inside herself.
When Kicmec met Mortua’s gaze, as if knowing she had to surrender him to this man she was seeing for the very first time in her life, she held Chao out toward this mysterious, sudden guest.
Taking Chao into his arms, Mortua looked into the child’s eyes; the hourglasses were draining rapidly.
When I open my eyes beneath the cloak draped over me, we are passing by a foul-smelling volcano, a little later an ocean, and then through geysers… I am sitting facing the direction of travel. Opposite me are Neven and Natan, their heads resting against the windows on their respective sides, waiting to arrive, buried in silence with eyes that sit like a pair of coffee beans on their chubby, dark faces. In their hands, they each hold a bouquet of red roses.
We stop. Mr. Autrom opens the door of the diligence and looks inside. This means we may alight.
Neven and Natan climb down and disappear from sight, walking toward the horizon of the endless plain like a pair of drunken fishing boats. A corpse wrapped in a blanket, tied securely to the luggage rack on top of the carriage, catches my eye. From the long, dark blue hair spilling out of the opening at the head, it is evident that it is the corpse of a woman.
“Death, too, is a part of time, Mr. Oahc.”
“Why did you pick me up again, Mr. Autrom?”
“Because I wanted to show you a place, Mr. Oahc.”
I looked around; the sun was setting in the direction Neven and Natan had gone, while a full moon rose behind us. I pulled out the map from the wide side pocket of my frock coat and unfolded it. With vacant eyes, I stared at the lines marking borders, the names of cities, the mountains, and the deserts, as if I understood them. At no point in my life would I be able to read a map; I was hopelessly inept at it. Yet, despite this, I intuitively knew where we were, and I could feel her presence.
“Please put your map away, Mr. Oahc. You know where we are. This is where Miss Tahabes disembarked.”
“I do not understand why you are telling me this, Mr. Autrom.”
“Do you recall telling me that she possessed a warmth as jarring as a bullet wound, one that brought you closer to death? A wound that ached whenever the weather turned foul… Your wound ached so deeply in that storm that untimely hourglasses appeared in your eyes, and that is why I had to take you away.”
“Too many places have been left behind, Mr. Autrom; sentences and meanings do not possess the strength to shield themselves against long journeys. I believe you have misinterpreted them. Nevertheless, I thank you.”
Mr. Autrom says it is time to go.
Neven and Natan are absent; they will not come. Mr. Autrom will find them to wrap them in a blanket too; he leaves no one outside.
I take my seat and lean my head against the glass, my gambler hat in my lap.
In place of Neven and Natan are two bouquets of roses.
Yazan: Chaotica
Çeviri: Umberto
ANARCHISTALES 