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A Love Story from Istanbul

Tuna Kiremitçi

I cannot remember when I got to know him. And I am not sure whether I did the right thing in getting to know him.

Actually I had enough on my plate. Things were bad between me and my wife, I was in a lot of debt and I could not find anywhere to play. Some rotten bastard, whose name I do not want to mention had spread it around that I was an alcoholic. The bad part is that for a darbuka player to be an alcoholic is as bad a thing as for a heart surgeon to be an alcoholic. This is because darbuka* means rhythm. Rhythm is the heart beat of songs. No singer would want to surrender his or her pulse to someone whose hands trembled. But by God, you must believe me I am not an alcoholic. My only fault is being a wonderful darbuka player. Naturally I have many enemies.

My humble story begins in Galata as the result of a strange quirk of fate. Because I got to know that man in the back streets of Galata.

Sunday Udegbunam was a footballer. He was born on a Sunday in a village whose name I cannot for the life of me remember, in Nigeria. Later he had escaped from his country that civil war had ruined and come to Istanbul in the hold of a battered old ship. He always used to say that he would never be able to forget the moment the ship entered the Bosphorus. The waterside mansions on both sides, the sea undulating like a dream, the domes glistening with the dawn light... Actually I should not talk about him like that with sentences in the past tense. As though he is dead, God forbid. Yet he is not in a bad way at the moment. You can believe it or not but that is what the doctor a moment ago said.

I go to Hachsrev's football ground from time to time. Udegbunam plays football well. Besides that, he supports Shalke 04 as if there was no other team left in the world. This is because when he was little he saw a dream of himself in the Shalke uniform. I always say to him "look here black eyes : never forget why you came to Istanbul. You'll stay in that old house with your four countrymen as long as you can manage. You'll look after yourself well. You'll train with the other African boys every week. Every Sunday you'll go to your church and say your prayers. And then you'll attract the attention of one of those football agents and manage to get to Germany. When you are past thirty you'll get transferred to one of our stupid clubs. Then of course you'll have lots of money in your pocket. Don't misunderstand me, I don't want much. You'll just take your brother Muhammed and order him a raki in a smart Bosphorus restaurant, that'll be enough. And it'll be then that we'll both remember these days with a laugh. Because it's for this that you left your village. It's for this that you stole your elder sister's dowry money. It's for this reason that you were deprived of your mother's blessing. Please don't get distracted."

Because in two years he had sort of learnt Turkish, I used to imagine he understood what I said. However at the first opportunity Udegbunam went and fell in love. Actually he was right; Nora was very beautiful. She had a jet black skin over which the daylight slid. Her coal-black hair invited one to give thanks to God for the creation of the black race. Her olive eyes always looked with curiosity like a baby. As she was going to church on Sunday mornings these eyes scattered raven black lights. In any case it was at one of these Sunday services she and our lad had got to know each other. We send the man to church to protect his spirit and look what he gets up to.

I cottoned on to it when Udegbunam began frequently disappearing. He used to go and take the girl to films, tea gardens and so on. And of course he spent the money he earned at the carpark where we had got him a job with difficulty, like that. Don't get me wrong; actually I really love all that passion stuff. Let me see a romantic film and my eyes fill immediately. It seems that the reason my wife still puts up with me is that childish side of me. If you just saw what I looked like, you would understand better what I mean. A soft heart beating with a patter inside the huge body of a bouncer...

However conditions were not equal. Nora was the daughter of one of the best families in Nigeria. It would seem that her family had quite a large amount of property in Africa. She had come here to study at the Bosphorus University. When she finished she would probably continue her studies in Europe. So doesn't it seem strange to you too to think about her with our shabby Sunday Udegbunam? At least it must have seemed like that to her friends because they warned the girl. They had not regarded someone who stayed in a jerry-built house in Beyolu, who went to his house passing by drug sellers, suitable for Nora. The bad thing is, why should I lie, I didn't regard him as suitable either.

One day the girl put an end to the relationship. She did the best thing in my opinion; she stopped it at once, without any sad talk. Of course Udegbunam went mad. He did everything from stationing himself at the school's door and hearing insults from the police to clinging to the raki bottle and forgetting his nights and days. He no longer went to training sessions either. Yet a week later their mixed African team were to hold a special match that football agents were going to watch, against Vefa Club. The last two days we implored him and sent him to Hachsrev and he seemed to come to himself a bit. This time he carried on, saying, "If Nora doesn't come I won't play in the match". I gave him a piece of my mind, I slapped him it didn't work. So risking everything, I went to see the girl. I searched everywhere and eventually found her school. She did not speak much Turkish but in the end we understood each other. When she did understand she wilted like a sapling and nodding her beautiful head said that she would come.

On the day of the match it was very hot. Despite being the beginning of May Istanbul was burning like hell. Our lad was not playing badly. Despite not being in his ideal position on the left midfield he was doing as well as he could. Actually if he had given himself to the game instead of turning his head and looking frequently at the tribune he would have played even better. However, a wonderful thing happened at about the middle of the first half. Nora and two girlfriends appeared at the tribune. From that moment onwards the course of the film speeded up. When Udegbunam saw the girl at the tribune he went back and got the ball from the goalkeeper, passing his opponents one by one he began to run to the opposite goal post. Everyone was looking in amazement at our lad's dodging. Just as he was about to enter the penalty area he suddenly slowed down, then pivoted round on his own axis and collapsed to the ground like a puppet whose strings have been cut. When he did not get up for a while we ran to him; we saw that his face was deep purple. He was not breathing. We immediately bundled him into a taxi and got him to hospital in time. There it came to light that he had a hole in his heart.

Now as I am waiting for him to come out of intensive care, in my opinion I think that this man knew that he had a weak heart. Of course, he could not tell this to anyone in order not to lose contact with football that was the only hope in his life. As I have run out of paper, I shall have to bring the subject to a close. Besides that, it looks as though the shaking in my hand won't pass if I do not go and have a drink. However, I should like you to see Nora. At this hour of the night she is sitting on a chair on the opposite side of the hospital corridor. She looks so beautiful with her eyes swollen from crying and her untidy hair that... I suddenly feel like lifting my arms to the sky and saying "you naughty little cupid, you naughty little cupid... You are capable of anything!"

*A darbuka is a small hourglass-shaped drum of metal or baked clay played by beating with the hand.